Castro's bomb

Chapter Eight

It wasn't much, but at least there was a roof over their heads and a wooden floor and nobody cared that there wasn't any furniture. There were holes in the roof but that wouldn't matter until it rained. The roof was aluminum and any rain would sound like horses running through the place, but beggars couldn't be choosers.

The abandoned frame house was in a stand of trees and in a slight depression in the ground, which meant it wasn't visible from the dirt road about a half mile away. It had four small rooms including a kitchen with a wood burning stove. There was no indoor plumbing. Reasonably clean and fresh water came from an old fashioned well that had to be pumped by hand. Under normal circumstances none of them would have given the place a second look, but this night it was an oasis. They could rest and rejuvenate themselves in relative safety and comfort.

Andrew and Gunnery Sergeant Cullen quickly organized the men into various duties that included cooking and sentry duty, along with listening for news on the radio. Andrew was insistent that they listen for the seven pm NBC news only. He said it was a means of preserving their batteries.

He also inventoried their skills. Did anyone know Morse code? Groth said he did, a little. Practice, he was told and Groth began by tapping a small rock against a larger one until the others told him to either stop or go elsewhere, because he was driving them crazy.

Could anyone build a generator to provide them with renewable electricity when the batteries inevitably failed? PFC Anders volunteered and was hired. And how about building a radio that they could use to transmit as well as receive? Anders blanched but said he'd work on it right after building a generator.

When it came to cooking, everyone automatically turned to Cathy. "You're joking, right? Yes I've cooked before and, granted nobody's died, but I might drive you back to liking C-Rations."

Nobody felt that was very likely, so Cathy said she'd give it a try. She knew it would help for her to do something, to be useful. Lance Corporal Williams said he'd help. "So much for a good college education getting me out of the kitchen," Cathy mockingly lamented. The bad news was that they had nothing to cook.

Later, Cathy sat on the floor beside Andrew with their backs against the wall. "Can I ask you what you're thinking, lieutenant?"

Andrew smiled. "First off, you're not in the Corps, so there's no need to call me anything other than Andrew. Second, I'm trying to plan ahead. This is a totally unexpected experience and I want to make sure I don't screw it up. If I make a mistake, people might die," he said, thinking of the men who had already died under his command.

"I don't want that to happen either," she said softly. "Do you think the owners of this high class hacienda will come back anytime soon?"

He laughed. The building was little more than a shed. "I doubt it. They've gone and probably permanently. Either they lost their jobs at Gitmo when the barbed wire went up and left for parts unknown, or they fled to Miami with a lot of their friends and neighbors, or, more likely, they got some of the better land that's been divvied up and given to the poor by Castro. No, I don't think anybody calls this dump home anymore. But we do have to be careful of Cuban patrols and anybody else wandering into the area."

"What will you do if that happens?"

"Not a clue," he answered truthfully. "Running rather than fighting is what I would choose if I have a choice."

Cathy decided to change the subject. "It's funny, but I don't think I recall seeing you on base. I hope you're not insulted."

"Well, unless you were fascinated by supplies and budgets, you would've had no reason to see me at work and I was just one of a whole lot of identical lieutenants. I remember you, though. I saw you running a lot in the mornings while I was working out myself."

He didn't add that he thought she looked great in a pair of shorts and with sweat dampened tee shirt clinging to her body. Fantastic legs highlighted a nice trim body.

"Wait," she said. "Did you work with Rachel Desmond?"

"Yeah," he answered, knowing where this was going.

"Are you the guy she was trying to fix me up with?"

"Guilty."

Cathy looked at him intently. "She has good judgment, I think. I'm pleased to meet you."

"Me too," he said. "Just wish it was better circumstances."

Cathy looked around. A couple of the men were already asleep and snoring noisily. She would sleep on blankets on the floor of the smaller room. "Thanks for the privacy. I really appreciate it."

"I try to be a gentleman," he said with a grin. She found herself returning it. The awful memories were receding, at least for a moment, although she knew they lurked within her and could emerge at any time. She'd known one girl who'd been assaulted on a date and it had taken her a very long time to get over it, if she ever did. Cathy didn't feel she had a choice. If she didn't control herself, she might not survive.

Now if she could only be sure that her health hadn’t compromised by the possibility of venereal disease and that she wasn't pregnant. The more she thought of it, the more she thought she wasn't, but she was far from certain.

