Castro's bomb

Chapter Nineteen

Midge Romanski was not uncomfortable having a three-star general in her living room, mainly because she still wanted Josiah Bunting's head on a platter. Heidi Morton, on the other hand, was very nervous. Even the wives of senior NCOs did not ordinarily visit with brass except on formal and structured occasions. This situation was very unstructured. Bunting was in civilian clothes and it was he who looked truly nervous.

Midge glanced out the window. It was cold and rainy with the temperature in the low forties. It was a reminder of why she hated Fort Benning in particular and the south in general. It was too hot in the summer and clammy cold in the winter.

Bunting finally began. He was pale and his hands trembled. "Ladies, I have submitted my resignation and retirement papers and I expect they will be acted on shortly. In the meantime, I wish to make up for my failures and the deceits that are ongoing.

"Midge, Heidi, I am totally responsible for the situation that took place on Christmas and over Cuba. I overreached and sent those planes and those men on my authority. I pretended that I misunderstood President Kennedy and I hadn't. I knew he only wanted info, and for me to get back to General Taylor with the proper information regarding the unit’s readiness so that somebody higher up could make the decision. But I launched the attack on my own authority and it cost many, many lives. I am truly sorry for that and will have to live with it for the rest of my life."

Midge glared at him. He was having an epiphany and so what? She was missing a husband and a number of other families had also lost loved ones. "Am I supposed to be happy with your confession, general? Do you want me to assign you a penance?"

"No. Later you asked me and then asked the president if we had any further information and we both said no. We weren't lying. We had no further data at that time. That situation has changed."

Midge leaned forward and Heidi gasped. "What?"

"Please understand that I am under strict orders to keep this secret. It's just that I don't agree with them. You have every right to know. I only ask that you keep this to yourselves for the short few days it'll be necessary."

Midge wanted to scream at him. Keep what a secret?

Bunting looked at the two of them. "As of this moment, both your husbands are alive and reasonably well. Sergeant Morton is unhurt, while the colonel has some kind of leg injury, apparently nothing serious."

Midge felt tears welling and tried to stop them. She didn't want to cry in front of Josiah Bunting. Heidi Morton was having no such qualms. Tears streamed down her face.

"And why must it be kept a deep, dark secret?" Midge asked.

"Because they are still almost alone in a combat zone. They are obviously behind enemy lines and are being hunted. On the plus side, they have somehow managed to hitch up with Lieutenant Ross and his small band, including the teacher, but anything bad could happen to them at any time. General Taylor and the others didn't want you to know anything prematurely that might later be snatched away. I disagreed and was told to keep still. I am violating orders by telling you all this."

Bunting stood to rise. He'd had his say and was ready to leave. Midge saw no reason to stop him. "Thank you for stopping by, general, and we appreciate what you are doing for us. Don't worry, we will keep your secret."

Bunting departed and Midge turned to Heidi. "What do you propose we do now?"

"I don't know," she said. “He’s still an asshole, but at least he’s now a contrite asshole.”

"Would you like a drink?"

Heidi smiled. "Very much, thank you."

Midge smiled back. "Perhaps a couple?"

"I'm German. I don't believe in half measures," Heidi said, giggling.

Private Manuel Hidalgo lay down beside his 30caliber machine gun and peered through the firing slit of his bunker. Like so many weapons in Cuba's arsenal it was an American Browning of World War II vintage. This was of no concern to Hidalgo, the thin and near-sighted seventeen year old had only learned how to use the weapon the day before. Despite that, he felt he was ready for the Americans who would come down the road. One probe had been beaten back but they would come again and be taught another lesson. Hidalgo and the others in his platoon would cause damage, stop the gringos if they could and, if they could not, pull back to the next position.

The population of Guantanamo City and environs was firmly, solidly, behind Fidel Castro and the revolution. Castro had promised them a better way of life and was beginning to make good on the promises. Already, there was more food, and there were many jobs available working for the government. The Americans wanted all that turned back. The Americans must be stopped.

Manuel remembered cheering wildly with his aunt, Marinda, and others when the first attack on the base at Guantanamo Bay began.

It had been marvelous to see the long lines of dispirited Americans heading off into captivity. He was sorry that so many of them had to die, and had been stunned by the devastation he'd seen, but that was war and that was the price that had to be paid for Cuban freedom. He was a little sorry that the attack had taken place on Christmas Day. He still had feelings for that holy day. The base was now Cuba's and that was all that counted.

He was also sorry that he’d lost that damned rifle in Santiago.

He spat on the ground just like he remembered his father did every time he thought of Batista and he was outdoors. Hidalgo forgot once and spat in the house and Marinda had nearly killed him, while his father laughed uproariously. The thought of that made him smile.

He hoped today would be as good as yesterday. Today they were about a mile south of where they'd ambushed the American column. Manuel had sprayed the lead vehicle, a jeep, with machine gun fire and was fairly certain he'd hit people since it had suddenly careened wildly and then turned over. This day he was in a sandbagged and well hidden bunker and his lieutenant said his machine gun was positioned to enfilade the road. He and others had to ask what enfilade meant and were told that it meant shooting into the flank of the enemy. Miguel wondered why the lieutenant just didn’t say that.

Other bunkers also flanked the road, and a T54 tank was on each side of the road, dug in and hidden. Any jeeps or trucks were his to shoot. Tanks and other armored vehicles would be handled by other soldiers with heavy weapons, especially those two magnificent Russian built tanks.

They'd all been reassured that they were not to stand and die, only fight and kill. And then withdraw so they could fight again. Their job was to bleed the gringo army until the Americans realized that Cuba was too tough a nut to crack and that it would not be worth the blood price to conquer. He was seventeen and proud to be a warrior in the Revolution. He'd been but a boy when Fidel had risen to power, but now he was a man. Long live the Cuban People’s Revolution, he constantly reminded himself whenever he got nervous about the coming fighting.

The radio crackled and the lieutenant hollered that the Americans were coming. Manuel fought off the urge to piss and steadied himself. The sudden smell of urine told him that not all his comrades had been so successful. There was no shame in being scared. Only a fool wasn't. He gulped and cleaned off his glasses for the hundredth time.

A few moments later, the head of the enemy column was visible and this time the Americans showed that they had learned something. An M48 tank and not a jeep led the American force. He looked down the American column and smiled. There were a number of trucks in it, although they were at an angle and would be difficult to hit until they got closer.

"Open fire!" the lieutenant yelled. Manuel thought it was too soon, but he obeyed orders and began to shoot up the few trucks he could see. He and the others howled in triumph. An anti-tank rocket missed the American tank which began to backtrack, along with the rest of the vehicles in the column. The big gun of the tank fired and missed, the shell apparently going over their position.

The cannon from the T54 tanks boomed and hit near the quickly disappearing American tank enveloping it in dust and debris but causing no apparent damage. The American tank fired again and an explosion followed. Hidalgo wondered if one of the Cuban tanks had just been destroyed. The American tank continued to pull back.

