Castro's bomb

Chapter Fifteen

Cathy tried to scream but no sound would come, at least no sound that she could hear over the roar of the explosions that buffeted and tossed her within the confines of her foxhole shelter. Sometimes she was literally lifted off the ground and suspended a few inches above the earth, which no longer existed as a solid, comforting entity. It heaved like the waves on the ocean and disintegrated like sand. Debris rained down on her as she cowered in her foxhole. She was too stunned to move, and still the awful waves of violence engulfed her.

She smelled smoke. Fire? Not fire she thought, and tried to fight off panic. Oh please, not fire, she begged. Burning to death was more frightening than anything she could imagine. What if napalm rained down on her and turned her into a human torch? The thought of her flesh frying while she was alive was a nightmare from her childhood when a neighbor’s house had burned down. Nobody had been hurt, but she easily imagined it. Could it come true now? She whimpered and felt her bladder and bowels release as more sounds and waves slapped at her, increasing her sense of terror. Explosions threatened to suck the air out of her lungs, and she focused her waning energies on simple survival.

Finally the sounds receded and the explosions stopped. Or at least the vibrations did. She couldn't really hear very much of anything. Her head throbbed and her ears rang painfully. Was she deaf? At least she was alive. For the moment.

She pushed at the debris that covered her. She had to get out of her foxhole before it became her grave. At first nothing gave. She'd been grabbing a nap in the foxhole when the bombs began to fall. And they had to be American bombs since the Cubans didn’t have any bombers. That American bombs would rain down on them by mistake was one of their worst fears.

In a way her being in the hole was a blessing. God help anyone who'd been caught outside when death rained down and shock waves swept the earth. Flying debris became shrapnel that was as lethal as the explosion itself. But now she had to free herself from what had become a trap.

She heaved again and felt the pile of debris give. She gathered her legs beneath her and pushed upwards. The debris gave way and first her head and then her shoulders were free. Smoke and dust filled the air. She could only see a few feet, although she sensed her vision was clearing. She clawed her way out and crawled over to where the ground seemed solid. She noticed that the ringing in her ears was fading.

She looked around. She was on another planet. What had been a jungle was now a moonscape from a bad science fiction move, or maybe a picture of a forest after a battle. The trees had all been blown down or stripped of leaves and limbs. There were numerous small fires simmering and she thanked God she'd been able to free herself instead of being trapped while the flames worked their way towards her.

"Cathy?" It was a voice coming from a distance, hollow and strange.

"Cathy, help me."

It was Andrew. He half lay, half sat on the ground only about fifty feet away. "I can't get up," he said. "I keep falling down."

Concussion, she thought and hoped that's all it was as she crawled over to him. She was too uncertain of her own stability to try standing just yet. They embraced and she sobbed, "I thought I was going to die."

"I thought so too," he said and kissed her on the forehead. He hugged her tightly. Neither wanted to let go. "I have to get up. I have to find the others," he finally said.

Cathy stood up slowly and carefully. She was unsteady but otherwise all right. Sergeant Cullen was a few yards away. His face was bloody but he was giving Ward a drink from his canteen. He looked over and saw they were unhurt and continued to work on Ward. Cullen was also torn and bloody, but did not appear seriously injured. Groth lurched over to Cullen and sat down. That left Hollis and Williams.

She and Andrew got to their feet. With her help, Andrew managed to get to Cullen. "Where are the other two?"

Cullen looked up from where he was cleaning a cut on Ward's cheek. "Hollis is dead. He's lying over a few yards to your left. I don't know where Williams is."

Ward looked up. "Williams was in a hole with me, sir. He lost it during the bombing and ran out screaming. If he lived through that storm it'd be a miracle."

Cathy and Andrew moved to where Hollis's body lay. A piece of tree had pierced his chest, impaling him. There was a look of utter surprise on his face. They found where Ward and Williams had been in their foxhole. They searched around and found nothing of Williams. A large crater had been gouged out of the earth maybe fifty yards away from the foxhole. Ross thought he could see specks of red in the crater and he felt nauseated. Two more of the men entrusted to him had been killed, and this time by their own side. He’d heard that many men had been killed or wounded accidentally in wars past by their own side, but this was his first experience of it. Hell, he thought, this was his first experience at any kind of fire.