"And not only do I have a private suite to sleep in," she added, "but I understand they've dug me my very own latrine trench. Goodness," she said with a mock southern drawl, "y'all surely know how to show a girl a good time. My own latrine. Why just the thought of it makes me want to up and swoon. And these delicious C-rations? Why you're idea of a Caribbean vacation leaves nothing to be desired."

Her voice had begun to rise. Andrew thought he sensed a note of hysteria, even panic. He gently put his hand on hers and held it. She put hers on top and squeezed hard, fighting back sobs.

"Cathy, before this happened I'd been trying to get Rachel Desmond to introduce us. So, when we get back to the States, and we will get back, I'd like to take you to dinner at the nicest place in Miami or Washington or wherever we wind up. Okay?"

She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "I was a little near the edge just then, wasn't I?"

"I don't blame you. All of us are whipped, emotionally and physically. What we need now is a little rest so we can begin to realize that this isn't a bad dream that's going to go away. Let's face it. When we all wake up, we'll still be here."

She shook her head. Her body began to shake and tears ran down her cheeks. "Andrew, I can't believe what has happened to me, to us. My home has been destroyed, my best friend blown apart by a bomb or a shell, and," here she paused, wondering quite what to say, "I saw a very good friend of mine raped by a Cuban soldier."

She let go of his hand, got up and walked the few steps to her room and turned. Privacy did not include a door. A blanket was hung in the doorway. "Tell you what, Andrew, I'll take you up on that dinner."

Any thoughts the American prisoners had regarding the possible omnipotence of the Cuban military after the sudden Cuban victory ended when they met Colonel Humberto Cordero.

The Cuban colonel knew when he was out of his depth, which was now. More than that — he was drowning. He was overwhelmed at the thought of administrating to a couple of thousand surly American POWs. Only a couple of days ago, he'd been the chief jailor in the city of Santiago, Cuba. He'd commanded a dozen guards and controlled maybe fifty or so inmates, most of whom were there because of petty thefts, drunkenness, or the occasional stabbing, along with the periodic wife-beater who he quickly released. Cuban men did not consider wife-beating a crime unless, of course, it went too far and the wife was either killed or had broken bones.

Nor was Cordero truly an army colonel. He was a fifty-year old and grossly overweight nobody and he was quickly realizing that he'd like those days back.

But they weren't coming back. El Presidente, Fidel Castro, had given him the rank of colonel, assigned him several hundred ill-trained militia, and told him to guard over two thousand American prisoners of war, all of whom would have liked to cut off his balls and stuff them down his throat.

The prison camp was located in a large field outside Santiago, which was about fifty miles from Gitmo. Construction workers had hurriedly thrown up a couple of hundred tents and surrounded the whole thing with a double fence made of barbed wire, with rolls of concertina wire inside the two fences. Watchtowers had been built and machine guns installed. It looked impressive. Cordero knew it was a shell, a sham. The watchtowers would have to be reinforced. They'd been built so hastily that they swayed in a breeze.

Major Sam Hartford understood Cordero's dilemma. In a fundamental sort of way, he even sympathized with the little fat man, and when it became evident that Colonel Cordero could be manipulated, he did so with a vengeance.

First, he convinced Cordero that it would be foolish and inefficient to separate the enlisted men from their officers, which was ordinarily done with POWs. Hartford told him that keeping the officers and men together would facilitate the administration, feeding, housing, disciplining, and controlling the prisoners. In return for that, Hartford promised that he would keep his men on their best behavior. If it occurred to Cordero that it would enable Hartford to organize the prisoners as a resistance and espionage force, he didn't seem to mind. Nor was he concerned that Hartford might lie to him, and that puzzled Hartford, but he let it go. He would not look a stupid Cuban gift horse in the mouth.

Hartford had quickly decided that Captain Tom Keppel, the man who'd shared the command bunker with him, would be his administrative officer.

"Tom, while you are getting everyone a place to sleep and something to eat, I want you to also take an inventory of a few things."

Keppel smiled wickedly. "Let me guess. You'd like to know who speaks Spanish."

"You're reading my mind, captain, but that's only a start. I want to know who managed to bring in a radio, and maybe some batteries. Then I want to know who has a weapon. I don't think anybody managed to smuggle in a Garand or a carbine, but maybe somebody has a pistol hidden in his shorts, and I'm sure there's a ton of knives out there."

