Castro's bomb

Chapter Eleven

Although Lieutenant Andrew Ross was young and a man, he wasn't totally stupid about the mysteries of being a woman. He had two older sisters, and, as a boy and a young teenager, had listened in on a number of their furtive conversations regarding what they referred to as “woman problems.” He had no idea why they couldn't just say they were having their period or refer to it as menstruation, but no, they always used euphemisms. At least they didn’t say they were on the rag, like some guys said about their girlfriends. Later, he realized his mother talked the same way, which probably explained his sisters' behavior.

What he did know about a woman's period was that it occurred approximately once a month, was uncomfortable at best and debilitatingly painful at worst, was frequently messy, and was not a cause for rejoicing when it occurred.

Except, he later understood, when the recipient of woman's curse realized that its arrival meant she wasn't pregnant. His older sister had been relieved to find that she hadn’t been knocked up, and Andrew had been shocked to realize she'd been having sex with her boyfriend, a guy he hadn't like in the first place because he was such a smug prick. He’d felt like clobbering the guy for screwing his sister until he realized that his sister had been fully cooperative with the carnal acts.

He now thought he understood exactly why Cathy Malone was so pleased when her period happened. She hadn't actually told him — they weren't that frank with each other yet — but he figured it out from her emotional behavior and some oblique comments.

He had always sensed that her story of a "friend" being raped by a Cuban soldier and traumatizing her was a little too facile. It was almost like someone saying they had a "friend" who was an alcoholic. No, it was Cathy who had been raped and who was ashamed that it had occurred and was scared witless that, along with being violated, might have made her pregnant.

It put Andrew firmly on the horns of a dilemma. He was very fond of Cathy and wanted to help and comfort her. But how and when did he let her know that he understood what she felt she had to keep secret?

He tried to think about what his sisters might have done and realized that his correct course of action was inaction. If and when she ever wished to tell him, he would listen sympathetically and try to be as helpful as anyone who could never be in her position could be. In the meantime, he would let her somehow know that she could trust him. He had no clue as to how he would do that.

She was seated on the ground beside him, their hips almost touching. Andrew wondered just what might become of the two of them in the future. First, he though grimly, they had to live through this ordeal in order to have a future.

He reached over and squeezed her hand. She smiled at him. "What was that for?"

"Do I need a reason? I'm glad you're here."

She squeezed back. "What's for dinner?"

"Iguana," he said teasingly, knowing she couldn't stand the sight of the lizards or even contemplate the thought of eating one. "I hear they taste like chicken."

"I bet they taste like slimy and disgusting lizards." She said but kept her grip on his hand.

Gunnery Sergeant Cullen stepped over and crouched before them. "Lieutenant, there's something you gotta see and right now."

Ross got up and followed his sergeant through the brush. They were quiet and careful. Cuban soldiers could be anywhere, hiding and waiting for darkness. Finally, they were on a hill overlooking the road that led south to Guantanamo Bay.

Ross looked and blinked. "What the hell is that?"

Cullen laughed softly. "At first I thought it looked like something from a really bad horror or science fiction movie, but then I realized what those commie fuckers are up to."

On the road below them, a large blob moved slowly. It was shapeless and formless. At least it would be to anyone flying above; thus it was unidentifiable and unthreatening. It was the same color as the dirt road on which it moved. Andrew looked through his binoculars.

"Why those clever bastards," he said.

It was a tank. Across and on top of the tank lengths of lumber had been laid to form a framework and, on top of the framework, brown and green cloths had been laid. The camouflaged tank moved slowly and raised no dust. Just behind the tank, a couple of men with brooms cleaned up the tracks. The tank was hidden in plain sight and slowly moving south. From the air and in the night, the whole thing was invisible.

"What're you thinking, Lieutenant?"

Ross put away the binoculars. "A couple of things, sergeant. First, where there's one there have to be others. Second, where the hell are they going? To Gitmo for sure, but they must have a staging area someplace and we need to find it so we can let the flyboys know where to bomb, and third, we have to figure out some way of contacting our people."

"I suppose another phone call is out?" Cullen asked.

"Yeah."

They'd attempted another call, but this time the operator tried to string them along and they realized that the Cuban military was trying to get a fix on their location. Cathy had hung up quickly and they'd disconnected the line and moved away rapidly.

Cullen nodded. "Why don't I have Ward and Groth tail this beast from a distance. It isn't like they'd lose sight of it and maybe tonight will be the night we hear from mama or the reverend in Washington."

