Castro's bomb

Chapter Seventeen

Cathy Malone leaned against the warm earth and relaxed, letting the warmth of the sun dry her. It had rained. Just a sudden shower, but she and the others had gotten fairly well drenched before they could get their ponchos on. It was a reminder that the rainy season was coming and that Cuba could be miserable and unhealthy.

Andrew was off doing something and she was seated comfortably between Colonel Romanski and Sergeant Morton. The two men enjoyed her presence and liked talking to someone who wasn't in the military.

"Being a mere civilian, can I ask some questions?"

Romanski laughed. "Since you are a mere civilian, there's no way I could stop you even if I wanted."

"Okay. First off, were you concerned that Andrew would resent your coming in and taking over?"

"Does he?"

"No. He's actually relieved. Like Sergeant Cullen says, he did real well for an accountant. Cullen's teasing, but there's an element of truth in it."

"He did better than real well," Romanski said and Morton nodded. "He saved his people, at least those it was possible to save. He wouldn't be human if the loss of so many of his men didn't upset him, but he has no one to blame but the Cubans and those who hung him out to dry in the first place." He tried to stifle his anger. After all, it was much like what had happened to him and the Morton. "And I'll include a whole bunch of people in Washington who might have known the Cubans were going to attack. A lot of people were sent out to fight and die without proper resources."

"Good," Cathy said. "I was hoping you felt that way. I certainly do, but what do I really know about these things?"

Romanski stifled a smile. He'd notice how Cathy and Andrew looked at each other. If they ever got back safely, Romanski thought they were going to have an interesting future. At least they'd so far had the discretion to keep from openly displaying their developing feelings for each other. Apparently they'd gone no farther than sit close and maybe discretely hold hands when, deep down, they were probably near to exploding with emotion and unrequited passion. He smiled as he remembered just how he and Midge had behaved in circumstances when extreme discretion was required and how quickly they’d gotten out of their clothes when they’d gotten some privacy. He swallowed hard as he wondered just what Midge was doing.

"Cathy, if Andrew was planning on reenlisting, he'd get a lot of endorsements from real professionals who appreciate what he's done. Since he's not, he'll probably have to settle for a medal. As to his resenting me coming in and taking over, you're right — he doesn't resent it at all. He is relieved. I have the rank and the seniority, and, oh yeah, the experience. And even if he did resent it, tough. The military runs on a rather harsh hierarchy: rank rules and nobody cares a damn about other people's feelings. Right now, I'm top dog and he's second. Morton and Cullen come next in that order."

She smiled sweetly. "Where do I fit in?"

"Any place you want, but probably close to Ross," Romanski said with mock solemnity, making her giggle.

"I'm curious," she said. "You're retiring and Andrew, I mean, Lieutenant Ross, isn't going to reenlist. Is anybody going to be left? What about you, Sergeant Morton, are you going to stay in?"

Morton laughed harshly. "Only choice I have young lady."

"Why? The economics? Surely you can earn more in civilian life."

"But first I'd have to survive civilian life. Here, let me show you something." He pulled out his wallet and opened it. "It's a picture of my wife."

Cathy stared at it. "Oh."

"Notice something?"

Cathy recovered her poise. "Yes I do, sergeant, she's definitely not as dark complexioned as you are."

The photo was of a very attractive blond white woman in her thirties. Sergeant Morton was black and his wife was white. She'd heard of such mixed race marriages before but had never known anyone in such a strange situation. She didn't count Ward's so-called Italian aunt. Ward admitted he'd made it up just to get a reaction. People in her circles universally condemned such relationships and, in many places they were illegal. If nothing else, there was the fear for the safety of the children of such unions.

Morton put the wallet away. "Her name is Heidi and I met her when I was stationed in Germany. Her former Nazi family hates me ‘cause I'm a nigger and from an inferior race, and my side of the family hates her because she's white and they think she grabbed onto me so she could get my money and get out of Germany and into the United States. It never occurred to either sets of fools that we might just love each other."

"How long have you been married?"

"Ten years now, and we needed to jump through a lot of hoops and get permission before we could."

"Kids?"

"None and there won't be any. Won't bring half-breeds into a world that's gonna hate them because they either aren't all white or aren't black enough. Got enough troubles."

"Half-breeds? You make them sound like Indians?"

Morton shrugged. "Don't know what else to call them. Mulatto sounds like something from the Civil War. No, the children would bear the pain, the sins of the parents, if you will."

