Castro's bomb

Chapter Twelve

Lt. Colonel Ted Romanski and Master Sergeant Wiley Morton threw themselves on the ground. The small plane had zoomed past them only a few feet above the trees and their heads. Coming at them in the dark had compounded their shock. Flying low and fast had the plane long gone before they could begin to react.

"You okay, colonel?" Morton said. He picked himself up and brushed off dirt and twigs.

"I am, master sergeant, although I am now five years older and a lot grayer than I was a few moments ago. At least I don't have to change my underwear."

Morton chuckled. "That was close for me, too, sir. How's your leg holding up?"

Romanski had begun walking while using a tree limb as a crutch. "So far, so good. Now, did you happen to see whose plane that was, or anything else that might be useful? Damn, that was a surprise."

"I couldn't pick out any markings. There might not have been any, but I think it was likely one of ours."

"Why so? It could have been Cuban. It would make sense to use small planes to ferry around important people, messages, and other things wouldn't it? A small plane flying low would be pretty safe from our planes. Our hotshot fighter pilots think it's beneath their dignity to hit a little target like that. Hell, they wouldn't even get a little red star to put on their plane to show they made a kill."

"True enough, colonel, but I still think it was one of ours. It was headed north like it had just done something, and north is the direction of Florida and our ships. If it was flying east-west I'd say it was Cuban, but not north-south."

"Good thinking, master sergeant, I agree completely. I think they were either dropping off men or supplies or both. Maybe there's a pro-American Cuban underground nearby, or maybe they're sending in men behind enemy lines like they used to do in France in World War II. I'm thinking Special Forces, of course. I've even reconciled myself to their wearing those green berets that Kennedy recently authorized. Regardless it's a good sign and I think we should follow the approximate line of flight for that little plane and see where it leads us. Not exactly like driving one of those new interstate highways, but it'll do for the time being."

Maybe, just maybe, they both thought, it will lead us to a path out of this mess.

Secretary of State Dean Rusk knew he was in trouble the moment he realized that he was almost alone in the Oval Office. Other than the president, the only other person present was Marine Commandant, General Shoup, who looked livid with anger. To his own dismay, Rusk thought he understood why both the president and the general were so upset.

"Who the hell blabbed?" Shoup asked.

Rusk sighed. "One of my people thought he was doing me a favor and putting out a fire. The Canadian government had made several inquiries regarding the safety of the so-called Canadian missionaries, and a group called something like the Council for Canadian Missionaries issued a press release saying that they'd never heard of any of their people working in Guantanamo Province. Canadian papers started asking pointed questions and someone in my office told his counterpart at the Canadian Embassy that they were marines who'd managed to escape capture, and not missionaries. He even confirmed the names of Ross and Malone and gave the Canadians the others."

"Let me guess," Shoup snarled. "The asshole who works for you made them cross their heart and hope to die and promise not to tell."

Rusk sighed again. "Not quite that bad but close enough. After promising to keep the confidence, the man at the Canadian embassy fed the information to his leaders at Ottawa, and the Canadian government then told the Canadian Missionary organization that it wasn't their people. The real missionaries were outraged at being used and told the Canadian press and then it began to steamroll."

Shoup slammed copies of several newspapers on the table. One of the headlines glared "Woman Guerilla Fights Commies." It showed a photo of Cathy Malone that had likely been taken in high school. One was clearly a graduation photo and in the other she was dressed as a cheerleader. The article also named all of the marines with Cathy, listing home towns and anything else the enterprising reporters could dig up.

"Where'd they get the picture of Malone?" Shoup asked.

"From her family," Rusk said. "They were so happy to find that she's okay, they let a reporter take one of her high school graduation pictures along with the cheerleader one. They're going to be interviewed on television, probably tonight. They think she's a heroine and I guess I can't disagree or blame them for being happy."

"Jesus H. Christ!" Shoup roared.

Kennedy finally spoke. "Mr. Secretary, I have to admit it's a great public relations triumph, but your man's carelessness has put them all in danger. We had hoped that the group, and Lieutenant Ross is obviously its commander and not Cathy Malone, would remain under Castro's radar. They and we did not feel that anyone was actively looking for them and we all rather liked it that way. We wanted them to lay low and do nothing more than feed us information. As a result of that monumental stupidity by someone at State, that situation may change for the worse."

"My associate is extremely sorry," Rusk said.

"Who the hell is he?" Shoup snarled.

"His name is Geoffrey Franklyn and he's an assistant deputy under-secretary and been with the State Department for more than thirty years."

Shoup laughed harshly. "Assistant deputy under-secretary? Shit, that sounds like an assistant produce manager at a supermarket."

Kennedy stood and glared at Rusk. "Apologies won't cut it, Mr. Secretary." The formal use of his title instead of his name caused Rusk to wince. "I want that person either fired, retired, or shipped out to some wonderful place like the Balkans where he can't get into trouble, and I want it done yesterday."