As LBJ said with a bitter laugh, ExComm’s collective ass was in an uproar. The cumulative disasters befalling the Miami Cubans, the Coast Guard Cutter Willow, and now the city of Miami were creating shockwaves that were reverberating across the nation. Secrecy regarding the defeats had proven impossible to maintain. Ham radio operators had picked up on pleas for help from those few Miami Cubans who had managed to land on Cuban soil, or whose boats had been attacked by Cuban air and artillery.

A television showed black and white pictures of rioting in Miami resulting from what the exile community considered yet another betrayal by Washington. People were getting hurt, perhaps killed, fighting the police. Looting had begun with vandals smashing store windows and carting off appliances, televisions, and jewelry. Announcers, including Walter Cronkite, wondered just when the United States was going to do something. JFK wondered just what the hell Cronkite and the others wanted him to do. Attack right now when they weren’t ready? Permanently surrender Gitmo to the Cubans; thus admitting defeat? What? Kennedy thought it must be easy to sit behind a desk, stare into a camera, and pontificate without any care or responsibility for what might really happen.

At least the rioting in Miami had pushed the MiG raid onto the back burner. Many of the rioters carried signs denouncing both JFK and LBJ for betraying them to Castro. Johnson was surprised since he’d worked so hard to cultivate the Cuban refugees in Miami.

President Kennedy noted that all the chiefs were represented except the CIA. Where was McCone this time? He took a deep breath. "First off, tell me about the ship."

Again, Shoup was the spokesman. "The Coast Guard Cutter Willow was trying to halt a number of Cuban bound boats when they and she were attacked by MiGS flying low and fast out of Cuba. They were so low they weren't picked up by the cutter's radar, which was old and may have been malfunctioning. She shot down one of the MiGS but was hit by a bomb which killed at least twenty men and badly wounded another fifty, including her skipper. He lost a leg. The small boats were strafed and bombed with at least a hundred killed and many more than that wounded. We won't know exactly for a while and perhaps never. Apparently, nobody knows exactly who was on the boats."

JFK wondered just what a Coast Guard vessel was doing down there so close to Cuba until he recalled her earlier involvement. She was down there because nobody had ordered her out and because enough navy assets weren't there.

"And what went wrong with the exiles invasion this time," he asked.

"Everything under the sun," Shoup responded. "Despite the tragedy involving the Willow, a number of other groups made it through. Maybe three thousand poorly armed and poorly trained refugees landed at a half dozen places on the north coast of Cuba just east of Havana, where they were immediately attacked and overwhelmed by local Communist forces. We provided air cover where we could, but we had a hard time telling who the bad guys and the good guys were. They got all mixed up real fast which was probably the Commies plan."

"Did any local Cubans rise up to help them?" the president asked, half knowing what the answer would be.

"Not a damn one that we could tell, Mr. President. In fact, there are unconfirmed reports of civilians attacking the invaders and beating them or even killing them. Maybe some Cubans wanted to help out, but discretion ruled over valor."

Kennedy nodded thoughtfully. Just like that lovely lady from the CIA had said. They adore Fidel and hate us. Just wonderful.

"And the attack on the Miami airport?" he asked and watched as Curtis LeMay turned beet red.

"We lost a dozen planes destroyed and another twenty damaged along with a lot of fuel. All can and will be replaced quickly. Casualties were surprisingly light, even minimal. No more than six dead and a couple of dozen wounded, and no civilians were hurt in that shameful episode. I will also be crucifying those assholes who are responsible for assuming that we were impervious to attack by those sons of bitches."

Kennedy decided he did not want to be on the receiving end of a career ending tongue lashing from the fiery Air Force chief of staff. Heads would roll and they should. The nation had been embarrassed and insulted.

"Do we have any good news?" he asked.

General Maxwell Taylor answered. "All the land forces necessary to invade Cuba are now pretty much in place and only await your word. The southern ports of Mobile, New Orleans, Tampa, Miami, and Charleston are rapidly filling with troops. Civilian airports have been commandeered and are filled with transports for our airborne divisions as well as for re-supply. Two of our carriers and their escorts are expected on station within hours. All we need from you is the decision — Havana or Guantanamo?"

Kennedy noticed that CIA Director McCone had slipped in; he looked anxious. "We will liberate Guantanamo. The rest of Cuba will have to wait for another time."

