Castro's bomb

Chapter Five

Cathy Malone awoke with a foul headache and to the piercing wail of sirens. What the heck was it? Was something on fire? She checked the clock on the dresser. Four-fifteen. There was the sound of distant thunder, then thunder that wasn't so distant and caused stuff on shelves to vibrate wildly like there was an earthquake. It must be quite a storm, she thought groggily.

Alice pounded on the door and opened it. Her eyes were wide with excitement. "Something big is happening. There are explosions over at the airfields. I think something must've blown up. Let's go take a look."

Cathy put a robe over her short cotton nightgown and ran outside where many of her neighbors had already begun to congregate. Their apartment building was on a low hill overlooking the bay. Below them was one airfield and across the bay was the other. A destroyer was anchored in the middle.

A jet plane shrieked overhead, flying so low that Cathy and the others actually ducked or fell to the ground. An explosion followed quickly, rocking them with its violence. Behind them, windows shattered.

"That pilot's in a load of trouble," one woman said as she picked herself up. It was Rachel Desmond. She worked for some Marine major.

"I don't think so," her husband said softly. He was another civilian worker, but one who'd retired from the navy and had seen action in World War II. "That plane's Cuban. We're under attack. This is Pearl Harbor all over again."

Cathy was stunned. She looked skyward and made out the silhouettes of other planes circling and diving over the airfields and saw others flying over the destroyer.

She grabbed Alice's arm. "Let's get dressed and see just what the heck is going to happen. I think we may be evacuated again and we'd better be dressed for it."

They had just turned to run back to the building when a massive explosion, followed by smoke and fire, erupted from the bay behind her. "That was the destroyer," someone yelled. Cathy turned. Yes, it was the destroyer. Flames were billowing from her rear. Or stern, she thought as she recalled the correct terminology. The destroyer appeared to be under way and moving slowly towards the ocean. As she watched, more planes strafed and bombed the warship, but didn't appear to cause additional serious damage.

Finally, flashing pinpoints of light from the destroyer indicated that her anti-aircraft guns were working. Her main battery opened up, sending larger shells into the sky where they exploded like fireworks. Rachel Desmond's husband cheered. "That's telling them," he exulted.

The destroyer was fighting back and that was reassuring. But the flaming ship was clearly heading for open sea. She was leaving them.

Cathy and Alice looked at each other. Evacuation? Maybe not this time. Maybe it was too late?

"I think I see something," Lance Corporal Hollis said. The road was still dark, although rays of light had begun to appear and make confusing shadows. "You want me to go out there again, lieutenant?"

"No point," Ross said. "If they are coming we'll know it soon enough."

"I think I can hear them," Sergeant Cullen said.

Andrew swallowed nervously. Suddenly, there was the rumble of thunder coming from behind him. Before he could say something to Cullen, there was the sound of shrieks in the air followed by sharper, but more savage, explosions.

"Oh Christ," muttered Cullen. "The base is getting bombed and we're about to get hit."

Andrew started to order all men to their positions when he realized that everyone was up and ready and looking to him for leadership.

"Tank!" Hollis yelled. "Damn, there's a whole bunch of them."

How many in a bunch, Andrew almost snapped, but thought better of it. One or a hundred, it didn't matter. They couldn't stop a thing with the weapons they had. He ordered his radioman to inform on the situation. He took a deep breath. The tanks were visible. There were three of them and they were followed by armored personnel carriers and trucks, and all were moving slowly but steadily down the road towards them.

And he had twenty men and an old machine gun to stop them. Now he knew how Custer felt when he saw all those damned Indians. He could see that the oncoming tanks were Russian T34s with 85mm guns. They each had a four man crew and two 7.62 machine guns along with the main gun. They weighed in at thirty-four tons and could do more than thirty miles per hour, which was all totally irrelevant considering that he had no way of stopping them. He wondered if he could do thirty-five miles an hour if one of them was chasing him.

The T34s were relics of World War II where they were the best in the world and the mainstay of the Red Army. Newer tanks were better, but the T34/85s were still damn good tanks, especially against what he could throw at them. And what were his orders? Try and delay them. Yeah. Wonderful. But he would do as he was told. Perhaps a few shots at them would cause them to think twice and turn back. Yeah, and he was a brain surgeon. Maybe they could throw rocks at the Cuban tanks.

For a crazy moment, Andrew considered asking for volunteers to run and throw grenades at their treads, or try to make some Molotov cocktails, but he decided he wasn't in the business of asking his men to commit suicide. Instead, he made sure all his men were as safe as they could be inside the bunker.