Rusk nodded glumly. For not the first time, he, a former Rhodes Scholar and president of the Rockefeller Foundation, wondered just why he'd ever gone back to government. Nor could he recall ever meeting Geoffrey Franklyn. What a hell of a mess that man had created.

Sergeant Carlos Gomez was not happy at getting new orders. He was rather enjoying himself as part of the garrison of Santiago where he could gamble, drink, steal, and whore to his heart's content, and wondered why he had been chosen out of so many for this special assignment. Simple, he'd been part of the original attack on Guantanamo and, with so many of those who'd gone in with him stationed farther away from either Guantanamo or Santiago, the choice of him was perversely logical.

That and the fact that the lieutenant and the captain over him hated his guts and thought he was a lazy, lying criminal were added factors. They would want him gone under any circumstances. Well fuck them, he thought.

Still, he was astonished to be brought to the hidden headquarters of General Ortega, who stared at him balefully, like he was examining an unwelcome insect. "You have a mission, sergeant. El Presidente is very unhappy that a band of marines led by a woman is out there rampaging over the countryside and he wishes it stopped."

Gomez was puzzled. He'd heard nothing about guerillas rampaging anywhere. He wondered how it affected him and thought he knew. "Sir, you wish me to stop them?"

Ortega smiled coldly. "I'm glad to see you're not as stupid as I'd been told."

"Sir?" Gomez practically squeaked.

"You are being given command of two squads, a total of twenty men, and your job is to track down and find these people who are such an embarrassment to Havana. Now, you're probably wondering why I am wasting my time on such a small matter as a woman and a half dozen lost marines and also talking to a total asshole like yourself. Well, it's because Comrade Fidel said it's very important that the woman and the marines be stopped, so I will now assure him that I have one of my best men looking for them. I don't of course, I have you. You are a lying, thieving, and corrupt and everyone wants you out of Santiago. You will take your men north of Guantanamo Bay and take however long you must to find those marines and the woman who leads them and I don't care if it takes the rest of your miserable life. Just send in reports that you are trying real hard."

Gomez understood that lost marines might be wandering the area, but a woman? "What woman?"

Ortega flipped a copy of a newspaper to him. It was a grainy facsimile that had been sent by telephone lines, probably from Mexico. A photo of a young, smiling woman stared up at him. She was vaguely familiar. Then he recalled. He had fucked her, or at least tried to. And she'd been gone when he'd gone back for her the next day, not that he really ever thought she'd stay. Nobody was that stupid.

Ortega had noted Gomez's reaction. "You find her attractive, sergeant?"

"Actually, sir, I think I've, ah, met her before."

Gomez smiled. The new assignment was actually beginning to look interesting. With twenty men looking for a handful of probably half-starved marines and a woman there'd be plenty of opportunities for fun and games. More and more he was becoming disenchanted with the stifling rules of the worker's paradise that Cuba was becoming, and was thinking of getting out to, say, Mexico or Florida where he could make money and didn't have to share it with anyone. That would take money to start with, and now he had a chance to acquire some if he had what was an independent command. Who knows, he might just find that woman and get a chance to fuck her again, and this time properly.

Gomez snapped off a salute. "I will do my best, general."

"Then go meet the woman again," General Ortega said. He wondered under just what circumstances a pig like Gomez would have met an intelligent and attractive young American woman. He decided he really didn't want to know.

A young Spec 4 opened the door to General Bunting's office and Midge Romanski entered. General Josiah Bunting stood and tried to smile affably, after all, they'd known each other for years. He could see that she was not in the mood for smiling and stopped.

"Midge, it's good to see you, even if it is under trying circumstances. Please, take a seat."

She took a chair and placed it closer to Bunting's desk. She was wearing a full dark skirt and dark jacket with a white blouse. Not quite a mourning outfit but close to it. Bunting caught himself staring at her shapely legs and stopped it. Not now.

Midge Romanski glared at him. "General, I will come to the point. I am not pleased to be here and I am not glad to see you, and I don't give a shit about your rank. I just want to know what the hell is going on with my husband."

Bunting sat back. He was neither surprised nor angry. This had happened far too often in the recent past. Dealing with grieving widows and loved ones was the worst part of a military career. Some cried, some pleaded, and some, like Midge, were royally pissed. He'd similar conversations a dozen times since the attack on Gitmo and hated it every time.

"Okay, Midge, specifically what is happening that's disturbing you? I thought you understood the circumstances."

Midge blinked back tears. Again, Bunting couldn't help but note again how attractive she was. "General, I was originally told that Ted was missing and presumed dead. When I thought I could handle it, my sons and I began planning a memorial service. Then some very young jackass lieutenant, he was maybe thirteen years old, shows up at my door and says that maybe I want to hold off for a while. What's the story? Is my husband presumed dead or not?"

"Midge, until we know otherwise he is considered missing and not dead. We originally told you that he was presumed dead because that's what we believed, and even saying presumed means we really don't know. His plane went down. It exploded in the air. Nobody could have lived through that and nobody did. Later, a couple of the pilots of the surviving planes said they saw a handful of men parachuting from that transport before the explosion and crash."

