Castro's bomb

Chapter Nine

It was December 28, and boredom was setting in among Ross and the others. The adrenalin rush from the fighting and running from danger on Christmas day had long worn out and they were all as rested as they could be. Now they wondered just what was going to happen next.

Andrew and the others had made the dilapidated house as comfortable as possible without drawing anyone's attention. They kept a continuous watch, especially on the dirt road that ran only about a mile from the house. They'd seen only a few vehicles and most of those were clearly civilian. They were driven quickly, as if terrified of American planes. Good, they all thought. All Cubans should be fearfully watching the skies.

Food was beginning to become an issue. The C and K rations had long since ceased to satisfy. Hollis said they made him constipated while Groth said they gave him the runs. Cathy thought that they made her feel bloated and maybe pregnant, then realized that it wasn't funny. She prayed that the bloating indicated her period was coming and that she hadn't been knocked up by that bastard, Gomez.

Andrew and Sergeant Cullen discussed it, and all agreed that they couldn't just run to a nearby store, so C and K rations would remain an important part of their diet. Andrew authorized Cullen to take a couple of men back onto the base for additional supplies, and that foray resulted in cans of soup, peanut butter, jams, jellies, and other items, including more toilet paper. They wouldn't starve, at least not for a while, but the ruined base had been pretty well picked over by Cuban scavengers, so future forays might prove fruitless and dangerous. No matter how careful the scavengers were, there was always the possibility of discovery.

Cullen reported that much of what remained of the base after the fighting was being systematically blown up by Cuban demolitions squads. Andrew thought they were trying to erase what they felt was a shameful stain on their history.

Before Cullen made his run, it was admitted that no one knew how to build a radio that could send messages. This was frustrating as they could hear the news on the Miami station, but couldn't react to it. They had no way of telling anyone they were safe and free, a point that Andrew felt was becoming critical.

Their radio listening ritual centered on listening to the Miami station's news at seven in the evening. This night, only Andrew was paying strict attention. Finally, they heard the words that grabbed them and made them sit at attention.

The deep voiced announcer said, "And finally, there has been no word on the missing Canadian missionaries led by the Reverends Ross and Cullen. While it is presumed they are still safe in Cuba, it is hoped that they will be able to contact their church in Toronto, and their pastor, the Reverend Kraeger."

The announcer concluded by giving a phone number and repeating it, while Andrew and the others frantically wrote it down.

"Will somebody tell me what just happened?" Cathy asked.

Andrew grinned hugely. "Finally, I think I did something right. I hoped that Levin and Stillwell would be repatriated because of their wounds so I told them to tell the CIA or the Corps or anybody about us and to use the missionary story and see if they could get it broadcast at the right time. I guess that's what happened and that's why we’ve been listening each night at that time."

Cathy yelped and gave Andrew a quick hug while the others patted him on the back and shook his hand.

"Not bad for an accountant," Cullen said with a huge grin. "Not too damn bad at all."

"But how the hell do we get in contact with this ‘reverend’ who is obviously with our government?" Andrew asked.

PFC Ward smiled sheepishly. "Y'know, sir, when I was a kid I had a deprived childhood and all that, and one of my uncles taught me how to steal from the public utilities. Since we couldn’t afford anything we tapped into electricity, heat, and, yeah, the telephones. You get me a telephone and I think I can tap into that line that runs along the road and nobody will know anything about it."

"What do we do when we do get a dial tone?" Cullen asked. "Call home?"

"Why not?" Andrew responded. "All we can do is fail. Sergeant Cullen, would you and Ward like to volunteer to go back on base and bring us back a telephone?"

"I think we need a couple of them, sir," Ward said. "Some of them might just be smashed up and I'll have to work with parts to make a good one."

Charley Kraeger and Elena Sandano had gotten to know each other fairly well during that first Christmas morning breakfast. They had accomplished this by not discussing work. Instead, they had satisfied their mutual curiosity about each other.

Elena had been intrigued by Charley's wartime experiences and, since her mother was half-Jewish, more than delighted to find that he had killed a Gestapo officer. Her mother had lost family members in the Holocaust. Elena thought mom would be thrilled to meet Charley.

She was further pleased to find that Charley was not what she thought was a typical field agent. He was housebroken, did not eat raw meat unless it was Sushi, could actually read and write, and even had a master's degree in political science from Boston College, in part courtesy of the GI Bill. It didn't hurt that he could speak German, Dutch, Russian and French and even a decent level of Spanish, although with an atrocious accent.