"Sad but true," Cathy said.

Morton shook his head. "Of course we'd be happy as hell to be parents, but it ain't gonna happen. Heidi even joked one time that we should adopt a Korean kid just to confuse the hell out of anyone who saw us. No, just staying alive is hard enough. Hell, Heidi and I can't even drive in the same car off base, especially down south, without some redneck yelling something that starts with the letter 'f' and ends with nigger. Once we tried driving with her in the back seat and me acting like a chauffeur but that didn't work either. Chauffeurs don't drive old light blue Ford Falcons with dings in the fenders. Even the dumbest redneck saw through that ruse.

"Hell, we can't even go to a restaurant, and that includes places in the so-called liberated north. No one's gonna seat us together and, if they did, all the nice white folks would up and leave. That and our food would be delivered cold a day or two later and probably with a cockroach's ass sticking out of the mashed potatoes."

Cathy was fascinated and horrified. This was a part of the world she'd never visited, never even knew existed. Negroes were background in her environment and seemed reasonably happy with their lot. Now she wondered just what their lot was, their place in life.

"What about restaurants for colored?"

He shrugged. "Same thing. And the food's not as good as white restaurants. And we can't go to movies, either, unless we're up north and buy separate tickets. Even then, people make remarks when we sit together in the dark. There are a lot of southern whites in the military who belong to the Klan and a lot of northern whites who wish they could. A black man with rank is barely tolerated, but a black man screwing a sacred white woman is the worst possible sin against humanity and their interpretation of God's law."

Morton smiled grimly. "So you see, Cathy, my wife and I are going to stay military for as long as we can and then find a place in or near a base to call home, and sanctuary. By the way, we always carry guns, whether we're allowed to or not. Never had to pull one yet, but you never know."

Cathy was about to respond when they saw Andrew and Cullen jogging towards them.

Romanski stood up awkwardly. His leg had stiffened up from the rain. "What is it, lieutenant?"

"Sergeant Cullen's spotted an anti-aircraft battery about a mile away, sir."

Romanski grinned wolfishly. "Well, well, and what do you fine young men propose to do about that?"

Cullen responded. "Sir, the lieutenant and I propose to take it out."

The Cuban anti-aircraft battery consisted of a pair of 24mm Swedish-made Oerlikon cannon mounted on a tracked chassis. Andrew was a little nonplussed that they'd missed the damn thing since it was so close, but Romanski let him down easily.

"Ross, it might have been moved there just recently and, besides, you have barely a handful of men to guard the camp, much less patrol the area. There's no way you could've checked a wide area even if you'd wanted to. Even though he'll never admit it, young Gunnery Sergeant Cullen found it because he was lucky."

Cullen grinned. "With respect, sir, luck had nothing to do with it. It was highly honed Marine Corp skills all the way. Semper Fi!"

Cullen told them he saw no more than four men at the guns, but agreed that others might have been in the area. Still, they decided killing it was worth the try. The weapon was a danger to American planes and should be taken out if they possibly could.

"Gentlemen," Romanski said, "we don't do suicides. If it looks too dangerous, pull back. This group is small enough as it is and we still have that Russian missile to deal with, and that is our first priority. Assuming, of course that we find the damn thing."

It was decided that Ross would lead the effort with sergeants Morton and Cullen backing him up. Andrew accepted the obvious. The two NCOs were much more experienced then he and would step in if it looked like he was screwing things up. PFC Ward was included in the group.

Morton glared at the other black man, Ward. "Somebody's gotta carry our luggage, boy."

The only one who didn't laugh was PFC Groth who protested that he should be allowed to go along, too.

"Not a chance," Romanski said. "You're as bad off as I am. Just a little while ago you were complaining of headaches and that you were still sometimes seeing double. No, young marine, you stay here with your gimpy colonel and the beautiful young lady."

Before they left, Cathy got Andrew alone. "Look, this sounds like a cliche from a bad cowboy movie, but please be careful and please come back to me." With that, she hugged him and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek that Romanski and Morton pretended not to see.

Carrying only their weapons, grenades, and extra ammunition, the four men were able to move rapidly and soon came on the vehicle carrying the anti-aircraft guns. It was camouflaged under tree limbs. They counted two men who were eating from a mess kit while they lounged around the vehicle.