"Oh, God," she said and doubled over in emotional pain.

"Yeah. Then the Cuban commies decided to be cooperative. They informed the Swiss and the Red Cross that at least four men had indeed jumped from the plane. Two were killed and two were captured. Neither was Ted. The Cubans found the crash site and recovered a number of other bodies. None was Ted. He and one other man, a Master Sergeant Morton, are truly missing and we just don't know where they are or what the hell is going on with them."

Midge almost smiled. She knew who Morton was. "Do you mean he could be wandering around Cuba?"

"Don't get your hopes up. I've got to be frank. It's equally possible, maybe even more than equally, that he was killed and his body hasn't yet been found. Regardless, I sent that lieutenant, and he's twenty-two by the way and not thirteen, to suggest that you hold off on a memorial service. I don't want to get your hopes up, but it is still possible that it would be premature. I hope to God it won't be much longer before we can provide a definitive answer."

She paused a moment, digesting what he'd said. "I have another question and I'm not going to be nice. In a short while, Ted was going to retire and we were going to get on with our lives. So, I'm not going to put up with any more army bullshit from you or anybody else. I simply want to know — who was the flaming asshole who sent him on this stupid mission?"

Bunting winced. He wanted to lie, but she deserved the truth. "I believe that would be me."

"Good God, why?"

He stood and began to pace, his anger and frustration growing. "Because I honestly thought it would help the boys at Guantanamo. We had set up Roman Force during the first crisis and we wound up not needing it because the marines got there with numbers and firepower to defend the base before the situation could get hot.

"When we got last minute word that an attack on Gitmo might be imminent, I told Ted to get Roman Force ready again and wait my orders. When I mentioned it to President Kennedy, he gave me a verbal go-ahead, which he is now managing to forget. Fortunately for me, he and I were not alone in the room, so, if you care, I am not being left hanging out to dry."

Midge shook her head angrily. "Sorry, but I really don't care right now. I am only concerned about Ted."

"Midge, we had no idea the Cubans would move so quickly or in such force against us. They overwhelmed the base before the relief force could get there. When I realized what was happening, I called off the effort. I got most of the planes turned around but, obviously, not all of them."

There was pain on his face and Midge felt a twinge of sympathy. It went away.

"General, are you telling me that you really thought a few hundred men would stop the Cuban Army?"

"No. We thought it would send a message to Fidel that we were serious."

She laughed bitterly. "Didn't any of you fools in the Pentagon consider that a massive assault on an American base indicated that Fidel was already serious? Don't bother to answer."

She stood and straightened her skirt. "I'll give you a few more days to give me some firm information, one way or the other. After that, all gloves are off. I have friends at various newspapers and I'm sure they'd love to write articles comparing Roman Force's futile efforts to the Charge of the Light Brigade. You can be General Raglan. Do you remember who he was?"

Bunting's face turned red. "I believe he was the flaming asshole who ordered the charge." And, he thought, I think it's time for me to retire as well.

Cathy Malone stretched her arms. "I would like a shower. A nice long hot shower. Maybe half an hour, maybe longer, and with an unlimited supply of shampoo and scented soap."

They had all tried to clean up in ponds and streams but those were muddy and contained numerous insects that liked to nibble on human flesh. It was generally accepted that ponds and streams would not really clean anyone. It was not quite the same with rain. Yes rainfall was clean, but it was cold and one other thing Andrew's crew lacked was towels and enough changes of clothing. Body odor had become body stench for all. At least the problem was universal and they were getting used to it.

Cathy sighed and continued. "Then I would like my nails done and that includes my toes. I've never had anybody do my toes."

"Me either," Andrew said. "The Corps kinda frowns on it. I think it clashes with the dress uniform. By the way, Happy New Year."

She blinked in surprise. "It's today?"

"Actually, it was a couple of days ago. Remember how time flies when you're having fun?"

"Funny, but I don't remember having all that much fun, but I'm sorry I missed it just the same. In that case, I also wish I'd been at a party with champagne and good food and dancing the night away in my sexy little black dress. And with some people I really like. Maybe next year."

"Would I be invited?"

Cathy squeezed his arm. "Absolutely."

"Would anybody else be there?"

She laughed. "Maybe not. But I would have to do something with the other guys. After all, we've already been through a lot together. Did you hear what Hollis is saying?"

"No, and I'm afraid to ask."

"Well, he's comparing us to the cast of a bad war movie in which every ethnic group is represented. Then he realizes there's no Italian or Pole, and that the only Jew, Levin, was surrendered to the Cubans. He's happy we have Ward, who's black. Ward said he has an aunt who's Italian and that confused Hollis because that means there's an inter-racial marriage involved. He was happy when I told him my mother is half Polish."

"I am absolutely thrilled for Hollis and the fact that he has so much time on his hands. What else is he saying?"