The chiefs nodded. Perhaps they didn't agree, and LeMay clearly didn't, but they would obey.

McCone gestured. He looked distressed. "Anything to add?" the President asked McCone.

"May I speak to you alone?"

"Is it a military issue?"

"Yes, although it is political as well."

Kennedy shrugged. "Then let's have it now. These gentlemen will find out about it soon enough."

"I strongly urge that the invasion of Cuba be delayed until further notice."

"What the hell for?" LeMay roared as he lunged from his seat. "First we can't hit Havana, and now you want us to back off? Hell, let's grab them by the balls and squeeze until they squeal."

McCone looked around the room like a man wanting a place to hide. "Mr. President, the Communist Cuban army now has nuclear weapons."

McCone had their full and undivided attention. Even LeMay was shocked into silence. The CIA Director quickly and concisely brought them up to speed regarding the fact that a defector had brought them the information that Fidel's men had raided an area where the weapons had been stored.

"First," Kennedy asked, "is the defector reliable?"

"We believe so. He's the same man who warned us about the attack on Gitmo in the first place."

"Which wasn't that much of a warning," Kennedy reminded them sourly. "Maybe that was a trick and maybe this is too. Since he has defected, I think you can finally tell us just who the hell your inside source is, don't you?"

"His name is Andrei Sokolov and, until a few days ago, was a major in the Soviet rocket forces. His commanding officer, General Issa Pliyev, had supported the attack on Gitmo, but is now appalled at the thought of irresponsible people like Fidel, Raul, and Che having their hands on tactical nuclear weapons. As to Sokolov's veracity, through him we now have the Russians admitting that they’ve had a couple of dozen tactical nuclear weapons in Cuba all along. We'd suspected it, but were unable to prove it. Sokolov also says the Russian forces in Cuba are about two times larger than we thought and that means they have forty thousand Soviet troops."

"Jesus," Kennedy said. "But does that make him truthful?"

"We believe so, sir, yes. And what choice do we have at this moment?"

General Taylor leaned forward. He wanted to hear clearly. "How many nuclear weapons does Fidel have and what are they?"

"He has at least four but no more than six short range tactical missiles with warheads, with four being the more likely number. The Soviets call them Lunas while we've designated them as Frog 3. It's a rocket system widely used by the Soviets and they've provided them to a number of other countries, but without nuclear warheads. The Soviets brought twenty-four nuclear warheads into Cuba and now some are missing. The Lunas or Frogs have a range of approximately eighteen miles and each nuclear warhead carries two kilotons of power. Please recall that the bomb that hit Hiroshima was about twenty kilotons which means that these are relatively small."

"Unless one lands on your fucking lap," LeMay snarled. "Four or six of those things properly used could destroy a division or even a corps and would certainly disrupt an amphibious landing. They could easily cause thousands of American casualties. What are the Russians doing about this? Have the Cubans declared war on Russia, or vice-versa?"

"What does FROG stand for?" Kennedy asked. "I can't imagine a rocket named after an amphibian."

Even Taylor smiled. "I can't either, sir. It stands for Free Rocket Over Ground."

McCone continued. "According to Sokolov, Pliyev is launching full scale efforts to find them, along with aggressively covering his ass for losing them in the first place, and no, there is no fighting between Cuba and the Soviets. All Soviet efforts are centered on recovering the missing nukes. They will be difficult to find since the launchers are mounted on tracked vehicles, basically tank chassis, and could simply be covered up and driven down a road without anybody much noticing."

He passed around a photo. It showed a rocket in a semi-upright position on a tank chassis. It had a bulbous warhead and Kennedy thought it looked like a caricature of an erection.

"Christ," LeMay said. "I just had a thought. What would happen if one of our planes hit one of those vehicles carrying a nuke? Would the bomb detonate?"

"Quite possibly," McCone said. "Sokolov is proving a fountain of information. Apparently, Soviet nuclear tactics are quite different from ours. We think of nukes as weapons of last resort, while the Russians think they should be used right off. So, yes, it is entirely possible, even likely, that Fidel's nukes are armed and ready to go and that Castro will use them the first chance he has."

"Assuming that he really has them in the first place," Taylor injected.

Kennedy felt a headache coming on and his back was hurting. Why the hell had he ever wanted to run for president in the first place? Because his father had wanted him to, that's why. Damn it.