"Stopped them again," Manuel called to his comrades who cheered wildly. The lieutenant laughed and slapped him on the back. It was time to pack up and move south. He looked through the embrasure of his bunker. A pair of dark and sinister planes was on the horizon and moving towards him with astonishing speed. He watched, slack jawed with horror as the American jets approached at incredible speed. He realized what had happened. Opening fire on the American tank had given away their position and now they were going to pay for it.

Two bombs dropped from each plane and, with lives of their own, flew towards him.

One of the bombs exploded a few yards in front of Hidalgo's bunker. Waves of the liquid fire called napalm enveloped the bunker and everything around it. Flames roared through the firing slits and into the bunker, immolating Manuel and his companions with searing, murderous heat. Manuel managed to lurch out the back. He was on fire. His skin was bubbling and peeling and one of his eyes was gone. He rolled on the ground as waves of agony swept over him.

There was silence for a while, but then he heard a voice directly above him speaking in English. "Jesus Christ, this one's still alive."

"Can't be," another voice added. "He looks like the time my mother burned the Thanksgiving turkey. There's no way he's gonna live. Hell, even his cock's been burned off."

"Hey, he's trying to say something."

"Kill me," seventeen year old Manuel Hidalgo managed to whisper through a destroyed throat.

"What's he saying?"

"I don't speak Spanish either, but I think I understand what he wants."

"What are you doing?" the other American asked.

Hidalgo felt the other American fumbling with his tortured body. "He's gonna get some morphine to kill the pain. An awful lot of it. Easy, buddy, it'll be all over in a little while."

After a few seconds, Manuel's agony went away, and then so too did the light.

The strain was beginning to tell on the president. His back was aching even more than it usually did and he looked like he hadn't slept, which was the truth, and a twitch had developed in his cheek. Not even the First Lady's now more enthusiastic nocturnal assistance could provide JFK with anything more than temporary relief from the stress he felt.

Once more into the breach, he thought as he waited for the military leaders to make their reports. Admiral Anderson said that the Russian navy's three cruiser squadron and the multiple boat submarine flotilla was maintaining itself several hundred miles north and east of Cuba. At least a half-dozen Foxtrot submarines had been sighted and were driving American reconnaissance efforts nuts by constantly submerging and then popping up a few miles away from where they'd originally been. The Soviet presence necessitated the movement of an American carrier group, along with U.S. submarines, to counter the potential threat. So far, the Soviets hadn't come close to the American fleet, but who knew what the future might bring.

General Wheeler reported that three army divisions, the First Infantry, Second Infantry, and First Armored, had landed and were consolidating their beachhead, and expanding slowly into the interior. Supplies were piling up preparatory to a planned massive breakout. There was concern that the main Cuban army had not been encountered. General LeMay was of the opinion that it had been so badly damaged by air strikes that the Cuban army was no longer a factor, and that the average Cuban soldier was either in hiding or on his way home. Wheeler and Maxwell Taylor were not so confident, feeling instead that the Cubans had pulled away from the beaches where they would be vulnerable and would be found in prepared positions inland. But both generals felt that the U.S. would come out ahead in any confrontation with the main Cuban forces. Marine commandant, General Shoup, concurred and complained that his marines had not been committed, angrily reiterating that his marines should not be used as decoys.

There were serious concerns. First, the survivors of the two disastrous airborne drops were confronting very major problems. They were outnumbered, outgunned, and running out of supplies of all kinds. Airdrops of supplies had been ineffective and the use of the army’s few helicopters for more accurate support had resulted in the destruction of two choppers and severe damage to a half dozen others. The more northern perimeter, the one belonging to elements of the 82nd Airborne would likely be relieved fairly soon, but the southern and more distant one belonging to a detachment of the 101st might soon be overwhelmed, and that would be both a military and a political catastrophe.

The vision of long lines of more Americans shuffling off to a prison camp would be intolerable to the American public. The public accepted the fact that the Cuban sneak attack on Gitmo had resulted in American POWs, but the air drop was an American attack and American attacks should succeed. Especially against the damned Cubans. Failure would be blamed on JFK and he knew it. The generals might consider it a relatively minor setback and part of the blood price to be paid, but for Kennedy the wound might prove politically fatal.

Taylor reported that Lt. Col. Romanski thought he might have found the location of the missing Soviet nuke. "Destroy it," Kennedy said emphatically.

"As always, there are problems, sir," Taylor said. "First, he cannot confirm that it actually is the nuke. Romanski reports that whatever it is it's heavily guarded and his small group has no way of getting a better look. He's asked for bombs and we're more than willing, but we can't bomb since we can't accurately locate the site. Apparently, at the moment it's in a barn or shed of some sort and we can't find it and Romanski can't quite pinpoint it for us. We've got it down to a few square miles, but that's the size of a small city. Romanski says they Cubans are moving their group of vehicles at night and hiding them during the day, which means we can't get a good fix on it. It also means that Romanski and Ross have to track it and find it each day."

LeMay interrupted. "And since the Air Force and Navy have many other targets, there's reluctance to divert large numbers of planes to carpet bomb the area until we know exactly what it is and where it is. If we attack and miss, they'll know we're on to them and simply move it and we're back to square one."

Kennedy seethed. And in the meantime, he thought, the Cubans might throw a nuclear rocket at our soldiers and marines, killing and wounding hundreds, if not thousands. The military might find these casualties acceptable and he might even agree with them if the cause wouldn't be nuclear. But an atomic bomb exploding on Americans? Never.

"I disagree," JFK said. "I want that damn missile found and destroyed. Look, we have more than enough planes out there. We can assign a number of them to be a hunter force to find and kill that nuke." He turned to LeMay. "Why the hell don't you designate a squadron of B52s to saturate an area with bombs, and I don't care if it's overkill or if innocent people get killed?"

"Does that include Romanski, Ross, Cathy Malone and the others?" Taylor asked icily, “Especially when it’s highly probable that we’d miss and their deaths would be for naught?”

Kennedy sagged and agreed that it didn't. Saturation bombing was not an option. Still, he wanted a hunter-killer squadron. Le May then reminded him that he agreed with Taylor and that they could saturate all they wanted and still not hit what amounted to a very small target.

"All they have to do is dig it in and we might as well throw rocks at it," LeMay said. "As much as I hate to admit it, but precision target bombing is more wishful thinking than it is reality. At this point, the Cubans have not launched it, which means they are either waiting for orders or a good target. As we've discussed, if we bomb too close to it, that might spook them into launching. Right now, we have a slim chance of finding it before they launch which is better than nothing. Every minute they haven’t fired the damn thing is another minute to find it."

General Taylor glanced at LeMay and reluctantly concurred, and Kennedy wondered if the military would actually do something about it or simply stall because they had bigger problems. Stalling when dealing with a nuclear threat was inconceivable to him but not to the service chiefs. The nuke was small and could be contained militarily. But not politically.

"What about using special forces to help locate it?" Kennedy asked.

"Already being done," Taylor answered. "We've got people on the ground trying to locate both Romanski and any possible bomb site."

JFK left and went to the Oval Office where his brother, the attorney general, awaited. "Please tell me you have good news," he asked of Bobby after updating him on the military situation.

