Castro's bomb

Chapter Thirteen

The American jet dropped its bomb and pulled out of its dive. At that moment, a streak of fire lifted from the ground and sped towards it.

"No!" screamed Ross, but there was nothing he or the others could do. It was like watching a horror movie.

The pilot either saw or sensed it at the last moment and tried to juke away. Like the predator it was, the missile followed. The surface to air missile closed in on the plane and smashed into the tail. The tail exploded into a hundred pieces while a large portion of the front of the plane continued on in an obscene parody of flight until it realized it had been killed and plummeted to the ground. There was another explosion, this one mercifully masked from their view by trees. A plume of dark greasy smoke lifted into the sky.

They all looked at each other. "What chance the pilot survived?" Ross asked.

"Slim and none," Cullen answered, "but we still have to check it out. I didn't see a chute but it could've been masked by the explosions."

Cullen stood and stared at Ross. "I'll go. More than one person might attract attention and, besides, I'm the best here at working the ground."

Ross reluctantly agreed, but with a sense of relief. He knew he was competent, but the gunnery sergeant was far superior as a tracker and a war fighter. It also made sense for Cullen to go alone, but what if the pilot was still alive? How would Cullen resolve that problem?

Cullen smiled. Ross was easy to read. "He's probably either very dead or very unhurt and hiding, lieutenant. I'll solve any problem."

Cullen left almost immediately and moved as quickly as prudence would allow. He hoped that he would get to the crash site before the Cubans did, but it was not to be. At least a squad of Cuban soldiers and a couple of officers were scouring the debris littered ground around a major piece of wreckage. He got close enough to hear them talking excitedly and happily. After all, hadn't they just destroyed a gringo plane? Viva Cuba! Viva Castro! Viva the Revolution!

After a while it became obvious that the soldiers were scrounging for souvenirs, and that nothing of consequence remained. At least nothing useable remained. But that did not answer the question of what happened to the pilot.

Finally, an officer called the men together and they began to walk casually in the general direction of Guantanamo Bay. Cullen waited patiently until they were well out of site and then made a wide circle of the area. He wouldn't put it past the bastards to either leave someone behind or double back to see who showed up. He wondered if Lieutenant Ross would've thought to do that. Probably not, he decided and then wondered if he was selling the lieutenant short.

After another hour, he moved to the wreckage. Charred debris was everywhere and he had to walk carefully so as not to step on something, especially something that might have been human.

He reached the cockpit. The scent of burning flesh had already told him what he would find and his eyes confirmed it. The pilot had not ejected. What was left of him was still strapped in his seat. Cullen was not a particularly religious man, but he fervently prayed that the pilot had been dead before hitting the ground and before being so hideously burned.

He made a quick decision not to disturb the corpse. Someone would doubtless come back to do further and more intelligent checking on the man’s papers, and he didn't want them wondering what had happened to the dead American.

He shuddered. Missiles that could chase a plane around the sky and kill it? Christ. Was nothing sacred anymore?

Charley Kraeger and Elena Sandano walked hand in hand and smiled like lovers as they walked by the Jefferson Memorial. It wasn't at all difficult to pretend that they were fond of each other because they were. Charley hadn't yet convinced Elena to go to bed with him although he thought she might be weakening. Probably her conservative Catholic and Latino background was restraining her, he ruefully concluded. Still, she did like him and their kissing was getting more and more passionate. He just thought they were too old to play like they were in high school. Hell, when he'd tried to caress one of her lovely and full breasts, she'd told him no and removed his hand.

What the hell. He'd do whatever she said. He was not about to screw up a lovely relationship by acting like a jerk.

After two meetings at the Lincoln Memorial, both Kraeger and Golikov agreed that a change of venue was in order, and Thomas Jefferson's magnificent rotunda it was. When Charley told Golikov he was bringing a date, the Russian laughed and said he would as well.