Andrew took a deep breath and tried to ignore the stink of burned things. His head was beginning to clear. He thought he could stand without assistance but continued to hang on to Cathy. He thought he knew what happened to Williams — his body had been obliterated, atomized, by the bomb. They would never find enough of his remains to bury without sifting through the dirt of the crater. Even his dog tags had likely been destroyed. He mentioned it to Cathy who paled.

"Okay," he said to his shrinking group, "we're hurt and hurting, but we still got to do things. First, we've got to bury Hollis. Then we've got to pack up and move out."

"Where to?" Cathy asked.

"If we go to the east, we should find some rough ground and places to hide. It looks like our people are bombing any place the Cubans might be hiding in, and that would include places where we might also hide. Therefore, we've got to find a spot where we can stay out of sight. A cave or a gully would do nicely. I think forests and groves are out."

They gathered their belongings and prepared to move out. First, they buried Hollis. Ross commented that they were getting all too good at burying people. Nobody disagreed. Cullen got Ward and Groth organized to find stuff under the debris. In particular, the radio. When they finally did locate it and the hand generator, the radio didn't work.

"No surprise," said Cullen. "I don't think it was designed to be bombed. Should we leave it, lieutenant?"

Ward looked thoughtfully at the damaged radio. "No promises, sir, but maybe I can fix it if we can find a spot where I can take it apart and mess around with it."

"We take it," said Andrew. "We'll find a nice oasis where we can rest and heal and then figure out what to do."

Cathy stepped up and touched his arm. "I need to find some water," Andrew reached for his canteen and she shook her head. "No. Haven't you noticed how bad I smell? I lost it Andrew, totally, and now I need to clean up."

"You find your bag with a change of clothing?"

She looked distraught. "Not yet. I'll look again."

Ross nodded. Cullen had everything under control for the moment, although they would have to move out fairly soon. Cuban soldiers might begin snooping around once they felt it was safe.

Cathy shambled over to her foxhole and rummaged around until she found her pack. "There's a stream a little ways away and I want to wash up in it."

The water was only a hundred yards away and now filled with debris, but it was running which would help cleanse her. It might contain bugs and snakes, but it would have to do. It was imperative for her peace of mind that she get her body cleaned.

"Andrew, please leave me now and give me some privacy."

"No," he said. "I'll turn around but I'm not leaving you. And don't even think of undressing fully. If anybody shows up we might have to leave much faster than you want to. Just shuffle your clothes around and do the best you can."

She agreed and stepped into the water, letting it cover her up almost to her chin. It was cold and refreshing and helped clear her mind. She remembered that she had once thought such streams were too polluted for her to use, an idea that seemed ridiculous at this time. She eased her slacks and panties down to her ankles and scrubbed herself as best she could, using the remnants of soap from her pack. She did the same thing with her clothes, wondering if she would ever be clean again or if she would ever take anything as basic as laundry or a Laundromat for granted.

She put on her wet clothing and returned to Ross. "Andrew, how come this didn't happen to you?"

Ross laughed. "Cathy, who says it didn't. Now that you're done I'll go in and you watch out for me."

Geoffrey Franklyn looked through the peephole in his door to see who'd knocked. He didn't have a buzzer or a bell. He thought they were so tacky. A brass knocker was so much more sophisticated. He lived alone in a small house and was concerned about his vulnerability, especially since he was planning to disgrace the President of the United States.

He looked through the peephole. A very attractive and full-bosomed young blonde woman stood there, holding a large purse in front of her. She smiled at him and waved, obviously aware that he was looking at her. "What do you want?" he said.

"I'm from the New York Times and we need some clarifications on the information you've provided."

Ah, he thought. At long last something was going to happen with his once in a lifetime story. He'd begun to feel that his contact at the Times was not going to produce anything about Cuban nukes. He released the safety latch and opened the door, only to find himself flying across his living room. He landed on his back and immediately felt strong hands restraining him and a disgustingly filthy rag being stuffed in his mouth. An immensely powerful-looking man smiled wickedly.

"Open your fucking mouth and I'll cut your throat. Understand?" Franklyn nodded, wide eyed and frantic. "Wonderful. I am now going to take this shit rag out of your mouth. You try to yell and you will regret it for the rest of your life which won't be very long and will end very painfully." Frankly again nodded and the rag was removed.