"Of course not," Bobby said with a wry smile. "The word that we are not going to force Castro out of Cuba has leaked and is gaining momentum. You can either confirm it by saying something or confirm it by saying nothing. If you say we are going to dump Castro, then the Soviets are going to be pissed off and might use their forces in Cuba to keep him in place."

"Another Hobson's choice,” JFK said and laughed bitterly. “And how did your meetings go?"

"Miserably," Bobby said. "First I met with representatives of the Cuban exiles who are passionately outraged that you are not letting them take over their lost homes and property immediately and that you might let Castro stay in power, which would lock them out forever. To say they are angry is a gross understatement. Their fury is white hot and some of them aren't totally rational. They want a statement of your intent immediately or they will riot again."

JFK glared at his brother. "Let them try. I've had it with their attempts to force my hand. They riot and I'll federalize enough Florida National Guard troops to go in and squash them. Tell them that."

"I did, and they seemed to calm down, at least a little bit. Some of the younger ones want to go in with guns blazing, but the older exiles feel they can keep them in check. The second meeting was with representatives of the, ah, various business groups who've been expelled from Cuba by Castro. I mean, of course, the sugar industry and the gambling people. The sugar barons want their lands and plants back, which will not occur. As we've already discussed, other people are now on those lands and running those plants and factories that are still operational. Trying to take them back would result in either a bloody civil war, or us keeping a huge occupation force in Cuba, which would then become a target of a new crop of revolutionaries."

"Shit," said the president.

"My thoughts exactly, Jack. The gambling entities, and that, of course, means organized crime and the Mafia, want unfettered access to Cuba and they want the good old days back where Cuba was not much more than one great big whorehouse. Again, we all know is not going to happen. Unfortunately, if you do anything less than topple Castro and bring back the old regime and the old whorehouses, you will be persona non grata by them with whatever implications that brings."

Kennedy thought, and that means the Mafia will be angry and nobody in their right mind wants organized crime on their case. "I can do very little for the sugar people, but perhaps we can creatively look the other way when it comes to gambling. Perhaps some more freedom in Nevada might be negotiated."

"A good thought. But J. Edgar Hoover might not like it."

JFK sighed, thinking of all the dirt Hoover had on him and everyone else in Washington. Perhaps it was time for it all to come out. "Fuck Hoover. Anything else?

"Yes, the United Nations General Assembly has condemned us for naked aggression, for using unjustified and extreme military force, and for picking on a tiny communist nation that wants to become a nuclear power and threaten its neighbors," he said sarcastically. "Adlai Stevenson says it's sound and fury and we should ignore it."

JFK concurred. "Fuck the UN," he smiled.

The Cubans were only a hundred yards away. They had already launched one night time attack that the paratroopers from the 101st Airborne Division had beaten off. There had been a lot of the enemy and a number of them had made it to the American lines, resulting in hand to hand fighting, but they hadn't been well led and the attacks had not been well coordinated. As a result the Cubans had taken heavy casualties. Militia and not regulars was the assessment. Like it really mattered, thought Lieutenant Mellor. His unit had suffered heavy casualties as well and they were running out of ammunition.

Colonel Rutherford had gone around their shrinking perimeter and made sure everybody had at least some ammo. Half their number were either dead or wounded or missing from the jump. Along with a shortage of ammo, they lacked medical supplies and food. Food they could do without for a while and there was enough water, but it was demoralizing to be unable to help the wounded. Most of them tried to be stoic despite some terrible wounds, but many were unable to hold back their cries of pain.

Airdrops and re-supply by helicopter had not worked out very well. They'd gotten some of the packages but most of them had fallen outside the perimeter and been gathered up by the Cubans who'd hollered in English, thanking Uncle Sam for his generosity. The helicopter efforts had been even less successful. They'd watched in horror as one was shot down while attempting to get close enough to dump supplies out a hatch. Two badly burned crewmen had been rescued and were in the perimeter with the other wounded.

"Marine, you're gonna die!" came the yell from the disturbingly close by Cuban positions.

"We're airborne, you asshole," an American yelled back.

"Doesn't matter, asshole. Airborne asshole or marine asshole, you're all going to die!"

Mellor shifted over as Rutherford scrunched in beside him. "Speaks really good English, doesn't he, lieutenant?"

"Here they come again!"

A horde of Cuban soldiers emerged from their shallow holes and ran towards the Americans, firing wildly from the hip. Bullets whizzed by, most going wildly into the sky but some smacking into the earth and shrubs that were the paratrooper's cover. The Americans fired back, more slowly and deliberately then the Cubans and with deadly effect. Screams of pain and fear came from all around.

"Grenade!"

Mellor saw the grenade land on the ground by a group of Americans who stared in horrified disbelief. A soldier jumped on it and it went off. His body lifted slightly and then settled limply on the ground.

The Cubans were dying in droves but still came on. Now only yards away, Mellor and the others could hardly miss. Someone hit him and he tumbled back. A Cuban soldier was on top of him, yelling something, and trying to gouge Mellor's eyes out.

Mellor punched the man in the face, but he wouldn't get off. Mellor kneed the man in the genitals, grabbed them, and squeezed with all his strength. The Cuban writhed and fell aside. Mellor grabbed his bayonet and jammed it into the man's chest. The Cuban's body spasmed and then lay limp.

Mellor grabbed his carbine. The Cubans were retreating. Colonel Rutherford was yelling for people to stop firing and conserve their ammo. The cries of ‘medic’ filled the air. More of their small force had fallen. The Cubans were gone, but only for the moment.

A group of soldiers stood over the one who'd sacrificed himself by falling on the grenade. Mellor pushed his way through them and stared at the terrible thing on the ground.

"Aw, Christ," he said. It was his buddy, Santini. The exploding grenade had scooped out his chest and intestines like a giant spoon had worked on him. He must have died instantly. At least they all hoped he had.

Somebody said he'd get a medal, maybe even the big one, the Medal of Honor. Of course they had to get out of their current fix for that to happen. Dead men couldn't write up citations for other dead men. Mellor wondered how many true heroes had died in wars and battles past, and nobody knew about them?

He stripped some ammo from a wounded man. Now he had two clips for his carbine and one for his.45 automatic. With a little luck he had enough firepower to fight maybe a minute. He checked with the rest of his men and found them all in the same situation.

Rutherford arrived. There was blood from a cut on his head. It had run down his face and was beginning to dry a ghastly black. He had made an inventory of their manpower and firepower, and both were lacking.

"Any idea what's going to happen next, sir?" Mellor asked. "They attack again and we're all screwed."

Rutherford shrugged. He had no idea what was going to happen. The Cubans had launched massive attacks that had been beaten off with heavy losses on both sides. The Cubans had the advantage of numbers, while the small airborne force was being whittled down to nothing.

The colonel had the feeling that the average Cuban soldier didn't want to face the men and guns of the 101st, and who could blame them. But the Cubans were now so close to the American positions that any assistance from the many American planes circling the area was too dangerous for the airborne forces to even contemplate. Nobody wanted to run the risk of getting torched by their own napalm.

"Just curious, colonel, have they asked us to surrender?"

"Yeah, and we declined the honor."

Mellor managed a wan smile. "You didn't happen to say ‘nuts’ did you, sir?"