"Sergeant Cullen. We will let them get close, open fire and try to hit those trucks, not the tanks. It would be a waste. The road turns and we might have an angle shot with the.50. We will not use rifles. They would be useless and we will save our ammunition."

He'd already taken inventory and each man had a grand total of six clips for his rifle, while the.50 had only a couple of hundred rounds. They could use it all up in a couple of minutes if they weren't careful. But then, what was the point of saving it?

"I don't think we can stop them," Ross added, stating the obvious, "but we have to at least give it a try. Then we will go to our fallback position and see what else we can do."

Light flickered from the lead tank and, an instant later, machine gun shells splattered against the concrete wall of the bunker. Some made it into the firing slits and one man screamed, hopefully just in fear. The tank's 85mm cannon opened fire. The shell slammed into the ground just in front of the bunker. The concussion staggered Andrew, throwing him across the bunker.

Andrew lurched to his feet. He ordered the machine gun to fire and watched as tracers reached out for a handful of trucks that were visible because of the turning road. He grunted in satisfaction as one of the trucks seemed to stagger and stop. The gunner, Hollis, skillfully guided his weapon and the bullets chewed into the cloth covered back part where Cuban soldiers should have been sitting. Men were tumbling and jumping out of the two trucks behind the stalled one, which had begun to burn. The Hollis' gun raked the men on the ground and the two remaining trucks.

A second shell slammed into the bunker. The tank was firing at almost point blank range. The inadequate roof collapsed and Andrew could see unwelcome daylight. They'd been opened up like a can of sardines. Men were down, killed and wounded.

"Out of here!" Andrew yelled, and Sergeant Cullen joined in. They grabbed the wounded and spilled out into the area behind the tents. "Down to fallback," Andrew ordered. He would be the last man out. He looked about and saw that anyone left inside was dead. He ran.

For a few precious moments, the ruined bunker was between them and the advancing tanks, but then they were exposed. Machine gun bullets flayed the air and Andrew ran as hard as he could. Bullets chewed up the ground by his feet and he threw himself onto the ground and began to crawl furiously.

Finally, he made it to the dubious safety of the gully. Others tumbled in with him. Cullen was one of them. Andrew caught his breath and counted noses. Seven including himself. That's it? He looked over the edge of the gully and back to the bunker. A number of crumpled forms lay on the ground.

He counted again. Still seven. He had started with twenty-one men, counting himself, and now he had seven.

Worse, the Cuban column was grinding past the bunker and the fallback position. The tank that had destroyed their bunker opened fire with its main gun and chewed up both the remains of the bunker and the men lying dead or wounded on the ground.

"You want us to shoot up another truck?" Cullen asked.

Andrew thought quickly. If they did that, they'd come under attack from either a tank or a personnel carrier and they had damned little to fight back with. Still, he didn't feel like giving up just yet.

"Everybody. Get ready to fire one full clip at the last truck in the column. Then scoot like hell for the hill behind us, and don't even think of wasting time reloading. When we've done that we'll try and make it back to the base."

He paused and gave the signal. It took only a few seconds for the seven of them to fire off eight rounds and the people in the truck gave no indication they'd even noticed. Maybe it didn't carry people, only supplies.

Andrew wanted to cry but he was too angry. He'd lost all those men and they hadn't done a damn thing to slow down the Cuban advance.

John F. Kennedy had dressed hurriedly. He was unshaven and unkempt. And angry. He glared at the young Air Force captain who stood before the table with all the phones. He shook his head. It wasn't this poor guy's fault.

"You drew the short straw, didn't you, captain?"

"Sir?"

"Duty in the White House on Christmas." He looked at the man's name tag. Dudley. He wondered if his buddies called him Dudley the Dud. Right now he felt like Kennedy the Dud. He wondered if this was how history would remember him for being in charge during what appeared to be yet another monumental debacle and disgrace for the U.S. At least much of the blame for the Bay of Pigs had fallen on his predecessor, Eisenhower. In history he'd read of an Old Saxon king called Ethelred the Unready. Would that be his legacy? Kennedy the Unready? Or maybe John the Easily Fooled? Damn it to hell.

"So what can you tell me, Captain Dudley?"

"Sir, it appears that the base at Guantanamo Bay is under attack by large elements of both Cuban air and ground forces."

"Appears? Dudley, are they being attacked or not?"

Dudley flinched. He'd been hanging around politicians too long and had almost forgotten how to give a straight answer. "They are, sir. Reports are scattered and confused, but the base is definitely under attack and it does appear that both air fields at Gitmo have been bombed and shelled and put out of commission, and that Cuban armor is moving to overwhelm the base. Attacks are moving quickly and coming from several directions."

