Castro's bomb

by Robert Conroy

  Behind the barbed wire towards Cuba, the ground was barren and windswept. Those who thought of Cuba as a lush tropical paradise were sometimes shocked to see what amounted to a near desert in nearby parts of Guantanamo, particularly those windswept areas to the east, where winds from the Atlantic scoured the land.

  Behind the bunker were a couple of tents that would hold the men not on duty and keep them in absolute discomfort. The tents would protect against any rain, but did a marvelous job of trapping the Cuban heat. It might be winter, but they were near the Equator and the weather was hot and humid. But at least the air outside circulated and was fresh, not like the bunker, which felt like being in a hot, moist oven. Everyone who could spent as much time as possible outside it.

  Andrew's senior noncom was Gunnery Sergeant Joe Cullen, a tall, lanky twenty-nine year old veteran of the Korean War. He seemed efficient, but a gunnery sergeant was expected to be good at what he did. "Not very impressive, is it, lieutenant."

  "I've seen worse," Andrew said with a grin, "just can't quite place the memory."

  Andrew was beginning to have doubts about his decision to help out his friend Hannigan with guard duty when he could have been ensconced in the relative comforts of the Bachelor Officer's Quarters, or even wasting time at the officer’s club bar. But what the hell, he decided, he was here and it would be over before he knew it. He could do a couple of days commanding this troop on his head.

  "So what if it ain't a Holiday Inn or a Howard Johnson's," Ross said, "it's home sweet home for the short duration."

  Cullen spat on the ground and glared at the emptiness down the road to Cuba. "I just hope nothing happens while we're out here. Have you looked at how miserably small this place is? The commies come down that road and we won't be able to do much more than wave at them. Twenty guys with rifles and one ancient machine gun are not exactly a modern army, sir."

  Ross really didn't think the commies were coming down the road anytime soon, but he did agree that the bunker was poorly sited and the men were inadequately armed, and had doubtless lost any training edge.

  "Just a thought, sergeant, do we have a fallback position?"

  Cullen shook his head. "No, but it wouldn't be that much trouble to plan for one. You want me to do it?"

  "Why not? The men won't like it very much but it will give us all something to do. You have any thoughts?"

  Cullen mentioned a depression in the ground about two hundred yards to their rear and even Andrew saw the advantage. Men in the depression would be hidden from anyone coming down the road and could enfilade any traffic after it passed the bunker. They would not stick out like a sore thumb the way the bunker did. There was no roof on the gully, but the roof on the bunker wasn't all that strong, either. Andrew had already concluded that it wouldn't stand up to any sort of serious attack. In particular, a series of heavy mortar rounds landing on the roof would cause the whole thing to collapse and raise serious hell with anyone inside.

  "What do you want to do?" he asked Cullen.

  Cullen grinned wickedly. "I'll get a couple of the boys who aren't doing much and have them down here preparing firing platforms in the gully. They'll be pissed but it'll be better than them sitting around jacking off, sir."

  "Let's just make sure nobody misses the hot turkey dinner that's supposed to be here tomorrow afternoon," Ross said. He had his doubts as to whether the meal would arrive or just how good it would taste, or whether anyone would want a hot meal in the stifling Cuban heat. Still, turkey dinner was something to look forward to even if all they did was complain about it.

  John Fitzgerald Kennedy, the thirty-fifth President of the United States, reviewed the material a very nervous CIA Director McCone had brought to him in the Oval Office. McCone had a right to be nervous. The president was clearly skeptical.

  Kennedy placed the report on the large, ornate wooden desk that had become a Kennedy trademark. It was the so-called Resolute Desk because it was made from wood from the Royal Navy ship of that name and presented to the U.S. by Queen Victoria.

  "This is more than interesting; it's scary if true. But how the hell do we know whether or not it's true or somebody's wet dream. We need corroboration before we go off half cocked and accuse Castro of doing something he clearly promised he wouldn't do and which, if he did, would cause a war."

  Robert Kennedy, the president's younger brother and the Attorney General came in, took glanced at the report and winced. "Dear God."