Rutherford chuckled. Nuts had been the legendary response of the 101st's General Tony McAuliffe when called upon to surrender by the Germans during the siege of Bastogne during World War II's Battle of the Bulge.

"I gave it serious thought, lieutenant, but I let the opportunity pass."

However, Rutherford thought, he might have to reconsider the honor unless something happened and soon.

General Juan Ortega wanted to be outside in the sunlight or moonlight, whichever was appropriate. He'd lost track of time. Regardless, he wanted to be above ground in the clean air and leading his men. Not necessarily from up front, of course, that would have been foolish. Generals did not take risks that would get them killed and get their plans disrupted. A decapitated army could quickly degenerate into a mob. But he did want to see and be seen. He did not want his men to think he was a kind of troglodyte, hiding in a cave. He chuckled. How many of his men even knew what a troglodyte was?

But the bunker was the nerve center of his operations, and he could not yet leave it. This was where all his communications came and went, through cables and wires buried deep underground and from well hidden antennae located throughout Santiago and wired to the bunker.

Ortega was not displeased with the way the fighting was evolving. Despite the pasting on the coast that his men had taken, he still had six divisions in blocking positions to slow or even halt the American advance. Two additional divisions waited in the south by Guantanamo and two more sat in reserve. They would enter combat if his defensive line was penetrated or if the marines who were on ships off the coast finally landed. Since the Americans could land anywhere, his troops had to maintain a high degree of flexibility. As he had carefully explained to Castro through Allessandro, he could not defend everything, no matter the size of his army. The Americans could and would land at a time and place of their choosing.

There would be no more mobs of women trying to overwhelm unsuspecting Americans. It had worked once, but it was too dangerous a place for Cuban women. The fighting was too intense and shells were too indiscriminate. Still, it had been humorous to see the American government's reaction.

Castro might not be as pleased as his messages said, but Ortega was. He had read so much about the D-Day landings in France in World War II and fully understood the German dilemma that led to the Nazi's defeat in that battle. Hitler's generals had argued over whether it was better to fight the Americans on the beaches, Rommel's idea, or wait for them to land and then attack with overwhelming force from positions inland, von Runstedt's idea.

In Ortega's opinion, both had been proven wrong. Rommel's beach defenses ultimately crumpled under the American onslaught and von Runstedt's inland reinforcements could not make it to the battle because of American overwhelming superiority in the air.

The situation confronting Cuba was almost identical to that confronting the Germans in 1944, a point which the Castro brothers and others in Havana did not seem to understand. Something else had to be done. Castro's personal representative, the oily Dominico Allessandro had virtually threatened Ortega with arrest for not hurling his army at the Americans. Ortega said he’d consider it, but only if Allessandro would lead the attack from the front. That had silenced Castro’s messenger. Ortega had made a mortal enemy, but no longer cared. As Ortega saw it, the only possible solution was to wait inland for the Americans to come to him, to attack Cuban defenses, and suffer heavy casualties for their efforts. It was how the Japanese had fought the Americans in the Pacific, especially at Okinawa in the spring of 1945. If the Castro brothers wanted to defend the beaches, they were welcome to try.

Ortega was well aware that the defenders of Okinawa had died to almost the last man and he wanted no part of that. He no longer had any illusions about being able to stop the Americans from re-taking Guantanamo if they truly wanted to, and that saddened him deeply. He really hadn't thought that the Americans would attack in such force. But he and his army would fight and bleed the Americans and maybe, just maybe, the Americans would decide that liberating Guantanamo just wasn't worth the price. A negotiated settlement, not his army’s death in battle, was now his goal. He hoped it was Castro’s as well.

Not for the first time he thanked the United States Army for furthering his military education, and at the expense of the American taxpayer.

Enough. Ortega needed to stretch his legs and suck in some air. The war would take care of itself for a few minutes. He left his desk and went down the tunnel, startling a couple of enlisted men. He greeted them cheerfully. They were goofing off and who could blame them.

Finally. He was outside and the warm sun played upon him, rejuvenating him. Several Cuban soldiers waved to him and he waved back. They were confident in his abilities to stop the Americans, therefore, he must not disappoint them.

Now if only Castro would stop calling with suggestions and Allessandro would go away, and if he could figure just what the hell Guevara and Sergeant Gomez were doing with that damned nuke.

Sergeant Gomez and Che Guevara glared at each other with undisguised contempt. Che had quickly realized that the unkempt sergeant was a slacker and a thief and not the outstanding soldier Ortega had told him. He wondered if Ortega had known that and that assigning Gomez to help him was some kind of a mad joke. Or was Ortega unaware of Gomez's real talents, which consisted of stealing and raping? When he'd arrived at Gomez's camp, Guevara had found several very young girls, some of them barely in their teens, beaten, bound and naked. He'd freed them, thus earning anger from Gomez and his men who obviously thought they were entitled to keep them as playthings. Che felt that Ortega would have some explaining to do when they next met.

Even worse, if that was possible, Gomez had only a dozen men left. The disgusting sergeant had tried to explain that the others had been casualties in valiant attempts to find American guerillas operating behind Cuban lines. Guevara believed none of it. A couple may have become casualties, but comments made by others led him to believe that the vast number of the missing had departed in disgust at what Gomez was attempting to do, which was plunder the entire province for his own benefit. One had hinted that Gomez was planning to leave the country with everything he could steal and carry away.

Therefore, the six man crew of the Luna rocket and the drivers of the remaining vehicles were the only men he could count on. So be it. He would use Gomez and his donkey-fucking thieves as perimeter security to ensure that no one attacked his group again. At least he hoped Gomez and his men would be at least somewhat reliable. He wouldn’t put it past them to disappear in the night.

The attack on the anti-aircraft battery by what had to have been American Special Forces had been an unpleasant reminder of the precariousness of his situation. They had moved since then and would move again. They would not provide a stationery target for American air strikes that the Special Forces would doubtless be trying to call down on them.

As agreed to in Havana, he had not attempted any direct radio contact. Instead, he'd listened to broadcasts from Havana for code words embedded in newscasts. Along with undisguised reports, they told him that the Americans had landed in force in the north, and that the marines had not yet attacked the south. The American tactics were surprising. Che had expected them to storm the coast near Guantanamo in order to immediately liberate their base, or nearer Santiago to liberate their POWs. The northern landings told him the American agenda was greater than just taking back Guantanamo Bay. They were after Fidel and the revolution. They wanted to bring back the American businesses and gangsters who had plundered Cuba at the direction of the United States for more than half a century.

The American strategy didn't matter. The marines would land, sooner or later. He was confident of that. And when they did, his nuclear rocket would change the history of the world. Nobody would ever ignore Cuba again.

Another sudden shower again reminded them that the rainy season was just around the corner. Cathy and Ross darted for the shelter of a tree and behind some bushes, while Romanski and Morton disappeared somewhere. They didn't care. She and Andrew each got their ponchos on before they got too wet and found themselves laughing. It felt good. Laughing was in short supply lately.

