Castro's bomb

by Robert Conroy

  She stuck out her tongue. "I am, smart-aleck, but I also have a minor in history and I love to read. You ought to try it some time."

  A secondary explosion shook the ground emphasizing the incongruity of their holding deep discussions during a bombing raid. Dark clouds of smoke billowed from over another hill. Tongues of flame licked within it. Another explosion and more flames billowed up.

  "Gas or ammo?" Ward asked.

  "Maybe both," Andrew said. "Or possibly we dropped napalm. I'm not too sure it matters just so long as we hit the target."

  "And think what horrible things are happening to the people on the ground." Cathy said and shuddered. Her eyes were fixed on the terrible and angry clouds that seemed to be alive.

  Sergeant Cullen trotted over and squatted beside Ross. "Lieutenant, is it my imagination or is the bombing getting closer?"

  Andrew listened closely. "I think you're right, gunny. Think we should move?"

  "Where?"

  "You're right," Andrew said. "We can't run but maybe we can hide. I think we should start making our foxholes a little deeper."

  He paused. The bombs were falling closer, but it seemed like the intensity was fading, like a summer storm. What they should really do, he decided, was to contact Washington and get their suggestion as to where the hell would be safest for them.

  Miami would be nice.

  The Cuban soldier thought he heard something. Curious, he began to poke at the bushes around him. He was not going to call his sergeant. The last time he did that, it had turned out to be some kind of large insect or lizard and his sergeant had cursed him fluently in both Spanish and English.

  No, he would solve his own problems. He would not cry for help like a baby, which is what his sergeant had said he was the last time he'd called for help and awakened the fat prick. So what if he wasn't comfortable with the slight rustlings in the dense foliage. He was from the city, not the jungle. Maybe all these insects and little animals making noise was normal.

  He jabbed at a bush with the bayonet on the end of his old rifle. Ironically, bush jabbing was better with the old, long Springfield rifle then with a new but shorter-barreled AK47.

  He never saw the broad bladed knife emerge from a bush and ram into his throat, severing his spinal cord. His last expression was one of total astonishment. A black arm pulled back and the Cuban soldier dropped forward. His throat was destroyed and his body flopped lifelessly. Blood gushed out and over the black arm. In a minute, the Cuban was dead.

  "Damn," said Master Sergeant Wiley Morton in an angry whisper at the mess on his uniform.

  He wiped the knife on the grass and cleaned himself off as best he could. He dragged the dead Cuban into the jungle. With a little luck he wouldn't be missed for a while. With more luck, he'd be considered a deserter and quietly disappear while the animals and insects devoured his remains, which would be too bad for the young soldier. He'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Morton quickly searched the dead man's pockets and gear for anything useful. Food would have been nice, but no, the man hadn't been carrying his pack. Damn shame. He and the colonel were getting hungry. Morton sneaked a look at the Cuban camp less than a hundred yards away. A half dozen of the dead man's comrades rested around a small fire. They were cooking something and the smell was intoxicating.

  Romanski slithered up to Morton. "Got a plan?"

  "We got a little while before they miss their little hombre, colonel, but I don't want to push our luck. Still," he mused, "I surely would like to get some rations."

  Two of the soldiers got up and walked away. In a moment, two more followed. "Wonder where they're going?" Romanski asked.

  "Don't care, sir. But they did just give us an opportunity."

  Morton crawled through the grass, conscious of the fact that it was only a little bit higher than his butt. Sunlight was fading which provided long shadows that he hoped hid him. He froze as a voice yelled. One of the two remaining soldiers swore, yelled a response, and got up. He said something to the last Cuban who grinned. Morton understood enough Spanish to know that the soldier had been told to watch the camp. The Cuban thought he was lucky.

  The Cuban was fixated on the fire and saw nothing. He was also totally destroying his night vision with his contempt for his surroundings. Morton decided he must be thinking that they were safe because they were in Cuba. He neither saw nor sensed Master Sergeant Wiley Morton moving up behind him.

  Morton's strong left hand clamped over the Cuban's mouth while the knife in his right, the blade that had killed his comrade, sliced across his throat. This time the blood gushed on the ground and not on Morton.