  "Tell me about your agent," the president said.

  "Charles Kraeger has been either in the military or been one of our agents for a little more than twenty years. He's consistently done a fine job and is up for promotion. He doesn't drink to excess, and has never screwed up in the field. We should have more men like him."

  "What was he doing in Cuba," Bobby asked, "besides spying, of course? What was his cover?"

  "Kraeger was born in Milwaukee and spoke both German and Dutch from childhood. His cover had him in Cuba as Dutch merchant selling clothing and uniforms to the Cuban military."

  JFK nodded. "He speaks Spanish?"

  "Excellently, but with a heavy German accent."

  The president grinned at the thought. "Who is his source, or sources?"

  "At least one is an officer in the Russian Rocket Regiment that hasn't quite pulled out of Cuba yet. We understand he's horrified that a madman like Castro could wind up potentially involving Soviet troops in such a risky endeavor. General Pliyev, the commander of Soviet forces in Cuba supports Castro and is angry that his leaders in Moscow caved into us. It’s possible that this Pliyev would prefer that we go to war and settle all the world’s problems once and for all. It’s also extremely likely that Castro feels that way as well, if this report is true."

  The president stood and walked gingerly to the wooden rocking chair by his desk. He sat down with a sigh as its motion soothed the ache in his back. The pain seemed to get worse with the stress of the job.

  "Just curious, but where was your man during the Bay of Pigs?"

  "Smoking a cigar and sitting on a beach in a small town outside Havana. He was not in on the plan. After the fact, he did report that the coming invasion was common knowledge and, had he been asked, he would have said that there would be no groundswell of enthusiasm for it. I did not find out about his reports until recently. They were buried with a lot of information that was unwelcome."

  "Of course” Kennedy said with a sigh. “Never tell the boss what he doesn't want to hear unless you're just about ready to retire or marry into money."

  The actions of the Russian military never ceased to amaze him. People thought of the Soviet Union and its armed forces as a mindless monolith with everyone marching in lockstep to directions from Moscow. In reality it was often different, with local officers frequently taking independent actions that the Kremlin had not approved.

  "What are our options?" Bobby asked his brother.

  JFK turned to McCone. "First, we need corroboration that a large Cuban army under this General Ortega is going to attack Gitmo and we need it quickly."

  "And on Christmas," Bobby muttered, shaking his head. It was Christmas Eve afternoon and Washington D.C. was already rapidly closing down. Soon, the most important city in the free world would be a virtual ghost town.

  JFK ignored him. "Second, we need to notify Cuba through the Swiss that we are on to their game, or, that we are at least hearing rumors and will do whatever we have to in order to protect Guantanamo. We will also remind Castro of the agreement between us and the Russians."

  Secretary of State Rusk entered and heard the last. "The Swiss embassy is closed for the holiday, Mr. President, as is the Soviet embassy."

  With diplomatic relations between the United States and Cuba severed as a result of the Cuban Missile Crisis, the ever-neutral Swiss had been functioning as America's agent in Cuba.

  President Kennedy looked mockingly incredulous. "Please don't tell me that the godless communists have taken Christ's birthday
off as a holiday?"

  Rusk declined to smile. He was aware that the Kennedy's did not have a lot of confidence in him either, although, like McCone, his efforts during the recent crisis had been fairly well done.

  "So what do we do?" McCone asked. "Can we or should we increase our alert status? Seriously, sir, if the military is like my organization, then a whole lot of them are either at home or on the way home. We'd have a devil of a time recalling people. Can you imagine the mess the trains and airlines would be? And can you imagine what fools we'd look like if this turned out to be a false alarm?"

  The president rubbed his forehead and tried to twist into a more comfortable position in the rocking chair. It wasn’t working. The pain continued at its intense level. He turned to McCone. "Do you believe this man Kraeger? I mean the poor guy was half-drowned, sunbaked, injured, and delirious. Could he be hallucinating or could this be a heat induced figment of his imagination?"