Cathy was the first to realize they were actually alone. At least they were a little bit alone. She wasn't certain where the colonel and the sergeant had gone to, only that she couldn't see them. If she couldn't see them, then they couldn't see her. She sat next to Andrew and shifted so his poncho was over hers and his arm was around her shoulders. It was as intimate as they'd ever been.

"Too bad we can't share ponchos," she said. The neck opening was too small to accommodate two necks. They joked that they'd strangle if they tried.

"Easy problem, easy solution," Ross said. He took out his bayonet and sliced the opening of his poncho wider. She quickly slipped in and, half on his lap, slipped her head up beside his. They looked at each other in pleasant surprise.

"Boo," he said with a tender smile.

"This is ridiculous," she said.

"Absurd," he answered.

They kissed tentatively, then with a little more intensity. They parted and looked at each other incredulously. "I've waited a long time, Cathy. I think it was when I first saw you running on base wearing a pair of shorts. I thought you were the cutest girl I'd ever seen."

"I wish I had known you then, Andrew, although things would have been different, wouldn't they?"

"Yeah, I would've been one of a score of guys trying to get you to go out with them."

She squeezed his shoulder. "Andrew, the line wasn't anywhere near that long. But you're right. Maybe we wouldn't have had the opportunity to get to know each other as well as we have these past few weeks. Or has it been longer? I keep losing track. Maybe I'm losing my mind."

"It doesn't matter."

"We've gotten to know each other at our worst," she said. "I'm filthy, ragged, my hair is butchered short, I have no makeup, and I've probably lost ten or fifteen pounds and I was thin to begin with. Admit it, I'm a mess."

"Yes, but you're a lovely mess. And we've actually known each other at our best, not our worst. We've fought our way through adversity. We've seen people die and been responsible for people dying, along with being hurt by people who want to kill us, and, so far, we've made it through.

She laughed. "I guess I agree, but if this is the best, I don't want to even think of what the worst might be."

"Cathy, I think we both know this time in our lives is going to come to an end, one way or another, and in a very short while. And when it does, it will be with us being together."

She squeezed his hand. "After all this, I'm not sure I want to go back to being a school teacher. What are you going to do? Still law school?"

"Yes, although I've been thinking of going to work for the FBI, or even the CIA when I’m done. You're right. After this I can't see myself writing up wills and suing on behalf of people who've been in car accidents."

Ross leaned back and looked at the sky. He was afraid it was starting to clear and that meant the others would be around.

Cathy snuggled in closer to him. "Then tell me something else. How scared were you during the missile crisis last October?"

He shifted so he could see her better. Her face was tense. "Cathy, we were all scared. Hey, here we were at Gitmo, out in the middle of nowhere and surrounded by Castro's Cubans and just about as helpless as a newborn baby. We would have put up a fight, but, like what happened later, we would have been overwhelmed really quickly.

"Fortunately, we didn't have a whole lot of time to spend thinking about it. All the offices worked around the clock giving out weapons and supplies and who cared about any paperwork. Then, during what down time we did have, we spent it all digging trenches and prepping bunkers. Then we were put on guard duty around the clock. Some of the older guys knew what could happen and they were quite serious, although I do recall a couple of marines spending a lot of time sharpening knives. I thought they were nuts. So, bottom line, I was scared, but not terrified. How about you?"

She took his hand and squeezed. She wanted to kiss him again. "I was terrified and so were a lot of people. We saw the likelihood of nuclear war, and all we ever had and loved would be reduced to ashes. When we arrived in Virginia, a lot of people thought they should move way out west and not be in a major port or a military facility during an atomic attack, which made sense. I knew some people who had shelters and they stayed in them until it was all over."

Cathy laughed at the memory. "A lot of people went to church during that period, and that includes me. Of course, they stopped going right after things calmed down and life got back to normal."

"So how do you feel about right now?"

She smiled, "After all that's happened to me, not too badly at all. I am now reasonably confident that I will survive and will get home. I'm scared, but I can function and sometimes, like right now and even though we are talking about it, I can push it out of my mind. Well, not all the way."

He reached out and gently touched the spot on her cheek where Gomez had cut her with his ring. The scabbing had gone but a scar remained. "They can probably get rid of that, you know."

She shook her head. "Not a chance. It's part of me and it's going to remain. If it fades away naturally, so be it, but no plastic surgery."

"When we do get out of here, we'll probably be sent to Washington so all the people in the Pentagon can talk to us. You will probably be on television and, who knows, maybe they'll make a movie about you. I see Natalie Wood playing you."

"No, not her. She's too pretty."

"You're right. You're a lot prettier."

Andrew was acutely aware of the feel of her small breasts against his chest and of the fact that he was getting aroused. He had no idea how she felt about little things like his erection pressed against her hip. Hell, he thought. She was a school teacher not a school kid. What did she think was happening?

"How much time before they come back?" she asked. The rain was beginning to slacken.

"Not enough."

"Then let's make the most of it," she said and they kissed with a sudden voraciousness that surprised them.

He slipped one hand over her breast and she covered it with hers. He removed it and shifted so that his one hand was inside her blouse. She reached behind and unsnapped her bra so he could caress her bare flesh. She groaned in his ear as he touched her nipples. His touch told her that what Gomez had done could never be forgotten, but it could be compartmentalized and she would lead a normal life and, hopefully, with Andrew Ross.

Enough. They had to stop. The rain had practically ended and the others would be back at any moment. Stopping wasn't fair to either of them, and particularly not to Andrew. She could feel him hard against her. It wasn't fair but life wasn't fair. Cathy gently removed his hands from her body and straightened her clothing as he did likewise. Petting like adolescents was inadequate for both of them, but it would have to do for right now.

"We can't do anything more," she said, “at least not here and now."

"I know," he said with such sadness that she almost laughed.

"I've wanted this to happen for a long time," she said.

"Me too."

"Andrew, you know a Cuban soldier hurt me, don't you?"

"I figured as much."

"And it doesn't bother you?"

"Why should it, Cathy? I'm concerned about you, not me. How are you dealing with it?"

She tucked her head on his shoulder. "Better than I ever thought I could. And now it's going to be even better with you knowing, understanding, and being on my side, and yes, touching me."

Andrew kissed her on the forehead. "I'll always be by your side."

"Will you be with me a year from now?"

He was puzzled. "That depends. Where will you be?"

Cathy giggled, "Lying naked on a bed."

He laughed and hugged her tightly. "Then you know I'll be there."

About fifty yards away, Romanski and Morton looked at each other. Morton chuckled. "I never thought you were such a romantic, colonel? Y'know we could've found a place to keep dry within a couple of feet of those two lovebirds."

Romanski laughed. "Not much fun for them if we did that, now is there?"

He remembered one time when he and Midge had gotten soaked in a rainstorm and made love on the grass while waiting for their clothes to dry. God, he missed her.

Romanski stretched and stood up carefully. The wet weather made his leg ache. "Since it's pretty well stopped raining, I suggest we make some unnecessary noise and return to the happy couple. Cullen and the others could return at any minute and we don't want them to see anything shocking. Marines are such innocents when it comes to love and sex, you know."