"Okay," he said. "Here's what we're going to do. Or not do, if you prefer. First, we tell nobody a thing about Castro having tactical nukes. Second, the invasion is on hold until further notice. You can gather forces and plan for an ultimate attack on Gitmo, but nothing moves without my say-so. Third, hold off on bombing any trucks or other tracked vehicles."

LeMay interrupted. "That means we don't bomb anything ‘cause we can't always tell from several thousand feet up whether a vehicle has wheels or tracks. It we wait until we're on top of them, it could put our planes in danger from their anti-aircraft fire. That's unacceptable."

Kennedy thought quickly and changed his mind. "You're right. And the hell with Castro if we hit one of those bombs and it goes off. Keep bombing the shit out of anything that moves. If one does go off, it'll be his fault that part of Cuba glows in the dark, and there will be one less bomb he can use against us."

"Along with a good sized hole in Cuban earth," LeMay said happily.

Kennedy saw agreement from the military and it pleased him. "Fourth, I want contacts with Russia to find out what they're doing, and fifth, I want this Sokolov's story proved or disproved and I want that done quickly."

And sixth, he thought, I want a damn drink. Maybe that will help my back.

Ross hadn't wanted Cathy to accompany them, but the alternative was to leave her alone at their temporary base camp and that was a prospect that horrified her. Given what he thought had happened to her, there was no other option but to bring her along on a mission that was as risky as anything they'd yet done.

Nor was she his only worry as they waited by the large field they'd identified as a drop point on the one call they'd managed to make to the States. Andrew worried that they hadn't gotten the coordinates right, or that they were right and any relief effort wouldn't find the field. Or, worse, the Cubans had picked up on the transmission and were waiting just behind the next tree. It was night and he could almost feel Cuban soldiers moving through the brush. It was the stuff of nightmares.

They waited until the right time and lit the fire in the middle of the field. "Sure as hell that's gonna bring Cubans," Cullen muttered.

"Maybe not," Andrew said hopefully, "We're a ways from any road or human habitation, and it isn't that big a fire." And what other choice did they have?

They waited. The silence was deafening. They looked away from the fire so its glare wouldn't destroy their night vision.

They heard a noise. It was the whine of a plane's engine. Suddenly, a dark shape lifted above the tree line, seemed to hover, and dropped to the ground, taxiing only a short distance before it was still. They could only stare in disbelief at the small plane as its doors opened and someone inside pushed out a number of boxes and containers. They started to move towards it, silhouetted against the fire, but the plane turned on the ground and headed back. It lifted off and cleared the trees by maybe a few inches. It was gone as quickly as it had come.

Andrew shook his head. Had it really happened? "Grab the boxes and douse that damn fire."

Cullen and Groth put out the fire while the others hauled and lifted the half dozen containers the plane had deposited. Ross was both disappointed and relieved. If he could have contacted the pilot, he would have shoved Cathy into the plane, and she would now be on her way to safety. But it hadn't happened and she was going to remain with them, which didn't totally displease him.

How long had the plane been on the ground? Maybe a minute. Probably a whole lot less. But at least they knew they weren't alone and that somebody was watching out for them. Just so long as Cubans weren’t drawn to the site by the fire and the sound of the plane.

When they were a couple of miles away and back at their current base camp, they fought the urge to open the containers immediately. "Hold off until it’s light," Cullen had urged and they reluctantly recognized the sense of it. They didn't want to damage what might be inside.

Dawn came after what seemed an eternity, and they carefully opened the containers. They felt like kids at Christmas. The contents of the first one made them grin. It was a two-way radio, along with a hand generator. Code books, spare parts, and instructions came with it. Another package contained medications and soap. Water purification tablets were a welcome addition. They'd all suffered from diarrhea from drinking bad water. Others were filled with rations that would last a couple of weeks if they were careful.

"I guess we can skip the iguana," Andrew teased. Cathy stuck her tongue out at him. She had a cute tongue.

They all grinned again when they found one box filled with toilet paper. They were virtually out of the good stuff and were planning on using soft leaves and rags cleaned off in local water and re-used. Cathy was confronting the same situation with her period. She had enough for this time, but what if they were still in Cuba a month from now? Her grandmother had used rags which she’d washed and used again. She shuddered. She had seen them drying on the line at grandma's house and thought it uncivilized. Would it come to that? Would they be forced to reuse rags as both toilet tissue and sanitary napkins?