So the report from the CIA was true after all, Kennedy thought, sickened by that fact. And I will be blamed for this and rightfully so. "Are we responding, or are the generals all waiting for my authority to do something."

Now Dudley was a little more assured. "The men at the base are defending it as best they can, and there are Air Force and Navy planes headed to Cuba. Unfortunately, it will not be a coordinated response, but they will shoot down whatever the Cubans have up there."

"Did the base itself have any planes up?"

"Don't know, sir."

"Two," said a voice from one of the phones. It was Admiral Anderson. "One was shot down and the other has ditched at sea after running out of fuel. Before he ditched, the pilot claimed the two of them had shot down three Cuban MiG 17s."

"Was the pilot rescued?" Kennedy asked.

"A Coast Guard cutter is closing in on him now. As to the other pilot, the one who crashed, he's presumed dead."

Along with a lot of others who are presumed dead, Kennedy thought. He couldn't allow himself to be preoccupied by one or two men. He had to focus on the grand scheme of things.

Like how to inform the American public that they were at war.

However, that was already somewhat out of his hands. CIA Director McCone came on line and informed the president that Castro was already on the radio bragging about the attack and the imminent fall of the base that he said was a cancer on Cuban soil.

McCone continued. "Sir, he's saying he attacked with three full divisions and we had no idea it was coming. The obvious implication is that we were stupid."

And he may be right, Kennedy thought. American radio and television news broadcasts had begun to broadcast the reports.

Kennedy shook his head. "Then the base has fallen?"

"No," said Anderson, "or at least not yet. There are several reports that the Cubans have penetrated to the Bay itself, and that's only about five miles from the boundaries of the base. We're looking at a very small piece of real estate, sir, and it won't take long before it is overrun."

There's just a still hope, Kennedy thought. Maybe it can be reinforced and protected. This was quashed almost immediately by General LeMay who sounded both sleepy and angry.

"In an hour I'll have fifty planes over Gitmo and we'll blow their MiG asses right out of the sky. But by that time, the Cuban soldiers will be so mixed in among the Americans on the base that we won't be able to distinguish enemy targets from friendlies. Hell, sir, that’s likely happening already."

The president checked his notes for the names of the commanders at Guantanamo and turned to Dudley. "Where are Colonel Killen and Admiral O'Donnell and what are they saying?"

Dudley shrugged. "We haven't heard a thing from them, sir. They may be killed or captured."

"Then who the devil are we talking to?"

General Shoup answered. The fury in his voice was barely controlled. His men were dying. "A Major Sam Hartford, USMC, is in charge of the backup command post. The primary command post is not responding. Everybody's taking a lot of artillery along with the bombing and the main command center may have been hit." Which would, of course, explain why Killen and O'Donnell weren't talking, Kennedy realized.

JFK was pleased that the executive committee was getting together so quickly, considering the circumstances and if only by telephone. He needed good advice and he needed it now. He wondered if anyone was snooping in on them and decided that, again, he didn't care.

"Can this Major Hartford’s radio be patched into here?" Kennedy asked, and was assured that it could be done. "Then make it happen. And then let's get everybody here as quickly as you can. I don't like all this talking on the phone crap. I want to be able to see people."

JFK had another thought. Castro might be addressing the Cuban people and the world, but he would have to speak to the American people and explain to them just what had happened and just what the devil he was going to do about it.

Of course, he would have to figure out what to do before he said anything. He didn't want to start World War III on Christmas Day, 1962, anymore than he had wanted to just about two months prior. Then, he and the Soviets had managed to back away from the flames. Could they do it again? They would have to. But what was Russia's role in this current mess and what the hell was Khrushchev's involvement in this new crisis? Damn it, the man had to have known what was going on. What the hell did he want?

He would try to stop it, just like before, but, back then, people weren't fighting and dying like they were now. Oh, Jesus. What had happened to a quiet Christmas with Jackie and the kids? He'd been looking forward to playing with the children. He managed a small smile and admitted that he'd been looking forward to playing with their mother as well.

Ross had his few remaining men spread out as they approached the ruins of the bunker and the equally ruined men who lay, burned and shredded, on the ground and inside.

Andrew blanched. He had seen death before but it had been quiet, orderly and dignified death. It had always been death in a casket and an embalmed corpse that everyone insisted that looked like he or she was sleeping. He always thought that was stupid; nobody ever slept in a casket. They were dead. And nobody ever dressed up in a suit or a good dress to take a nap in a casket, either.