"Whatcha think, lieutenant?" Morton asked

"We know there are at least two more men because Cullen saw them and because somebody had to make the food they're eating. My guess is there are a lot more than the two others Cullen saw. They don’t appear too concerned about ground security which may give us a good shot at destroying those guns."

Ross was concerned about other Cubans, but decided against investigating farther. He said there was too much risk that the other Cubans might be more alert and discover them if they did. He said they should take quick advantage of the apparent overconfidence of the men at the guns. To his surprise, Morton and Cullen agreed.

"Plans?" Morton asked.

"We keep it simple," Ross answered. "Having only four people does not make for opportunities for grand strategy. And it's going to start raining real soon and that's good. Rain'll make it difficult for them to track us after we hit them."

When the two sergeants again agreed, Ross continued. "I suggest we creep up as closely as possible to those two yo-yos and kill them. Then we dump grenades on the guns and run like hell."

Cullen nodded. "You three do the killing and I'll take care of the grenades. I'm pretty good at blowing things up."

As threatened, it began to rain, although not heavily at first. The two Cubans moved closer to their vehicle and tried to keep dry as the rainfall increased in intensity. They were looking anywhere but where they should have been, enabling the four Americans to slither up to within twenty yards of them. Finally, one of the Cubans looked in disbelief at the apparitions appearing before them.

"Now," Ross yelled. His heart was pounding in his chest and he could barely squeak out the order. No matter, all four men opened fire at point blank range, dropping the two Cubans. Ross, Morton, and Ward formed a short skirmish line. Suddenly, a third Cuban jumped up and only a few feet away. He looked puzzled and they stared at each other for only an instant before they fired into his chest and head. Where the hell had he been? Ross wondered. Probably taking a nap. Cullen jumped into the vehicle with all their grenades.

"Hurry," Ross said. The now heavy rainfall had muffled the sounds of gunfire but not entirely. They could hear sounds of confusion coming farther from their front. The Cubans would be on them in a minute.

Cullen jumped down, a length of cord in his hand. "Run!" he yelled and pulled the cord.

They needed no further urging and sprinted like they were on fire for the bushes they'd just left. Seconds later, the grenades exploded, taking with them the ammunition stored on the gun carrier, which exploded like a giant fireworks display.

More than a dozen Cubans emerged from the brush on the other side of the exploding track. One of them wore a beret and was trying to lead them. The four Americans opened fire, scattering the Cubans, who were already disconcerted by the explosion. On cue, the leaden sky fully opened up and torrents of rain drenched them. Andrew grinned. Their footprints would be wiped out. Still, they would not take the direct route to the camp. They'd head north, then east, before heading back to Romanski and the others.

After they'd gone a while, Cullen grabbed Andrew's arm. "Lieutenant, you see the guy with the beret?"

"Yeah."

"Look familiar?"

Ross had to think. There had been something vaguely familiar about the man, but then, he'd only seen him for an instant.

Then it dawned on him, "Oh Jesus. Che Guevara."

And the only reason Che Guevara would be hanging around would be that the nuke was nearby, really nearby.

A thousand paratroopers were crowded into the massive and otherwise empty hangar. The C54s that mechanics had been working on inside the structure were now neatly aligned with others on the runway outside and awaited their passengers. Each plane could carry as many as fifty men and, in one configuration or another, the venerable and reliable aircraft had been around since World War II.

They snapped to attention when Colonel Rutherford took the podium from the previous speaker who'd been discussing the deteriorating weather conditions over Eastern Cuba and what they could expect to find when they hit the ground. They immediately relaxed on Rutherford's order to carry on and be seated.

Rutherford looked over the congregation. Young men all and they stared up at him, hoping he had all the answers to questions they hadn't even thought of yet.

Rutherford took a second to stare back at them. There were so many familiar faces. His heart ached. He'd been through what they were about to experience in World War II and he wanted to keep them from it. He couldn't. They were paratroopers, men of the 101st Airborne Division and they were going to jump into what might become a living and dying hell.

"Men, before you got the latest weather report, you heard another nice major from division intelligence tell you about what the Cubans might do to stop us. He said that just about all Cuban planes have been shot down or destroyed and every defensive site the Cubans have has been bombed to smithereens. He said that resistance will be light because the Cubans are thoroughly demoralized and really want Uncle Sam to come in and settle all their problems, just like we've done in the past."

Rutherford swaggered across the small stage, a conscious imitation of what he'd seen General George Patton do during World War II. "Well, men, what do you think of the nice intelligence major's assessment of the Cuban military?"