  He grabbed the Cubans’ packs and anything else that looked interesting. One of them had left an AK47 and he took that as well, along with a couple of clips of ammunition. He took them to where Romanski was covering him with his rifle.

  Morton ran back to the dead Cuban. He dragged him away and into the brush with the first dead one. A last trip to the camp site to kick dirt over the blood on the ground and both he and the colonel were satisfied. They dragged the corpses deeper into the jungle.

  "They'll miss them immediately," Romanski said, "but I'm guessing it'll take them at least an hour to find the bodies and even then they'd have to be real lucky. By that time we'll be well away. Maybe they'll even think their buddies had deserted and stolen their gear."

  "My thoughts exactly, colonel," Morton was rummaging through the packs. There was some food but not as much as they'd hoped. There’d be enough to keep hunger away for a while, though.

  Explosions rumbled in the distance. They two men looked at each other. "Methinks it's going to get a little interesting around here," Romanski said while chewing on a piece of stale bread.

  Within a couple of days after the establishment of the prison camp, American warplanes began overflying it. They would fly as low as they dared and waggle their wings to give encouragement to the marines and sailors below who would wave and cheer while their Cuban guards glared at them. They were not alone, and the flyboys wanted them to know it.

  However, as the days became weeks, the POWs began to lose their enthusiasm. Flyovers were nice, but when the hell was something going to happen? After a while, the planes became a nuisance, a reminder of a world outside that was maddeningly beyond their reach. The men stopped waving and cheering. Instead, they cursed and gave the pilots the finger. Of course, nobody in the planes knew this and they continued to fly over the camp and the Cuban city of Santiago.

  "Here comes another one, sir," said Captain Tom Keppel, USMC and Hartford's second in command.

  Major Hartford shielded his eyes with his hands. "Oh joy."

  "I am just so fucking sick and tired of them doing nothing but fly around all day and then return to a carrier and a nice hot meal."

  Hartford glared at him in mock anger. "You don't care for the food our hosts have provided?"

  Keppel grinned. Actually the food still wasn't all that bad. It just wasn't very good, either. Some of the men were calling it Spanish hospital food. They had no idea whether a steady diet of beans and bread was nutritious or not. At least it kept them regular.

  They reluctantly agreed that the commandant, General Cordero, had actually done a decent job in seeing that they were cared for. Regardless, there were two thousand men in the camp who'd kill for a hamburger, French fries or onion rings, and a nice, cold beer. Keppel's preference was for a Midwestern brand called Strohs, while Hartford wish was for Budweiser. Keppel wanted mayo on his medium rare burger. Hartford called him a barbarian and said that mustard was the civilized condiment, especially for officers who needed to maintain standards for the enlisted men. It was a standing joke.

  "Christ!" Keppel said and jumped up. "Look!"

  Hartford's eyes followed in disbelief. Bombs were falling from the wings of the planes flying over Santiago. A Cuban gunboat in the harbor was bracketed with plumes of water that rose far higher than the little craft. It rocked violently
and immediately began to sink. The sound arrived seconds after the explosions and washed over two thousand now wildly cheering prisoners. The guards in the towers and at the gate appeared stunned.

  Additional bombs sought out targets in and around the city spread out below them. A fuel dump was hit and clouds of flame soared upward. Finally, they exulted, things were beginning to happen. Was the end in sight? Hartford thought of what Churchill had said: It wasn't the beginning of the end, but it was the end of the beginning, or something like that. Whatever, it felt very, very good.

  More bombs fell in the city proper, sending shockwaves through the streets and starting fires. "Civilians are getting pasted, aren't they?" Keppel noted.

  "A shame, but they're the ones supporting Fido, I mean, Fidel. I hate to mix metaphors, but when you dance with the devil it'll someday come time to pay the piper."

  Keppel nodded. "I just wish we could radio the States so they could tell us what's up and maybe we could do something useful."

  Captain Frank Tuttle, USMC, chose that moment to walk up. "Well maybe I have some good news, major."

  "Is it as good as the Cubans getting bombed?" Hartford asked.