For his part, Kraeger was impressed that the very attractive woman had a PhD in Latin American studies from the University of Miami in Florida, not Ohio, and that she had worked her way through college until graduating and getting a job with the CIA, after which they paid for her ongoing education. Bona fides established, they could now talk about work.

Elena was a desk person and Charley swore he was too, for now and maybe forever. "No more floating away from foreign countries while some idiot tries to fill my little boat and my delicate body full of bullet holes."

More pragmatically, his identity was now blown. "Every commie embassy in the world probably has my passport photo on its wall, if not at the center of their dart board."

"You're inflating your importance," Elena said. "The wall I'll give you, but the dart board belongs to Kennedy. They hate him with a passion."

"How about pictures of me naked as the centerfold of Pravda, or my photo in the bottom of urinals in the Kremlin?"

Elena nearly choked on her soup. They were again in the CIA cafeteria. She was working with McCone on likely Cuban civilian responses, while Charley was babysitting a telephone.

"Any word on the so-called Canadian missionaries?" she asked after recovering her equilibrium.

Charley laughed. "Only from the Canadian Embassy who wondered just who the hell these people were and, oh yes, could they assist in helping the poor demented souls get out or find sanctuary in the Canadian Embassy in Havana? At some point we might have to let the Canadians in on the secret, which would be a shame since most Canadians don't have much of a sense of humor."

"Why did you choose Canada as these so-called missionaries' country of origin, and how come you're doing this and not the Marines?"

"First, Canada is not a military threat to anyone and it's one of those do-good things that you'd expect from Canadian missionaries. As to why us and not the Marines, it's simple. We are good at the clandestine stuff, while the Marines are great at storming beaches and killing the enemy. And yes, there was some grumbling, especially from the Navy, but JFK apparently said they would do it his way, and that meant the CIA. At any rate, thank God for the Canadians. If they didn't exist, we'd have to invent them."

"I know. They're too busy playing hockey to really understand what's going on in the big ugly world. Do you think there are any other American soldiers wandering around Cuba?"

"Elena, I think it's a helluva lot more than likely, which makes it so important that we get in contact with this Ross guy. If we find him and get to communicate with him, we might get a lead on others. In the meantime, we're all in the dark."

Lt. Col. Ted Romanski's busted ankle was improving, but only slightly. He still needed a crutch to walk. He was totally dependent on Sergeant Morton for everything he ate or drank. Fortunately, Sergeant Morton was up to the task. He'd taken all the army’s survival courses and knew what fruits and vegetables were edible and how to track, catch, and cook small animals.

A tree-climbing rodent Morton identified as a ‘jutia’ was caught and cooked by Morton and eaten with gusto. "Does it taste like chicken, colonel?"

"It tastes like rodent, sergeant."

There were mangoes, avocado, papaya, banana, orange, and grapefruit trees in the area. All they had to do was find them.

Romanski couldn't believe how damned depressing he found his situation. And what the devil was Midge doing? How was she making out? Had the mindless boobs at the Pentagon told her he was missing and presumed dead, or just plain missing? Christ, he hoped they hadn't had a funeral for him. Then he wondered if he'd gotten a posthumous promotion and would he have to give it back if he got rescued?

"What are you thinking of, colonel?"

"Just wondering if they held a memorial service for me and who came and what they said."

Morton grinned. "Good question. I'd like to know the same thing. I've got a wife and her relatives are probably trying to get her the money from my life insurance policy. I wonder if people will be glad or embarrassed when we get back. I hope somebody recorded all the nice things people said about me so I can hit them for loans. Ever notice how every dead person is a saint? How come nobody stands up and says that late Uncle Freddie was a drunken shit who beat his wife and molested his children and should've died a lot sooner."

Romanski laughed and stretched his bad leg. It hurt but seemed to help. He'd also like to know more about the half-assed plan to send his several hundred men on a fool's errand. They'd been lucky, after a fashion, that only three planes full of fine young men had been destroyed. He was going to have some frank words with General Josiah Bunting and the hell with the difference in rank. Someone had screwed up royally and dozens of good people had died. And here he was, limping along in the eastern end of Cuba surrounded by tens of thousands of enemy soldiers and eating rodents.

"So let's make it a point to get back home and raise holy hell. Any thoughts, sergeant major?"

"I still think we should head south, toward Gitmo, sir. If anything's going to happen, like a landing or an attack by our guys, it's likely gonna be there or near there."

"I agree."

They understood that getting closer to a likely American landing site would also place them in the heart of Cuban defenses.