Two couples meeting in a public place would not attract any attention, assuming anybody was looking. Elena accompanied Charley and a surprisingly attractive blond Russian woman named Oksana came with Golikov. Charley wondered if Oksana was a "honeypot" used to seduce potential sources of information, or if she was really a qualified member of the Soviet embassy.

Golikov and Charley separated from the two women who stood aside and pretended to gossip. "I was thinking about the hypothetical situation you presented me with," Golikov said. "And I have decided to think further. For instance, I said that we would move heaven and earth to recover any stolen items and that was and is true. I would think that such efforts would bear fruit rather quickly."

"I'm not surprised."

"I hypothesized that no more than four items would be missing. I can now say that three of them would be quickly and decisively recovered. The fourth would likely need significantly more effort to locate. Sadly, it may well be that the remaining item would prove to be out of our reach. If nothing else, the potential for damage through its misuse would be drastically reduced."

"Glad to hear it," Charley said. "Not a perfect solution, but three out of four is much better than nothing."

Charley thought quickly. If the remaining warhead wasn't in the Havana area, it was probably en route to the Guantanamo area, or was already there. Either way, it represented a major problem for the agency and the military. A two kilo bomb was relatively small but would devastate a major unit, like an infantry division, and easily result in several thousand casualties.

"How might this have affected any relationship between Cuba and the Soviet Union, had this actually happened, of course?" Charley asked.Golikov thought for a moment before responding. "I did mention a reassessment, didn't I? Ah well. Any limited military efforts on your part to protect yourselves and your property would not be considered a threat to the world's equilibrium. Berlin, therefore, would not be part of any reaction on our part."

"What about Korea and the Chinese?"

Golikov looked pained. "Why do you annoying American capitalist running dogs persist in thinking that we have any control over our slanty-eyed Asiatic socialistic brethren? When will you realize there is no massive Soviet hegemony? Just do what you have to and don't get us directly involved."

Charley didn't know how to respond. They shook hands and parted. Charley wondered exactly what Golikov meant by ‘decisively’ recovered. An interesting word, he thought. Did it mean that the Reds had used violence? Probably, and the thought made him smile. Fidel's poor amateurs wouldn't stand a chance against the Russians who would have used either KGB goons or elite Spetsnaz or both to make the recovery.

Elena slipped her arm in his. "Everything okay?"

"If you think three out of four is okay."

"Ouch."

"Tell me about the lovely Oksana. KGB?"

"Probably, but isn't everyone at the Soviet Embassy a spy of some sort?"

"True. Of course that's what they feel about our people in Moscow."

"She said she was a translator and her English is outstanding. She rather indignantly insisted that she is not a honeypot. She also said you were cute in a capitalist sort of way. I told her you were taken and she could go to hell."

Major Sam Hartford stifled a smile as General Cordero babbled on. The Cuban was trying to make it seem like he was being helpful by cluing Hartford in on what Cordero thought was a big secret.

Either Cordero was unaware that Hartford was in radio communication with brass in Washington, or knew and decided on this method to let Hartford know that the subject was okay to talk about. Hartford decided that Cordero might just be a little more devious than he thought.

"I would like your help, Major Hartford."

"And I will be happy to give it if I can, General Cordero. However, you know full well that I will not do anything that would endanger my men or compromise anything my nation might do to recover Guantanamo."

Cordero sighed. "Do you ever have problems with your Pentagon? Do they ever become fixated on a trivial problem and drive you to distraction until you allocate disproportionate resources to solve it? What is your phrase? Ah yes, like having a burr under your ass."

Hartford laughed. "Are you saying that Fidel is a pain in the ass?"

Cordero managed to look shocked. "As a good communist I would never say that about my beloved leader. However, some of his lieutenants are, shall we say, very zealous and their actions can cause hemorrhoids."

Cordero slid the copy of the newspaper with Cathy Malone's picture on it. Hartford hadn't seen it, but he had heard of it and knew of the existence of Ross, Cullen, and the others. He had been delighted to know that his favorite accountant was not only alive and well but likely raising a little hell with the Cubans. Still waters run deep, he'd concluded.