A thousand faces split in grins. "Bullshit, sir!" they chorused. The intelligence officer tried to pretend he was shocked, simply shocked, at the outburst, but couldn't keep a straight face. He'd said what the Pentagon said to say and he knew it was bullshit, too.

Rutherford smiled back. He knew his men. He'd trained them well. Prepare for the worst, he'd always said, and the best will take care of itself. The weatherman from division really looked shocked. Rutherford smiled at him and thought, well fuck him.

"Men, do you think the Cubans love us?"

"No, sir!"

"Do you think they'll fight like hell to protect their shitty little country from us?"

"Yes, sir!"

"You believe a bunch of flyboys twenty thousand feet in the air with at least one hand on their cocks at all time got each and every Cuban plane, tank, gun, and soldier."

The men were laughing even though the joke was at their expense. "No sir!"

"Well I don't either. I think division has done a fine job but their so-called intelligence estimates are way too optimistic. Any of you ever jump into combat before?" A couple of hands were raised. Rutherford knew who they belonged to. "Yeah, just a couple of old farts like me did it and that was in World War II at Normandy. I was twenty, even younger than some of you men. What happened there was simple. Everything got fucked up. We got shot at, shot down, and pissed on and when we finally landed, and we were miles away from our drop zones. We were scattered, lost, and scared and we had to find our buddies in the night while the god-damned Nazis were trying to kill us. We lost a lot of good men that night, but we finally made it out and kicked their asses, and we will do that tomorrow no matter what happens. Who knows, maybe the intelligence will be right this time, but we ain't gonna count on it are we?"

"No sir!" they roared.

"Good. ‘Cause this time tomorrow we are all gonna be in Cuba one way or the other. Our job is to take that little air field so the rest of the 101st Airborne Division can land behind in nice comfortable airplanes and not have to jump out of otherwise perfectly good ones. And don't be afraid to be afraid. Anybody who isn't afraid is either totally unaware of his world or totally insane. Don't worry about pissing yourself or crapping your pants if you're shot at, because you won't be alone and that'll be the least of your problems. I'll be there with you and I fervently expect to be scared, although I sure as hell hope I don't piss or shit myself. But, scared or not, we are all going to do our jobs."

He paused for effect. "This is going to be a night drop and some of you are thinking about what happened to Roman Force on Christmas. Well, put that out of your minds. Roman Force went in without any real plans and absolutely no cover. No escorts and no preparation was a recipe for a total fuck up. We'll be guided in by scores of air force and navy planes. For once I agree with the intel major. The Cuban air force shows up and it's lights out for them. No, our problems will occur on the ground.

"Men, we are going first. We are the pick of the litter. Everyone here expects to do his best and he expects everyone else to do his best. When that happens, the Cubans will get the message and pull out, at least those who are still alive. God bless you all."

He turned and walked away as waves of cheers and applause washed over him. Rutherford didn't want anyone to see the tears forming.

In the back of the hangar, Second Lieutenant Chris Mellor turned to his buddy, Second Lieutenant Tom Santini. "Tom, we are totally fucked, aren't we?"

"Looks like it, Chris. I just hope I can handle it."

Mellor nodded. Fresh out of officer candidate school, the platoon he now led was his first command and he was appalled at the thought that they were all looking up to him for leadership when what he really wanted to do was throw up at the thought of going into combat. Part of his mind said that every sane man felt that way, but that didn't help very much.

Each had enlisted at eighteen, in part to avoid the specter of the draft which would screw up their lives until their early twenties, and in part because they really wanted to be soldiers. After basic, they'd applied for and passed airborne training and then they'd applied for OCS and aced the training. They were thinking they might make the army a career, although both of them were scared at the thought of making a combat jump. Each wanted to throw up at the thought, but neither would admit it, of course.

The two men stepped outside. Night was beginning to fall. Civilian houses and stores surrounded the temporary base, just outside the wire fence that was patrolled by armed guards. Their lights were reminders of their homes, places where people didn't carry weapons, jump out of airplanes, or try to kill people who were trying to kill them.

"Just curious," Mellor said. "What were you doing when you got the word the Cubans had attacked Gitmo. I was home with my family and planning to go over to my girlfriend's place about lunch time.

Santini said he'd been at his girlfriend's and had been there all night. He grinned wickedly. "I'd already opened my Christmas present at least a couple of times."