"You still don't speak Spanish, do you sergeant?"

"Just fluent Korean, colonel." It was a standing joke. Morton had even facetiously suggested he might try to pass as a North Korean officer.

Morton took out a map of Cuba. They had been moving parallel to a narrow dirt road and it seemed to be leading them to a town called Arroyo Honda, and to their north was a town called Jamaica. At least they hoped it was a town. If it meant the island of Jamaica, they were well and truly lost.

Avoiding towns was a very good idea. Towns meant police and soldiers and nosy people wondering about the two gringos who couldn't speak Spanish. This also meant that traveling was even more arduous then it would normally be and, in Romanski's case, sometimes downright painful. They generally stayed within sight of the road, but out of the view of anyone on it. At least that was their plan and so far it had worked. When they saw traffic or people they scooted down and hid, which further slowed their progress considerably.

Fortunately, there was very little traffic on the road during the day. The fear of American fighter-bombers, which they could see and hear in the sky above them, told even the bravest Cuban to stay out of sight. Romanski and Morton were deeply concerned that they would be spotted and killed by friendly fire. It seemed illogical that a plane would attack two people, but one never knew when a bored pilot might decide to have some fun, and it was far better to be safe than sorry.

During the night, the road was a more active. Columns of infantry, spread out very widely, moved down the road in the direction of Guantanamo. Trucks and what looked like camouflaged armor moved one at a time, and again very widely spaced. It was only a trickle, but a steady trickle.

It meant that they had to be careful where they walked during the day. They might just stumble on to where the Cubans were bivouacking during the day while waiting for the relative safety of night.

"How many miles to go?" Morton asked.

"Too damn many," Romanski said and wondered again just what Midge was doing. He hoped to hell that she wasn't planning a memorial service.

Major Sam Hartford was reasonably pleased at the way his new command was shaping up. Everyone had personal space in a tent, a bunk with a blanket, was protected from the elements, and the food, while bland, was in sufficient quantity and better tasting than they expected. Just as well it was bland, he thought. His stomach rebelled at anything too spicy, which meant that he’d always avoided Cuban food. He knew some of his younger men called him an old fart behind his back, but he didn't have to prove them right.

Colonel Cordero was proving himself to be a reasonably decent person. He'd arranged for clothing to be provided for those who had lost much of their gear in the fighting and had told Hartford that Red Cross packages would be allowed, and that Red Cross representatives would be visiting. The issue of sending and receiving personal mail was still up for debate. Hartford could understand that Cordero didn't want packages or secret information coming and going.

A shame, Hartford thought. That was exactly what he'd wanted to do. He thought they could compromise on sending and getting postcards, and decided to suggest that to Cordero.

He rose and walked from his tent and intentionally took a roundabout path to his destination, the small tent he would use for the conference with his “administration committee.” He hoped that any observers from the guard towers would find it virtually impossible to track the seemingly random movements of the committee members, and if they were being watched, attribute wanderings to boredom. The simple precaution of changing shirts and hats would confuse the guards watching from a distance. Having several hundreds of men milling around would further confuse any observers.

This meeting had been called by Navy Lieutenant William Skronski, who was head of Hartford's intelligence committee. Skronski had volunteered for the position even though he, like everybody else had no experience in being prisoners and gathering intelligence. The young man had seemed bright enough and certainly eager. Hartford had gratefully accepted his offer and wondered how it would turn out.

As Hartford turned a corner, Skronski reached out from a tent and grabbed his arm. "In here quick, sir."

Hartford complied and found him staring at three dark-skinned uniformed Cuban soldiers who were pointing AK47s right at his gut. "What the fuck?"

One of them laughed cruelly and stuck his weapon under Hartford's shin while the other two held guns to the side of his head. The Cuban with the gun under his chin spoke in heavily accented English. "You are under arrest for being a capitalist war monger and for committing crimes against the people of Cuba. You will be tried and then you will be executed."

Hartford turned to Skronski, a difficult task with three guns at his skull. "What have you done to me, you fucking bastard?"

Skronski raised his hand and the three Cubans lowered their weapons. Hartford realized to his chagrin that there were no clips in the guns. They were unloaded.

Skronski was grinning impishly. "Impressive, wasn't it, sir?"

The three "Cubans" were also grinning hugely. Hartford tried to will his heart to slow down and his stomach to stop churning. He had been conned and most effectively. "That was not nice, lieutenant. Well done, but not nice. Now, who the hell are these three guys?"