On seeing the picture, he recalled meeting Cathy Malone at some function or other. Cute kid, he thought, but a guerilla leader? Not a chance.

Hartford took the paper. "I assume I may keep this."

"But of course."

"What do you want from me, general?"

Cordero sighed. "I wish Havana off my back. Can you get this young officer, Lieutenant Ross, to surrender? If there is any question of his being in danger, I will even arrange to have him surrender directly to you with the Red Cross and the United Nations and maybe Pope John the Twenty-Third looking on."

"What about the woman who leads them?"

Cordero snorted with laughter. "Oh please, major. The woman's picture is in the paper because she is attractive. We looked her up in the base's personnel files. She's a high school teacher. She is in no danger from us. We will make every reasonable effort to see that she is unharmed. Ross, on the other hand, is a qualified marine office and Cullen is a gunnery sergeant. I am also aware that Ross worked with you, which means you know a good deal about him."

Hartford saw no point in lying, although he saw nothing wrong in exaggerating Ross’s prowess. "I do. He was, is, a very good marine and an even better officer. I can see where he would be a very formidable opponent."

"Which is why I have several hundred men out looking for him," Cordero said, exaggerating ten-fold the force searching for Ross. "And let me be candid, major, we have hurt his little group and he has hurt us. We would like that to stop."

Hartford nodded solemnly. Cordero was telling him that there had been some fighting and that Cordero's boys had gotten the crap kicked out of them. Otherwise he would have crowed about the so-called victory. Good for Ross and Cullen.

"General Cordero, Lieutenant Ross is a wolf, a predator. I am afraid that anybody searching for him and the others would be much better off not finding him. Ross is a killer." For an accountant, he added mentally. He had absolutely murdered debits and credits.

Cordero laughed. "Major, once again, please. He was a bookkeeper, not a combat marine. Any success he might have had against us is either due to blind luck or the abilities of his sergeant, this Joseph Cullen." Or the likely criminal incompetence of Sergeant Gomez, he chose not to add.

Hartford shrugged. "I would suggest that you don't sell him short. He is a well trained and highly qualified marine officer. And as to my inviting him or ordering him to surrender, that is out of the question. I appreciate the offer of safety, but our Code of Conduct would not permit it. Ross may decide to surrender if and when the situation becomes desperate and untenable, which would justify his actions, but that does not appear to be the case right now, does it?"

Cordero shifted uncomfortably. "No, it doesn't. Nor does your answer surprise or disappoint me. I would have said the same thing. Honor is not yet exhausted, is it?"

Hartford rose. "I hope it is never exhausted. I trust that your men will always treat mine according to the laws of human decency and the Geneva Convention."

Cordero also stood, aware that he had just deferred to a lower ranking officer. Damn. "I can only hope that your lieutenant's obstinance and misplaced sense of honor does not result in tragedy for him, his men, and the young woman with them. Yes, we will try to abide by the Geneva Convention as well as the rules of decency, but so many things happen in the heat of battle that it is impossible to guarantee anything."

Especially, he thought with a twinge of sadness, with an animal like Gomez searching for Ross and the others.

The Executive Committee, ExComm, was a flexible group of men that that included as many as a couple of dozen high ranking government and military officials. Usually, though, a half dozen or so represented the key areas of the military and the executive branch of the government. The president was present for this meeting, as was the vice president, the military chiefs, the attorney general, and the secretary of defense. McCone of the CIA was also present.

With the exception of John F. Kennedy and his brother, they were all angry to a degree. This time, the military was not going to use General Shoup as their spokesman. This time, it was Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General Maxwell Taylor who would speak for the assembled military.

"Mr. President, it is now the end of January. There are more than eight army and marine divisions either at sea or poised to attack and invade Cuba. There are five carrier groups surrounding the island and, along with ground air from Florida, they are continually but ineffectively pummeling the island. I say ineffective because you have given us no specific timetable which we might use to hit targets more specifically and intensely.