Rutherford said they'd all be in Cuba this time tomorrow. What the hell had he gotten himself into, Mellor wondered? Santini grabbed his arm. "C'mon. There's something you've gotta see."

They climbed a fire escape on a building that stood four stories above the ground. It never occurred to them that they might fall. If you're willing to jump out of an airplane, little things like fire escapes are no concern.

"My God," Mellor said as they finally made the rooftop. Laid out in front of them were hundreds, maybe thousands, of two-man pup tents. Most had a small Sterno fire going and glowing in the night. The field of tents extended towards the horizon.

"It's like the Civil War," Santini said. "Like maybe the Union Army encamped the night before Gettysburg."

Mellor reluctantly agreed. He couldn't help but think how many good men had died at Gettysburg.

The C54 rocked as winds and Cuban anti-aircraft fire buffeted it. Mellor tried hard to hold onto his lunch. It kept wanting to come back up. He didn't want to puke in front of his men. Many others had failed and the combined odors in the plane from nearly fifty men sweating, farting, and vomiting was nearly overwhelming. He concluded that a jump over hostile Cuba would be a relief, if only to get out of the stench filled plane.

Mellor ruefully concluded that Colonel Rutherford had been correct. The Cubans weren't taking all of this lying down, and they sure as hell had been prepared and waiting.

They were one plane in a flight of twenty-five C54s carrying the battalion and some other people, probably Special Forces or CIA types. Their destination was an airfield outside the city of La Lima in the Oriente Province. It was about twenty miles inland from the north coast of Cuba. Once the airfield was taken, additional planes carrying the rest of the 101st Airborne Division would land and spread out. The 82nd Airborne had a similar task. The army's infantry and armor would land on the north coast and push south through areas taken by the airborne divisions, effectively cutting the eastern portion of Cuba off from the rest of Castro-land. Although not much had been said, it was assumed that the marines would land on the south coast as the army approached the twin targets of Santiago and Guantanamo.

Being Airborne and elite, the paratroopers wondered why it was going to take the rest of the American military so long to get to them.

Santini said it was a good plan, but so too was Custer's. "You remember Custer's last words, don't you?"

Mellor snorted, "Yeah. He said don't worry men, there aren't any fucking Indians out here."

They'd been flying for what seemed like forever and evading ground based gunfire for even longer. Mellor's overheard comments from the flight crew said that at least one plane had been hit and had either crashed or been forced to abort. They'd all looked at each other. Was that information they really wanted to know? Those were their buddies on that downed plane.

The signal to finally get ready came as a shock and a relief. Pebbles rattled off the plane, echoing inside. The men looked at each other. Flak. The colonel had been right. The Cubans were going to put up a fight for their country.

They stood and faced the now opened hatch. Each man checked the man in front of him. Finally, the order came and they jumped. Mellor had no idea if he’d yelled "Geronimo" or not. It was all a blur of wind and noise.

His chute opened and he saw he was surrounded by many other billowing parachutes in the early morning sky. Good. He would not be alone. Tracers lifted off from the ground, glowing little fireflies looking for soft flesh to rip and tear.

A C54 was hit. It lost a wing and began to cartwheel down to the ground. In a horrifyingly short time, it crashed and exploded. He wondered if it had been full or empty. He hoped Santini hadn't been on it, and then realize he was hoping some other poor schmuck had gotten killed instead of him or his buddy and wasn't that greedy of him. Tough shit, he thought.

Mellor hit the ground, tucked and rolled over. He gathered his legs and released the chute which billowed away. There was small arms fire all around him. They had landed in among some Cubans. A shape appeared before him. A Cuban. Mellor pulled the trigger on his carbine. Nothing. He'd forgotten to release the safety. The Cuban fired and missed. Mellor got the safety off, fired several times. The man squealed and flopped to the ground. The poor sap must've been even more scared than me to miss at such close range, Mellor decided. He realized he'd just killed a man, began shaking and threw up.

Gradually, the firefights subsided. Mellor had gotten control and found himself surrounded by a score of men, some of whom were actually from his platoon. The airfield was supposed to be to the east. He checked his compass and led his flock in that direction. Other small groups were doing much the same thing. Everybody knew that a drop would lead to chaos, but it was the job of everyone, especially the junior officers and NCOs, to bring order out of that chaos and accomplish their assigned task. The airfield had to be taken; otherwise there was no reason for the jump. Worse, if they didn't take the field and hold it for reinforcements, it was likely they'd all be killed or captured by thoroughly pissed off Cubans.