Keppel agreed. The searching of the prisoners had been cursory at best. Hartford had complained vehemently to Cordero when some of his pea-brained guards had started to steal watches and cigarette lighters from the men. To his credit, Cordero had put a stop to it. Cubans did not steal, he said stiffly. At least not when someone was watching, Hartford thought.

"There's more, Tom. I want to know who has anything unusual in the way of a skill. Like building a two-way radio from scratch, or how to make a bomb, or how to dig a tunnel without killing himself. And, goodness, you're not making any notes, are you? Why not, captain?"

Keppel grinned. He knew he'd just passed a test. "Written notes have a bad way of being found by the bad guys, major. I read that in a novel once."

"Must've been a good book, Tom. And last, at least last for this meeting, I want to know how much money we have. Or anything else we can use for barter or trade. I don't expect the men to give up anything precious, like a wristwatch from gramps for graduation, or a wedding ring, but I would like to know what favors and information we can buy."

"Or steal?"

Hartford slapped Keppel on the shoulder. "I'm beginning to like the way you think."

At least Hartford now knew that the Red Cross had a comprehensive list of prisoners, which meant that his family had been notified that he'd survived the battle. That was one less thing to worry about. Now if he could only figure out a way to screw up the Cubans.

The military had promised him a plan and now they were ready to show him what they'd come up with. A very large map of Cuba hung on one wall of the Cabinet Room. President Kennedy thought Cuba looked like a squashed snake. He wished it'd been squashed.

Marine General Shoup would be the presenter. "Where do you want me to begin, Mr. President?"

"At the beginning, general. Assume nothing."

Kennedy wondered if the selection of the fifty-eight year old four star marine general was meant to intimidate him. And why wouldn't it? Shoup's record as a combat veteran was a mile long and included the Medal of Honor for heroism fighting the Japanese on Tarawa. Of course he was intimidated. All he'd done was gotten a Silver Star for losing PT-109. Maybe the critics were right. Maybe he should have been court martialed.

Shoup nodded agreement. Only a fool assumes anything, he thought. Shoup began with basic geographical facts. Cuba was seven hundred miles long and two hundred miles wide at its widest point. The island ran roughly from the northwest, Havana, to the southeast, Guantanamo Bay. The city of Mariel was just to the west of Havana and that was the presumed main location of the Soviet forces in Cuba.

A little to the west of Guantanamo and also on the southern coast of Cuba was the port city of Santiago.

Shoup jabbed his pointer at the map. "People like to say that Cuba is only ninety miles from the United States, but that's at its closest point and only important if you plan on swimming from Havana to Key West. In reality, the majority of the island, including Guantanamo, is hundreds of miles farther away, which does create a logistical problem for our land based planes. Simply put, they will not be able to spend as much time over the Guantanamo area as carrier based planes. Nor do we have the option of putting planes on the Virgin Islands or Puerto Rico. The facilities for them just aren't there. The best we can do is move planes south to Miami."

Shoup jabbed again. He seemed to enjoy it. "We see no need to reinvent the wheel, sir. We have taken the liberty of alerting those forces that were going to be involved in attacking Cuba just two months ago as outlined in Operation Plan 316, or, more simply, OPLAN 316, along with some other units that we’ve decided to add. As before, Admiral Robert L. Dennison, Commander In Chief U. S. Atlantic Command, will have overall command of the operation which will be called Joint Task Force 122, or JTF 122, as it was in October. It originally called for a naval force centered on the nuclear carriers Enterprise and Independence, plus a number of other ships including the cruisers Newport News and Canberra, and these and other ships are en route. Three other carrier groups are beginning to make the journey.

"The airborne components will be the XVIII Airborne Corps, consisting of the 82nd Airborne from Fort Bragg, North Carolina, and the 101st Airborne Division, from Fort Campbell, Kentucky. The First Marine Division at Camp Pendleton will be en route shortly, as will the Second Marine Division from Camp LeJeune, North Carolina. These will be the initial landing force once the enemy is softened up enough. Follow-up Army forces will include the First, Second, and Fourth Infantry Divisions, the First Armored Division, and the 3rd Cavalry Regiment. All of these troops are packing up and will be heading south as soon as they can and as soon as their personnel show up from leave, and yes, sir, this is a significantly larger force then was planned for back in October."