"He says I am the movie's damsel in distress. I always wanted to be a lovely damsel, although distress is turning out to be very unappealing. So he changed it to us being Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. I like being Snow White. I always liked that movie even though it scared me what with the wicked witch and the trees in the forest grabbing at Snow White. As a little girl I wanted to be a princess. Almost as good as being a damsel, don't you think?"

"Dear God. And all of this is going on behind my back?"

She laughed. "Command is so lonely, isn't it?"

"Wait, if you're Snow White, which of the damned dwarfs am I?"

She looked at him in mock surprise. "Why Grumpy, of course."

Andrew Ross laughed like he hadn't in a long time. Here they were, sleeping and living in the open, wearing clothing and uniforms that were becoming more filthy and ragged each day, and becoming personally filthier each day, and all the while trying to survive in a hostile nation, and yet his men had time to think of nonsense like that.

"Yeah," he said, "invite the guys to the party and I'll make sure they leave early. I just hope it happens soon. I just wish we could do more to help ourselves get out of here. I wish we'd been able to find where they're hiding those tanks so we'd be useful and get them blasted before the invasion."

Ward strolled by. "Lieutenant, I have a really serious question for you?"

"Okay."

"We are so in the dark here about the world outside. Do you have any idea who won the Rose Bowl? I've got ten bucks on it and I gave fourteen points to Wisconsin."

Ross made a mental note to let the men listen to scores, rather than just the news. It was bad enough missing their favorite television shows, like Ed Sullivan or Lucille Ball, even though she'd divorced from Desi Arnaz. "Then you're out ten, Ward. It was Southern Cal 42 and Wisconsin 37."

Ward shook his head in mock sadness. "I really didn't think people from cheese country could play USC that close. Damn."

The attempt to follow the camouflaged tank had failed when Cullen had come across a series of patrols and checkpoints that stymied him. Obviously the tanks were hidden somewhere behind them, but precisely where they couldn't tell anybody in the States. Other vehicles, armored and wheeled, had gone down the road similarly hidden and equally untraceable. Somewhere there was a tank park that deserved to be bombed and they couldn't say exactly where.

They'd also found dummy tanks made of wood and canvas in open fields. Obviously, they were there to be bombed and maybe to ambush American planes. They'd relayed that info back home and hoped somebody was paying attention. Regardless, it was nice to be able to transmit even vague information now that they had the radio and had actually figured out how to use the codes.

The bad news was that the Cubans now knew they existed and would be looking for them. They had been careful and made certain they changed location every day and now they would have to be even more alert. They'd made a habit of digging two man fox holes so they would be less visible during the day. In case of attack, they would serve as defensive points.

It would be relatively easy to move away from the Gitmo area, but how would they be able to do their part to help the US retake it? Granted, whatever they did would certainly be small, but there was the unspoken determination to do something, anything.

Sergeant Cullen came back to their camp from a little scouting which had resulted in him finding some fresh fruit. He saw the lieutenant sitting with Cathy and stifled a smile. Good luck, he thought. And they were going to need it. He thought Cathy was cute enough but he preferred his women a little more voluptuous. Like Marilyn Monroe. Too bad she'd gone and killed herself the past summer. What a waste. Yeah, like he was ever going to meet her.

He looked around. Okay, he thought, where is everybody? The lieutenant and Cathy were huddled by a tree and Williams and Groth were on sentry duty. He'd just checked on them so that was fine. So where were Hollis and Anders? He kicked a sleeping Ward on the sole of his foot. Ward was alert in an instant.

"Where are your buddies?"

Ward yawned. "They said they were going down the road to check out a damaged truck. They said they saw boxes that might contain food and stuff."

Cullen felt his anger rising. "Did either of those yo-yos even think to ask permission?"

"No, gunnery sergeant," Ward stammered.

"You know where that damned truck is, don't you, and stop saying gunnery sergeant."

"Yes, Gunny."

"Wonderful. Grab your weapon and follow me."

The two men walked, half trotted, through the underbrush. Cullen led and he kept an eye out for trouble. Ward told Cullen that the wreck was maybe two miles away and they thought it had been strafed by American planes. There were containers on the road and Hollis thought they might contain something useful.

"Assholes," Cullen snarled. "Did it ever occur to them that it might be an ambush, just like the dummy tanks might be? Or have you forgotten that the Cuban fucks know we're out here?"

Ward's jaw dropped, "Oh, Christ."

When they were about a half mile away from where Ward thought the truck was, they heard the distant pop-pop sounds of gunfire. When they got much closer, they were able to differentiate between the sounds of an M1 Garand and other, different, weapons, but they didn't hear the lethal chatter of AK47s.

The two marines crawled to the top of a low hill. The truck was a quarter mile away and more than a dozen Cuban soldiers were between them and the truck and were crawling towards it. The Cubans had divided into two groups. One was advancing on the truck and the other was providing covering fire. The Cubans were militia and carried what appeared to be old bolt-action rifles. Nor did they seem to be firing with any kind of accuracy. Thank God for small favors, Cullen thought. He and Ward slid over the crest and ducked behind a curve in the earth. They were behind the Cubans and he was confident they could not be seen.