  "That's up to you, sir, but we got the right blend of paperclips and Band-aids and we've finally got a radio going."

  "No shit," said Keppel.

  "Yep, we now got a working short-wave radio. We made contact with a ham operator in Mississippi and he's connecting us with the Pentagon. It ain't elegant but it's working, at least until the Cubans get wind of it and decide to jam it or take it out by force."

  "Do the Cubans know about it?" Hartford asked.

  Tuttle looked mildly embarrassed. "Unfortunately, the first ham operator we contacted was some guy just outside Havana. Who knows whether or not he'll contact the authorities."

  "Maybe not," Keppel mused. "I don't think Castro's gang likes the idea of ordinary Cubans being able to radio the world. Kind of smacks of subversion. He may not tell anyone."

  Not a bad day at all, Hartford thought as another bomb exploded in the city. "Tuttle, Keppel, you two like fireworks?" The two men nodded. "Well so do I and I think the show is just beginning."

  "Cousin, cousin," Cordero said with a wide smile. "I absolutely love how you've turned this squalid derelict building into a squalid derelict headquarters. If I didn't know it was here, I would never have found it."

  Despite the almost overwhelming pressures he was enduring as commanding general in charge of defending Guantanamo from recapture by the Americans, General Juan Ortega had to smile. His cousin was often like a large puppy whose wagging tail made everyone happy.

  "I am so glad you are pleased."

  In truth, Ortega was pleased. He had gone to great lengths to hide his headquarters in plain sight. It was located in an underground bunker beneath what had once been a school, and nobody wearing a uniform was allowed to be seen near the building. Nor were any large numbers of men allowed to congregate nearby. Entrance was by tunnels from either of several buildings nearby, including a couple of churches and a hotel, and vehicles were nowhere to be seen. They too were hidden in other buildings. Radio and telephone antennae were strung to other places and scattered. The whole effort had begun months before the attack on Guantanamo and Ortega was confident that the construction efforts had escaped notice.

  To the spying eyes in the sky, the building was supposed to look as little used as possible. After taking Guantanamo, Ortega had given a few moments thought to using the hospital cover again, but the Red Cross was hanging around and would be very upset if he did. This way, even if they did ferret out the fact that the old school was important, they were highly unlikely to tell the Americans.

  Ortega forced himself to relax. Sometimes his cousin was a fool, but even he wouldn't simply drop in to waste time. "So tell me what is so important that you have honored me with your presence."

  Cordero pulled a bottle of rum out of his briefcase and offered some to Ortega. The general smiled and took a small glass. Americans liked to pour Coca Cola over it, but that destroyed the taste of the rum. A couple of ice cubes would be fine. Too bad he didn't have any ice cubes. His subterranean office was stifling.

  Cordero took a deep swallow and smiled. "My dear general and favorite cousin, you are aware there is a network of jailors who meet, either in person or on the phone, discuss matters, and provide each other with information, aren't you?"

  Warning bells went off and Ortega put down the rum. "No I wasn't. How many in this group?"

  "At the moment two. Myself and a dear friend who runs one of the prisons near Havana. He has uncovered some very intriguing morsels of information that you should know."

  "Go on."

  "First, the Russians and Fidel are at each other's throats. Fidel, or more likely Che, stole some items of great importance from the Soviet pigs who are rapidly taking the place of the Yanquis as those who annoy us and think they can push us around. People were killed in the theft, Russians, and that pissed them off mightily."

  Ortega perked up and poured more rum into his glass. "How very interesting," he said thoughtfully.

  "Indeed. The Russians then retaliated and recovered all but one of the items and other people died. This time they were Cubans."

  Ortega leaned forward. What could have been so important that killing was required? "What was taken? What is your proof?"

  "The proof comes from my fellow jailor who says he has seen things with his own eyes. Bodies of Cuban soldiers with their throats sliced were brought into his jail to prevent prying eyes from wondering what had happened to them. He says that several low-ranking Soviet soldiers have been sent home in disgrace for first losing the important items, and will spend their remaining years digging ditches to nowhere in a gulag. At first they tried to claim that it was treachery on Fidel's part but then, after the loss of some fingernails, a few chunks of skin, and the sight of one eye, a sergeant admitted to doing it for money." Cordero made the sign of the cross. "I will pray for his soul."