As they went, a few more of his men found him and increased his little army. Suddenly, the ground erupted with a series of explosions from about a mile in front of him. Seconds later even more explosions sent shock waves over them.

To his astonishment, the artificial light from the explosions showed that Santini was just a little ways away. "If the Cubans did what I think they did, we are in deep shit," Mellor's friend said.

"And what might that be?" Mellor asked.

"I'll bet they've blown up the runways at the airfield. Yeah, they can be fixed and filled in, but that'll take us a long time, especially since the Commies will be hitting us fast and hard."

"So what do we do next?"

"Assuming Colonel Rutherford survived," Santini said, "I think he'll have us take the field, start filling in the craters as best we can, and be prepared to hold on for as long as we have to. Only thing that's certain is there'll be no reinforcements for us this fine day."

Cuban fighter pilot Captain Miguel Rojas considered it possible that his was the only MiG left in the entire Cuban air force. During the attack on Guantanamo on Christmas day, he'd managed to shoot up some targets on the ground, and, after leading the magnificent attack on Miami, he'd been presented with a medal by Fidel himself, even though his plane had been destroyed shortly after he'd landed. He'd been issued an older model MiG as a replacement, and looked forward to again fighting the Americans. But, when enemy planes finally appeared overhead in great numbers, the orders had been for all pilots to keep any remaining planes on the ground. He'd protested, but been told that it was important to preserve him and his plane for future works.

Rojas hadn't been surprised when his plane had been moved to a temporary runway that was little more than a straight dirt road that had been leveled and then covered with phony debris to make it look useless. Every other military base had been hammered by the Americans. He and he others, if there were any others, would stay hidden.

After a few days, his fears of being alone had been allayed. He'd managed to make contact with several of his fellow pilots and concluded that maybe a dozen planes had survived. It might have helped if they'd had the more modern MiG-21s, but those state of the art fighters were reserved for Soviet pilots who weren't taking them anywhere. He grudgingly accepted the fact that he and the others weren't nearly as good as the American pilots and would be overwhelmed and destroyed regardless of what they flew if they had to take on the Americans in combat. Thus, the remaining Cubans flew older model MiG 17s and 19s. Rojas was now assigned an even older MiG 15, a single seater from the Korean War era. He was told that it was all the Cuban air force had left, which was also quite depressing. It carried two 37mm cannon and two 23mm cannon, along with a number of rockets. He sorely missed the more modern MiG 17 he'd flown over Miami.

Rojas understood his assignment. He was not to attack American fighters no matter how much a duel in the sky tempted him. No, he was to attack the transports that carried paratroopers. He accepted this. Rojas was as brave as the next man but to live to a ripe old age. The American pilots and their planes were vastly superior to him. He would do what he could and flee.

Finally, the weeks of waiting were over. Tonight was the night. Excited radio reports told of long lines of American transport planes approaching the coast of Cuba. Fat, slow, and juicy, they were filled with elite American paratroopers. Rojas sat in the cockpit of his plane and nervously fingered the rosary beads his new government said were useless, because there was no such thing as God. He admitted that they might not save him, but caressing them like he had done for the first twenty-five years of his life was comforting.

The order came. His plane raced down the improvised runway, hoping that it was long enough, hoping there were no potholes to hit and knock him sideways, thus ending his life in a fiery ball of jet fuel.

There weren't. Suddenly, he was airborne. The radio guided him to where a flight of American transports was approaching. His orders were to stay very low, get under the planes and erupt among them. It all sounded so simple when it had been explained to him by people who would never have to leave the safety of the ground.

When he judged he was beneath the American planes, he angled upwards sharply. The big fat American planes were flying in columns of three and were silhouetted against the night sky. He reduced his rate of ascent to extend the amount of time he would be under them and slowed his speed to near stall, because they were flying so slowly. If he had to, his MiG could fly twice the speed of the C54. As soon as they were within range, he fired his rockets and then his cannon at the slow-moving targets. The Americans began to juke and try to evade. He laughed. The fox was in the henhouse.

He was through them and one transport had passed only a few feet from his wingtip. Rojas rolled his plane and turned for another sweep. He was out of rockets and almost out of cannon shells. He'd been excited and had fired too fast. He knew he had hit some of them and caused God only knew what damage to the soft flesh jammed within them. Other transports had banked so steeply that anyone inside must be badly injured.