"Ward, you a good shot?"

"I'm a marine, gunny."

"Don't be a smartass. Can you start picking off those Cubans?"

"Yes."

"Good. So can I. Now, start killing them from the left and I'll begin from the right."

The Cubans were about two hundred yards away, well within killing range for good shooters using their own weapons and firing from a stable, prone position.

The two marines aimed and fired, slowly, steadily, and accurately. Cubans spun and dropped. Not every shot hit but enough did. Nor did the Cubans immediately realize what was happening. They were fixated on overwhelming whoever was by the truck with numbers and gunfire. Very quickly a half dozen Cubans either lay still or writhed on the ground.

The remaining Cubans now realized their peril, wheeled, and fired on the two marines but without effect. Cullen and Ward were almost invisible.

A Cuban soldier gestured and the survivors began to break off. Ward and Cullen continued to shoot as did whoever was behind the truck and another pair of Cubans fell lifeless, including the one who'd ordered them to pull back. Always knock off the leaders, Cullen thought. When a couple of Cubans picked up wounded comrades, Cullen told Ward to hold off. The fight was over.

A few minutes later, the remaining Cubans sped off in a couple of trucks that they'd hidden off the road.

"I told you it was an ambush," Cullen said coldly. "Let's go see about Hollis and Anders."

Hollis was fine. Shaken and scratched, but otherwise okay. Anders was not so fortunate. He had a sucking gunshot wound in his chest and it was going to kill him since it had clearly ripped through a lung. But he's not going to die here, Cullen thought. He ordered Hollis and Ward to carry the wounded marine back to the camp. Even if he'd been killed, he wasn't going to lie by the truck like the dead Cubans were. There were five Cuban bodies and he lifted what weapons and supplies he thought would be useful.

Cullen did a quick check of the crates that had been so enticing to Hollis and Anders. Empty. His men had been conned, and one of them was going to die because of it. He felt like strangling both of them, or at least Hollis. He was always the leader of the two.

Of course, he wouldn't strangle anybody. Even if he really wanted to, it wasn't a good idea. They were so few and now they'd lost one of the few. He'd seen the stricken look on Hollis's face. The young man would take a long time getting over his horrible mistake. Maybe never. Hollis and Anders were buddies.

Whoever said War is Hell was absolutely right, he thought. Dammit to hell.

Cathy and the others did what they could for Anders, which was not much at all. A skilled surgical team in a first rate hospital might have been able to save him, but not a handful of people with nothing better than a rough knowledge of first aid and enough morphine to kill the pain. They pumped Anders full of morphine until he stopped moaniing.

Hollis kept sobbing how sorry he was and before he drifted off, Anders seemed to understand. In a moment of lucidity, he smiled and told Hollis that it was okay, that no one had stuck a hook in his ass and dragged him out to that truck. He had gone of his own will because he thought it was a good idea.

"Sometimes the goose lays a golden egg and sometimes she shits all over you," Anders actually managed to say before lapsing into unconsciousness. A few moments later, he died.

Ross shook his head. Anders never swore. "That was the morphine speaking. We will never tell his family those were his last words." Cathy was sobbing and he put his hand on her shoulder. He wondered if she'd ever seen violent death before this tragic Christmas and the days that had followed. Probably not. They'd all had enough since then.

"We bury him and we get the hell out of here." Ross added.

There was no disagreement. While their current hideout was well away from the site of the skirmish, the place would be crawling with Cuban soldiers looking for whoever had shot up their ambush. Andrew took Anders' dog tags and put them with the others. At least he knew Anders. It wasn't like the anonymity of the men who'd lost their lives at the bunker in what seemed an eternity ago.

He slowly realized a great truth. It was better not to know the men he would be sending into battle. It hurt too much.

Humberto Cordero was a general and it pleased him. It also pleased him that his earlier feelings of inadequacy were largely under control, although, he admitted to himself, not that far from the surface.

The prison housing the Americans was functioning as well as a prison camp full of hostile enemy soldiers could. The Americans had been docile. There'd been no mutinies, no uprisings, and, while he suspected the inmates in a series of thefts in Santiago, he couldn't prove anything. In particular, how the hell had any prisoners managed to get out of the camp and back? Nor was he going to organize a sweep of the camp, not with the Red Cross contingent encamped almost alongside the prison. The Americans would doubtless resist and there would be bloodshed. It was frustrating.

Nor did Cordero mind that the Yankees called the camp Disneyland, and had tagged him as Donald Duck. In a way, it amused him, and, if it made the prisoners happy and kept them docile, no one was harmed.

A radio was operating in the camp and that bothered Cordero a little, but there wasn't much the prisoners could do besides talk with the mainland and there was little harm in that. They'd doubtless passed on information regarding military units in the area, but he was confident the yanquis didn't know all that much.