Shoup looked around the room for support and saw it. "Mr. President, we strongly believe that the only way to launch an assault on Cuba is to do it with overwhelming force. We send in too small a force and we'll suffer far heavier casualties than if we hit them harder."

Kennedy agreed. People would die whatever he did. He would do what was necessary to minimize casualties.

The marine commandant continued. "The Air Force will mainly operate out of MacDill and Homestead and a number of other bases in Florida and elsewhere in the south.

Shoup paused for effect. "In total, it will number more than half a million men."

Kennedy took a deep breath. Even though he'd heard the numbers before, they were still staggering.

"At least the weather's in our favor," Shoup continued. "This is the cooler, drier season so we've got a couple of months of decent weather before it begins to get hot and rainy." He chuckled. "We wouldn't want anybody to be uncomfortable."

Kennedy squirmed. Was that a dig? The Marine Corps Commandant was known to be outspoken.

General Shoup continued. "Sir, if Castro wants a fight, we'll squash him. There are, however, a few questions that need to be answered."

"Go ahead, general," Kennedy said quietly as he tried to digest everything he was being told. Was all this firepower really at his command? It was almost beyond comprehension. And now he was already using it, sending men into harm's way. American warplanes were clashing with MiGs and dodging missiles as they spoke, and bombs were falling, however ineffectively, on Cuban targets.

Shoup stood with his arms behind his back. "We need to know our goals, sir. Are we to simply recover Gitmo, or are we to topple Castro and recover Gitmo, or are we to conquer the whole damn island? Please recall, sir, that Fidel has nearly four hundred thousand men under his command and, while we'd go through most of them like shit through a goose, there is a large number who are reasonably well trained, well equipped, and who would fight long and hard for their homeland and that would mean a lot of American casualties. I don't really give a care about Cuban casualties, but I do care about ours.

"Also please recall that the original OPLAN called for an attack near Havana, while Gitmo is at the other end of the island, about five hundred miles away. So, do we land at or near Guantanamo, or Havana, or both? We need to know so we can begin to plan in detail. Of the two, retaking Gitmo would be the easiest and would involve fewer U. S. casualties, but it would still leave Castro in charge of Cuba."

"What are we up against?" Kennedy asked.

"As stated, sir," Maxwell Taylor answered. "At they have at least four hundred thousand men in their army, more than one hundred and fifty tanks, all of them Russian T34 and T54s. They lost an unknown number taking Gitmo and more since then, but they still have a lot left over. The remainder are now well hidden and we don't know how many they have around either Gitmo or Havana."

LeMay injected angrily. "And they have more than fifty MiG 17 and 19s."

Admiral Anderson smiled. "At least their navy isn't worth much. Little more than some patrol boats.

Taylor concluded. "For a small Caribbean nation, they are very well armed."

There was silence in the room. Finally, Lyndon Johnson spoke. "Hell, I say we go in whole hog and dump Castro into a sewer where he belongs. That son of a bitch has been a pain in the ass for three years now, and he simply can't get away with killing our people and stealing our base. I know the United Nations isn't going to like that and maybe the Organization of American States will get their collective tits in a wringer too, but the hell with all of them. Both the UN and the OAS are a bunch of whiny pussies."

Kennedy thought quickly. While he basically supported the thoughts of his outspoken vice president, there were other factors to consider. The United Nations was going to meet in emergency session, and Soviet Ambassador Dobrynnin was racing back to Washington and wanted to meet with him. Add to that the fact that there were nearly twenty thousand Soviet soldiers still in Cuba, and, although their strategic nuclear missiles had gone, and there was the very real possibility of escalation if Russians were attacked.

Kennedy stood. "You will prepare two plans. The first will involve only the recovery of Guantanamo Bay and the taking of whatever surrounding areas we need to secure the base for the foreseeable future, and the second will be for the recovery of the base as well as the conquest of the entire island. Both plans will include sufficient safeguards to keep the Russians out of the fighting."

He left the room and walked back to the Oval Office. His brother followed him, a stunned look on his face. President John Fitzgerald Kennedy was a media darling. He and his lovely wife Jacqueline and all their relatives lived in a fairy-tale land the press called Camelot. But who the hell just stole Camelot?

