"Comrade General, I have brought with me a weapon that will change the course of the war and bring us not only victory over the Americans but will give us the stature Cuba deserves in the eyes of the world. The weapon will make us pre-eminent among our sister nations and will enable us to export our revolution."
Ortega decided to pretend ignorance. "My dear comrade, what do you mean?" he said, repeating himself.
Guevara leaned forward conspiratorially. "I have brought you a nuclear missile, a Soviet Luna 3. We will launch it at the Americans when they land. It will shock and devastate them. Many thousands will be killed and wounded, perhaps tens of thousands."
Ortega shook his head. "Comrade, if we were so foolish as to do that, what do you think the American response would be? I believe they would launch many of their missiles at us and turn Cuba into a radioactive cinder."
Guevara shook his head. A beatific smile lit his face. "They won't. When part of their army is obliterated, we will tell the Americans that we have dozens more of these missiles and we will use them to destroy the rest of their army if it doesn’t surrender. We will, of course, wait until they land so they will be required to surrender to us in order to save their own lives."
"Do we really have that many rockets?"
"Of course not, but the Americans don't know that. Their intelligence is now aware that the Soviets brought in a large number of them, but they don't know where they are or who controls them. We will let the stupid Americans believe that we do. They are afraid of battle and will take the excuse to back out a conflict they think they cannot win."
"And why do you believe that, comrade?"
"Because John Fitzgerald Kennedy is a coward,” Che almost spat. “He didn't go to war against the Russians back in October and he has proven to be afraid to fight us now. He has dithered and sought compromise and so-called peaceful solutions while all the world mocks him. No, we will show some resistance, use the bomb to kill a few thousand Americans, and he will cry like a baby and pull his troops away. If Kennedy was serious, he would have attacked us a long time ago. Instead, his huge army sits and waits. It won't matter that the Luna is a small bomb, the attack will shatter him."
"How can you be certain of Kennedy's manhood, and that the Americans will believe we have more missiles?"
"Because the Russians have told me much about Kennedy’s manhood, as well as America’s fear of nuclear weapons. The fact of the missile and our declaration that we have more will come as a complete shock to the Americans. And there has been no mention of Cuban nuclear missiles in the American press. Even if they suspect that we have them they are afraid to tell their people who would flee their cities in bloody panic."
Ortega trembled in disbelief. "So you would have me use it when the Americans land."
"Yes."
"Then tell me, comrade, just where will they land?"
"At Guantanamo," Guevara said with supreme confidence. “Re-conquering that base is their goal, general. When they storm ashore you will launch the missile and Cuba will be victorious. It may take a few days of additional skirmishing, but the Americans will go into a defensive shell and be afraid to move."
Ortega sat back. "And just why do you think they will land only at Guantanamo? Or haven't you noticed that we are an island surrounded by American ships and being overflown by American planes. The Yanquis can land anywhere and everywhere, and there is precious little we can do to stop it. Yes, your one rocket will damage them but it will not stop them and I for one do not think they will believe your fairy tale about inundating them with other missiles."
Guevara smiled thinly. "You used to be a firebrand when it came to the idea of chasing the Americans out of here."
"I was," Ortega said. "But that began to change when I realized that the Americans weren't going to run away, and that we had no real allies in the world, including the Russians. Even though many nations say they support us, their support is in the form of words only. No other nation, and that includes Russia, is going to send men, planes, and ships to help us. In my opinion, we are already paying too high a price in Cuban lives and if you use that missile, you are going to raise that price to intolerable levels. Yes, I wanted the Americans out of Cuba and I still do, but not at the cost of the revolution."
Guevara laughed harshly. "I suspected as much. Therefore, I will be the one controlling the missile and I will direct and order its launch. By the way, I now desire a guards unit to help protect the rocket. I did lose a handful of men who were caught in the open and bombed by the Americans. I am certain that the Americans will land some of their Special Forces units if they haven't done so already. We cannot afford to let them stumble on it."
Ortega thought quickly and smiled to himself. He thought it likely that Che also wanted to protect himself from the fury of the Russians who were very likely on his tail and trying to recover the rocket. "Would a platoon, say thirty men, be enough?" he asked. Guevara said it would.
"Excellent. I have a skilled combat ready unit currently chasing the American terrorists. I will have them assigned to you. They are commanded by a Sergeant Gomez and they now report to General Cordero."
"That will be most satisfactory."
Again Ortega kept a straight face. Gomez's platoon was now down to fewer than thirty men as a result of desertions. Several of the so-called deserters had actually showed up to complain about Gomez's rapacity, saying they had joined to fight the Americans not loot peasants and molest Cuban women. The deserters had been quietly sent to other units.
"It shall be done as you wish, Comrade Che. By the way, I have been unable to contact my wife in the last couple of days. Has something happened?"
Guevara continued to smile although a little more frostily. "Nothing has happened to them. We, Fidel and I, thought it best that they be kept in protective custody. We heard rumors of a possible attempt on their lives by the traitors in Miami and did it to keep them safe. I'm sure you understand."