Besides, as a general, Cordero had more important things to do than worry about the internal workings of the camp. That was why he had a staff. He was in nominal command of the five thousand man militia division that was scattered throughout and around the city of Santiago. He did not presume to give specific direction to the more senior general in actual command, not that it would have mattered. That worthy had been a union organizer until a few months ago and knew as much about running an infantry division as Cordero knew about brain surgery.

Another niggling problem was with acting sergeant Carlos Gomez who sat nervously in front of him. General Ortega was in overall command of the defenses in Guantanamo and eastern Cuba and had decreed that Gomez should report directly to Cordero.

"Tell me, how many men did you lose?"

Gomez was sweating profusely. "Five dead and three wounded."

"And how did that happen, sergeant?"

"We were ambushed and nearly overwhelmed by a much larger American force. There aren't half a dozen marines out there, general, there’s at least a platoon of them. And they are heavily armed. My men and I fought hard and well. It wasn't our fault."

Of course not, Cordero thought. It never is the fault of slime like you. He'd had one of his enlisted men talk casually with the others in Gomez's command and knew the truth. They'd laid an ambush and been ambushed instead. Only it wasn't by a large number of Americans; it was generally agreed that only two or three at most had attacked them from the rear and with such devastating results while Gomez's men had at most two marines pinned down by the truck.

Cordero sighed. "Now I suppose you want more men and I suppose you want to command them?"

"Indeed, my general. Give me a hundred soldiers and make me a captain and I guaranty that we will wipe out the nest of American snakes."

Cordero wondered how Gomez would accomplish that without getting anywhere near the action. His informants had told him that Cordero hadn't been with five miles of the skirmish. Instead, he had been with a local whore. Still, something had to be done.

"Two squads," Cordero said. "That will make good your losses and give you more men by half. I think your estimates of the number of Americans might be off. In fact, I think you are a fucking liar. You will make do with what you will get."

Gomez rose and saluted, "Of course, general."

The insult rolled right off Gomez's back. He was thrilled that he was going to keep his command and his rank, however temporary. If the Americans would only hold off on their threatened invasion, he would be able to amass a goodly amount of money, jewels, and other items of opportunity that he could use when he got out of Cuba.

Geoffrey Franklyn was most pissed. He was mad as hell and he was going to do something about it. He'd spent thirty years in the State Department and considered it more of an honorable vocation than a career. He was proud to have risen to the position deputy assistant director. He very strongly felt that he was being abused. Accepting a transfer to Albania was totally out of the question as was the tongue lashing he'd received directly from Secretary of State Dean Rusk.

First, Albania was a sewer of a country, and so backward that it made tribal enclaves in deepest Africa seem palatial and sophisticated in comparison. He was not going to Albania. He had more than enough time to retire and qualify for a pension, which he really didn't need since he'd inherited a goodly amount from his mother. What he didn't like was being forced out for doing his job in the best manner possible.

Second, what in God's name had he done? Relations between nations were built on honor and truth, not lies and deceptions, and that was what he had tried to prevent. Canada was a friend and neighbor and deserved to be taken into our trust. Therefore, telling his good friend at the Canadian Embassy that there were no Canadian religious groups lost in Cuba and, instead, that the so-called missionaries were marines wandering around and doubtless causing ill-will among the people of Cuba. He'd been to Cuba and thought the people were warm and gentle. That he'd never left Havana and that several of the warm and gentle people he'd found were very young prostitutes didn't concern him. Franklyn was deeply sympathetic to Fidel Castro and his plans for wealth distribution. He did not see the irony in his being wealthy and possibly a target for wealth distribution in a communist state.

Further, Geoffrey Franklyn did not like marines. Everyone he'd met had been smug and superior, especially those he'd met while on embassy duty in other countries. They were large and obnoxious cretins who deserved to be put in their place. The battle for Guantanamo was over. Therefore, why on earth didn't that lost group just surrender and get it over with? That would be the honorable thing to do, but the marines, he thought, were sadly lacking in honor. The whole Guantanamo Bay situation should be resolved by the United Nations, which he considered the hope of the future. He considered it wrong that the United States had a base in a foreign country when that country didn't want us there in the first place.

And now he was going to be punished for the dishonorable behavior of the marines, the CIA and, yes, President John F. Kennedy. Well, not if he could help it. He had friends all over the place and had picked up little snippets of information that indicated that the Russians in Cuba, another bunch of barbarians, had lost some very valuable weapons, weapons that might cause the ground to glow in the dark if used. Fears were rampant that they would be used on American soldiers should they try to invade Cuban soil.

He was not foolish. He would not call from a phone in the State Department. He walked a few blocks away and dropped coins in a pay phone, and asked for the long distance operator. He gave her the number of the New York Times. He had a good friend working there, and that reporter had a friend at the Washington Post. Geoffrey Franklyn smiled. This could be fun.

The Soviet Union's new elite and secret special forces were called "Spetsnaz," which was the Russian abbreviation for "voiska spetsialnogo naznachenya," all of which meant ‘special forces.’ The Red Army had always had elite units, especially during World War II, but these new Spetsnaz were being developed as a response to President Kennedy's decision to form Special Forces units in the American Army.

