Castro's bomb

Chapter Seven

It had suddenly ceased to be a normal Christmas morning. All across the United States, people who were happily opening Christmas presents or making phone calls to relatives began to realize something was terribly wrong. They turned on their televisions and radios and got the message that Cuba had attacked the American base in Cuba. Worse, the military had apparently suffered heavy casualties. War on Christmas Day? It was inconceivable except, of course, for the fact that it was happening.

Frantic phone calls were made to friends and relatives: Did you hear? The Russians just attacked us! People began to pack up and head for the perceived safety of the country. It took a few minutes for many Americans to comprehend that the attack was localized to the eastern end of Cuba. With that, the incipient panic subsided. Still, there was anguish and confusion. What did it mean?

Many didn't even know where Guantanamo Bay was and others wondered why we were fighting. If it was on Cuba, what were we doing there in the first place? Still, nothing changed the basic facts: just like Pearl Harbor, an American base had been the victim of a surprise attack and hundreds, if not thousands of American servicemen and civilians, were dead, wounded, or captured. It was not lost on most people that the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor had also occurred on a Sunday in December and it had been only twenty-one years ago. Someone born that month in 1941 was just now reaching legal adulthood, and could vote and drink.

Children continued to open presents with wide-eyed innocence while older family members wondered just what the impact would be. Would the fighting spread to other places, like Korea or Berlin, where American and Communist forces also confronted each other? Was this part of a greater plot that could result in a nuclear holocaust? What had happened to the peace brokered between Russia and the United States? Every young man wondered about his status in the draft and whether he'd be called up to fight a war in a place he'd likely never heard of — Guantanamo.

Large numbers of people who hadn't planned on going to church this Christmas suddenly changed their minds and all denominations of houses of worship were jammed. Priests and ministers who'd heard about the new war, adjusted their sermons, while those men of God who hadn't heard wondered where all the new people had come from. The crowd was larger than the usual extended Christmas congregation, what was laughingly referred to as the 'pines and palms' Christians, those who came to church only on Christmas and Easter.

Those people with fallout shelters decided to see if they were stocked with food and water, while others determined to check on how much they cost to build. Families who had them made plans to move into them very quickly. Perhaps right after Christmas dinner was over and the dishes were cleaned.

Events were particularly traumatic in military households. Phone calls had gone out cancelling leaves and ordering reservists to report for duty. Most were told off the record to finish their Christmas and then get to their stations. The world was not going to end in the next twelve or twenty-four hours.

Or was it?

On bases all over America's military world, young soldiers who'd either enlisted for four years or been drafted for two, wondered if they were ever going to get out of the service and go home. Extensions had been forced on many of them a year ago over a crisis in Berlin and they could see it happening all over again. They wondered if a two year draft or a four year enlistment had just become a lifetime vocation.

Radio and television stations broke in and announced that President Kennedy would speak to the nation at ten in the morning, Eastern Standard Time.

Charles Kraeger sat comfortably in a chair in CIA Director McCone's Conference room and stared at the television. It was a black and white RCA and he wondered why the Director of the CIA couldn't afford a color TV. He thought it was about fucking time Kennedy said something about Cuba. With only the briefest of introductions, Kennedy appeared on the small screen. He looks like hell, Charley thought. He looked like a man who'd been up all night trying to figure a way out of this mess. Charley hoped he had been.

A reasonably attractive woman in her early thirties came in and took another chair. She had dark hair and tan skin. She nodded. "Elena Santano, agent Kraeger. I'm with the Cuban desk. Director McCone wanted me to talk to you."

He thought she'd be a knockout if she'd had time to fix herself up before coming in. As it was he elevated his already good early opinion of her. "Right after Kennedy explains this big screw-up."

The camera moved in on Kennedy. "My fellow Americans. It is with great sadness that I confirm what many of you already know. Communist Cuba, under the command of the Marxist dictator, Fidel Castro, has broken the peace agreement signed only a few weeks ago by representatives of the Soviet Union and the United States of America."