General Juan Ortega hated flying on principle and hated flying in a small plane with a passion. Thus, he was beyond miserable in the tiny Piper Cub. It contained a pilot and himself and the pilot was under orders to fly as low as possible in order to appear innocuous to the American fighters whose contrails drew lines in the sky.

The pilot, an air force captain, interpreted this to mean that he shouldn't fly more than a hundred feet above Cuban soil and much lower if possible. On several occasions treetops slapped against the belly of the plane and, frequently, people and cattle scattered in fright.

Ortega threw up twice during the trip and repeatedly cursed the pilot who cheerfully ignored him. His orders were to deliver Ortega to Havana safely and that was what he was going to do.

Ortega was relieved and able to breathe deeply again when the tiny plane touched down at a dirt field outside Havana. He thanked the pilot for a safe ride and informed him he'd be executed the next dawn. The pilot laughed and said he'd be happy to fly the general back to Guantanamo. They shook hands. The American jets in the sky had not threatened them and that was a miracle of sorts in itself.

A civilian Chevrolet met him and he was driven to Castro's secret headquarters in the outskirts of town where he was met and greeted effusively by both Fidel and Raul Castro.

Fidel was taller and reached down to embrace Ortega. "Congratulations on a job done magnificently. Guantanamo is again ours and all Cuba is rejoicing. I am sorry that we'll have to delay the victory parade, but the Americans are likely to bomb it if we present them with too many juicy targets. We believe that they will not bomb Havana, not at this time anyway, but who needs to take chances."

"I prefer to live to a prudent old age, comrade," Ortega answered. He was delighted by Fidel's enthusiasm. He had only met El Presidente a couple of times before the planning had begun on the attack on Guantanamo.

"Who wouldn't," Fidel chuckled. He stuck a cigar in his mouth but didn't light it. "Still, I want you to know that all Cuba is proud of what you have done in driving the imperialist running dogs from our land. I am going to leave you with Raul while I go and try to govern Cuba, but first, I want you to know that you have been promoted. You are, next to me, Raul and Che, the most senior military man in Cuba. This means that virtually all of our military strength is at your disposal."

Ortega was stunned. "I'm honored."

Fidel slapped him on the back and handed him a cigar. "Just as we are honored to have you on our side. Now, you and Raul must plan to defend what we have gained."

When Fidel had left, Raul Castro, younger than Fidel by five years, stared hard at Ortega. Raul had the reputation of a man who was far more severe than his older brother when it came to transforming the corrupt and capitalist former Cuba into a socialist economy where there would be neither wealth nor poverty. Many felt that Raul's hard line approach to seizing land and wealth from the rich had resulted in so many tens of thousands fleeing to Florida.

"Comrade General," Raul said, "What do you think the Americans will do now?"

Ortega didn't hesitate. "They will attack us. We have something that they want back very much. The little pinprick air attacks of theirs are of no consequence yet. They lack targets and direction."

Raul smiled grimly. "You are to be congratulated not only on the way you took the base, but how you've managed to keep the Americans from detecting our tanks and soldiers."

Ortega shrugged. "I have good people."

"Where will the yanquis attack? Here or Guantanamo?"

"Like you, I have given it much thought and I feel they will try to retake Guantanamo and the area around it, including Santiago. At least that will be their initial objective."

"Why?"

"Because it is the sore point. We took it from them and they want it back. Like a petulant child wanting his toy returned, the Americans are predictable and that can be to our advantage. Oh, they want Fidel out as president and all their corrupt businesses and gangster cohorts back in charge, but first things first and that means Guantanamo and, very importantly, the liberation of their prisoners at Santiago."

Raul nodded which further encouraged Ortega. "Also, they are afraid of the Russians. And by the way, Comrade Raul, how are our comrades in Moscow taking the little surprise we sprung on them."

Raul smiled. "They are hugely pissed. They are trying to make a brave face, but they have to know now that they cannot shove Cuba around and force an agreement we don't want down our throats. They are coming around, however, and will work with us. They have to. They will not abandon Cuba to be a third rate power. With the Russians, we will dominate the Caribbean and Central America."

"So do you agree with me that Guantanamo will be the American's target?"

"Yes."

"Then how much of the military can I use for defense?"