Ortega kept his expression calm, although he wanted to strangle Guevara.
"I'm sure I do."
The woman was about fifty and reminded the president of an older Ethel Kennedy, Bobby's sometimes outspoken and always spunky wife. He was ready to like her however unpleasant this meeting was going to be.
He stood, smiled, and gestured her to take a seat. Like any first time visitor, she looked around the Oval Office, maybe wondering how she could take something as a souvenir to prove to her grandkids that she'd been there. His staff would arrange something. An ashtray almost always worked, even for those who didn't smoke.
For a moment, the woman's cares had taken a back seat to the fact of where she was. It was only a moment, however, and the pain returned to her expression.
"Mrs. Malone, I am so very glad to see you, and we are all praying for your daughter's safe return."
Actually, the president was furious had having to take time out to talk with Cathy Malone's mother. She'd made herself such a pain in the ass with interviews that basically accused him of being uncaring and unfeeling regarding her daughter's safety. As a result, he'd had to invite her to the White House to meet with him. He hoped she would now shut up for a while.
"I'm honored to meet you, Mr. President. I only wish it was under more pleasant circumstances. I'm sure you've read some of what I've said, otherwise we wouldn't be having this conversation, would we?"
Good, he thought, she understood the game. "I'd say that's partly correct. I have met with other families and will continue to do so, and, yes, I have read some of your comments."
"Then you understand that I do not believe you have been working hard enough to get my daughter back safely."
Of course not, he thought. I have a war to run and one lonely school teacher adrift in Cuba can't be permitted to distract me from that task. By taking time off from his busy schedule and speaking to her as he was, he was permitting a distraction.
"I have to be blunt, Mrs. Malone, we have tried to contact her and the people she's w
ith and get her out, but it is simply not that easy to do when she's in a foreign country and a country with whom we are at war."
"I don't believe you," she said bluntly. "You have enormous resources at your disposal. You have Special Forces, CIA, submarines, and planes that can take pictures of anything. If you wanted to find her and rescue her you would do it. You have paratroopers and spies who can go anywhere and do anything if you really wanted to."
Kennedy controlled his anger. "We are doing everything we can but let me be candid — we are not going to let looking for your daughter jeopardize any military activities or cause unnecessary casualties. We can't and won't and you know that."
Mrs. Malone sagged slightly and her eyes glistened as tears began to well up. "Then for God's sake, Mr. President, at least tell me where she is and that she's okay."
Now comes the hard part, he thought. Contact with Lieutenant Ross and his group, including Cathy Malone, had broken off suddenly. There were concerns that they may have been accidentally bombed, which could have easily occurred. Certainly they had not been killed or captured by the Cubans who would have announced it triumphantly. When all else fails, tell a comforting lie and hope it turns out to be the truth. "We don't know precisely where she is, Mrs. Malone, but we are confident that she's safe. We have no reason to believe otherwise. Now please tell me — just what was she doing down there anyhow? I understand it was an educational position."
Mrs. Malone wiped her eyes and willed herself to regain her composure. "As you know, she's a teacher. Not only that, she's the first person in our family to graduate from college and we are very proud of her. She's led a fairly sheltered life and reluctantly agreed with her doing this because she thought it would be an adventure where she would actually be doing some people some good. Besides, she'd be making nearly six thousand dollars a year and that is very good money for a school teacher nowadays. We're not rich by the way."
Kennedy winced. It was an obvious dig at his family's wealth. Should he remind her he'd served in World War II and been wounded? No.
Mrs. Malone dabbed at her eyes. Kennedy gave her a handkerchief which she used. He gestured that she should keep it. It was monogrammed and might make a good souvenir.
"My husband and I, he's at home and not feeling well, were reluctant to let her go, but she's an adult and she said she had to begin to taste life. My husband told her just don't taste so much that you get indigestion. She'd also just broken up with an idiot boyfriend and wanted to get away. Well, now look what's happened."
Kennedy was no longer angry. He fully understood her grief through his own losses. A daughter had been stillborn in 1957. He stood and she accepted that the meeting was over. She'd spoken her piece but accomplished nothing. He arranged to have their picture taken together as a souvenir, along with an ashtray and the handkerchief she'd put in her purse.
Chapter Sixteen
"Don't move. Don't even think of going for your weapon. I'm an American and if you're one of the good guys, I don't want any mistakes happening to either one of us."
First Lieutenant Andrew Ross froze, painfully aware that the only thing even remotely resembling weapon was in his hand and relatively harmless. It's been said that a man was never more vulnerable than when he was relieving himself and now he understood. He was standing over a small slit trench and totally helpless as he peed into it.
But then, the unknown voice had identified himself as an American, hadn't he? "Can I finish before I have to turn around?"
"Please."
Andrew thought he heard the hint of laughter in the tone of voice. He completed his task and faced his accuser, a smallish black man in filthy remnants of an American uniform. The man was holding a Thompson and, while he looked serious, his eyes looked like he was more amused than anything else.
"Who are you?" Andrew asked.