He paused. What he was about to say was intensely painful and an indictment of his presidency. "Very early this morning, an estimated three Cuban army divisions, more than twenty thousand men, supported by planes and a large number of tanks, launched a savage, brutal, and overwhelming assault against our small garrison at Guantanamo Bay, on the eastern tip of the island of Cuba.

"Let everyone know that we are at Guantanamo Bay by right of a treaty with the governments of Cuba in the past, and as confirmed by the government of Cuba this fall. Until this morning, Cuba has honored these agreements which have been in place for more than half a century.

"Thus, the attack this morning was totally unexpected and unprovoked. Hundreds of our brave men have been killed and many, many more have been taken prisoner. Just a couple of hours ago, I ordered the remaining senior officer at Guantanamo to surrender in order to save the lives of his men and those of the hundreds of civilians, including women and children, who were under his protection and in danger of being slaughtered by the Cuban communists.

"For those of you looking for someone to blame, let me assure you that everything that has occurred is my responsibility. I bear the burden of making the mistake of trusting Castro. I am guilty of believing the word of a Communist dictator, and we are all now paying the price of that guilt. It should also be known that we had a few hours warning that an attack might be forthcoming. Unfortunately, there was no way we could confirm the report and, even if we had, there was no way we could have done anything to help those brave sailors and marines at Guantanamo."

Kennedy paused to let that sink in. Yes, he'd had warning, but, no, there wasn't anything he could have done about it. Hopefully, he'd de-fanged his political enemies at least a little bit.

"I will leave recriminations and finger-pointing to others. There will surely be enough of that in the future. As former President Harry Truman used to say, The Buck Stops Here. I am responsible for all failures and for everything that has and will occur. I and the leaders of this nation, both military and political, will be working tirelessly towards a response that will show Fidel Castro and his criminal henchmen that he cannot attack and murder innocent Americans.

"Let no one doubt that we will prevail. God bless America,"

Charley turned to Elena. "Interesting what he said, wasn't it? Almost as interesting as what he didn't say. Like he never used the words invade, or attack, or conquer. And he also never said he was going to ask Congress to declare war. Don't you wonder what he's thinking of?"

Elena found herself smiling. She was thirty-four and had a doctorate in Latin American studies and, for the past six years, had been solely assigned to work on Cuba. She thought all field agents were nothing but glorified thugs. At least the ones she'd met seemed that way. On the other hand, this Charley Kraeger seemed cut from a different cloth. Interesting.

She stood and wished she'd worn something nicer than an old baggy sweater and slacks, but McCone's orders had been specific: Get the hell in here as fast as you can. Now that she was here, of course, she was sitting and waiting.

"Agent Kraeger, I believe the cafeteria is open. How about we discuss this over some coffee?"

Charley grinned, happy that his voice had mostly returned. "How about over lunch?"

Vice President Lyndon Baines Johnson glared at the president. There was some respect but little love lost between the two men who had both chased the presidency in 1960. LBJ as Vice President was purely a marriage of convenience. He still thought he would have made a far better president than Kennedy, a man he thought was too young and weak. Sure as hell, the commies wouldn't be pushing him around like they were Kennedy.

"Why the hell didn't you say that we were going to blow Castro’s ass from here to China if he didn't return our base and our people and, oh yeah, surrender Cuba to us?"

General Maxwell Taylor, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, stifled a grin. The vice president had just asked the question all the military men had wanted to ask but hadn't. The other chiefs looked quizzically at Kennedy, their Commander in Chief, a man still in his early forties. They all wondered the same thing. Would he act like a real commander or would he behave a spoiled rich kid? Had the events of the last few months taught him anything?

"We will do what we have to," JFK said, "and if that includes a direct assault on Cuba, then that is what will happen. Still, as you fine gentlemen have all said, and as events earlier this fall showed, we cannot conjure up an invasion force overnight, or even in the next couple of weeks. Therefore, while we are building our strength and gathering our weapons, we will utilize every other means at our disposal to solve this situation and, if we can solve it without further bloodshed, then I am duty bound to attempt it."