"Who are you," Franklyn stammered. "I don't have much money but take it. Take it all." He could see their faces although it was obvious they were disguised. The two men wore dark wigs had false mustaches. They wore sunglasses, and the woman had a large mole on her cheek and he again noted that she had enormous breasts. The breasts were likely fake, along with the blonde wig, but that mole he'd remember. That they had gone to even such small lengths to disguise themselves was a small comfort. Perhaps they would let him live after they got whatever they wanted from him? On the other hand they wore rubber gloves which would leave no fingerprints, and that didn't bode well. He stated to shake and fought an almost overwhelming urge to urinate.

The powerfully built man took Franklyn's head in his hands. "We don't want your God damned money. What we want is for you to back off on this bullshit tale of yours about Cuban nukes."

"I won't. It has to be told."

"Too fucking bad," the man said.

The rag was stuffed back in his mouth and strong hands grasped Franklyn's testicles, squeezing and twisting. Franklyn tried to scream and tried to get away, but could do neither. He saw red in front of his eyes as the pain roared through him. He thought he would die.

"Hey," the big man said, "he really does have balls. Franklyn, you want me to stop?"

The answer was a whimper and a nod. The man let go and the rag was removed. Franklyn gasped and moaned. "Why? Who are you? Oh God, you're from the government, aren't you?"

"Why would you think that?" the second man said. "Look, asshole, we know there's an atomic bomb out there, but our employers want it to be used. We don't want you to raise a stink and get it halted."

"Employers?" Franklyn asked. "What do you mean?"

Big man spoke. "We work for some people who had major investments in Havana and were booted out by Castro. They’re afraid that Kennedy won't kick Castro out and give them a chance to get their money back. If American troops are nuked, Kennedy will have to go after Castro and wipe his ass out. When that happens, my employers can open up shop in Havana again and the world will come back to the casinos and other places for fun."

Oh God, Franklyn thought, these two are from the Mafia.

The big man saw comprehension and smiled. "Good thinking, asshole. Now you understand you are going to be a very quiet and very good boy. In fact, we are going to guarantee it."

The two men dropped Franklyn's pants to his knees. He squirmed. The woman was looking, laughing. A hypodermic appeared from the woman's very large purse. Big man jabbed it into Franklyn's thigh. In a moment, he was limp and barely conscious.

Big man turned to the woman. "Stay here. You don't have to see this."

Two small cameras, one of them a Polaroid, also came from the woman's purse which they took with them as they dragged Franklyn into his bedroom and closed the door. A few minutes later, they left the bedroom. The three of them left the house and drove away, leaving Franklyn shaken and sobbing on his bed. He was beginning to regain full consciousness and control over his body, and remembered what they'd said and done. They'd told him they'd find him wherever he went if he didn't stop pushing the story. They told him the pictures they'd taken would be all over Washington within moments of his going public. They left a couple of Polaroid prints to emphasize the point.

He couldn't yet move very well, but, when he could, he would pack his clothes and go far, far away.

Charley Kraeger, Jock Soriano, and Elena Sandano parked the car in front of Elena's house. They'd driven the better part of an hour to cover the few miles. If anybody had been tailing them, they'd have noticed it.

Inside, both men took off the wigs and pulled the cotton stuffing out of their cheeks. Elena took off her blonde wig and peeled the ugly mole off her cheek. She reached inside her blouse and removed the padding that had made her so huge. All three of them laughed at the changes in their appearance, especially hers.

"I thought that went well," Soriano said. "He caved almost immediately."

"What did you do in the bedroom?" Elena asked.

Charley smiled. "Stripped him and took some pictures of him naked and doing strange things to his own body. Then we took some more with him dressed in the women's clothes and doing disgusting stuff with one of those new Barbie Dolls we'd brought in that large purse. We left a couple of the Polaroids just to let him know what will happen if he doesn't back off. And thank God he's an idiot who thought he was safe using the same pay phone to talk to the reporter. That makes it a lot easier to tap."

"Won't the reporter wonder when Franklyn doesn't get back to him," Elena asked.

"Franklyn's no dummy," Jock answered. "Nickel says he tells the reporter that he was wrong, there was no story."

"I got another nickel that says he puts in for retirement tomorrow," Charley added.