He swept along the top of the planes and raked the flight with his remaining ammunition, again fighting a stall. An angry American fighter swept by. It wanted to kill him, but he was too close to the transports and it was too fast. It hurtled past him. He'd hoped for the obvious signs of a plane going down, but no such luck. It occurred to him that he didn't really have to shoot down a transport to accomplish his goal.

Rojas ducked down below the transports and leveled off. His day was done. He put the plane on auto-pilot and ejected. A few seconds later he watched as the MiG exploded from American fire. Some American pilot would claim a kill, but far too late. He landed safely, cut away his parachute and began to walk down the first road he came to. He had no idea where he was going and it didn't matter. His war was over.

Manuel Hidalgo found to his surprise and delight that none of his new comrades had any inkling of his disgrace in Santiago. He was issued a new rifle, this one an incredibly old Mauser, and a few bullets. He considered himself lucky to have that relic. Many of his fellow militiamen had shotguns or rifles even older than his.

Manuel's unit's job was to patrol the beaches in case American saboteurs tried to come ashore, keep an eye out for any American warships, and to dig fortifications. But most of all, they dug.

Manuel and the others spent hours each day excavating trenches, filling sandbags, and otherwise working like mules. At the end of the day, they were too tired to try to find liquor or even the occasional woman. Prostitution had been outlawed and, to everyone's surprise, the law seemed to be working, at least in the area along the northeast coast of Cuba.

He'd received several letters from his Aunt Marinda who told him she was organizing a woman's league to try and interfere with the Americans if they should be so foolish as to attempt a landing on the north coast. Manuel quietly wondered just what a bunch of women could do. He hoped they would not attempt anything that would put them in harm's way.

She also informed him that Miguel's former schoolteacher, Mr. Flores, had disappeared along with his wife and two children. At first she'd thought that they'd all been arrested for their acknowledged criticisms of the revolution, but then she’d picked up on the rumor that they'd taken a small boat to Florida. Good riddance, both he and Marinda thought. Anyone who was not for the revolution should indeed get the hell out of a brand new Cuba that was for all people, not just the elite.

But was Flores, a teacher in a one room school, part of the elite? Miguel decided he'd have to think that one over. How did a mousy schoolteacher who always wore shabby clothes become part of anybody's elite?

American fighter planes flew over, making a great noise as their jets screeched, and Miguel and the others jumped for cover. They laughed nervously as the Americans never did anything more than fly low and then continue on their way. Maybe they were intentionally tormenting the men on the beaches? Sometimes they'd see in the distance where bombs had fallen as smoke and flames billowed into the sky, but so far they were safe.

Miguel was also proud of his new body. The hard work was creating muscle where there had once only been skin. Maybe when he got home, some of the local girls would give him a look. Of course it would really help if he could get rid of the glasses he wore. He'd never really had a woman, at least not that he remembered. The closest he'd come was that memorable night before his losing his rifle. He'd been told that he’d lost his virginity to that whore from Santiago who was still working for a living. Apparently things were looser in Santiago.

He'd been told that he'd passed out after he’d gotten laid by the puta. He knew he’d passed out, but recalled nothing of any sexual conquest. Even if he had, he thought it might not matter since he wouldn't have recalled a thing. How could you say you lost your virginity if you didn't remember it?

At least he was safe where he was. Not even the officers thought the Americans would come to where they were. No, it was still the consensus that the attack would come in the south. The bombs falling inland were either nuisance attacks, distractions, or maybe somebody had gotten foolish and exposed a juicy target to the Americans.

He did wonder just why there were no Cuban planes in the air. He'd been told it was because they were being saved for the day of the attack, at which time they'd spring out from hiding and shoot down the Americans. It all sounded so good, but others said that all the Cuban planes had been shot down. He had a nagging feeling that this was closer to the truth.

Miguel Hidalgo awoke with a start. Sirens were wailing and men began to rush here and there in confusion. He rolled out of his cot, grabbed his glasses and clothes and dressed quickly. He did not want to go on alert in his underwear. Weapons, normally under lock, were beginning to be handed out.

"What is happening?" he managed to ask.

Americans, came the answer. Ships had been spotted just over the horizon and heading right towards them. Manuel was about to say that the Americans were going to attack in the south and not the north, when a tremendous explosion shook the area, raining dirt on them.