Johnson looked incredulous. "You actually expect the United fucking Nations to come running to our aid and help push Castro out?"

"Probably not," Kennedy admitted glumly, "but we have to make the effort so the world can see the UN failing while we try our best. By the time we go in, assuming we do go in, I want as much of the world on our side as possible."

"And what about the Russians," General Maxwell Taylor asked. He'd commanded the 101st Airborne in World War II and the Eighth Army during the final days of Korea. He'd been appointed Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff on October 2, 1962, only a couple of months earlier. One of his first tasks was to determine why the Bay of Pigs invasion had been such a fiasco. The chairmanship was a job he'd always wanted, but now he wondered why.

"Especially the Russians," President Kennedy responded in a loud clear voice. Taylor was becoming hard of hearing and, like so many older men, refusing to admit it.

The president continued. "I seriously wonder if Khrushchev had any knowledge of this. Secretary Rusk has his people in Moscow almost literally beating on the doors of the Kremlin and the only reaction we are getting anybody willing to talk with us is puzzlement and confusion. The same with the CIA contacts with their Soviet counterparts and getting nothing but surprise. Nor is there any indication of anything really abnormal in Berlin or Korea, or, for that matter, anywhere else in the world, which I suppose is good news.

"Castro has a reputation as a loose cannon and he may have chosen this way of sticking it up our asses without telling the Soviets who might have stopped him.”

Johnson snorted. "Forgive me if I don't share your belief."

Kennedy grinned. "I'm not too sure I share it with myself, Lyndon. I really do find it hard to believe that Khrushchev didn't know anything about this."

General Taylor turned to the president. "In the meantime, we will be working hard and fast to reconstitute the forces we had ready to invade Cuba two months ago. That's the easy part, even though it will take some time, perhaps even more time since we are in the middle of the holidays. Admiral Anderson and General LeMay want to know just when they can start hitting Cuban targets with their planes, with what weapons, and what targets, if any, are off limits?"

Kennedy took a deep breath. The eyes of the military were on him. It was another damn test. "First, no nukes. Don't even think of using nukes. Second, you will not hit the Russians. We know they are mainly to the west of Havana and those areas are off limits for the foreseeable future. As long as they are in their enclaves, they are safe."

"Accidents happen," LeMay said with a sly grin.

Kennedy glared at him. "There will be no accidents, General LeMay. If the Soviet enclaves get hit, I will have the stars and the balls of whoever is responsible. Additionally, Havana is off limits as are other purely civilian targets that will be named shortly. Havana has no military significance at this time, and there would be too many civilian casualties from a population we believe would support us if given half a chance. If we get an opportunity to bounce a bomb off Castro's thick skull, I may okay a strike, but there will be no attacks on Havana or other essentially civilian areas without my say so."

Admiral Anderson smiled tightly. "Then nothing else is off limits, sir?"

Kennedy nodded. He had to show strength, both to the joint chiefs and the American people. "The American public has to see that we are hitting them back and that has to start happening real soon. Whether we will need an actual invasion is another matter." He glanced at a map of Cuba. "Keep the attacks east of Santiago."

General Taylor interrupted. "Sir, there must be coordination and planning. We simply cannot have both the Air Force and the Navy throwing planes at Cuban targets. Unless we're careful, some places will be missed and others will be hit redundantly. We need an overall commander, and, unless you change your mind, that will be me. In the meantime, Admiral Anderson and General LeMay will work with me to coordinate their attacks from Florida while our carriers close in on Cuba. Further, Mr. President, do you really wish to begin an American response on Christmas Day?"

Kennedy winced. "I believe Castro started it, General, although you make a good point. Still, the Cubans are doubtless now disbursing and hiding their men and their weapons. We stand a good chance of getting at least some of them while they're on the move. Let the attacks begin immediately."

General LeMay stood and smiled. This was not like the first Cuban Crisis where fighting was planned but never happened. The gloves were off. At least part of the way. "Then, Mister President, I would like to leave now and get my people started on killing people and breaking things, and wishing a Merry Christmas to Comrade Fidel."