  McCone scowled at the implication that his man might be unbalanced. "Sir, I believe that Kraeger believes that what he's reporting is the truth. And as to his possibly hallucinating, he wasn't hallucinating when he made a run from Cuba to warn us. And he wasn't hallucinating when the Cubans tried to kill him and sink that little boat he’d stolen — that and the fact that he's provided far too much detail for it to be a fantasy. What I don't know, Mr. President, is whether or not the Russians are feeding us a line through Kraeger in order to make us overreact and look like fools if the report is false. Or, are they giving us enough advance warning so that it will look like they tried to help when, in reality, there's no time to do anything about their warning.

  "Sir, all I can say is that my man absolutely feels that the information he's gotten is genuine and that the threat is both immediate and real. He's en route to here and will arrive in a couple of hours. I can arrange for you to meet him if you wish and you can judge for yourself."

  "Later," JFK said. "If he’s right, we’ll give him a medal in the Rose Garden. If he’s wrong, we’ll have him exiled to some shithole in Africa. I agree with what you say and what he believes is the truth. The threat cannot be ignored. First, I want to reconstitute ExComm."

  Excomm was the name for the group of senior military and government officials that worked as a brain trust during the Cuban Missile Crisis. The official name was the Executive Committee. "And I want the first meeting to take place in a couple of hours and I don't give a shit if it's Christmas Eve or not.

  "Second, I want a report to go out to the man in charge of Gitmo, this Admiral O'Donnell. We can't tell him the commies are going to attack, because we're not really certain of that, but we can tell him it's possible that the commie bastards will try to commit some sabotage over Christmas and he should be extra careful. Still, I don't want all his men yet manning trenches and barricades if it isn't quite necessary."

  Bobby shook his head. "The second idea is good, Jack, but the first, calling a senior meeting on Christmas Eve, is a bad one. People will see the staff cars and limos and wonder what's up and we're not in a position to tell them. Contrary to popular belief, the press isn't totally stupid. They won't buy the idea that we're having a Christmas Party with only a few selected generals and admirals and a few key cabinet officials invited over for drinks and stag movies. Right now, the press is probably wondering just what the hell Rusk and McCone are doing here, and if we bring in others, it'll cause a panic. No, call the meeting, but we’ll do it by phone."

  "Lines might not be secure," McCone said.

  JFK thought it over. "Bobby's right. We can't tip our hand by having everyone come here. Like it or not, the meeting will be by phone and I don't care if the lines aren't secure. I want everybody except Bobby to leave and pretend everything is normal. At two o'clock, I want to discuss military options with the chiefs of staff and the Secretary of Defense."

  Kennedy turned to Rusk. "After that we'll discuss diplomatic options. I assume you'll be trying to find someone alive at the various embassies?" Rusk, clearly unhappy at being left out of what was going to be the major part of the planning, nodded.

  "And as to the possible lack of security in a telephone meeting, we'll have to take that chance." He laughed harshly. "After all, it's Christmas. Who'd be listening in?"

  Che Guevara was the titular head of the force surrounding Gitmo, although everyone knew that General Ortega was the real military leader.

  Guevara had the reputation as the mastermind guerilla commander, but real soldiers like Ortega considered him a lightweight at best. The Argentine-born Guevara had never been a real soldier and never commanded large numbers of men in regular combat. Nor was there much trust and love between Ortega and Guevara. Che knew full well what the military professionals thought of him, and dismissed it. He considered himself a man of destiny and didn't much care what more traditional soldiers thought of him. He was a liberator, not a warrior, and it was his destiny to lead the communist revolution, first in Cuba and then in other nations, and no matter how much blood had to be shed.

  Guevara did not fully trust Ortega's apparent enthusiasm for the people's revolution. The general had been a brigade commander under the regime of the unlamented Fulgencio Batista and had, at the very last minute, swung his command over to Castro's side. Guevara considered that Ortega might be an opportunist who'd change back at the first opportunity and not a dedicated Marxist like himself. Still, Guevara had to admit that Ortega had so far proven to be a very good general, and his plans for taking Guantanamo were excellent. Ortega was most definitely the man for the job. He'd risen through the ranks on the basis of ability for the most part, and, prior to the revolution, had graduated from several army command schools in the United States where he had impressed his instructors with his knowledge and dedication. He would stay in command, at least for the moment.