Major Sam Hartford looked through the barbed wire fence and tried to feign indifference. It was difficult. The three army trucks parked by the guard shack belonged to him, not the Cuban army. The insignias and unit designations were lies. Skronski had told Ruiz and his buddies to steal them and the assignment had been carried out with aplomb. The real Cubans guarding the prisoners were curious, but that was it. If someone in authority wanted to park some trucks by the guard house, so be it.

Now it was time to do something to help both their situation and the United States military. Ruiz had gotten a good look at General Ortega when he'd unexpectedly popped up during the day. The General had actually spoken with Ruiz who said that Ortega seemed like a friendly, decent sort.

Hartford thought that was just too fucking bad. Ortega was the enemy and who cared if he was kind to puppies and bunnies or had a wife and kids. The man headed the Cuban army in the area and had to go. Hartford's only problem was that he couldn't go with Skronski and the two dozen men who would be riding in the trucks. Thanks to his bad feet he just wasn't agile enough to function when the shit hit the fan.

They waited for night to fall. The guard shack was only twenty feet from the main gate and, during their time in the camp, a tunnel had been carefully dug to it from a nearby prisoner tent. The men slithered through and captured the pair of guards and the lieutenant commanding them without a fuss. The Cubans were bound and gagged. The lieutenant glared at them ferociously, but Skronski had the feeling it was all show. When he winked at the man, the lieutenant shrugged.

The drive through Santiago was uneventful. Their main concern was that American planes might find the three truck convoy a juicy target, so they departed at two minute intervals. Maybe an American pilot wouldn't want to waste a bomb on one truck.

Hide in plain sight was the plan. Skronski got his men out of their trucks two blocks from the entrance to the bunker. Ruiz, who looked and sounded Cuban because he was Cuban, was designated to "command" the column of men in Cuban uniforms. When they got to the entry point, a guard inside the bolted door asked what the hell was going on and Ruiz, with total confidence, loudly told him that the detachment was additional security against American Special Forces, and if nobody had told the guard they were coming, well, what else was new?

The guard grunted and opened the door. The Americans raced in, clubbing the Cubans in the room before they could get off any shots. Skronski started to lead down the steps to the tunnel but Ruiz pulled him aside.

"I think you still need my unique skills, sir. Nothing personal, but no fucking way you're gonna pass for Cuban and every second we fool them counts big."

Skronski agreed and settled for fourth spot behind Ruiz and the two other Hispanic Americans who'd also been prowling around Santiago.

"What is this?" someone asked as they entered the room. The question was one of curiosity, not concern. A dozen men sat behind desks or in front of radio sets. Jesus, thought Skronski, and there's Ortega himself, on the telephone and not even looking in his direction.

A young officer finally saw that the "Cuban" soldiers had their weapons pointed at them. "Treason!" he yelled and was cut down by automatic weapons fire that echoed through the room. Other real Cubans grabbed their weapons and all the Americans opened fire. The effect was shattering and deafening in the closed room. Dust and debris flew as bullets chewed up men and equipment. Cuban soldiers fell and screamed. The Americans reloaded and looked around for more targets. Dust and smoke obscured the room and people were groaning in pain and shock.

There were no more targets. All the Cubans were down in tangled, bloody messes. One American was seriously wounded and two slightly. They'd surprised and overwhelmed the Cubans who probably weren't all that great combat soldiers in the first place. Staff and communications pukes, Skronski thought.

Skronski checked the fallen Cubans for signs of life. A couple of them were still breathing, and that included Ortega who'd been shot in the chest and the arm.

"Take him out and load him in the truck," he said of Ortega. "Do first aid on the others and leave them in the tunnel."

With a little luck, Skronski hoped they'd survive and inform others that their attackers had been fellow Cubans. Treason was what one man had cried out and let them believe that, at least for a little while. As this was being done, others of his group were happily smashing the radio equipment and ripping out wires, letting loose a several month's worth of frustration.

Cautiously, they exited through the tunnel and went outside in the night. Skronski couldn't help but grin. The Cuban guards were where they left them and nobody outside the building had heard a thing. The bunker's thick walls had muffled the sounds of the shootings and the killings. Santiago had slept through it all.

"Now what sir?" Ruiz asked. Even though he wasn't the most senior in rank, Skronski thought it was interesting how the others had deferred to the young man. He would talk to Hartford and see if they could do something about that. Ruiz was definitely officer material.

"We load up and go back to Disneyland," he said. "And then we hope we get rescued before too long. The Cubans are likely to get pissed when they finally figure out that it was really us who disabled their headquarters and kidnapped their commanding general. Hey, he is still alive, isn't he?"

Ruiz assured him Ortega was still breathing and that his bleeding had been stabilized by one of the medics who'd accompanied them. With a little decent medical care, the Cuban general should survive, and wouldn't that be interesting.

When they returned to their compound, Major Hartford was more than pleased. Their prisoners from the guard shack were safely inside the camp as was General Ortega who’d begun getting medical help. The medics agreed that he would live, but wouldn't be commanding an army for a long while.

Hartford hoped that, along with decapitating the Cuban command and communications structure, they'd sown enough confusion so that the remaining Cubans wouldn't know exactly where the attack had originated. The Cubans had initially cried “treason,” and he hoped that possibility would confuse them. He also hoped the missing guards from the guard shack would be considered deserters. There had been a lot of desertions lately thanks to the bombings and the threat of an American invasion.

It occurred to him that he was hoping an awful lot.

Now, he thought, it was time to let the Pentagon know what had just gone down and he still didn't have a code to use. He would assume that the Cubans were listening to everything he said and would have to watch his words very, very carefully. He didn't want Cubans trying to liberate Ortega or wreaking vengeance on his largely unarmed command. Damn, he would have to be clever.

General Humberto Cordero thought the bunker was a charnel house. Blood in blackening pools congealed on the floor and the wall, and mangled bodies lay everywhere, stiffening as rigor mortis set in. The handful of survivors, the guards topside and two men in the tunnel, were adamant that the attackers had all been Cubans. They'd worn Cuban uniforms and had spoken Spanish, ergo, they were Cubans.

But why would other Cubans have shot and taken General Ortega? The two wounded men in the tunnel thought he'd been carried out by the attackers, which made no sense. If the idea was to wipe out Ortega's command structure, then why take him along when a bullet in the head would be more efficient.

This had all the earmarks of something Che Guevara would do, but Guevara was out in the countryside with his beloved Russian rocket. Cordero shuddered. That was something he wished his cousin, General Ortega, had never confided in him about. The idea of that maniacal asshole Guevara with his hands on a nuke was frightening.

They had already contacted Havana via short wave and Cordero had even spoken to Fidel himself. Cordero had told Fidel that the attackers had worn Cuban uniforms but he didn't think they were Cubans. Either American Special Forces in disguise or, God help them all, some of the lunatic exiles from Miami. Even Fidel had gone thoughtfully quiet on hearing that opinion.

But who was to command the army? It was locked in mortal combat with the Americans a little more than a score of miles to the north and chaos would ensue if no one was in charge. There were generals more senior and far more experienced in military matters than Cordero out in the field, but they were in no position to coordinate and command. Fidel gave the order to Cordero. First, he was to re-establish communications and then attempt to coordinate their efforts until a new general could be sent from Havana,

Cordero almost snorted on hearing Fidel say that. It would take days, if not longer, for a new general to arrive thanks to American control of the air, and even he, with his limited military experience, knew the crisis point of the battle would have long passed.