Raul paused thoughtfully. "Fidel will wish to keep a strong force here in Havana in case we are wrong and in case some fools attempt either a coup or an invasion from Miami. We have roughly four hundred thousand men under arms and more joining every day, thanks to your victory. You had twenty thousand men to attack the base. You will have at least a hundred thousand to defend it, including many of the best, along with approximately two thirds of our armor, artillery, and anti-aircraft guns and missiles."

Ortega beamed. "Excellent. We will make them pay in blood for any attempt to land."

Raul nodded knowingly. "And, comrade general, there are many other things occurring that will make an American landing even bloodier than you can imagine."

Ortega left. The driver and pilot awaited him. He would have to endure another gut-churning flight back to his headquarters in Santiago. But he wondered just what the hell Raul was talking about when he said "other things?"

Major Andrei Sokolov couldn't stand the sight of blood and what he saw before him was nauseating. Sokolov was an engineer, a slightly built technician in his mid-thirties who looked more like a librarian than a soldier. Like a much older man, he needed glasses to read with, but generally kept them in his pocket out of vanity. His field of expertise was rocketry, not infantry, and the sight of the three mangled corpses lying face up on the ground before him made him ill. Six dead eyes were wide open in apparent disbelief, and their throats had been sliced from ear to ear.

Sokolov turned from the slaughter and to the great hole in the barbed wire fence. The muddy trail made by the missing tracked vehicles led through it and down to the road below. The vehicle park was located outside the city of Mariel, in western Cuba and very near Havana. Thousands of Russian soldiers were billeted in the area, but no one had seen or heard a thing. They were probably all drunk, he thought bitterly. If there was one thing the Russian soldier had mastered, it was the art of getting drunk every time he could. Sokolov was not a prude, but he disliked the thought of being out of control and that's what drunkenness meant. Of course, now these three men were out of control forever.

He turned to the very uncomfortable Russian sergeant who had survived the attack. Doubtless the fool had been asleep and as drunk as the other in his guard house, while his three subordinates wandered about the vehicle park and been slaughtered. Perhaps the dead Russian soldiers had been drunk as well. He wondered if that had that made their passage from the land of the living less painful. Sokolov doubted that.

The sergeant was lucky. He would survive with only the loss of his stripes and maybe a few years in a gulag if negligence could be proven or if someone needed to be blamed for the debacle.

"When did this happen?" Sokolov asked.

"I last saw them alive about two in the morning. Everything was fine, comrade major." The sergeant was sweating profusely and had begun to shake as fear began to take over. He'd survived murder, but could he survive the next few weeks?

Of course everything was fine, Sokolov thought. You were probably so drunk you could hardly walk and your men were thrilled to be rid of you so they could get drunk, or even take some of the narcotics that were still so easy to obtain in Comrade Fidel's Socialist Workers Paradise. Like most Russians, Sokolov had utter contempt for the Cubans.

Sokolov glared at the sergeant. Could he be complicit in the thefts? Probably not. He looked terrified, not greedy, but he would leave that up to the subtle interrogation skills of the GRU, the Soviet Army's agency for discipline and spying. If the GRU, or its civilian counterpart and rival, the KGB, even sensed a hint of something treasonous or criminal, they would begin by pulling out the sergeants finger and toe nails, and then get serious with his teeth and testicles. Or at least that was the rumor.

An army staff car pulled up. "Get out of here," he told the sergeant who scurried away like a bug. The sergeant's trousers were wet. He'd pissed himself.

Sokolov saluted General Issa Pliyev, commander of all the Russian forces in Cuba. The general had been briefed on the situation. Pliyev's second in command, Lieutenant General Dankevich emerged from a second car and began to take charge.

"This is awful," Pliyev said and he was not referring to the three dead men. "Although," he sighed, "it could have been worse, a lot worse, although I wonder how."

"They only got two of the vehicles," Sokolov said hopefully.

Pliyev glared at him. "Yes, two P76 tracked launchers that can go anywhere, and four short range Luna nuclear battlefield missiles. What the god damned hell were our fucking fraternal socialist comrades thinking, major? I hope someone fires one of those missiles right up Castro's ass!"

Sokolov was surprised by the tirade. He thought that Pliyev had supported the attack on Guantanamo, which Sokolov had thought was both foolish and dangerous. That danger had led Sokolov to contact the Dutch or American spy, Ulrich Fullmer, or whatever his real name was, and tell him of the threat. Sokolov lived with the gut-churning fear that he'd be discovered. Perhaps this new crime would deflect attention from him, although, in truth, he'd noticed no additional interest in him or his actions. Every Russian in Cuba was being watched by someone, but that was to be expected in a communist state. Perhaps he was paranoid, which wasn't a bad thing to be in a post-Stalin Soviet Union.