Soriano stood and stretched. "I'm out of here. It's late and I'm getting old."

With the big man gone, Charley was concerned for Elena. What she had done with them was totally new for her and maybe disturbing.

"You didn't have to go with us, you know," he said gently.

She smiled warmly at his concern. "Yes I did. All my career I've sat behind a desk while others have put their lives on the line. I don't mean that muscling this Franklyn cretin was in anyway dangerous, but it did give me an appreciation of what the other half does for a living. I hate to admit it, but the whole thing was an adventure. Maybe even thrilling."

"I guess I'm glad. Does that mean you don't think I'm a thug?"

"Charley, I've never thought you were a thug. Soriano, now, may be another story."

"Don't sell him short," Charley said.

"Wouldn't think of it." She stood and looked thoughtfully at him. "Wait here," she said and walked into her bedroom. He'd been to her house for dinner a couple of times, but had never been invited into the inner sanctum.

A few moments later, she emerged from the room, wearing a long white robe that even covered her feet, which, when she moved, he could see were bare. Her hair was down and he thought she was indescribably and breathtakingly lovely.

"It was a very interesting evening, Charley, exhilarating and even exciting."

She undid the robe and let it drop. She was naked. Charley could hardly breathe. If he'd thought she was lovely moments before, he was obviously mistaken. She was a tan goddess.

She let him stare for a moment, then smiled and held out her hand, pulling him to his feet and leading him to her bedroom. "Charley my dear, I am not an innocent little waif and neither are you. Now get in here before I change my mind."

"Comrade Che, it is so good to see you," Ortega said. He tried hard to keep the sarcasm from his voice and hide his dismay at having Guevara in his headquarters.

"And I am pleased to see you as well," Guevara said with equal insincerity as he sat down. "It's been a long trip, but a safe one. The damned American planes didn't find us."

"Us?"

"My little convoy. We traveled scattered and only at night. We had some reasonably close calls, but nothing serious. The American bombers are getting so numerous and so dangerous it's a wonder that any travel succeeds. This state of affairs has to end before it destroys Cuba and the revolution."

A shame, Ortega thought as he leaned back in his chair. "The Americans are more than dangerous. My forces have suffered badly and the fighting hasn't really begun. We have no choice but to sit and take it until the Americans land and we can close with them and kill them."

"Which brings up a point," Guevara said. "Fidel wonders why you aren't using the SAM missiles and other anti-aircraft weapons you have."

Ortega sighed. "Because we used up almost half our weapons inventory when taking Guantanamo and in the immediate aftermath when the Americans launched their attacks. Unfortunately, too many of our commanders had little in the way of fire discipline and simply shot off everything they had at anything that flew, and caring nothing about actually hitting a target. American pilots quickly learned that they can outmaneuver our SAM missiles and no American B52 heavy bombers, which would have been juicy targets, were involved during the takeover of Guantanamo. Thus, I have ordered that no SAM missiles or other weapons be used until the Americans actually begin landing and we actually have viable targets."

"In the meantime, however, our brave troops sit and take it," Che said angrily.

"With regrets, Comrade Che, yes. Sadly, we have already lost far more men than we did during the battle for Guantanamo, and yes, many of our men are dispirited and their morale is low. Unless you and Comrade Fidel can conjure up an air force to fight the Yankees, we have no other choice but to sit and take it."

Guevara smiled ruthlessly. "Perhaps I can provide you with a choice."

Jesu, Ortega thought, here it comes. Just what my cousin had predicted. "What do you mean?"

"Comrade General, I have brought with me a weapon that will change the course of the war and bring us not only victory over the Americans but will give us the stature Cuba deserves in the eyes of the world. The weapon will make us pre-eminent among our sister nations and will enable us to export our revolution."

Ortega decided to pretend ignorance. "My dear comrade, what do you mean?" he said, repeating himself.

Guevara leaned forward conspiratorially. "I have brought you a nuclear missile, a Soviet Luna 3. We will launch it at the Americans when they land. It will shock and devastate them. Many thousands will be killed and wounded, perhaps tens of thousands."

Ortega shook his head. "Comrade, if we were so foolish as to do that, what do you think the American response would be? I believe they would launch many of their missiles at us and turn Cuba into a radioactive cinder."