He gave the orders to clean up the mess in the bunker and replace what they could of the equipment. A new security detachment was on duty, even though he thought that a repeat of the attack was highly unlikely. The survivors of the old security detachment were sent to the front lines for their collective stupidity. They were told they could either be shot by the Cuban police or take their chances against the Americans. They chose the Americans. Cordero thought they'd take maybe thirty seconds before attempting to surrender.

Without any way to communicate with units in the field, there was little Cordero could do to affect the fighting at the moment. He walked and found himself a little ways from the POW camp. He stared at the rows of tents as a thought grew. He'd been told that yesterday there had been three trucks by the guard shack. No one had thought to ask why the trucks had been parked there. Today, though, the trucks were gone and so were the two men on night duty in the shack and the lieutenant who'd been officer of the guard. Cordero had no idea who the enlisted men were, but the officer had been a young lieutenant who'd talked about his unproven bravery and seemed terrified at the thought of actually going into combat, which had made him a good choice to guard over the prisoners.

The two enlisted men might have deserted, but he had doubts about the lieutenant. The young man had too much to lose, like his life, if he was caught. As an officer he'd be shot and not sent to the front lines to take his chances.

Cordero stared at the sprawling POW camp. The multitude of tents said nothing. A few men were wandering around, but nothing out of the ordinary. The Americans were always wandering around.

Cordero pulled out an old cigar and lit it. He had the nagging feeling that the Americans in the camp were a lot less innocent than they appeared in this matter.

Should he confront Hartford? About what? Had the POWs attacked the bunker? How the hell would they have accomplished that? Had they hidden Special Forces in the camp? A thought, but did he want to use scarce men to scour the camp? Maybe Hartford and the others did know where Ortega was. Would that matter? Everyone said he was badly wounded, if not dead. He would not be commanding the Cuban army for a very long time.

Cordero decided that he would wait. His job was to re-establish communications with Ortega's forces and that would take time. A lot of time.

The silence was deafening. It was a trite phrase that Lieutenant Chris Mellor always thought was oxymoronic and amusing. Today, however, it took on a very real meaning. Where was the intermittent sniper fire? What happened to the shouted obscenities? There was nothing but silence from the close by Cuban lines and that was even more frightening then the hostile sounds that had been replaced by the humming of bugs and the chirping of birds trying to eat the bugs. Cuba's wildlife was trying to return to normal. Why?

Mellor looked at his companions. "Well, I volunteered for this, didn't I?"

They said nothing. A couple looked away. There was only one way to find out why the Cubans were so silent and that was to go out and ask them. Well, not actually ask them, but to crawl out and see what they were up to. A couple of enlisted men had volunteered, but he would go. He was the officer and he would lead. Damn it, why hadn’t he stayed as a civilian until he’d been drafted into the army? With any luck, he’d be a PFC in a supply center in New Jersey counting down the days until he got discharged. No, he had to go and enlist in the Airborne.

Mellor slithered over the dirt embankment, trying to make himself as small as possible. It was only small comfort that a dozen rifles, BARs, and machine guns would open up and provide cover if he needed it. He clearly understood that he'd probably be dead by the time they began laying down covering fire if he truly needed it. Still, it was the thought that counted. That a handful of other men would be following him was also not very helpful. He was the lead dog and he had only one clip of ammunition.

He crawled forward, his carbine tucked in his elbows, and tried very hard to keep his ass down. He felt that his butt was sticking up as a big juicy target. He felt thoroughly exposed and vulnerable and he'd barely begun his journey. They’d guessed that the Cuban lines were only a hundred yards away. He thought he’d gone ten yards. Then twenty. He passed several dead bodies. Some had been dead for a while and stank terribly and had swollen in the heat. Most had been badly mangled and were scarcely recognizable as human. Parts of bodies lay everywhere and a pair of severed heads seemed to be in conversation with each other. The stench was becoming overwhelming and he tried not to vomit lest the noise give him away. The smell had been bad enough back in his shallow trench and while he was crawling, but this was right up close and personal. Obviously, the Cubans thought it was too dangerous to retrieve their dead. He thought Colonel Rutherford would have agreed to a truce to do it if they'd asked.

Fifty yards, and still no reaction from the Cubans. Had they mined the area? Was he crawling over something that was going to explode and rip him apart just like that grenade had disemboweled his good buddy Santini? Jesus, he told himself, stop thinking about it and get the job done.

Mellor tried to peer through the underbrush without exposing himself and realized that he couldn’t. A lot of it had been shot away, but much remained and it blocked his view. Any number of Cubans could be only a few yards away, laughing like hell at the idiot American who was trying to sneak up on them. Why the hell had he volunteered for this patrol? He could have accepted the offers of those guys who’d volunteered, but no, he had to have a sense of duty. Shut up and keep crawling, he told himself.

Why the hell had he gone Airborne in the first place? Because he was crazy, he answered himself. It was a simple answer. Everybody who went Airborne was automatically deemed loony-tunes and here he was proving them correct by trying to sneak up on an enemy army all by his lonesome. Only Airborne were crazy enough to jump out of perfectly good airplanes, or stupid enough to try and sneak up on the Cuban army.

Eighty yards. He was almost there. He could clearly see the Cuban trenches as raw slits in the ground. If the men back in the perimeter had mortars they could have clobbered the Cubans. Of course, so too could the Cubans.

A big damn spider crawled across his hand. He crawled closer. Anybody home? There was no way he was invisible to the Cubans. Anybody in their trenches could see him plain as day. How many weapons were trained on him by grinning Cubans gently squeezing their triggers? Any second now, they'd all open up and blow his ass back to Florida. Some kind of lizard hopped out of the trench and looked at him. It moved away as if offended by his presence. He moved forward to the lip of a trench. He took a deep breath and looked over.

Empty. Just some junk and debris confronted him. Candy wrappers, cigarette butts, and some papers littered the earth. No dead bodies here. The Cubans had been able to remove their dead from this area at least. The Cubans had also removed themselves.

Mellor slipped into the trench and moved carefully in either direction so he could see quite a ways. Nobody home.

He took another deep breath and slowly stood up. The birds continued chirping and that was all. He stood on a mound of dirt and waved his rifle back at the American lines. A moment later, the handful of men following him, this time not crawling, began to slip in beside him. They fanned out and began to explore further. Mellor moved a little ways deeper into what had been the Cuban rear. There was nothing but more trash. The Cuban militia unit they'd been fighting had gone away.

Two hours later, the first airdrop of supplies landed in the paratrooper's expanded perimeter, bringing ammo and medical supplies. Another hour later, the first of a steady train of small helicopters brought in medical personnel and left with the most badly wounded.

Ten hours later, a column of M48 tanks from the First Armored Division arrived at the perimeter. They'd finally punched their way through from the beachhead.

A tanker, a greasy-faced captain, grinned at Mellor. "Hey, Airborne, Kennedy sent us here to rescue you."