  Ortega admitted to himself that he was a Cuban first and a communist second. He considered Marxism a little extreme, but it was the movement that had ousted the despised Batista and given him a chance to redeem Guantanamo for Cuba. His support for Castro, however belated, had made him a general and enabled him to provide for Maria and the four children in a manner that befitted them. Nor had it escaped his notice that his family was in Havana, close to Fidel, Che, and Fidel's state police. They were not quite hostages to his good behavior, but close to it.

  Ortega didn't like Che Guevara and wondered if the man had a personal agenda. But then, who didn't?

  Che sighed. "General, there is a real possibility that our plans have been compromised. A man who was likely a spy for either the Americans or the Germans escaped from Cuba in a small boat. If the Americans have him, he could be telling them everything he knows right now. We must move our timetable forward and attack as soon as possible."

  "No."

  Che was taken aback. He was not used to the word. "What?"

  "No."

  "This is an order. From Fidel!" he said angrily.

  "I don't care if it's an order from the Blessed Virgin, that nice lady we no longer believe in. No attack can take place immediately."

  "I don't understand. Just order the men forward."

  "Comrade, I am not surprised you don't understand, because you have never had to plan a military action this massive or complex. If we were to attack right now, as you put it, then understand that most of our men are not yet in position. In order to keep the Yankees asleep and unsuspecting, I've been moving our men in small groups during the nights and positioning them to make a final dash for the Guantanamo fences later tonight. I have allowed two additional hours for units to stumble, get lost, have flat tires, collisions, or for inept commanders to just simply fuck things up completely.

  "I am coordinating the combined efforts of fifty tanks and the same number of armored personnel carriers. I have twenty thousand men, about a third of whom are regulars and the rest militia who might not be able to find their asses in the dark without a flashlight, and close to a hundred airplanes all taking their part in a very complex dance in whi
ch timing is critical. Also, there are attacks on two airfields on the base that must be coordinated as well as doing something about that damned Fletcher-class destroyer, the Wallace, that arrived the other day. If the airfields remain intact, then American planes can use them to attack us. If the destroyer is unhurt, her guns could do irreparable damage to our armor. Our planes will first take out the airfields and attack the destroyer, along with our ground-to-ground missiles and artillery doing what damage they can to American fixed defenses."

  Ortega paused. His anger was getting the best of him. The men in charge in Havana knew nothing about a real military operation. He could not let Che and Fidel jeopardize what he has planned for so long.

  "Comrade Che, just look at the map and you'll see the difficulties. The American base at Guantanamo is roughly a rectangle with the ocean forming the southern side. However, right in the middle is the bay itself and it extends far up beyond the base and into Cuba proper; thus effectively dividing the base into two halves, each of which must be handled independently. This is particularly important since each half has its own airfield, even though the McCalla field is not frequently used.

  "What I want you to tell Comrade Fidel is that he has three choices. First, we do it my way and we will succeed. Second, if we see that the Americans are alert, we can decide to attack anyway or call off the attack and wait until another time. This would be regrettable, but necessary and would preserve our option of attacking later. Or, third, do it his way and court failure by launching premature and piecemeal attacks."

  Guevara restrained his fury. He could see the irrefutable logic in General Ortega's comments. "I will tell him. He will argue and rant, but he will come around."

  Ortega smiled. With Guevara put in his place, he could afford to relax and be a little jovial. "Comrade, I don't think the situation is that bad. I too saw the reports of our brave patrol boat captain and what did he say? He reported that he saw a small boat in sinking condition that might or might not have contained our spy, and that he fired on it and might or might not have killed or wounded that same spy who may or may not have been on that boat, or maybe he was on some other boat. Or maybe there was no spy in the first place, only a German tourist wondering what the hell just happened to him as he sank to the bottom of the Caribbean with bullet holes in his body. At any rate, I have been personally observing the Americans and they have changed nothing. They suspect nothing."