The new Spetsnaz were particularly trained to infiltrate and destroy American and nuclear sites in Europe in case war with NATO became imminent. They were all skilled, therefore, in handling nuclear weapons and material. Unlike American Special Forces, they did not have any distinctive uniforms or badges, preferring anonymity. General Issa Pliyev had a company of them under his command, a hundred men in ten man teams. In a different theater of operations, he would have had many more, but Moscow saw no need for additional men in such a backwater as Cuba. Each Spetsnaz soldier was highly dedicated, superbly trained, and a lethal killer. Their job was to operate behind enemy lines, and this was what Pliyev now called on them to do.

Many of them were fluent in Spanish, although none could ever pass as a native, either linguistically, physically, or culturally.

For his part, Pliyev asked for and received cooperation from Russian diplomats in Havana. Armed with quantities of money, along with threats of exposure to the Cuban government for being criminals, homosexuals, and closet capitalists, the Russians made numerous but discreet inquiries. Where would Castro have hidden four nuclear warheads?

At that point, he ordered the commander of the Spetsnaz detachment, thirty-five year old Captain Pyotr Dragan, to take charge of the investigation. Dragan was a favorite of the general’s. Slightly built, he was wiry and strong. His small size and his prematurely gray hair sometimes made people assume he was weak. Dragan was experienced, intelligent and ruthless. Pliyev was confident that he would locate the missing weapons.

There was an unfortunate delay since Dragan, like all of the Russians, was unaware of Castro’s intentions at the time of the attack on Guantanamo, and was on leave in Mexico City, where he was relieving himself of accumulated stresses by indulging in the Russian tradition of drinking heavily and frequenting some of the better whorehouses. When he was found, he returned quickly and took charge.

Several leads proved false, and at least one opportunistic Cuban functionary had his throat slit by Dragan for lying in an attempt to get a fat bribe. Finally, an informant told the Soviets that an abandoned sugar warehouse on the outskirts of Havana had suddenly sprouted antennae and was surrounded by barbed wire behind which heavily armed Cuban soldiers patrolled. After ascertaining that what the informant had said was accurate, the man was thanked and paid. On the way home, he was run over by a truck driven by a Russian who was part of the KGB.

Loose ends were deplored by the Russians.

Later that night Dragan’s Russians staged a car accident outside the barbed wire and, while the Cuban guards were distracted for the few minutes needed to decide, after much yelling and flailing of arms, which driver was at fault, slid a ten man team under the wire and inside the perimeter. They stealthily worked their way to what they presumed was the guard barracks and found four men inside. Short bursts from their silenced AK47s solved that problem. In another building they found two men on duty by the radio and telephone, and slit their throats before they realized they were in danger.

Dressed in Cuban uniforms and coming from within the wire, the Dragan’s Spetsnaz team simply walked up to the guards at the gate and killed them. Since outsiders expected to see guards on duty, they took the place of the dead Cubans and no one noticed.

Dragan fervently hoped that what they were looking for was in the warehouse. Otherwise, someone was going to have a hard time explaining the carnage. Then he realized that it was going to be difficult to explain under any circumstances and, besides, he didn't care. He had his orders and he served the Soviet Union.

Incredibly, the warehouse door was unlocked. Two mechanics were working on the PT76 tank carriage that was the missile launcher. Dragan permitted the sobbing mechanics to live. He had them bound and gagged. His instructions were to make sure the Cubans knew who had visited them. Pliyev's orders had been clear. "The fucking greasers cannot fuck with the Red Army and get away with it." When angry, Dragan thought General Pliyev had an eloquent way with words.

A column of six trucks pulled up to the gate and the "guards" let them in. Two more Spetsnaz were in the front of each and two of Pliyev's rocket engineers sat nervously in the back. When the trucks were in the warehouse, Dragan was amused when one of the Soviet engineers puked noisily at all the death. What did the fool expect? Didn't the man work on atomic bombs? What did he think would happen when one went off? Scientists were such fools.

The thirty-four foot two-stage solid fuel missiles were not on the converted tank chassis. Three were found lying carelessly on the floor alongside a wall. This confirmed Dragan’s opinion that the Cubans could not be trusted with anything as important as nuclear weapons. The engineers quickly confirmed that the 800lb warheads were not armed, and even the hard-bitten Dragan breathed a sigh of relief. He expected to die someday, but it was not his wish for today and most certainly not as dust billowing upward in part of a mushroom cloud.

After a thorough search of building and grounds, the fourth missile and warhead were nowhere to be seen. Nor was its carrier. Too bad, Dragan thought, but three out of four was better than nothing. Pliyev would not be totally pleased, however. Dragan was not thrilled either. He had a good idea just who was going to have to search all of Cuba to find it.

The rockets weighed a ton apiece so the Soviet engineers used winches to raise them and carefully remove the three warheads, which were then put in the lead lined containers they'd brought in the trucks. Dragan's orders were to leave the now useless rockets for Castro to play with. Pliyev's actual words suggested that Fidel and Raul could fire them up their asses and see if the two of them achieved earth orbit.