Last was a package addressed to "Sister Catherine" from "Father Malone." Puzzled, she opened it. There was a note. "I discussed your situation with a nice lady named Elena and she suggested I include these."

Cathy didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Kotex.

Kraeger once again waited by the Lincoln Memorial. He wondered why spies thought this was such a great place to make a contact. Certainly it was easy to hide in the large numbers of people milling around, but it also made surveillance by the other side so easy. Maybe they should meet in a desert.

He recognized Georgi Golikov from a photo provided by the CIA. The Russian was of average height and build, excellently forgettable, which was good for an intelligence operative. Golikov nodded and held out his hand. They shook as if they were two business people who knew each other or old friends. None of the tourists milling about saw anything out of the ordinary. Charley wondered whether Golikov was KGB or the intelligence chief operating out of the Washington embassy, or both. He sure as hell wasn't the cultural attache any more than he was the tooth fairy.

Golikov looked over Kraeger's shoulder and quickly identified the two agents who had accompanied the American. For his part, Kraeger did the same, easily spotting the poorly dressed Russians who'd accompanied Golikov and were pretending to admire Honest Abe.

"Mr. Kraeger, my congratulations on escaping from the delights of the people's paradise of Cuba. And please accept my further congratulations on getting to Comrade Sokolov before we could. When you're done with him, we have some interesting questions we'd like to ask him."

I bet you do, Kraeger thought. "I don't think that's very likely. He's said he's interested in running a gas station in Tulsa."

Golikov blinked in surprise then realized it was a joke. Sort of. The steppes of Oklahoma sounded like a great place for Sokolov to spend the rest of his wretched life. "You are right, of course, and, unless you or he does something incredibly stupid, we will never see him again. Since he has nothing more to tell you that you don't already know or will soon find out, our interest in him is waning rapidly. Contrary to your movies and your spy books, we are not interested in useless vengeance. I hope he enjoys running that gas station, or perhaps cleaning dog shit in a pet shop. Perhaps he'll manage to set fire to himself at that gas station, eh?"

Sure, Kraeger thought. They'd just love to get him back if for no other reason than to put the traditional two bullets in the back of his skull as a way of telling others not to even think of defecting. "Comrade Golikov, I would enjoy knowing that General Pliyev has recovered all those nuclear warheads."

"What nuclear warheads?" Golikov said in clearly feigned astonishment. "The Soviet Union would never admit to having tactical nuclear warheads in Cuba, especially after our agreement to withdraw our strategic nuclear weapons. It would make no sense whatsoever to have such little horrors in Cuba where they might be lost and recovered either by a madman, Castro, or his lunatic assistant, Guevara."

Charley nodded and Golikov shrugged. Each man knew that the conversation was being recorded by the other side and neither wanted to say anything that would be incriminatory. In Golikov's case, incriminatory comments might get him shot.

"I am glad to hear it, but why then would Sokolov tell such a terrible lie?"

Golikov looked around. "Perhaps he's delusional."

Enough, Kraeger thought. "Then let's be hypothetical. Let's pretend you did have tactical nukes in Cuba and let's pretend that Castro or one of his henchmen stole a handful of them. What might your country's response be?"

Golikov nodded solemnly and glared. "Our anger and our fury at being betrayed, much less having several of our soldiers killed in the taking of them, which would certainly have happened in such a hypothetical event, would know no bounds. We would move heaven and earth to recover those weapons."

"If such a raid were to have occurred, how many do you think such hypothetical bandits would get?"

"No more than four. At two kilotons each, more than enough to cause of great deal of mischief, isn't it?"

Mischief? That isn't quite the word, Kraeger thought. "Of course, Comrade Golikov, it never happened and you don't believe in heaven in the first place, is that fair?"

"Very."

"Do you think Comrade Fidel understands that using nuclear weapons against us would provoke a nuclear response from us that might incinerate Cuba, turning him and Che into large cigar ashes?"

Golikov now looked nervous. "Again hypothetically, he is likely not to believe that or, if he is indeed becoming mad, might not care. My people would care very much, of course."

"Just curious, but how would that color any future relations between your country and Castro's Cuba? Hypothetically speaking, of course."

Golikov smiled grimly. "Any nuclear military actions by Cuba, or even a threat of such actions, would require a thorough reassessment of our position vis a vis any relations with a leader we cannot trust and who may be mad."

Kraeger grinned inwardly. The Soviets were thoroughly pissed off. He wondered how this might be used to America's advantage.