This kind of death was new to Andrew and he could tell it was new to his pitifully small command. Even Cullen looked disconcerted. He caught Andrew's eye and shook his head. One of the other Marines started to vomit and a couple of others followed. Andrew felt his stomach churning at the sight of body fragments and raw meat that was already turning black and attracting swarms of flies. Hands and heads, legs and torsos were scattered about what was supposed to have been his home for a quiet weekend on duty.

If this is war, Andrew thought, you can keep it. Let me get the hell out of this and into law school. But in order to get into law school he had to first get out of this mess. He ordered two of his men to watch each way down the road. The Cuban column was long gone, but who knew what might come next. Probably trucks with supplies and reinforcements for the Cubans fighting for control of the base. They could hear the battle that was still raging a couple of miles behind them.

"What are we doing, lieutenant?" asked Cullen.

"Checking for survivors, even though that's probably a lost cause. Then we're going to search for supplies and extra ammo and then we're going to bury the dead."

Cullen shook his head. "The Cubans will come back and realize that we survived. It's ugly, sir, but why not leave the men where they are?"

Andrew bristled. "Because they are Marines, that's why, and we take care of our people, dead or alive. Besides, they might think we buried them and then skedaddled back to the base. Or they might think some of their people did it. Or they might think we escaped and aren't important enough to worry about. Regardless, we're burying them."

Cullen nodded. "Then it's a good plan."

"Gunny, were you testing me?"

Cullen grinned and shrugged. "If I was, you passed."

Incredibly, they found two men alive outside the bunker. One, Lance Corporal Stillman, was badly wounded and unconscious, while the second, Pfc. Levin, was found under debris that had fallen from the bunker. He only had a broken arm and collarbone. Only, Andrew thought ruefully.

A germ a plan was forming in Andrew's mind and he knew it didn't involve caring for wounded, especially when he didn't have the facilities or the skill to do anything. Maybe they could take care of treating Levin, but Stillman had taken shrapnel to the skull and at least one bullet to the chest. The man needed a hospital and soon.

Ross spoke quietly with Levin who paled and then reluctantly agreed. They carried Stillman to the side of the road and rigged a shelter for him and Levin. Andrew gave Levin a pole with part of a reasonably white sheet tied to it. He wished him luck and told Levin they'd be watching and would protect the two of them as best they could if his idea turned bad.

"Trucks are coming from outside the base, from Cuba, sir."

They were coming down the same route as the tanks. He ordered his men back and out of sight and told them not to fire unless he gave the order.

Andrew realized he was holding his breath and forced himself to exhale. He smiled grimly. "Ambulances," he announced unnecessarily. The Red Cross was clearly visible on each of the half dozen vehicles.

As they approached the two wounded Marines, Levin stood and waved the white flag. The trucks stopped. After a few seconds that seemed like an eternity, men carrying stretchers got out of the last truck and approached the two wounded Marines. They placed a motionless Stillman on one and aided Levin on to the other. Once loaded, they continued on their way.

Cullen moved beside Andrew. "Good to know the Cubans aren't savages, lieutenant. Chinese Communists in Korea wouldn't have done that. I heard they bayoneted American wounded."

"I didn't think the Cubans were savages, gunny. Every Cuban I ever met was a good person. Still, it was good to see it confirmed."

The dead were still waiting to be buried. They performed that unpleasant task with grim haste. They tried to make sure that each body they buried had one head, two legs and two arms, and largely succeeded. Hopefully, they got the right parts to the right body. Wooden stakes pounded in the ground identified the site as a graveyard.

It was gruesome work. Still, they managed to bury each Marine with as much dignity as they could, and with one of his two dog tags firmly planted in each body's teeth or as close as possible to where the jaw might have been. Everyone hoped they got the right tag on the right body. Andrew thought it really didn't matter. Dead was dead. Sergeant Cullen kept the other set of tags. Hopefully they could be used to inform next of kin what had happened to their loved one.

Along with himself and Cullen, Ross had only a handful of men and he knew them only by their name tags. They were Hollis and Ward, the two men who'd manned the outpost, along with Williams, Anders, and Groth. Ward was the only black man, still a rarity in the Corps.

Now they would have to make plans if they were to survive. They were uncomfortably aware that the sound of firing was receding and slackening in the distance, which meant that there was a lot of distance and Cubans between themselves and the American lines. That is, if there were any American lines.

Cathy and Alice huddled and hugged each other tightly as explosions ripped through what had once been their quiet neighborhood. They were confused and frightened. They didn't know what to do. The fighting was now all around them and they had missed any opportunity to make it to the Bay and any ships that might take them to safety.

Sometimes they could hear voices from the outside. Terrifyingly, they seemed to be speaking Spanish.