Dragan checked his watch. Almost time to leave. Real guards would be along in an hour or so. The Cubans weren't terribly precise about these things, but it was highly unlikely they'd be early. He decided to exceed his orders by demolishing the engines of the tank chassis and by smashing anything he could on the rockets. They were solid fuel, so the engineers told him not to be overly concerned that he would cause an explosion.

As an added bonus for Fidel and one he knew Pliyev would appreciate, he beheaded one of the two mechanics. He would let the now hysterical sole survivor try and tell his tale.

Manuel Hidalgo's militia uniform fit poorly, but it was a Cuban military uniform and he was proud of it. It was also the finest piece of clothing he'd ever owned in his seventeen years. Unfortunately, he was sweating profusely and it had nothing to do with the oppressive heat. He had disgraced his proud new uniform and nothing could change that fact. If his Aunt Marinda found out she would beat him.

Captain Salazar looked at him coldly. The captain was in charge of the guard detachment overseeing the activities of the American prisoners. Rumor had it that he had been a mortician in civilian life and his gloomy expression did nothing to dispel the rumor. It was hard to tell if the captain was angry, sad, or all of the above.

"You are an idiot," Salazar finally said, coldly and softly, "a complete and utter fool. How the living hell does a soldier go about losing his rifle? You would have been better off if you'd managed to lose your cock."

Manuel gulped. Unfortunately, he had no idea either. It was an M1 Garand, one of those captured from the Americans when the base had been taken. He'd proudly and lovingly cleaned it and oiled it. He was glad to be a soldier, even if it was only as a militiaman guarding helpless prisoners of war. He'd been given minimal training, which included firing the first couple of rounds in his life, and told to shoot any prisoners who tried to escape. He had serious doubts as to whether he could kill anyone, even despised Americans, but he hoped he could do his duty for Cuba.

As to the prisoners, they all seemed docile enough. Some of them even spoke Spanish, which surprised him. So what the devil happened to his rifle?

"Were you drunk?" Salazar asked.

"No, sir."

The captain nodded thoughtfully. "Had you been drinking the night before?"

Manuel winced at the memory. "Yes, sir."

"Let me guess. Some of your new and older friends decided to take you out and introduce you to some of the finer things in life, such as alcohol, and I'll bet they got you thoroughly, totally drunk, and maybe even got you laid for the first time in your idiotic life, and I'll bet you had a hangover this morning that made you wish you were dead and in hell just so it would feel better."

"Yes, sir," Manuel said miserably.

Some of the others had gotten hold of several bottles of Canadian Whisky, Hiram Walker, and they'd all drunk heavily. He'd had rum before, of course, but never American or Canadian whisky and he vowed he never would again. Worse, he slightly remembered trying to have sex with a whore who was almost as old as his aunt and very fat. He shuddered. Maybe it was better he didn’t remember.

"Let me guess some more," Salazar continued. "You managed to make it through your duty and were so tired that you decided to take a nap under a tree near the prison and, when you woke up, it was dark and your rifle was gone along with the two clips of ammunition you'd been issued."

"Yes sir, but I was not drunk on duty and I did not fall asleep on duty. I just took a nap. I had no idea someone would steal my weapon," he said, almost in tears.

Salazar nodded thoughtfully. This poor child should not have been given a rifle in the first place. He should be home with his aunt who was a heroine of the revolution. Damn. What to do with the incompetent boy. And what had happened to Manuel's weapon? It wasn't the first time that a rifle, or even an AK47, had been spirited away. There were those who insisted it was criminals selling the weapons on the black market, and there were others who felt that the American prisoners were somehow getting out of the camp and taking them. He thought the latter was preposterous; however, Fidel's special agent, Dominico Allessandro would be arriving in a few days for a surprise inspection. A friend in Havana had just alerted him to that unwelcome fact. Allessandro wanted to look over the camp records. If the boy was still here and the rifle not found, Manuel Hidalgo might face the firing squad.

Damn it to hell.

Finally, the solution occurred to Salazar. "Idiot, you can no longer stay here and guard anything, not even the kitchens or the latrine. You would hurt yourself in the kitchen and fall into the latrine where you would drown because no one would want to help you. No, you will go to a new unit that is forming on the coast north of La Lima. This is not a second chance, boy; this is your last chance, your only chance."

The boy gave a salute that was sloppy even by militia standards and ran out, thankful that he wasn’t going to be punished. Salazar sighed and allowed that he had done a good thing. The boy was useless as a soldier and he would be away from both the inspection and the coming fighting. Everyone knew that the American attack would come from the south, by the former base and the prison camp. Therefore, the north would was being guarded at this time by third and fourth rate troops. Hidalgo would fit in just fine.

As Manuel ran by the barb wire that enclosed the camp, a handful of the prisoners looked at him and smiled to each other. One more rifle and two clips of ammunition weren't much, but they would help.