Skronski signaled and the three men moved to the other side of the tent and stripped off their Cuban uniforms, replacing them with marine and navy gear. "First, sir, I don't think it's a good idea to give you or anyone else their names. What nobody knows they can't tell."

"Good."

"Two of these fine young men are navy and one is a marine. All of them were born in Cuba and emigrated to the U.S. in the last several years. All of them obviously speak fluent Cuban accented Spanish and one of them even grew up here in the Santiago area. And did I mention they hate Castro?"

Hartford felt that his body had returned to normal. "Fantastic."

"We thought you'd like it, major."

"Now where the hell'd you get the uniforms and the guns?"

Skronski laughed. "We simply bought the uniforms from Cuban guards using the money and cigarettes we'd hoarded. Some of the militia are so greedy and crooked they'd sell their mothers if only they knew who they were. All we had to do was set out some feelers and hints and they came sniffing like dogs smelling bitches in heat. As to the guns, we suited up the guys and they went out with other guards and into Santiago itself where about a division of militia is hiding in buildings. Simply put, they stole the AKs, along with a couple of extra clips of ammunition."

"Jesus, Skronski, you have done good."

Skronski grinned happily. The three "Cubans" had disappeared out the tent and into the prison population where they were just three more black guys.

Skronski continued. "There's an armory in town and, since everything is chaotic, we may be able to break in and steal some more guns, although not likely AK47s. There won't be enough to arm everyone, but maybe enough to cause the Cubans some grief when the time comes."

It sounded like thunder but there were no clouds in the sky. Bombs or artillery, they wondered. Bombs, they decided. They were even too far inshore for it to be a naval bombardment.

"Up there," said Williams, pointing to the sky. A flash of light, a reflection as a plane was momentarily visible in the misty clouds.

They spotted another plane, and the pair of them began to swoop down like eagles or hawks dropping on a mouse. They never saw the bombs drop, but they did see a flash of light and then another and then the smoke. A moment later, they felt the explosions.

Cathy had mixed emotions. She wanted to exult that American warplanes were pounding a Cuban target, but she realized that the explosions likely meant that some people had died or been terribly maimed. She thought about praying for them. But they were the people who had killed her friends, destroyed her property and been among the enemy who'd raped her. Perhaps her rapist, this Sergeant Gomez, had just been obliterated by one of the bombs. Would that be a good thing or a bad thing? There were no easy answers in life.

They started to move back to the house when Sergeant Cullen held up a hand. They halted, froze, just like he'd trained them. He turned and said, "Fire drill!"

They moved quickly to the house where they gathered up everything they had. It was like a fire drill they'd practiced repeatedly. Their house was a temporary refuge and now it was time to depart. Run. Nobody asked why, they just ran. The lowest ranking marine among them could have given the command and it would have been obeyed instantly.

They'd gone maybe a quarter mile when Ross called a halt. "What'd you see, sergeant."

Cullen wasn't winded although he was sweating. "Maybe a dozen Cuban troopers moving through the bushes towards us. They were just walking along, not like they were looking for anything. Maybe one of them knew the place was there and thought it would be better than sleeping on the ground."

Why not, Andrew thought. The Cubans had just seen one of their units pasted by American planes and had to be thinking that it might have been them, which made it time to hide and wait until cover of night. It meant that he and the others would be sleeping outdoors tonight unless they could find something they could use for shelter. He thought it would be unlikely they'd find anything as nice as the farm house.

Cathy touched his arm. "Andrew, do you think they'll suspect we were there?"

"I don't think so," he answered. "I'm sure they'll know that other people have occupied the place, but these guys are just militia infantry and it doesn't look like they are looking for us or anybody like us. They'll think it was militia like them just using the place." I hope, he thought.

Gunnery sergeant Cullen plopped down beside them. "That went pretty well. The training paid off and we didn't have to fight our way out of the situation. But I do have some bad news. With all these Cubans moving down the roads at night, we will have to tap into the phones during the day and that means someone might see us."

"I don't like that," Ross said. They had reconstructed at least one phone that should work. But someone working on a line during the day would stand out like a sore thumb, and attention was the last thing they needed. "Do we have enough cord to run into a safe place and bury? Or is there a place the where the phone lines run that isn't close to the road?"

Cullen nodded. "Tell you what, lieutenant, let me find out about either or both."