Nikita Khrushchev's always volatile emotions this day ran between anger, fury, and a sense of betrayal. One of his puppets had cut his strings and was trying to walk like a real man. That could not happen. Soviet puppets did nothing on their own was the Kremlin's policy even though that policy was not always obeyed, and today's problem was a huge case in point.

"Damn it," he bellowed, his volcanic temper almost at the breaking point. "Does anyone know what exactly is going on in that pigsty of a country? What the god damn hell does that pig fucker Castro think he is doing?"

Khrushchev was considered a crude man, even by Russian standards. He was always disheveled, and some of his enemies thought he bore a striking resemblance to a hog that was able to walk upright. Although nowhere as ruthless as Josef Stalin — he had stunned the world by daring to criticize the monstrous Soviet leader of World War II — he was still a very deadly adversary. Like most Russian men he was a heavy drinker, which made him even less stable. By this time, Khrushchev had already had several shots of vodka and this did not help his turbulent disposition.

Nor did anyone one else in the room possess enough power to argue with him. It was apparent, however, that there had been a massive intelligence failure. There were forty thousand Red Army personnel in and around Havana, along with a large number of KGB operatives on hand to help Castro keep control of the Cuban population. Also, the Red Army had its own intelligence arm, the GRU, and they too had been silent regarding the Castro's unexpected operation.

Khrushchev accepted that neither the military nor his intelligence units had known anything, and that was most shocking. Either that or that someone had been complicit in this Cuban operation in order to embarrass him and possibly lead the Soviet Union down a new and possibly very dangerous path.

That the attack on Guantanamo had taken place hundreds of miles from the still active fleshpots of Havana where Soviet agents congregated might also have been a factor. Besides, he thought, who the hell would be dumb enough to think that Castro was so crazy that he would try something like this on his own. What did that raggedy-ass Cuban want and what the hell could the Soviet Union do about it?

Khrushchev paced and raged. For the time being, he could do nothing whatsoever about the situation. He had no air assets in Cuba and the Soviet navy was far, far away. He laughed harshly. He could imagine the scrawny, young, and inept John Kennedy in Washington fuming and raging as well and being just as impotent. Khrushchev took another healthy gulp of vodka and calmed himself.

America's impotence would only last for a little while longer. In October, they had gathered a massive invasion force just prior to the end of the previous missile crisis, and would doubtless do so again. Castro would be squashed by overwhelming American power. Or, Khrushchev thought, did the stupid prick in Havana think that Russia would pull his ass out of the fire just because he was a fellow communist? That was something he would have to talk over with his advisors and the members of the Politburo. Was it worth the risk of an all-out war with the United States, and possibly a nuclear one just to save the revolution in Cuba? After all, wasn't Cuba rightfully in the American sphere of influence in the first place?

Perhaps the Soviet Union and the United States could negotiate something other than a complete return of Guantanamo. After all, didn't the Cubans now have a large number of American prisoners?

Unlike Josef Stalin, his unlamented predecessor who had died in 1953, Khrushchev's rule was not absolute. All around him were other high ranking Soviet officials who were constantly jockeying for power and the opportunity to replace him at the top. Leonid Brezhnev and Alexi Kosygin were the two who worried him most. If they managed to topple him, would they let him live, or would his reward be the traditional bullet in the back of the head? They were unhappy with the way the Cuban Missile Crisis had played out; therefore, he must solve this problem and do so decisively.

Khrushchev had another thought and it chilled him. What if Comrade Castro wasn't so dumb and irrational? What if he had something else planned? More vodka, he decided.

Cathy Malone picked her way through the rubble of several destroyed buildings. The devastation on the base appalled her. Especially shocking was the destruction of what had been the homes build for civilian and military families. Cuban and American bodies lay about, giving testimony that the base hadn't fallen easily. Quickly yes, but not easily. The Cubans had been bloodied.