Pliyev continued. "I can read your mind, major. Yes, I thought it was wonderful that Castro was going to tweak Uncle Sam's beard and so did the Kremlin, although after the fact. But giving that bearded idiot Castro control of tactical nuclear missiles, no matter how small they are in comparison to strategic missiles, is creating a problem that is almost beyond comprehension."

"Are the Cubans declaring war on us as well?" Sokolov asked.

"Hardly. Even though we are fewer in numbers, we have enough men and firepower to demolish them. Don't forget that, while they may have stolen four of our nuclear rockets, we still have many more and they know we would not hesitate to use them on them. No, this is an attempt to embarrass us and let us know that Fidel Castro and his pigsty island of Cuba are still important." He laughed harshly. "At least they think they are important."

Pliyev shuddered. "The absolute last thing we want is this mess to escalate again to another nuclear confrontation with America. We had enough of that two months ago." He took Sokolov by the arm and steered him towards the fence, away from General Dankevich, the dead Russian soldiers, and the several curious men who stood around. "Walk with me. Too many are trying to hear what I am saying."

A moment later, Pliyev gestured and they halted. "Do you have civilian clothes and can you pack quickly?"

"Of course," Sokolov said, "but why?"

"And I assume you are prudent enough to have some alternate identification and, preferably, a diplomatic passport in someone else's name?"

Sokolov flushed and answered weakly. "Yes."

"Because I want you to get the hell out of here and on a plane to Mexico City along with some of the American wounded who are being sent out of Cuba. From Mexico you are to go to Washington and contact your CIA friend Fullmer — his real name is Kraeger, by the way — and give him the information about the missing nukes. You will also try to convince him and his government that we will do everything in our power, everything, and that includes killing Cubans, to get those damned missiles back."

Sokolov was almost too stunned to speak and his knees felt like they could no longer carry his weight. How long had Pliyev known that he'd leaked the information to Fullmer, or Kraeger if that was his real name? His knees wobbled and he thought he'd stumble. Or maybe he'd piss himself just like that fool of a sergeant.

The general laughed harshly. "You are a terrible liar and an even worse spy, major. It served me to have you warn them, but not in time to change things. Tell me, do you have family back in Russia?"

Sokolov could barely speak. "No, Comrade General. My father was killed in the Great Patriotic War fighting the Hitlerites at Stalingrad, and my mother simply disappeared during the fighting. I was raised in a state orphanage."

"Good. Then no one will miss you, not even me. I am not fond of people who go behind my back even though it is useful sometimes. The Americans will give you a new identity and a new life, which is better than what the GRU or KGB would do if they got their hands on you. Maybe the Americans will let you start a little grocery store or even teach Russian to their spies? It doesn't matter. What you think you know of our deepest secrets is next to nothing. If you pack now and drive quickly, you will probably pass the KGB and our beloved political officer, Major General Petrenko, on the road heading here. It will likely be a number of hours before they finish investigating and interrogating that cretinous sergeant before they and I realize you are missing and, therefore, someone who should be questioned thoroughly about this and other things. One more thing, send Captain Dragan in to see me and no, I am not going to have him kill you, at least not right away. Now get the hell out of my sight."

While the military minds planned war against Cuba, President Kennedy received information from the political and diplomatic fronts, and none of it was very good.

First, the United Nations had done what it does best, which is nothing. An American Security Council resolution condemning Cuba's aggression and demanding the return of Guantanamo was vetoed by Russia and China, with France abstaining. It looked like a number of nations were enjoying America's pain and discomfort.

Another resolution, this one by Russia and condemning obvious American plans to attack Cuba, was vetoed by the United States and Great Britain. Again, France abstained. JFK wondered just what the hell that arrogant and imperious pain in the ass, Charles de Gaulle, was thinking of. Making France a permanent member of the Security Council with right of veto had been a foolish thing. The UN’s structure had been formulated at the end of World War II and now others had to live with it.