Mellor pretended to look puzzled while Colonel Rutherford glared. "Who the fuck said we needed rescuing? If you haven't noticed, tank jockey, the Airborne has the situation well in hand."

There was chaos as the generals and admirals tried to speak at once. It was the first time Charley Kraeger had been invited to an ExComm meeting and he wasn't impressed. He'd expected a lot more in the way of dignity and decorum and these guys were acting like grade school students.

He stood behind Director McCone who had maintained silence. Elena Sandano stood beside him wearing a navy blue jacket and slacks combination that could almost pass for a uniform. The military leaders had brought their own experts, so they were not the only civilians in the very crowded, steamy, and smoky room.

Finally, the president entered and stilled the din. He looked at the angry faces. "I will presume that there is not a consensus regarding what is happening in Cuba," he said wryly.

"That is a very safe assumption," General Taylor said. His face was drawn and Charley wondered when the old man had last slept. "Nobody knows for certain what the hell is going on."

Kennedy grimaced. "Then let's stick with the facts and leave the speculation for later. First, has there been a breakout from the beachhead?"

The army's General Wheeler responded. "There has been, sir. And elements of the First Armored have linked up with that trapped detachment of the 101st. They are being re-supplied and reinforced as we speak, and some of the more seriously wounded evacuated."

"Excellent," Kennedy said softly. The thought of any wounded saddened him. The responsibility came with the job, but he didn't have to like it.

"A number of the wounded have declined to leave," Wheeler continued. "It's a combination of unit pride — they don't want to leave or abandon their buddies, along with an intense dislike of military hospitals."

Kennedy grinned and the others chuckled, lightening the tension. "Having been a guest in a military hospital on more than once occasion, I can understand their motives. I believe the people at Bethesda would have had me handing out bed pans if they could have. But what about the overall condition at the beachhead?"

Taylor continued. "Sir, the Cubans have taken a serious pounding and it looks like their army is starting to fold. That armored column from the First managed to punch its way through without too much difficulty. We now have three full divisions on the ground, plus most of the two airborne divisions. We are expanding the perimeter and moving south. Resistance, while still present, appears to be crumbling."

Kennedy nodded. "Just how much of that is due to the chaos in Santiago? And, by the way, just what the hell actually happened in Santiago?"

Taylor answered. "We are still trying to sort that out. All we know is that an armed group wearing Cuban uniforms hit the supposedly secret headquarters of General Ortega. We know that Ortega is either dead, or badly wounded, or kidnapped, or who knows? Regardless, he's gone and the others on his staff are either dead or wounded. The Cuban army in the east is headless and that is helping our efforts since there's no way they can really coordinate their defenses. That Ortega and his staff have been wiped out are facts. That’s been confirmed by reports to Havana and by people on the ground."

"Good for us, I think," Kennedy said. He wondered what was meant by people on the ground, but decided to ask for a clarification later. "Now, who did it?"

Kraeger stood up straight as McCone answered. "We aren't certain. We have suspicions and a lot of possibilities, but nothing certain."

Kennedy glared. He wanted answers. "Run them by me."

"Sir, the Cubans are speculating, in private I might add, that it was American Special Forces."

Wheeler shook his head. "And we had none in the vicinity. So, as much as I'd like to claim credit for the army, it had to be someone else."

"No SEAL action in that area either, sir," added Admiral Anderson.

If the interruptions annoyed McCone, he didn't let it show as he continued. "The second choice is Cuban dissidents. That sounds good except for the fact that they've been pretty well crushed by the Cuban state police, so we don't think they have either the numbers, the weapons, or the skills to pull off something like this. Also, Santiago is a hotbed of pro-Castro activity, so, while there certainly are dissidents out there, I don't see them doing it."

Kennedy agreed. "What about the exile community in Miami?"

McCone shrugged. "They've been silent about it. The FBI has poked around, but they say it wasn't them and I believe it. Frankly, if it had been, I think they'd be crowing from the rooftops. The FBI says the dissidents no longer have much in the way of any military capabilities. I wonder about that, however."

Again, Kennedy agreed. J. Edgar Hoover himself had said that the Miami exiles were toothless.

"Any other suspects?" JFK asked.

"Three," McCone said. "The first is Castro himself. He might have figured that the war is lost and wants Ortega out of the way instead of being a living hero and a rival."

"You believe that?"

"No sir. The second choice is organized crime, but, again, I just don't see them being able to do this."

Kennedy smiled, "Not their style unless Ortega shows up wearing cement galoshes. What's your next choice?"

McCone turned to Kraeger and Elena. "You two figured it out, tell him."

Kraeger swallowed. "Sir, we think it was the POWs from Guantanamo."

Kennedy leaned forward, intrigued. "Go on."

"Sir, we checked personnel records and found that a number of the prisoners were from Cuba, and one had even been raised in Santiago. It isn't too much of a stretch to think of them forming a raiding group and attacking Ortega's HQ. They can't communicate with us in code because they don't have one, and they sure as hell aren't going to say anything in the clear. Havana figures out what happened and they'll smash the POWs and we'd have a lot of casualties."

"Where would they get the weapons and uniforms?" Marine General Shoup asked almost eagerly. Many of those boys in the compound were his marines. If they had pulled off the raid, he wanted the world to know it.

Elena smiled and answered, "Money talks, general. What they couldn't buy, they probably stole. We've picked up complaints from the Santiago area from officers whining about missing weapons and uniforms. At first we thought it was people who’d lost or sold stuff trying to justify it." She caught the president looking at her. Had he just winked?

Kennedy sat back and smiled. "Jesus Christ. Now what do we do?"

Shoup was agitated. "Mr. President, it's all the more reason to send the marines in now. We've got twenty thousand of them in ships off the southern coast of Cuba and right between Santiago and Guantanamo Bay. If the Cubans get wind of what the CIA suspects has happened, or they figure it out themselves, our boys in that camp will be toast."

"And what about the missing nuke?" Kennedy inquired.

Wheeler answered. "That was the gist of the argument when you arrived. Some of us no longer believe that the nuke exists, if it ever did. They believe that the time for using it has long since passed since the army is bearing down from the north. Naval air has pounded a couple of suspected sites based on information provided by Romanski and Ross. We wonder if the whole thing wasn't a red herring designed to keep us chasing our tails. Either that or it has been destroyed by our planes."

"Interesting," Kennedy said thoughtfully. "And what if it wasn't? Didn't you say, General Wheeler, that our landing on the north coast was a surprise to the Cubans? What if that nuke is still in the south and pointed out to sea where the marines are expected to come ashore? And how much longer will it take the army to reach Santiago and free the POWs?"

"Perhaps three days."

"Why so long?" Kennedy snapped.

"Mr. President," Taylor said, "Resistance is crumbling, but it hasn't disappeared. There are still many pockets of resistance where the fighting is intense. We could suffer many, many casualties if we attempt to move any faster. Also, the farther we push inland, the rougher the terrain gets, which obviously favors the defense."

Kennedy turned to Shoup. "And when can the marines land and free them?"

"Tomorrow."

There was silence while the president thought it over. He nodded as if to himself, and then sighed. "General Shoup, the marines go in and God help us if that nuke exists."