"Simply put, sir, this situation cannot go on forever. For all intents and purposes, the entire southeastern quarter of the United States is an armed camp. Airports in Miami, Tampa, Mobile, and elsewhere have been closed to civilian traffic for weeks which is causing untold harm to the economy as well as inconvenience to the civilian population.

"Sir, when are you going to turn us loose? Or are you going to cede Guantanamo to Fidel Castro?"

Kennedy felt the rebuke like a slap. He wanted to lash out at Taylor, but the hard of hearing old general was right. The situation could not go on forever. He looked about for allies. Lyndon Johnson was not in his camp. He was with the military. Secretary of Defense McNamara was deep in thought, probably counting up the cost of the military situation to date, and adding to it the cost of actually going to war. The dollars and cents cost, Kennedy thought unkindly, not the human cost. McNamara was a money man not a military man.

Even his own brother, Bobby, looked impassive and not supportive.

Kennedy cleared his throat. "Gentlemen, I want a resolution to this crisis as soon as possible, but I want to avoid war if it is at all possible."

"Appeasing Cuba would be one way," LBJ sneered.

Oh how I hate that bastard, Kennedy thought. Why the hell did I agree to let the son of a bitch be vice president? Oh yes, because the Republican candidate, Richard Nixon, was such a threat that the Democratic ticket needed a man of Johnson's stature. Well, it had worked but now he had to deal with LBJ as his vice president.

"Appeasement is not on the agenda, Lyndon, and it never will be. I want diplomacy to be given every chance to succeed before Americans start dying. I have again spoken to Secretary Rusk and he feels that it is just a matter of time before the blockade of Cuba begins to show results."

"Bullshit," said General LeMay, coming to the point and obviously speaking for the others and that included Admiral Anderson, the Chief of Naval Operations.

General Taylor looked annoyed at the outburst. "Sir, we do not believe there is any reason for Secretary Rusk to believe that a blockade will be effective. Cuba has or can grow enough food to feed her people for a very long time. A blockade will not work. And, while we are so totally focused on Cuba, there is always the chance that China will attack Taiwan, North Korea will invade South Korea, or Russia will make a grab at Berlin. I know that Director McCone has said that the Soviets will not move against Berlin, but they could always change their mind. And, as that Russian said to McCone's agent, they have no control over the Chinese. Now, we may not believe that, but it does point out the fact that we cannot go on forever with so much of our military tied up in the Caribbean."

"Don't atomic bombs worry you?" Kennedy asked.

"Of course they do," General Taylor answered with a touch of anger. "But the Cubans have only one and it's a small one. Yes, it can do a lot of damage to whoever is hit with it, but we would still have overwhelming strength. Sadly, sir, nuclear casualties may just be the price of a modern war."

Kennedy squirmed and not from his back. "The fact that the Cubans have at least one nuke will come out in a couple of days. Pierre Salinger was approached by a gentleman from the New York Times who said he had proof that we know the Cubans have a nuke. He even named the item as a Frog 3 missile."

Shoup was outraged. "There's a god damn leak somewhere."

"Obviously," Kennedy retorted. "And the FBI is searching for it. However, the fact remains that the secret is out. Almost. The reporter agreed to sit on it for one week when we appealed to his sense of national security."

“Nuclear casualties remain a price that might just have to be paid," Taylor said.

"And I'm sure you're all aware of the pressure I'm under to settle this peacefully. Last night I received another letter from Pope John XXIII who urges us to pray for peace." He chuckled. "Although I had the distinct impression that His Holiness wouldn't be too upset if we kicked the crap out of the godless communists and returned Cuba to the bosom of Catholicism and Holy Mother Church."

"The pope's a good man," Shoup said solemnly.

"And this morning I got a request from the Organization of American States. Adlai Stevenson reports that the UN is about to pass another general assembly resolution calling for us to leave Cuba to the Cubans. It won't pass, but the vote is getting closer."