  Now Ortega was truly intrigued. "What in god's name did he do? I order you to tell me."

  "In a moment, my dear cousin and commander. Think. What do the Russian pigs have that Fidel would love to own since he has none of his own?"

  Ortega paled and stood. "Dear God, no. Not nuclear weapons?"

  "Yes, cousin. Four were stolen and only three were recovered. The fourth is on its way here, escorted by your best friend, Che Guevara."

  Ortega sat back down and pounded his fist on the desk. "Damn! And I'll bet he expects me to use the remaining one on the Americans. What a fool.”

  Now he understood some of the comments Fidel had made when he’d flown to Havana. Castro and Che were insane and wanted to start a world war.

  Ortega shook his head sadly. “We do that and the Americans will utterly destroy us."

  Cordero took a healthy swallow of the rum and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "I understand the missing nuke is a two-kiloton device, which makes it rather small as atomic bombs go." He laughed. "Of course, calling any atomic bomb small is an oxymoron."

  "It isn't funny, cousin."

  "Of course it isn't. And it gets worse. Raul has convinced his big brother that you aren't as committed to the revolution as you could be, and that your having command over such a large portion of the people's army might seduce you into thinking that you could use the army to oust him and Fidel in a coup. Therefore, he has ordered your family into what amounts to house arrest. They will be held hostage to your good behavior, or at least until your execution."

  Ortega sat back down. "My what?"

  "In the likely event that you lose to the Americans, you will be blamed for a lack of revolutionary fervor which led to your incompetence and the defeat of our people’s glorious army. That the Americans attacked with a quarter of a million well armed and well trained soldiers and marines and had total command of the air and surrounding seas will be deemed irrelevant.”

  Jesus, Ortega thought and then realized
that Castro would need a scapegoat if, when, the Americans prevailed.

  Cordero smiled grimly. "After a suitably brief show trial in the Soviet style, which means you will appear as a broken husk of a man and disgraced publicly, you will be hanged or shot.”

  “The bastards,” Ortega snarled.

  "On the other hand, if you should happen to be victorious against the gringos, you will be quietly assassinated by Fidel, Raul, and Che because you just became a threat to them. Blame for the senseless murder will be placed on the exiles in Florida, or maybe you will die in a car crash. After either event, your family will be released to do whatever they wish. Miami would be a good place. They would be out of sight, out of mind."

  Ortega shook his head in disbelief. This was all too much. A traitor? All he wanted to do was chase the Americans out of Guantanamo. He loved Cuba and wanted if free of all foreign oppressors. It was correct that he wasn't totally infatuated with communism, and he certainly thought the Russians were as bad as the Americans, but they were the means to a glorious end. But a traitor? No, never. He was a patriot.

  "And you have all this through your jailor friend? And he is reliable?"

  Cordero smiled grimly. "On the basis of the information we've exchanged, we trust each other with our lives."

  Chapter Fifteen

  Cathy tried to scream but no sound would come, at least no sound that she could hear over the roar of the explosions that buffeted and tossed her within the confines of her foxhole shelter. Sometimes she was literally lifted off the ground and suspended a few inches above the earth, which no longer existed as a solid, comforting entity. It heaved like the waves on the ocean and disintegrated like sand. Debris rained down on her as she cowered in her foxhole. She was too stunned to move, and still the awful waves of violence engulfed her.

  She smelled smoke. Fire? Not fire she thought, and tried to fight off panic. Oh please, not fire, she begged. Burning to death was more frightening than anything she could imagine. What if napalm rained down on her and turned her into a human torch? The thought of her flesh frying while she was alive was a nightmare from her childhood when a neighbor’s house had burned down. Nobody had been hurt, but she easily imagined it. Could it come true now? She whimpered and felt her bladder and bowels release as more sounds and waves slapped at her, increasing her sense of terror. Explosions threatened to suck the air out of her lungs, and she focused her waning energies on simple survival.