The two women had dressed in rugged clothes suited for hiking or camping, acknowledging that dressing for style was useless in time of war. Alice had imitated Cathy by preparing an overnight bag stuffed with what each thought were necessities. They accepted that they had no idea just what might be a necessity in the hours and days ahead.

A shell landed nearby and cracked plaster, showering them with dust. A picture fell from a wall and the glass shattered. "I can't handle this," Alice said. "You can stay if you want, but I am getting out of here."

Alice grabbed her bag and ran out the back door. Cathy was numb with indecision. Should she follow Alice out into the battle that sounded increasingly like an inferno, or should she stay where she was and wait for the fighting to subside? Or wait where she was for someone to rescue her? She didn't know, she simply didn't know. Surely some American marines would come by and rescue her.

She sat on the couch and hugged her knees to her chest and tried not to give in to the panic that was clutching at her. What was happening to her world? Just yesterday she had a good job as a teacher helping young men who wanted to be helped, and yesterday was the beginning of the Christmas holiday, a time of peace and brotherhood. Today, Christmas Day, there was the strong possibility that she would die violently. She numbly hoped that her family would somehow find out what happened to her.

The door crashed open and three Cuban soldiers rushed in. They were dirty and angry, and one, a large swarthy man, had blood running down his forehead from a gash in his scalp. Cathy cowered as they leveled what looked like submachine guns at her. The larger man was first to determine that she was harmless. He laughed and signaled the others to check out the rest of the building. A moment later, they came back and told their leader that the place was empty.

Like little children, they looted the kitchen of what food was left in the cupboards and in the refrigerator, smashing and breaking what they didn’t want. One of them kicked Cathy’s small television across the room. Cathy thought of bolting out the back door, but they never quite left her alone, and at least one gun was trained on her, however loosely. The threat was clear — she was to stay put or get shot.

Cathy's knowledge of Spanish was a long ways from perfect, but she understood that they'd been separated from their unit by the stubborn resistance put up by a handful of Marines down the street and that some of their friends had been killed or wounded, which angered them. She further gathered that they weren't regulars, whom they despised, but militia, people of the country, and proud of their independence. She also felt that they weren’t terribly upset that they’d been separated from their unit and were missing the fighting.

The large one stood before her. "I am Carlos Gomez," he said, "and I speak English a little. I learned it from the yanquis bosses who used to kick the shit out of me if I didn't do my work just right. I hated them and I am glad they are all gone. They used to beat me, cheat me, all the time they were fucking the Cuban women and turning them into whores."

He grabbed Cathy's short hair in his fist and pulled her to her feet. She yelped from the pain and they laughed. The two other men held onto her arms while Carlos surveyed her. He grinned and pulled her blouse over her head and followed with her bra.

"Small tits," Gomez said laughing as he pawed her roughly. "But they'll do."

He unbuttoned her jeans and slid them and her panties down over her ankles. Except for tennis shoes and socks, she was naked. She was too stunned to even try to wrestle away from the two men who were holding her. Carlos now had his hand between her thighs and began probing her with his finger. It hurt and she screamed.

“A real tight pussy,” he laughed. “She might be a virgin.”

Gomez punched Cathy on the side of her head and followed with a hard backhand across her face. She felt pain as a large ring he was wearing sliced her cheek. She saw flashes of light and nearly passed out.

Gomez continued groping and probing her. "Yanquis pricks always made our women fuck and suck them, but we never got fucked and sucked by Yanqui women. They took my sister to a casino in Havana and made her a whore after killing her brain with drugs. Now you're gonna be our whore. You're gonna fuck us until you're full and suck us until we're dry, and you are gonna have a lot of time to learn to like it."

Carlos exposed himself. She couldn't help but stare at his erection. "Now this is a real man, a Cuban man, not a dickless American." He laughed hugely and the others joined in. They dragged her into her bedroom and threw her on the bed. She tried to get up, but Gomez pushed her back on the bed and forced her legs apart. He laughed and took out a large knife and held it against her face.

"You will not resist. If you do, I will take my knife and cut your ears and nose off so no one will ever look at you without wanting to vomit. Understand?"

She nodded. He climbed on top of her and pushed himself inside her. She tried hard not to resist but couldn't help writhing. Carlos didn't seem to mind as he thrust deeper inside her. She bit her lip and tried not to scream. She would endure the pain, the shame, and the anger. The other two cheered and said they were next.

An explosion ripped through the house, sending debris flying. One of the men who’d been holding her howled and grabbed at an arm that was broken, with a piece of bone sticking out through the skin. Carlos had been thrown to the floor and got up, puzzled and angry. He’d ejaculated, but on her leg. Small arms fire echoed from outside.