Elena Sandano was not overly impressed by powerful men, but she was uneasy in the presence of President Kennedy. Granted, she was not alone in the Oval Office. Director McCone and Vice President Johnson were there as well. Still, she had the feeling that the President of the United States was mentally undressing her. Perhaps it was her imagination, although she'd heard many, many rumors of his womanizing. And Lyndon Johnson was staring at her like a wolf at raw meat. She thought she should have worn a longer skirt, like something from the Victorian age that loosely covered her to her toes or whatever the heck it was that Moslem women wore.

She made a point to look around and try to memorize her surroundings. She suspected that this, her first time in the Oval Office, could easily be her last. She wanted to remember it all, especially since her mother would pester her for every possible detail.

McCone had done the introductions and told them her professional and academic background. They seemed to be impressed. She wondered if that would be the case when she finished her presentation.

"Mr. President," she began, "you have asked for an honest and candid assessment of the situation in Cuba regarding the people of Cuba and their attitudes regarding the refugees in Miami."

Kennedy grinned. "Give me a one sentence synopsis."

Elena smiled grimly. "The people in Cuba love Fidel and they hate us and they hate the refugees in Miami."

"Not bad for one sentence," Vice President Johnson said.

"Will they fight for Fidel?" JFK asked.

"Definitely, sir. And the reason is simple. He has given them a much better life than they ever had under Batista or anyone else."

Johnson leaned forward and glared at Elena. "But Castro and his boys are communists who stole property from others."

He was trying to intimidate her, but Elena would have none of it. "The people now in Cuba consider the ones who have left to be the criminals. They hated the casino owners, the drug dealers, the prostitutes and their pimps, the factory owners, and the large landowners who, in their opinion, made the farm workers little more than serfs. Are you aware that some organized crime groups sent their thugs out in the countryside to kidnap young girls and turn them into drug addicted whores?"

"You sound like you admire Castro," Kennedy said with a smile, "Are you sure you're not a communist or a socialist?"

"Hardly, sir. I own stock in GM, IBM, and a host of others. My future is tied to the free market system. I plan on getting rich by being better and smarter than anybody else at what I do. What I'm trying to tell you is that many people in Cuba lived lives of incredible misery before Castro and under Batista, and they now see hope. They are starting to get food, medical care, schooling, telephones, and electricity. Sanitation is improving along with the Cuban people's overall health, and, if we don't consider them free by our standards, then it doesn't matter because they weren't free before Castro. Maybe they'll tire of his act in a few years, and maybe he won't be able to continue to deliver on his promises, but right now he's considered a saint, and his taking of Guantanamo has made him a hero both in Cuba and in many, many other countries, especially those in south and central America."

McCone interrupted. "In support of what Dr. Sandano is saying, every indication is that many thousands of Cubans are rushing to join the militia or Cuba's regular army to help defeat the American invaders. Castro’s military is not having to conscript anyone. These new troops won't be a factor in any coming fighting but they do show the high level of Castro's popularity."

"Just like what didn't happen at the Bay of Pigs," Elena bluntly added and the president winced. "Everyone told you there'd be an uprising against Castro and the experts were wrong, nothing happened. Now we're telling you that the situation is even worse than before. The whole of Cuba will fight against you if we try to re-take Guantanamo."

Kennedy rose from behind the massive desk in the Oval Office. He wondered just how different the world would now be if the CIA had given him that kind of candid information before he authorized that disastrous attack just after his inauguration. He hadn't been involved in the planning for the Bay of Pigs, and had allowed himself to be swept along by events. Would he have cancelled it? No one would ever know.

Kennedy asked. "And the people in Miami, Dr. Sandana, what will they do?"

Nearly two hundred thousand Cubans had fled Castro's Cuba for sanctuary in the United States and more were coming on an almost daily basis. Not even the state of war between Cuba and the United States had stopped the flow of refugees.

"The refugees in Miami are in ferment, sir. As you are well aware they are demonstrating in the streets of Miami right now and they are very close to rioting. They want a chance to fight Castro and get their lost properties back." Elena swivelled her head so her gaze took in Kennedy and Johnson. "With respect sirs, both of you have made speeches encouraging the refugees in Florida to stand firm and be prepared to return to their homeland when Castro and the current government fall. If they do, the refugees will have to fight tooth and nail against the people who now live in their houses and farm their fields."

"Those people are thieves," LBJ snapped. He had been extremely vocal and outspoken in his support of the Cubans in Miami, much to the annoyance of President Kennedy who saw his vice president laying the groundwork for another run at the White House.

"Not in the minds of the people still in Cuba," she answered firmly. "In their eyes, the government has legally given them that property. They have had it for up to four years now and absolutely feel that it is legally theirs. I don't want to make too much of a comparison with our government's right of eminent domain to seize private property for the public good, but some comparisons are valid. The people now in Cuba will kill the refugees if they come back and try to take back what was once theirs. I very strongly feel that the American government must be prepared to confront this ugly reality."