Guevara shook his head. A beatific smile lit his face. "They won't. When part of their army is obliterated, we will tell the Americans that we have dozens more of these missiles and we will use them to destroy the rest of their army if it doesn’t surrender. We will, of course, wait until they land so they will be required to surrender to us in order to save their own lives."

"Do we really have that many rockets?"

"Of course not, but the Americans don't know that. Their intelligence is now aware that the Soviets brought in a large number of them, but they don't know where they are or who controls them. We will let the stupid Americans believe that we do. They are afraid of battle and will take the excuse to back out a conflict they think they cannot win."

"And why do you believe that, comrade?"

"Because John Fitzgerald Kennedy is a coward,” Che almost spat. “He didn't go to war against the Russians back in October and he has proven to be afraid to fight us now. He has dithered and sought compromise and so-called peaceful solutions while all the world mocks him. No, we will show some resistance, use the bomb to kill a few thousand Americans, and he will cry like a baby and pull his troops away. If Kennedy was serious, he would have attacked us a long time ago. Instead, his huge army sits and waits. It won't matter that the Luna is a small bomb, the attack will shatter him."

"How can you be certain of Kennedy's manhood, and that the Americans will believe we have more missiles?"

"Because the Russians have told me much about Kennedy’s manhood, as well as America’s fear of nuclear weapons. The fact of the missile and our declaration that we have more will come as a complete shock to the Americans. And there has been no mention of Cuban nuclear missiles in the American press. Even if they suspect that we have them they are afraid to tell their people who would flee their cities in bloody panic."

Ortega trembled in disbelief. "So you would have me use it when the Americans land."

"Yes."

"Then tell me, comrade, just where will they land?"

"At Guantanamo," Guevara said with supreme confidence. “Re-conquering that base is their goal, general. When they storm ashore you will launch the missile and Cuba will be victorious. It may take a few days of additional skirmishing, but the Americans will go into a defensive shell and be afraid to move."

Ortega sat back. "And just why do you think they will land only at Guantanamo? Or haven't you noticed that we are an island surrounded by American ships and being overflown by American planes. The Yanquis can land anywhere and everywhere, and there is precious little we can do to stop it. Yes, your one rocket will damage them but it will not stop them and I for one do not think they will believe your fairy tale about inundating them with other missiles."

Guevara smiled thinly. "You used to be a firebrand when it came to the idea of chasing the Americans out of here."

"I was," Ortega said. "But that began to change when I realized that the Americans weren't going to run away, and that we had no real allies in the world, including the Russians. Even though many nations say they support us, their support is in the form of words only. No other nation, and that includes Russia, is going to send men, planes, and ships to help us. In my opinion, we are already paying too high a price in Cuban lives and if you use that missile, you are going to raise that price to intolerable levels. Yes, I wanted the Americans out of Cuba and I still do, but not at the cost of the revolution."

Guevara laughed harshly. "I suspected as much. Therefore, I will be the one controlling the missile and I will direct and order its launch. By the way, I now desire a guards unit to help protect the rocket. I did lose a handful of men who were caught in the open and bombed by the Americans. I am certain that the Americans will land some of their Special Forces units if they haven't done so already. We cannot afford to let them stumble on it."

Ortega thought quickly and smiled to himself. He thought it likely that Che also wanted to protect himself from the fury of the Russians who were very likely on his tail and trying to recover the rocket. "Would a platoon, say thirty men, be enough?" he asked. Guevara said it would.

"Excellent. I have a skilled combat ready unit currently chasing the American terrorists. I will have them assigned to you. They are commanded by a Sergeant Gomez and they now report to General Cordero."

"That will be most satisfactory."

Again Ortega kept a straight face. Gomez's platoon was now down to fewer than thirty men as a result of desertions. Several of the so-called deserters had actually showed up to complain about Gomez's rapacity, saying they had joined to fight the Americans not loot peasants and molest Cuban women. The deserters had been quietly sent to other units.

"It shall be done as you wish, Comrade Che. By the way, I have been unable to contact my wife in the last couple of days. Has something happened?"

Guevara continued to smile although a little more frostily. "Nothing has happened to them. We, Fidel and I, thought it best that they be kept in protective custody. We heard rumors of a possible attempt on their lives by the traitors in Miami and did it to keep them safe. I'm sure you understand."