Carlos again slapped her hard alongside her head, knocking her to the bedroom floor. "You stay here, bitch. We'll be back and we’ll finish this." He zipped his fly and grabbed his weapon. The two men helped their wounded comrade out the front.

Cathy was naked and covered with dust. She tried to control her breathing, her fear, and the pain. Had he ejaculated inside her as well as on her leg? She didn't know and right now it didn't matter. Wait for them to come back? Not a chance, she thought. She grabbed her clothing and overnight bag and, still wearing only her tennis shoes ran out the back door of the apartment. There was smoke everywhere and it was hard to see, even though it was daylight. She stumbled over something and stared in horror. It was Alice. No, it was half of Alice. She was lying on her back and her eyes were glassy and dead. Her legs had been blown off at the hip.

Cathy screamed and ran. One part of her mind said she could not head towards the Bay because that's where Gomez and people like him would be. She ran as fast and as hard as she could, anywhere, but away from Gitmo.

"They're coming again!" someone yelled.

Cuban infantry in company strength and one T34 tank had been sitting in front of the back-up command bunker for several minutes. Major Sam Hartford moved to the firing slit as fast as his sore feet would let him. He estimated nearly a hundred Cuban soldiers running towards his bunker and the trenches that his men had hurriedly dug in front of it. The T34's engine roared to life and the tank moved with the infantry.

"Fire, damn it. What the hell are you waiting for? An invitation?" Sam yelled furiously.

The fifty or so rifles and BARs that covered that area of the front opened up. Cubans were hit and fell, but others still kept coming. One man waved a pistol and urged his men onward. He was obviously their leader

"Get the guy with the pistol," he urged, and a score of weapons converged on the man. The Cuban shuddered, convulsed and dropped to the ground as bullets ripped him apart. The remainder of the attackers faltered on seeing their leader drop, but the tank kept on coming.

"Keep shooting!" Hartford yelled and his men complied, dropping another half dozen before the survivors decided they'd had enough and pulled back.

"Where's my bazooka?" Hartford hollered.

Two men with a bazooka ran from the relative safety of the bunker and managed to get almost alongside the tank. They aimed and fired quickly, striking it in its more vulnerable flank. The tank shuddered and stopped. The hatches opened and smoke billowed out as the crew jumped down. One Cuban was one fire. He rolled on the ground and lay still. The other Cubans ignored him and ran back to their lines. The two Marines with the bazooka started to run back to the bunker, but machine gun fire chopped them down. Heroes, Hartford thought, almost in tears, but dead heroes. He had to get their names. He was reasonably certain that one of them was his fat little prick of a clerk, Fleming. Jesus, how could he have misjudged the kid?

He pounded the bunker's wall in frustration. Why the hell didn't they have some of the new TOW missiles that were wire guided and could be fired from the relative safety of the bunker? No, the best they could do was bazookas that had been old during the Korean War and had to be fired against the side or rear of a Russian made tank in order to be effective, which meant that anyone who took on a tank with a bazooka had to be either very brave or very foolish.

He quickly counted at least twenty-five Cubans dead and wounded on the ground before him. A check of his men revealed one dead and six wounded, along with the two men who'd killed the tank. A white flag showed from the Cuban lines and a voice yelled out in English that they wanted a truce to pick up their wounded. Hartford agreed and a handful of medics from both sides ran out nervously and gathered their dead and wounded onto stretchers. It was incongruous decency in the middle of a killing field.

Hartford turned to his second in command, Captain Tom Keppel. "Always try to keep a tidy battlefield," he said bitterly. "You never know when someone might drop in unexpectedly and run a surprise inspection."

Keppel shook his head. "How long you think we can hold out?"

"As long as we have to, I suppose."

That was a lie and he said it so the others could hear and be encouraged, if only for a moment. There were now at least a couple of hundred Cuban soldiers in front of him with more coming, and not all of them could be as bad as the militia unit he'd just decimated. Worse, half a dozen tanks were rolling across the ruined runway and were making for his position. Yes they'd managed to knock out the one T34, which was burning fiercely a hundred yards in front of them, but they no longer had a bazooka or anything else that would stop armor, and it looked like they were confronting the entire Cuban army.

Keppel laughed bitterly. "Major, surely you're not waiting for divisions of Negro soldiers on white horses to come to our rescue."

"And why not?" Sam asked. At least Keppel knew his history. In the early months of World War II in the Pacific, the situation facing American soldiers on Bataan in the Philippines grew so bad that many of the starving men became delusional and actually believed that Franklin Delano Roosevelt was going to send tens of thousands of colored soldiers on white horses to rescue them. Just how the hell they were going to get across the Pacific to the Bataan Peninsula did not occur to those men whose minds had slipped so far away from reality. No, there would be no Negro soldiers on white horses. He had to confront reality, not fantasy.