"Bombs," yelled his sergeant just as a pair of American jets flew over, only this time they did not continue on. Instead, they turned and attacked again. Only dimly visible in the half light before dawn, they shrieked low over head, their machine guns and rockets blazing.

Instead of running for their shelters, the Cuban militia headed for the bunkers and trenches they'd worked so hard to build. They poured in and took up station. Miguel squinted out into the vast ocean. It didn't matter. Even with his glasses, which were now very dirty, he couldn't see very much at all.

No, now he could. Dim shapes were appearing on the horizon. Ships, many ships, more ships than he’d ever thought existed. As he watched in disbelief, lights flickered on the horizon. A moment later, shells impacted in the area, destroying the fortifications they'd so recently built.

An officer ran by. "Pull back. Everyone out, we're withdrawing to the second line."

What second line, Miguel thought, and then asked why don't they stay and fight?

His sergeant laughed at him, "Because the fools that put us out here forgot to give us any cannon. All we have to shoot at the Yankee warships are old rifles like yours and old men like me shooting them. Now start running before you get your young ass killed."

Marinda Alvarez waited for the Americans to show their ugly white faces. It didn’t matter to her that many Cubans had white faces and many Americans had black ones. She associated Americans with people with white skin.

She and hundreds of women, along with numerous small children, many of whom were screaming in fear, awaited the opportunity to prove what they could do for Cuba and Castro's Revolution. Similar dedicated groups awaited the invaders at a score of other places near the northern shore. Some of the women had even brought their dogs whose yipping added to the din of yelling women and crying children. Fortunately, they were a few miles away from the battle raging in front of her, although that could change very shortly.The women had been thunderstruck by the intensity of the bombardment around the shore only a couple of miles away from them. The noise was unimaginable and a number of her female companions had run off in terror, especially those who’d brought their children. She was unable to blame them. She herself had seen the American warships off the coast and had watched them firing at unseen targets until deciding she was taking a foolish chance. Even though the Americans didn't intentionally target civilians, which was the purpose of her being where she currently was, who knew what accidents and mistakes might occur.

She'd waited until she'd seen the small boats jammed with soldiers heading toward the shore before leaving for the interior where they would put hers and Fidel's plan into effect.

Marinda and the others stood in the open in a field and carried white flags, which they hoped would be interpreted by the Americans as their intent to surrender. She laughed. They were in for a surprise.

Cuban soldiers who'd been manning the meager coastal defenses moved past them. Many looked disheartened and some were wounded. She wanted to treat them, but she had her orders. She and her sisters in arms would await the arrival of the hated Americans. She looked to see her nephew, but he wasn't among them. She prayed for his safety.

An American plane flew low over the field where they waited. Marinda knew very little about warplanes, but even she recognized that it wasn't a fighter or a bomber, just one of the little scout planes. It wasn’t much bigger than a crop-duster that the rich farmers used, sometimes carelessly dumping pesticide on the workers and making them violently ill. What the American pilot would see was a crowd of several hundred women, and even some children, in plain sight in a field and waving white flags. He would draw the conclusion that they were harmless and radio that information on.

Finally, a scout vehicle, a jeep, appeared. Infantry and a handful of tanks followed slowly, warily moving down the road. The Americans were expanding their beachhead. Marinda signaled her companions and they rose almost as one and moved on to the road.

The jeep stopped a few feet in front of them. A young gringo yelled at them in bad Spanish to get out of the road. They didn't move. He nudged his jeep closer until he was almost touching the lead women. He gunned the motor to scare them, but they didn't scare. He leaned on the horn and that didn't work either. Instead, the women moved forward, surrounding the lead vehicles and lying down in front of them.

"You people better get off the road," the American yelled. His face was getting red with anger. The whole American army was slowing up behind him.

The women booed and yelled back. A couple of the Americans flushed and grinned as they recognized the obscenities being hurled in their direction.

While the Americans looked on, baffled, more Cuban women lay down in front of the jeep, the tanks, and the armored personnel carriers. Some of the soldiers made to push them away, but the women went limp or resisted, whichever worked. Some women climbed into the jeeps or onto the tanks, while others grabbed onto the arms and legs of bewildered Americans.

The American column was stopped cold. Marinda allowed herself a smile. The scene was repeating itself all over the invasion area. The bravery of Cuban women was stopping the invasion.

"Viva Fidel!" they all yelled and Marinda yelled the loudest. The women of Cuba had stopped the Americans.