The United Nations General Assembly had debated furiously, with many smaller and newly formed countries applauding Cuba's throwing off the final vestiges of colonial chains. In the end, a resolution calling for a peaceful resolution to the problem was passed almost unanimously. Kennedy seethed when he read it. Apparently the UN thought theft and mass murder were negotiable. The motion said nothing and meant nothing.

Domestically, his political opponents were having a field day. Arizona Senator Barry Goldwater, a conservative Republican and a possible opponent in the coming 1964 presidential election was raging that the United States was taking far too long to respond to the insult and the casualties to her servicemen. He and others in both parties wondered just when the president was going to go to congress and ask for a declaration of war against Communist Cuba.

A knock on the door and he was told that Soviet Ambassador Anatoly Dobrynnin had arrived. Kennedy greeted the Communist and bade him sit. To his surprise, Dobrynnin declined and suggested they go for a walk. Did the Russian suspect that conversations in the Oval Office were being recorded? They were, of course. Too bad he hadn't thought to carry a wire under his suit.

Dobrynnin was only a couple of years senior to Kennedy but looked much older. Like most of his countrymen, he was dour and rarely smiled and his suits looked like they had never been tailored or pressed. Communism must do that to a man, Kennedy thought. Even the women went out of their way to appear plain and frumpy. He and Bobby liked to joke that they'd never seen a truly happy communist.

They went outside. It was a cold, damp day which meant the meeting would not be overlong. Kennedy flashed his winning smile. "May I wonder if the Cuban attack was as big a surprise to you as it was to us?"

Dobrynnin smiled wanly. "You can wonder all you want and I would never confirm or deny that anything would surprise us."

"Then what happened to the agreement we had?" Kennedy inquired with a hint of anger in his voice. "Or are your agreements worthless?"

"Our word is our bond," the Russian said stiffly, conveniently forgetting that the Soviet Union had torn up many agreements in the past if it suited their purposes. "Apparently, however, our fraternal socialist comrades in Havana felt that we had insulted them by not giving them a greater role in planning the agreement. They feel we dishonored them."

"I don't understand. According to the terms of that agreement, we promised never to attack Cuba."

Dobrynnin laughed. "After the Bay of Pigs and other attempts to oust Castro, do you really think they'd believe you? No, Castro wants a formal treaty between the United States and Cuba regarding Cuban ownership of Guantanamo. This will not only give Castro the base in perpetuity, which the Cuban people feel is theirs in the first place, but also make him a hero in the eyes of many Latin and Central American nations. It will also give him the opportunity to export his revolution, which is quite important to him. I'm sure you're aware that Che Guevara will be on his way to Bolivia to stir up trouble when this is all over."

Kennedy wasn't aware and made a note to check with the CIA and Director McCone. "So he really did surprise you?"

"Let's just say we were not as well informed as we could have been. Let's also say that Castro is a complete fucking lunatic who is rapidly wearing out his welcome."

"Therefore, you would not object to us ousting him."

"That depends," Dobrynnin added. "We will, of course, continue to block you in the United Nations, which is of no real concern to either of us. Who cares what those idiots do? We will have a small propaganda victory at your expense, while you regain your base, but only after expending a considerable amount of Cuban and American blood. However, we cannot agree to your conquering the rest of the island, which means that Castro would likely stay, if only for the short while."

The Soviet ambassador pretended to examine a plant that was turning brown as winter drew near. "We have a great investment in Cuba and we also have forty thousand soldiers on the island who we cannot allow to be sucked into any war between Cuba and the United States. If you want your base back, then you are free to try and take it. If you want Castro out, then do so by some means other than storming Havana. If you overreach, there could be other problems and ramifications."

Kennedy nodded. He was obviously referring to Berlin's precarious position as a bastion of democracy in a sea of East German communism, surrounded as it was by huge Soviet and Warsaw Pact armies. Berlin had been a near flashpoint on several occasions since the end of World War II.

Quid pro quo, tit for tat. It was the way the world worked, Kennedy thought. If we take Havana, the Russians will take Berlin, and many will die. "Thank you for coming by, Ambassador Dobrynnin. I believe we can agree to the assembled media that we had a frank and meaningful exchange."

"Indeed," Dobrynnin said with the hint of a smile. "You can even add that the exchange was cordial." They returned to the Oval Office and the Russian departed.

A few moments later, Bobby Kennedy poked his head into the Oval Office. "How'd it go?"

"My fucking boyish charm didn't work at all."