Ortega kept his expression calm, although he wanted to strangle Guevara.

"I'm sure I do."

The woman was about fifty and reminded the president of an older Ethel Kennedy, Bobby's sometimes outspoken and always spunky wife. He was ready to like her however unpleasant this meeting was going to be.

He stood, smiled, and gestured her to take a seat. Like any first time visitor, she looked around the Oval Office, maybe wondering how she could take something as a souvenir to prove to her grandkids that she'd been there. His staff would arrange something. An ashtray almost always worked, even for those who didn't smoke.

For a moment, the woman's cares had taken a back seat to the fact of where she was. It was only a moment, however, and the pain returned to her expression.

"Mrs. Malone, I am so very glad to see you, and we are all praying for your daughter's safe return."

Actually, the president was furious had having to take time out to talk with Cathy Malone's mother. She'd made herself such a pain in the ass with interviews that basically accused him of being uncaring and unfeeling regarding her daughter's safety. As a result, he'd had to invite her to the White House to meet with him. He hoped she would now shut up for a while.

"I'm honored to meet you, Mr. President. I only wish it was under more pleasant circumstances. I'm sure you've read some of what I've said, otherwise we wouldn't be having this conversation, would we?"

Good, he thought, she understood the game. "I'd say that's partly correct. I have met with other families and will continue to do so, and, yes, I have read some of your comments."

"Then you understand that I do not believe you have been working hard enough to get my daughter back safely."

Of course not, he thought. I have a war to run and one lonely school teacher adrift in Cuba can't be permitted to distract me from that task. By taking time off from his busy schedule and speaking to her as he was, he was permitting a distraction.

"I have to be blunt, Mrs. Malone, we have tried to contact her and the people she's with and get her out, but it is simply not that easy to do when she's in a foreign country and a country with whom we are at war."

"I don't believe you," she said bluntly. "You have enormous resources at your disposal. You have Special Forces, CIA, submarines, and planes that can take pictures of anything. If you wanted to find her and rescue her you would do it. You have paratroopers and spies who can go anywhere and do anything if you really wanted to."

Kennedy controlled his anger. "We are doing everything we can but let me be candid — we are not going to let looking for your daughter jeopardize any military activities or cause unnecessary casualties. We can't and won't and you know that."

Mrs. Malone sagged slightly and her eyes glistened as tears began to well up. "Then for God's sake, Mr. President, at least tell me where she is and that she's okay."

Now comes the hard part, he thought. Contact with Lieutenant Ross and his group, including Cathy Malone, had broken off suddenly. There were concerns that they may have been accidentally bombed, which could have easily occurred. Certainly they had not been killed or captured by the Cubans who would have announced it triumphantly. When all else fails, tell a comforting lie and hope it turns out to be the truth. "We don't know precisely where she is, Mrs. Malone, but we are confident that she's safe. We have no reason to believe otherwise. Now please tell me — just what was she doing down there anyhow? I understand it was an educational position."

Mrs. Malone wiped her eyes and willed herself to regain her composure. "As you know, she's a teacher. Not only that, she's the first person in our family to graduate from college and we are very proud of her. She's led a fairly sheltered life and reluctantly agreed with her doing this because she thought it would be an adventure where she would actually be doing some people some good. Besides, she'd be making nearly six thousand dollars a year and that is very good money for a school teacher nowadays. We're not rich by the way."

Kennedy winced. It was an obvious dig at his family's wealth. Should he remind her he'd served in World War II and been wounded? No.

Mrs. Malone dabbed at her eyes. Kennedy gave her a handkerchief which she used. He gestured that she should keep it. It was monogrammed and might make a good souvenir.

"My husband and I, he's at home and not feeling well, were reluctant to let her go, but she's an adult and she said she had to begin to taste life. My husband told her just don't taste so much that you get indigestion. She'd also just broken up with an idiot boyfriend and wanted to get away. Well, now look what's happened."

Kennedy was no longer angry. He fully understood her grief through his own losses. A daughter had been stillborn in 1957. He stood and she accepted that the meeting was over. She'd spoken her piece but accomplished nothing. He arranged to have their picture taken together as a souvenir, along with an ashtray and the handkerchief she'd put in her purse.