Lyndon Johnson glared at Kennedy. "Have all of these worthy assholes forgotten that Cuba started this mess, that Cuba has killed or wounded hundreds of our military and civilians, and that Cuba has attacked and damaged or sunk two of our warships on the high seas? It looks like the OAS and the UN are suffering from politically selective memory."

"Lyndon, I absolutely agree and so does former president Harry Truman. He called this morning and told me to get off the pot and hit the Cubans hard and where it hurts. But that is the world we live in. And what about civilian casualties? They could run into the hundreds, if not thousands."

General Maxwell Taylor looked at him coldly. He had fought his way through Europe in World War II, including dropping behind enemy lines on D-Day as commander of the 101st Airborne Division. He had been called out of retirement just a few months earlier to take over as Chairman of the Joint Chiefs.

"I once said I thought that nuclear warfare was unlikely and I still feel it will not happen between Russia and the United States. However, if a rogue like Castro has a nuke, then all bets are off. He must be stopped and that nuke must be taken away from him, regardless of the cost. If we show weakness now, regarding either Guantanamo or that missile, our enemies will nibble us to pieces because they will know we will not respond with all the weapons in our arsenal, and that means we will not use nuclear weapons, although we will allow others to use them. We will have no allies and no credibility.

"And regarding civilian casualties,” Taylor continued, “they are an unfortunate necessity, a fact of life in modern war. And you're right; the numbers are likely to run into the thousands, sir, not the hundreds. Please recall, that in the weeks running up to D-Day, we bombed the daylights out of France's transportation network and did so with DeGaulle's full knowledge and reluctant cooperation. Perhaps as many as twenty thousand French civilians were killed."

LBJ glared at Kennedy. "There's an old saying, Mr. President, you can't make an omelet without breaking the eggs. The general's right. There will be casualties and we can't back away from doing the right thing because we're afraid of them."

At this moment of decision, Kennedy was torn. He wanted Guantanamo back. He hated Castro and wanted him out of Cuba. He wanted success but he wanted it to come at a cheap price. He couldn't abide the thought of American boys being killed by an atomic bomb, however small the damn thing might be. Nor could he abide the thought of thousands of innocent Cuban women and children being blown to pieces by conventional American bombs and artillery.

Before entering, Director McCone had handed JFK a note saying that his agent, Elena Sandano, had an important piece of information for him. She was waiting a few rooms away. He needed a break.

Kennedy stood. "I agree we must have a decision. I will get back to you in one hour."

"Lieutenant Ross, I have good news and I have interesting news that maybe isn't quite so good."

Gunnery sergeant Cullen had been poring over a coded message and had obviously completed the translation.

"Let me have the good news," Ross said.

"You've been promoted to first lieutenant. Congratulations and it's long overdue. I guess that asshole you insulted couldn't hold you back forever, could he?"

Andrew flushed as Cathy laughed. Did everybody know about his situation? "I think you should buy us all a drink," Cathy suggested.

"Will a sip of brackish and warm water from a canteen suffice or will you take a rain check?"

"Rain check," they chorused.

Cullen signaled that he wanted to talk to Andrew alone. Nobody questioned it. They'd done it before. The two men walked a few dozen yards away from the others and stopped.

"Like I said, lieutenant, the second part is interesting. We're instructed to be on the lookout for a tracked vehicle, a cut-down tank chassis, carrying a missile launcher."

"What kind of missile are we talking about?"

"They called it a Luna or a Frog 3, and, sorry, but those are names I'm not really familiar with, so I don't know what the hell makes them so important. I just felt just the two of us should talk about it first."

Andrew searched his memory for the answer. There had been multiple briefings on Soviet weapons systems and special emphasis had been given to those that the Cubans might possess, or that the Soviets might bring in. The only tracked vehicle that wasn't a tank or armored personnel carrier were anti-aircraft systems and they either fired regular shells or surface to air missiles. The Cubans had SAM2 surface to air missiles mounted either on tracked vehicles or Soviet Zil trucks. These were the same missiles that had shot down the U-2 spy plane piloted by Gary Frances Powers and the American jet that Cullen had seen destroyed.