Good, she thought and was surprised at the depth of her feelings. She'd always thought war was horrible and now she knew that it was, but she also wanted to fight one. The Cubans had hurt her and her country.

She was scared, hurt, and angry. He fears were almost too numerous to mention. She was afraid of being seen by Cuban soldiers and captured again. Maybe the next ones wouldn't rape her, but who knew? She would not take the chance. Maybe she'd been lucky that she'd only been raped and not murdered as well. Or gang-raped and murdered. Or mutilated like she'd been threatened.

She was afraid that the Cuban sergeant, Carlos Gomez, she would never forget him or his name, had made her pregnant. That would compound the horror. Had he ejaculated inside her or just on her leg? She shuddered at the thought of the self-examination she'd forced herself to make. She'd been a virgin until Gomez assaulted her, and had always thought she'd remain one until she got married, or really fell in love. And rape was something that was whispered about and always happened to someone else. Or to someone who managed to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, or got so drunk on a date that she wasn't able to stop a guy.

She was realistic enough to not be concerned that her so-called virtue had been compromised. This Gomez pig had forced it from her and she was the victim, not a co-conspirator. She knew some cultures that blamed the victim, and she'd always thought that was utterly stupid.

She remembered Catholic school catechism classes where nuns and priests glorified young girls who chose death over losing their virginity to a rapist. She'd always thought death was a wrong, even stupid, decision under those circumstances. Now she knew she was right. She wanted to live and she wanted to see Carlos Gomez brought to justice, whatever that meant. The thought of her being canonized as Saint Cathy Malone, Virgin and Martyr, was appalling. Her church, she realized, was dead wrong.

Most of the young women she knew were more or less ignorant about sex and most at least claimed to be virgins, no matter how much they experimented sexually. There was a growing movement among women that said women should be freer sexually, but she had not yet been converted to that line of thinking. Voluntarily going all the way, screwing, fucking, or whatever term one preferred was for marriage.

Cathy did not consider herself a prude and had permitted a select few boys and young men from high school and college to take what her old aunt used to refer to as "liberties" with her, but had never gone anywhere near sexual intercourse. Above the waist was her rule.

She was also afraid that the filthy and disgusting Gomez had given her what the sailors and marines called the clap. She'd heard many of the young men talk about it. Syphilis and gonorrhea were the names most commonly given to venereal disease and she wondered just when and how she'd know she had it or not. Time would tell, she supposed.

Fortunately, the physical pain was endurable and receding. She was young and would heal, at least physically. If she wasn't pregnant and didn't have the clap, she thought she could handle the mental part. She laughed bitterly. Did she have a choice? She'd have to help herself. She didn't see anyone standing around volunteering to help her by providing a shoulder to cry on. No, she would have to be tough. Either that or she might perish.

Cathy had not wanted to return to the base, but an examination of her carry bag showed serious deficiencies. She'd only planned to use it for creature comforts while on a boat or plane to the States, not for living in the wild like a refugee. Thus, and with great reluctance, she'd returned to do some scrounging. Even though it was tempting since it contained all of her stuff, she decided to stay away from her ruined apartment. She had no idea where this Gomez bastard who'd raped her might be. He said he'd be back and Cathy believed him.

Her foraging had resulted in a mixed bag. Literally. She now had a duffle bag full of C and K ration packages that she'd never tasted but heard were both awful and nourishing. She'd even steeled herself to take some off of the bodies of sailors and marines. If the military said it was food, she'd take it. She had no idea how long she'd be on the run, but part of her said it could be quite a while. It was now late in the afternoon of Christmas Day and there was no sign of any further American response. She'd cheered when she'd seen the American jets, but they'd disappeared. Cold hard logic told her she was on her own for the foreseeable future.

She was more than a little surprised to find that her wanderings had brought her outside her old apartment. Did she dare? She checked in all directions. Alice's mangled remains were gone. Had the base's new owners begun cleaning things up? Everything appeared deserted. She entered through the back door and wished she knew how to fire the rifle she'd picked up from where it had been abandoned on the street. It was a strange looking thing and she presumed it was from a Cuban, since the markings indicated it was Russian. She hoped it might deter someone if they saw her carrying it.