Elena took a deep breath. Had she said too much? Both the president and vice president appeared angry. Oh well. She could always find a job selling insurance.

She tried to smile warmly. "Mr. President, I understand that literally hundreds of boats of various sizes and full of armed refugees are planning to go to Cuba and that some of them may have already left."

McCone injected. "Miss Sandano is correct, Mr. President. Some may have left and they all are planning to go, but they don't have the numbers or the weapons and therefore don't stand a chance in hell of succeeding if they do invade. It will be a tragedy of epic proportions even if we do provide them with air and naval cover, which was not provided during the Bay of Pigs attack. We are trying to stop them but we may not be able to without the use of force."

Kennedy was appalled, particularly at the thought that he might have to use force to stop the Miami-based pro-American Cubans from returning to their homeland in order to protect them. He thanked Elena and McCone and dismissed them. McCone returned to his office while Elena waited outside for Charley Kraeger. When she saw him she smiled in relief.

"Who's watching your phones?" she asked.

He laughed. "They gave me a couple of guys to help me so I could eat, sleep, and go to the john. How'd it go?"

"He and Lyndon Johnson listened. They seemed to take it in, and they asked the right questions. They weren't at all happy with what I told them, but I think they understand that making them happy isn't in my job description. I'm supposed to tell them the truth."

"Were you nervous?"

"Only until I started talking. Then I could take my mind off the fact that the president and leader of the free world was trying to stare up my skirt."

Kraeger guffawed. "Yep, the leader of the free world is a piece of work."

"Ward, what do you call a column of five Cuban Army trucks traveling down a road in broad daylight?" asked Gunnery Sergeant Cullen.

"Stupid?"

Cullen rolled over on his side and gave the other man his binoculars. "Close enough. I was actually thinking targets." Ward chuckled and looked at the trucks. They were maybe a mile away and moving like they didn't have a care in the world. Cullen and Ward had left the camp and were doing some scouting, and this time they were checking out a road that ran near where they had their new base. With the exception of Cathy, everyone patrolled, and at least either Gunnery Sergeant Cullen or Lieutenant Ross stayed at their new base camp in the woods. Cullen didn't think that either Ross or Cathy minded being together.

"I guess they forgot we have airplanes, gunny."

"Yeah, maybe. On the other hand they may think the war is over because they now hold Gitmo."

Ward returned the binoculars. "Gee," he said sarcastically, "I hope nothing happens to spoil their day, like bombs raining on their parade."

As if on cue, a pair of American jets dived on the column, their engines screaming and shrieking. Rockets and machine gun bullets churned up the road and the lead trucks. A couple of them tried to dodge, but the first vehicle had quickly become a mass of flaming wreckage, and getting around it fatally slowed the column's survivors.

The jets returned for a second pass and three of the four remaining trucks were destroyed. Men were falling out of them, most didn't move. The driver of the fifth put his truck in reverse and tried to back out as fast as he could. It wasn't fast enough and a third pass by the American fighters destroyed him.

A couple of men staggered out and ran away across a field. "I'm glad they're not heading for us," said Cullen. "I'd hate to have to kill them."

"Why?"

Cullen smiled coldly. "Because now they can return to their little communist compadres and remind them that we rule the sky and the roads and anybody moving down a road is going to catch hell."

"I like that, gunny."

"Yeah, and just think how much shit we could cause if we could only contact our friends offshore."

They waited fifteen minutes to make sure the planes didn't return and moved cautiously towards the wreckage of the column. Only a couple of Cubans were still alive and they were in terrible shape, missing limbs and otherwise horribly mangled. They would die soon and there was nothing the two marines could do, so they steeled themselves and checked the debris for anything useful. Another dozen or so were dead. An actual count would have been difficult considering the fact that many of the bodies had been destroyed. Besides, who cared?

"Got me an AK47," Ward said happily, "and a couple of clips of ammo."

Cullen had found another one for himself along with a Russian made pistol. It was a 9mm Markov automatic pistol and a welcome addition to their arsenal, even though it came with only the bullets in the clip.

"Belated Merry Christmas, Ward. Too bad the other Cubans were carrying old weapons. Christ, some of these guys had old American Springfields from 1898."

They completed their search by taking some Cuban rations and blankets. "Okay, Ward, time to go back to base and tell Ross what happened."