So what the hell was a Frog 3? He wished he'd paid closer attention, but, hell, he was an accountant and a short-timer. It had to be important or his handlers wouldn't have bothered with the information, so why?

Oh yeah, he thought as he began to remember. It was a short range tactical ballistic missile that had a range of about fifteen miles and was nothing more than a glorified very heavy artillery shell. One of them just wasn't all that important.

Unless it had a nuclear warhead. He paled. Oh shit.

"Lieutenant, what is it?"

"Gunny, we got problems."

Elena Sandano thought the president looked like death warmed over when she entered the Oval Office with Director McCone. Only Bobby Kennedy was there. Lyndon Johnson was conspicuous by his absence. Tough. She didn't like him.

She'd gone to the trouble of wearing a skirt and jacket that were far more modest then the outfit she'd worn for the first meeting and now knew she'd wasted her time. The skirt was pleated and hung well below her knees, almost to her ankles, and the blouse was high-necked and full. This time, JFK was far too tired to stare at her legs or breasts. His eyes looked vacant for a moment, like he wished he was elsewhere. He shook off his lack of alertness and managed a politician's warm smile on her behalf.

"Good to see you again, Dr. Sandano. I trust you once again have some blunt advice for me."

"If you'd like some, sir, but I've actually come with some information."

"Really?"

"Yes sir. We have just received confirmation that Castro is going to hold a land lottery in the next week to start giving parcels of land in and around Guantanamo Bay to so-called deserving peasants and other workers. That means that, in a very short time, more than a hundred thousand civilian men, women, and children will be setting up housekeeping in and around what had been our naval base."

Kennedy looked stunned. "Which means that any bombing of that area or invasion will incur enormous civilian casualties, and I'll go down as the butcher who did it."

Elena nodded. "Pretty much, sir."

"Just how good is your information?" Bobby asked.

McCone answered for her. "Extremely high probability factor, sir. At least ninety per cent."

"To the best of my knowledge," Kennedy said, "the naval base is, was, built on land that is marginal at best for farming and there are no industries present. Almost a desert is what I've heard. How the devil are those people supposed to support themselves once they've moved in? Without outside help, they'll starve."

"Sir," she said, "Castro will support them, with Russian help, of course. Once the Russians realize they have no choice but to accept Fidel as he is, he assumes they will get over their snit and begin helping him again, and we agree. As to the people who'll move in, they will become a human barrier to counter what Castro refers to as our aggressive tendencies. It won't matter if they're economically productive or not. All they'll have to do is exist and they will deter us from invading."

JFK turned to Bobby with agony on his face. "I've gone out of my way to delay major fighting in the hope that Castro will somehow see reason. Looks like that idea's down the crapper," he said to Bobby. "Why the hell does it seem like Castro is constantly outmaneuvering us all the time."

"Because he is," Bobby replied laconically. "He doesn't have to answer to Congress or the press or his adoring public, and he can be as ruthless as he wants. He's the innocent little guy and we're the big bully in the playground."

McCone interjected. "It gets worse. Once again the exile community in Miami is planning military intervention. They're organizing yet another brigade of soldiers and will shortly insist on accompanying our invasion when it occurs."

Kennedy was perplexed. "Where the hell are they getting the manpower after all they've gone through?"

Elena answered. "Sir, there are fresh refugees arriving almost daily despite the military situation, and, even though some of them might be spies, they are filling the exile ranks. Also, there is a strong likelihood that the exile brigade will include several hundred women and older men who are desperate for justice."