Cathy grabbed a blanket off her bed and hung it over her shoulder. Then she took a second one. Who knew where she'd be sleeping in the future? She stuffed some more clothing and personal items into her original bag and wrapped the blankets around some more, tying them up with electric cords. She would be weighed down but could toss them quickly if she had to.

She cautiously went out the back door. She had just taken a couple of steps when she froze in horror. A small black man wearing combat fatigues was standing a few feet away from her and was pointing a rifle directly at her.

Lieutenant Colonel Ted Romanski groaned in pain. The cast that Sergeant Morton had made out of pieces of wood was less than adequate, to put it mildly.

"You want some more morphine, colonel?"

Romanski had taken some of the painkiller while Morton was setting the break. The sergeant had tried to be gentle, but the injury wouldn't cooperate and the morphine had been necessary to calm him during the process. Still, he knew how little of the precious stuff they had.

"No thanks. Let's save it for something important."

Morton grinned. He didn't think the iron-assed colonel would've taken any more. Romanski had a reputation for being a hard driver who worked with his men even though he was at an age where he could be forgiven for sitting behind a desk.

"Did you find any more survivors?" Romanski asked, even though he thought he knew the answer to the question. Had there been any more survivors who’d parachuted with them, they'd be with them.

"No sir, but I did find evidence that some of the guys survived and were taken prisoner. I also found half a dozen bodies. I took their supplies and ammo and buried the dead as best I could."

Romanski thought Morton had done a good job and said so. Now came the hard part. They were all alone in the wilds of a very hostile eastern Cuba. He had a broken leg and the one other man with him was going to have to help him physically go anyplace, assuming, of course, that they could decide where they should go. He had no qualms asking the highly regarded senior sergeant for his opinion.

"Well, colonel, it doesn't look like we'll be doing anything useful other than surviving for a while. I don't know if and when our guys will be striking back, so I'd suggest finding a place to hole up until you get at least a little bit better."

"Then what, Morton?"

"Then maybe we should move slowly towards Gitmo. If our guys are going to come back, then that's a place where they'll likely go real early."

Romanski took a deep breath. He was exhausted, which pissed him off since he hadn't done much except lie there while Morton patched him up. "Sounds like you're reading my mind, Master Sergeant Morton. Let me get some rest and we'll begin."

"And then I said, what the hell are you doing here, Miss Malone? And damned if she didn't scream and drop everything she had in her arms including that little commie rifle she was carrying. Then I had to remind her who I was and then she came running like she was a little kid who'd just found her daddy and jumped into my arms. Been a long time since a good-looking white girl hugged me,” Ward said solemnly.

"Been a long time since anybody hugged you," Groth retorted.

Andrew Ross turned to Cathy Malone and winked. Cathy smiled weakly. She was exhausted and emotionally drained. She was safe and just wanted to go to sleep.

Ward had been one of her better pupils in the government sponsored education program. She had heard the story of her rescue or deliverance by PFC Ward a dozen times already and it had only been a couple of hours since he'd found her by her apartment. Ward had scared the poor girl out of her wits, although Ward cheerfully admitted he'd been just as surprised as she was. But he had never been scared, no sir. Marines are never scared.

She was so disheveled and dirty that Andrew hadn't recognized her at first, and her face was badly bruised, almost like someone had punched her, and there was a nasty cut on her cheek that Sergeant Cullen had cleaned and bandaged. It took a while before Ross realized he'd not only seen her several times on base, but that she was the young woman he'd been trying to find someone who could introduce him to. Now they'd met, but under some very trying circumstances. She seemed like she might be the kind of person he thought she was, but his original idea of asking her out to dinner and a movie was clearly down the crapper. So much for making a good first impression, he thought. At least she was as big a mess as he was, although she sure looked a lot cuter, bruises and bandages notwithstanding.