His radio operator waved him over and Sam moved slowly through a bunker filled jammed with humanity. "What is it?"

The radioman looked astonished. "Sir, it’s President Kennedy."

Kennedy leaned over the table and spoke into the microphone. "Major Hartford, I want to know just what is going on. Apparently, you are the only person with whom we can communicate right now. What is your situation in Guantanamo and please start from the beginning? All I'm getting here are rumors."

"Okay, sir," Hartford said. His voice came through surprisingly clear. "About an hour and a half ago our radar detected a large number of enemy planes inbound. They arrived and began bombing about the same time Cuban artillery started heavy shelling. Large numbers of Cuban tanks and other armor, along with infantry in trucks, blew past our outposts. To the best of my knowledge, all of our planes were destroyed on the ground and almost all of what little light armor we had was caught in motor pools where the enemy planes and guns destroyed them. Also, the airfields have been cratered by bombs and shells so that take offs and landings are impossible. It was a well designed and well-coordinated attack that has made us almost defenseless."

Kennedy took deep breath. "Where are O'Donnell and Killen?"

"No idea, sir, but I think the main command center has been destroyed."

"Are you in communication with any other American forces?"

"No sir, not a single one."

"Then you're telling me that the base has been overrun and almost totally captured."

There was the crumping sound of an explosion in the background. "What was that?" Kennedy asked.

"Cuban mortars, sir. We just beat off one of their attacks and they're pissed. And to answer your question, to the best of my knowledge we are it." To emphasize his point, a Cuban machine gun opened up, adding to the background noise heard in the White House.

"Just how far from the front lines are you, major?"

Hartford laughed angrily and Kennedy winced. "Maybe three feet, sir. Hell, this is the front line. One command bunker and some trenches we dug around it."

"How many people with you?" the president asked.

"Maybe a hundred still combat ready, but with only light arms, and another twenty wounded. Also, I've got a couple of dozen civilians, and that includes women and children, hunkered down with us."

Jesus, Kennedy thought. American women and children were in harm's way and about to be overrun and possibly killed? It gets worse and worse. "How long can you hold out?"

"If they attack in force, maybe ten minutes. Sir, they're lining up tanks about a quarter mile away and there's nothing we're gonna be able to do to stop them from literally shelling us to pieces and running right over us. We are totally out of anti-tank weapons. They're gonna run right through us like shit through a goose. And, sir, they gotta know that planes from the mainland will be arriving real soon, so they got a limited amount of time to take us out. They'll attack in a very few minutes, so, unless you got some better idea, I'm gonna seriously consider surrendering."

Kennedy sighed. He could not put the picture of American marines, along with women and children, being crushed by tanks out of his mind. "You have my permission to do whatever you think best."

Captain Dudley scribbled on a piece of White House stationery and pushed it to the President. It read, “Please give him a direct order to surrender. Otherwise, he might hesitate and cost lives. Or he will always be second guessed and reviled for surrendering.”

Kennedy read the note and nodded. "Major Hartford, I am giving you a direct order. Can others hear me?"

"Yes sir."

"Good. You will surrender immediately. Immediately, major, and that is a direct order from me, your Commander in Chief. I am directing you to do that to save lives. Do you understand and will you comply?"

"Yes sir."

"Then goodbye and good luck to all of you, major."

"Thank you, sir."

After a moment, JFK grabbed Dudley's note. He wrote "concur" and signed his name along with the time and date. He handed the note to Dudley. "Good job, captain. I should have thought of it myself. You keep this and if any son of a bitch tries to smear that Hartford man, you show it to him."

Dudley nodded, folded the now priceless document and stuffed it in his pocket. He would make a copy of it on the White House’s brand new Xerox 914 Copier and keep the original for himself.

Marinda Alvarez and her teenage nephew listened with pleasure as Cuban guns and bombs pounded the hated Guantanamo naval base.

"I cannot believe it is finally happening," laughed Manuel Hidalgo. "It is so long overdue. The Americans have caused us so much suffering and for so long."

Marinda hugged her nephew. Normally, he protested such acts of affection as unbecoming to a growing young man, but these were special circumstances and, besides, they were alone in the squalid little hut they called home.

Marinda was forty years old and a widow, and most days she felt every minute of her years and looked much older. She had worked as a field hand, laborer, housecleaner, or anything else to get food to put on her table and the occasional cash to spend on rum or tobacco. Five years ago, her husband had been beaten to death by Batista's thugs for daring to suggest that a labor union might be a good thing. They hadn't even let her collect his body. It had been dumped into the sea, and she still cried each night at the thought of sharks devouring him. Every night before she went to bed she kissed the fading photo that was all she had left of the man she’d loved and married.