The president felt helpless. The exile community had ignored his pleas to stay out of the way. The Republicans, led by Arizona Senator Barry Goldwater and former Vice President Richard Nixon, were screaming that he was an appeaser and that he was paralyzed by the specter of a war with Communist China over Vietnam that he was disinterested in events in Cuba. Even within his own party, there was anger and disappointment. It was obvious that Lyndon Johnson thought JFK would be a one-term president and had begun to position himself as a hawk regarding Cuba. Eggs and omelets, JFK recalled the tall Texan saying with an unconcealed sneer. You can't make an omelet without breaking some eggs.

The president turned to Elena. "Tell me, what are the people of Cuba and other Latin American countries saying about our efforts to find a peaceful solution to this crisis?"

Elena took a deep breath. "Sir, they are laughing at you. Their governments are polite, but their newspapers say you have no balls."

There was stunned silence. Elena looked around, memorizing the scene. Once again she was confident that her comments meant that this would be the last time she'd ever see the Oval Office, at least during this administration. She didn't care. She had told him the truth, and any president should hear that as often as possible. Charley Kraeger, she knew, would think it hilarious.

Kennedy stood, his expression grim. "We will now re-convene ExComm. They want my permission to attack? They're going to get my permission."

Commander Sam Watkins could handle the physical pain. Very quickly after surgery, he'd demanded a drastic reduction in the amount of drugs he was being given. He didn't want to become addicted like so many other guys he'd seen. Something to help him sleep was okay, at least for a while, but not for normal living. Life with pain was something he would have to endure, at least until he healed. He would not take the easy way out.

Hell, he thought, just what was normal? He cranked the bed so he was sitting up enough to see where his left leg had been. He still had most of it, but not the part that rested on the ground. As his friends told him, now he would never wear out a pair of socks because he could use both of them. Of course, he would always be stuck with a left shoe in virginal condition. With friends like those, who needed enemies?

No, what upset him was the emotional and mental anguish. He kept seeing Lieutenant Harkins's destroyed body lying beside him. Harkins had been married and had two small children. How would they make out? They'd get a pension, of course, but it wouldn't be much. His widow was attractive and might just re-marry, but how would the kids handle the loss of their dad? And how much of it was his fault?

He'd seen the list of dead and wounded and grieved for each one of them. The Willow had been small as warships go and Watkins had known all of his crew, his Coast Guard family. And now so many of them were gone, either dead or with their lives destroyed or forever altered.

Like his. He would get a pension and a wooden leg. Hell, how about a patch over an eye so people would think he was a pirate? Maybe he could get a job with Ringling Brothers, or at Disneyland. Yo, ho, ho and a bucket of shit.

"Feeling sorry for yourself again?"

It was one of the nurses. He was being treated at the Bethesda Naval Hospital in Maryland. She was a first lieutenant. Her name was Mary Ann Ackerman and she was in her late thirties, a little plumpish, but pleasant enough.

"A little bit," he admitted, "but I'm feeling sorrier for the men I lost. Sorry too for the guys who got mangled more than I did."

"Do you blame yourself?"

"Of course. I am — excuse me, was — the captain of the Willow. Whatever happens, from a sailor farting to the ship sinking, is my responsibility."

She sat on the chair by the side of his bed. He was supposed to be sharing the room but the second bed was empty. He wondered if that had been intentionally? Was he a pariah? Who the hell wanted to be near someone who'd lost his ship? Maybe they thought that bad luck was contagious or would rub off. He wondered if JFK had been shunned after losing PT109? Not likely, he concluded. Kennedy's family came from enormous wealth and that can always buy absolution. Regardless, he liked the privacy and hoped it stayed that way for a long while.

"Don't you think the Cubans had something to do with what happened?" Nurse Ackerman asked. "And how about the admirals who ordered you out there?"

"Them too, but I was the man on the scene."

"I hear you're getting a medal."

"Fuck the medal."

"Don't talk like that in front of me."

"Sorry. Screw the medal."

She smiled sweetly. "That's better. And like it or not you are getting better. I understand they're going to fit you with an artificial leg pretty soon, and you know you can go out and about in a wheel chair anytime you wish."