She was a welcome if not puzzling addition. Andrew didn't know quite what to do with her. Even if he wanted to, and he definitely didn’t, he couldn't abandon her. First, she wasn't likely to leave. The men he'd sent into the base to scavenge had returned with the information that POWs were being kept at the airbase at Guantanamo, while civilians were already being sent by train to Santiago where they would be moved by boat to Mexico and then to the United States. Even if he wanted to, he couldn't send her through Cuban lines to find a civilian train that might no longer exist. And, she was clearly terrified of the Cubans and he wondered why. She would stay with them for as long as she wanted, but it represented another burden for him.

On the bright side, his scavengers had found the base strewn with useful goodies, the inevitable debris of battle. Along with the heartily despised C and K ration packs, they'd picked up additional weapons and a quantity of ammunition. They'd also found several of what Cathy had also brought with her — Russian built AK47 assault rifles and ammunition. Andrew insisted that the men carry the AKs along with their own M1 Garands. His marines might be few in number but now they could pack a lot of firepower. Sergeant Cullen approved heartily, which shut up any complaints. After all, if things got really scary, they could lighten their load by dumping the additional stuff.

Sergeant Cullen suggested caching supplies at various spots in case they had to abandon their base camp which was now in a grove a couple of miles north of the base. Andrew thought it was an outstanding idea.

Andrew's scavengers, they preferred to be called looters, reported that the battle had not all been one-sided. They found several burned out Russian made T34 tanks and BTR60 armored personnel carriers. One BTR60 contained the corpses of a dozen Cubans who'd burned to death. Andrew wondered what happened to that truck they'd sprayed with gunfire. Had the driver reached his destination only to find a cargo of dead bodies? What a lovely thought.

Cullen was playing with an AK. He said it was named for some guy named Kalashnikov. "Not a bad weapon, lieutenant, you can fire it either semi or full automatic. Someday we'll have something like this. For whatever it's worth, I read in Mechanics Illustrated that Armalite has offered the government an automatic weapon somewhat like this, and we're considering it."

Andrew yawned. Both the M1 Garand and the M1 carbine, which was what he carried, were semi-automatic only. This meant one shot fired for each trigger pull. A full automatic was a nice option, especially for close range shooting. "The Pentagon'll reject it. If they didn't invent it, they'll decide it can't be worth anything."

Cullen laughed. "Ain't that the truth?"

Andrew was tired, but suddenly realized what he should be doing. Damn it to hell, had he shut down his brain when the shooting started? "Anybody here got a transistor radio, preferably one that has batteries and actually works?"

Three hands went up. Of course people took creature comforts with them on guard duty and they grinned sheepishly. All three radios ran on batteries. PFC Anders had one that included an electric cord if they could find a plug. Eagerly, they turned one on. At first, they couldn't pick up anything other than static and a small local station which was, of course, broadcasting in Spanish.

"Anybody understand this crap?" Cullen asked. Hollis said that he did a little, but the guy was speaking too fast to really understand. "I'll bet it's just propaganda anyhow, sergeant."

Anders climbed a tree with a wire that extended the antenna. After a bit of fiddling, a clear voice came over the air. All of them grinned at each other like idiots.

It was a radio station in Miami and the voice was speaking English.

General Taylor handed the president a manila folder. His expression was grim. "These are the latest casualty reports, sir."

Kennedy took the folder hesitantly and with a sense of dread. He was exhausted. It was almost midnight. In a few minutes it would be the day after Christmas, traditionally the day when people went in droves to the stores to return unwanted presents. He opened it and began to read. Among the military, three hundred and forty-eight known dead, six hundred and seventy-four wounded, about a third of them seriously. Thirty six known civilian dead and another twenty wounded, and all at Gitmo.

Seventy-five of the dead had been on the Wallace, along with twenty-four wounded, many of them badly burned. Twenty others were missing and presumed dead, including the destroyer's skipper. Approximately a hundred other military personnel were missing, many of them considered killed in the shooting down of three C47s during Roman Force's abortive attack.