Manuel's mother had died in childbirth, from lack of proper medical care. He sometimes thought he was responsible for her death, but both his father and Marinda had assured him that it had been the fault of the criminals in Havana who had deprived the poor of Oriente Province of what they needed to live.

Once, the two of them had a normal life, or as normal as it could be under the corrupt Batista regime that had been dominated by the criminals from the United States. But then came Fidel Castro and his promises of justice and a better life. Castro had turned guerilla and wound up in the nearby Sierra Maestra Mountains where he and a handful of loyal followers had hidden from Batista's soldiers until those wonderful days when they arose and the Batista regime had collapsed.

On more than one occasion, Marinda and Manuel had actually sneaked into the wilderness with food for Fidel and his men, and they had actually met the tall and bearded charismatic leader. Manuel had been transfixed by the power of the Fidel's personality and believed his promises of a better life in the future. Manuel vowed to serve Castro and Cuba, in that order.

When Castro came to power, he began to make good on his promises to the poor of Cuba. Medical services were beginning to be provided and there were promises of electricity. With electricity, Manuel had hopes of getting television. He'd seen it only a couple of times, and had been transfixed by the vague and fuzzy black and white pictures.

Castro had been heavily supported by the citizens of Santiago, and Marinda and Manuel had gone there a number of times for joyous celebrations. Once Castro himself had been there and they had been close enough for the big man to recognize them. He had singled them out and publicly praised them for their courage in bringing food to his men, taking care to say that many others had done so as well.

Manuel thought he would burst with pride.

Castro then said he was a communist, a term that meant little to either Marinda or Manuel. Later, they both understood that it meant that they would get their fair share of the wealth hoarded by the rich and powerful families that had kept them in poverty. Their hovel north of Guantanamo had a roof that leaked, packed dirt for their floor, and anywhere outside for a toilet, while the rich lived in mansions. That was unfair and unjust. Wealth should be shared equally.

They'd been puzzled when Castro had allied Cuba with Russia, a nation about which they knew very little, except that it was inhabited by white men who looked a lot like Americans. Neither Manual nor Marinda had ever seen a Russian, but they were friends of Castro and, therefore, friends of Cuba.

Like many Cubans, they'd been outraged when the Americans had backed an invasion to the west, near Havana, at a place called the Bay of Pigs, and they'd rejoiced when the interlopers had been squashed. Sadly, Manuel's father been killed fighting for the Revolution against the American and CIA backed thugs. He was proclaimed a hero, but that didn't bring him back.

Thus, they listened with unbridled joy as the Americans were being humbled. Earlier they'd watched in happy disbelief as long columns of tanks and trucks filled with soldiers had gathered near their home. They'd been told by happy soldiers that they were going to liberate Guantanamo, but didn't believe it until now.

A large, flaming explosion lit the night to their south. "I want to go and see," said Manuel.

Marinda thought about saying no, but her nephew was almost a man, even though he was skinny and wore glasses, and he might just go towards the fighting on his own. "So do I. Go put on something that doesn't look like a uniform so we don't get shot at."

Getting onto the once well guarded base was now ridiculously easy. The gates had been blown or smashed and they simply walked in. The fighting appeared to be several miles in front of them and moving away, although they did see several clusters of frightened and shaken American civilians gathered together and doubtless wondering just what had happened to their safe little world. Marinda wanted to curse at them, but decided against it. Americans had a habit of carrying guns and would certainly be on edge.

Manuel gasped. A dead body lay in the street. It was a Cuban soldier and he'd been shot a number of times. Marinda started to reach down and feel his pulse, but realized from the huge amount of blood that had poured from his many wounds that it would be an exercise in futility.

"We will continue on," she said grimly.

In a short while, they heard the sounds of cheering. Groups of Cuban soldiers ran by. "The Americans have surrendered," one of them yelled, and they joined in the shouting. Rifles were fired in the air until officers made the soldiers stop.

Manuel and Marinda continued on to the place where fighting had clearly raged. Burned trucks and a charred tank still smoldered. A column of beaten and weary Americans was being moved away from a badly damaged building.

Manuel announced that he would be joining the militia, which saddened Marinda but she recognized the inevitability. She realized that the taking of the base might just be the first step in what could easily be a long war. Would the United States simply roll over and leave them alone because they'd lost Guantanamo, or would they counter-attack? She thought she knew the answer and it saddened her.