"How jolly fucking wonderful. Sorry."

"You know, it could've been much worse."

Watkins looked away. "Sure, and now you're going to tell me about the beggar who was sorry for himself because he had no shoes until he met another beggar who had no feet. Hey, holy shit. I only have one foot, so I guess I should only feel half sorry for myself."

Nurse Ackerman scowled. "You are disgusting, Commander Watkins. Some of your officers and crew are anxious to see you. When would you like to schedule it?"

Watkins turned to the window. He had a great view of a half empty parking lot. "Right after the world ends."

"Too bad. The medal ceremony will be in a few days. I don't know which one you're getting, but if I have a vote, it's likely going to be the Order of the Royal Pain in the Ass with Oak Leaf Clusters."

Despite himself, Watkins laughed. "Good one."

"Actually, I understand it'll be either the Silver Star or the Coast Guard Distinguished Service Medal."

"Semper paratus," Watkins said, quoting the Coast Guard motto, "Always Prepared." Well, hell, he hadn't been prepared. If he had been prepared, his ship would have fought back more effectively, and he couldn't claim crummy radar as an excuse since it was his responsibility to ensure that everything on the Willow was in working condition no matter what. "Seaman Vitale will be getting one, too," Ackerman continued, "because of how he worked and saved so many lives, maybe including your own annoying butt. Yours will be for your lifesaving efforts in rescuing the crew of that destroyer and for doing everything you could to put out the fire at great risk to you and your ship before and after the destroyer sank. Lord, I sound like I'm reading the commendation. Also, the ship is getting some unit citation."

She stood and straightened her uniform. He noticed that she had nice full breasts. "Commander, I will not let you feel sorry for yourself. I will not let any of my patients feel sorry for themselves. I know what they're going through and I know that you and they can get through it."

"And just how the hell do you know what I'm going through?" he snapped.

To his astonishment, tears welled up in her eyes and he immediately regretted what he'd said. "Because of the guilt I felt when I lost my husband, that's why. He was a marine pilot and he was killed in Korea when something caused him to fly a perfectly good plane into a mountain on a bright sunshiny day. I felt so guilty because I'd decided I didn't want to be married anymore to him, and he knew it because I’d written and told him. He was so obsessive and domineering and, yes, sometimes he hit me, which made him a shit, but not one who had to die for it. He told me he couldn't deal with the idea of me leaving him, so what do you think made him fly his plane into a mountain? His monumental ego, that's what. His pride couldn't stand the thought of failure in marriage or flying a plane, or anything else, and now you can't deal with your own situation."

"I'm sorry," Watkins said weakly.

"Don't be. I felt guilty for a long time. The navy sent his remains home a year later in a tee-tiny box that I could have put in my purse. I thought I'd lose my mind, and then I realized I wouldn't and I thought that was worse. Insanity would have been so helpful, such a nice dark place to hide. But no, I had to recover and go out and face the world. And so will you Commander Watkins."

He took a deep breath. She was right. Women were always so damned right. "All right, I'll recover, but only one on condition. You go out to lunch with me."

She nodded and smiled. "But only if you walk. Crutches are okay, but no wheel chair. A cane would be great. Men with canes look so dapper and distinguished, especially if it's a man in uniform with a chest full of medals. Oh yes, I want you to tidy yourself up and lose some weight. Show me you have pride in yourself. You lose twenty pounds and I'll lose ten and we'll see how we like each other's refurbished bodies."

"Agreed," he found himself saying and meaning it. "And tell the guys that if they're dumb enough to want to talk to me, I'm dumb enough to let them. Oh yeah, when we go out, will it be a date?"

"If you want it to be," she said. Lord, it had been a long time. Maybe she would take him home. She was a nurse after all and the sight of an amputated leg wouldn't be shocking.

Watkins grinned. "One last thing, will alcohol be permitted?" She touched him gently on the cheek. "Only if taken internally."