And lastly, more than twenty-two hundred sailors and marines had been taken prisoner. According to representatives of the Swiss Embassy who had finally cancelled their holiday and gone to work, the prisoners would soon be taken to a compound rapidly being thrown together outside Santiago, on the southeastern coast of Cuba. Nobody missed the irony that Santiago was the sight of most of the fighting during the Spanish-American War of 1898. The conclusion of that short war had resulted in the U.S. getting and keeping the controversial base at Guantanamo Bay.

Six hundred civilians had either escaped by boat or had been interned by the Cubans. The civilian internees were on their way from Santiago to Havana where they would be flown to Mexico on neutral planes. The number of civilians missing was unknown at this time.

Kennedy shook his head. "Explain the civilian casualties, please."

"Nothing much to explain, sir," responded Taylor. "The Cubans were good with the accuracy of their guns, but a long ways from perfect. Several artillery rounds, perhaps even entire barrages, landed in civilian residential areas by mistake. I rather don't think it was intentional, it's just that war is hell."

"So I've heard," Kennedy said drily. Earlier he'd been recalling his own time as a PT commander in World War II. "And how good are these figures?"

Taylor shrugged. "They’re definitely not final, sir. And the figures from Guantanamo come from Major Hartford through the Cubans. The missing from Roman Force come from the commanding general at Fort Benning, and the civilian numbers are just an estimate. We simply don't know how many people were on the base at the time of the attack. Unlike military personnel, the civilians were free to come and go, and we hope to God most of them show up on the mainland during the next few days."

"And just what the devil is this ‘Roman Force,’ general?"

Taylor was confused. "This was the airborne relief assault that you authorized on, uh, the twenty-fourth."

Kennedy shook his head. He had no such recollection. "General Taylor, I dimly recall telling this General Bunning to look into it, but I did not think I gave him the signal to go ahead."

"It's Bunting, sir, and I have spoken with him and he feels that he was given explicit direction to go ahead. In all candor, sir, General Bunting is, shall we say, extremely aggressive, and might have presumed more from your words then you intended."

Kennedy sighed. Hadn't someone written about the ‘fog of war’ and how it led to confusion and well-intended mistakes?

"Let it go," he said. Maybe later he would investigate it further and crucify the son of a bitch, but not now. "Any chance any of our paratroops are alive?"

"It's possible, even likely," Taylor said. "Other planes reported seeing some chutes open."

"Good new, I guess. Now, what about the other missing military personnel from the base?"

"Again, we simply don't know. Some of them could be killed, while others could be out there unhurt and in a position to help us, which is why I was going to suggest that we don't list the names or even the numbers of missing right now. If the Cubans realize there might be American military personnel wandering around outside the base, they'll start to look for them and that could be dangerous for our boys."

Kennedy agreed. "We'll hold off on that. In fact, we'll tell the press there aren't any missing. That should confuse the hell out of everyone." He put the folder on his desk. "Now, general, please tell me our military responses are being successful."

Taylor winced. "I wish I could, Mr. President, but I can't. The Cubans have scattered and disbursed their men and equipment with astonishing speed and skill. The only sizeable numbers of Cuban soldiers our pilots can see are those guarding our POWs, and we're certainly not going to fire on them. We have shot down a couple of their MiGs and we think we destroyed a handful of their armored vehicles along with a number of trucks, but certainly nothing like what we'd hoped. We've lost three more planes to ground fire and their SAM-2 surface to air missiles and that has been an unpleasant surprise. Maybe things will be better when we get more planes in the area, as well as when our reconnaissance planes get their photos developed but likely not. This General Ortega of theirs did a helluva job of planning this thing."

Kennedy stood and Taylor started to as well. The president waved him and the others back to their seats. He just wanted to stand, to walk, to think as well as straighten out the kink in his back.

"All right," he said. "How about plans for attacking Cuba? How are they progressing?"

"We will have several options for you tomorrow afternoon and I would suggest we discuss them in light of what our goals might be."

Yes, Kennedy thought, our goals. What the hell are our goals? "Are any of the options, good ones, General Taylor?"

"No sir."