"Master Sergeant Wiley Morton, and the man coming up slowly behind me is Lieutenant Colonel Ted Romanski. He is, was, the commander of Roman Force which was supposed to have parachuted down and helped save you marines the day Gitmo was attacked, so you know just how successful we were. Now, who are you?"
Andrew identified himself and Morton relaxed. "Thought you were an American, lieutenant, but I had to make sure."
"You said you're with a colonel? Does that mean there are more of you?"
"I wish, lieutenant, but something got lost in the translation. Most of the planes aborted but a few, like ours, managed to get shot down. To the best of my knowledge, me and the colonel are the only ones left. You got any food?"
Shit, Andrew thought, just my luck. Two more mouths to feed. The only remotely good thing about losing two more of his guys was that his already stretched rations would last a little bit longer, and now that dubious advantage was gone.
An older white man came out of the shrub. He was limping and using a branch for a cane. "Don't salute, lieutenant."
"No sir."
"As you can tell, I'm in disguise as a crippled bum so nobody will think I'm an officer and a gentleman. Now please don't tell me you're alone. We know better. We followed the trail you left after leaving the place where you were bombed. By the way, the trail looked like a herd of elephants had gone through a cornfield. Didn't anybody teach you anything about covering your tracks?"
Andrew flushed. "We'd just been bombed, colonel, and we were all concussed and shaken and two of my men were killed. We were lucky to get as far as we did."
Romanski softened. "Well, we cleaned up your tracks as best we could, but you might think of hiding a little better. Now, take me to the rest of your group."
A few minutes later and Romanski and Morton had been fed, albeit with C-rations, and given as much information as Ross and his group had.
Romanski looked dolefully at the remnants of his meal. "Never thought I'd actually say I enjoyed this, but I was getting tired of the lizards and snakes Morton was catching."
Morton grinned. "Lizards and snakes are protein, and eating the local grasses will keep you regular, even good for you. I kept you healthy, sir."
"I'm proud of every one of you," Romanski said, turning to the group. "You've had a rough time of it and it would have been so much easier to just give up and surrender." He fixed on Cathy Malone. "And you, young lady, would have been home by now."
"Maybe not, colonel,” she said coldly, "at least not after what I've seen. It's just as likely that I'd be rotting in a ditch somewhere."
Romanski pondered that comment. What had she seen? "Regardless, we're all in it together."
He gestured for Ross to come with him and the two men walked a few yards from the others, just enough to be out of hearing.
"Now what else do you know about the whereabouts of this Russian rocket, the Frog 3?" Ross had given him a quick update before they reached the others.
"Colonel, all I know is that it's supposed to be around here, but that term covers a lot of ground. Literally. We haven't seen anything resembling it."
"And exactly where are we now?"
"About five miles north and east of the base and about the same amount from the ocean. So, if the Cubans plan on using it, I figure it'll be launched from a point near the coast so they can hit our troops massed on the beach."
Romanski nodded and they returned to the group who pretended they hadn't walked off to talk privately. "Ross, you said you have a radio?"
"Had, sir. It got knocked around pretty badly and Ward hasn't been able to make it work."
Ward looked up sadly. "I guess I'm not that smart, colonel."
Romanski laughed. "I'll be the judge of that. Master Sergeant Morton, while you weren't our eating snakes while you were in the Special Forces, didn't they make you learn something about radios?"
"They did, sir. May I assume you want me to work with PFC Ward and see if we can make the thing work?"
"That would be a marvelous idea, and, in your spare time, why don't you kill us some more protein. I've changed my mind; these C-rations really are for shit."
The prison camp was closed up for the day. At sunset, everyone was supposed to be back in their tents. There the Americans could sleep, read, play cards, or anything they wished so long as they were out of sight. The Cubans knew this also meant plotting and scheming, but considered them harmless activities. After all, where could the prisoners go and what could they do?
Searchlights swept the compound looking for curfew violators. The lights were a nuisance to anyone trying to sleep, but that was it, and the Americans adapted to them and their predictable pattern in very short order. When the guards did spot someone skulking around they yelled in Spanish for the man to go back to his quarters. The men quietly disappeared and nobody got hurt. The guards weren't Nazi-like monsters and wanted nothing to do with gunning down helpless prisoners. It was live and let live.
What the guards didn't realize was that the shadows cast by the searchlights striking the tents in such a predictable manner made it fairly easy for prisoners to duck and dodge their way anywhere they wanted to go.
It also applied to a pair of Cuban intruders who attracted no attention from the guards. Even if the intruders had been seen, the guards had been told to make no notice and draw not attention to them. The two men wore American uniforms and had slipped in during the period when the gates were open to permit food to be delivered. They were armed with AK47s, dynamite and timers, and had been sent to find the clandestine radio that Havana said was broadcasting from the camp. Their job was to destroy it and kill the operators if they could be found.
But first they had to locate it among the hundreds of tents in the camp. Look for the antenna, they'd been told and their eyes had scanned the camp from the guard towers during the daylight. They'd spotted a likely target, a tent with a pole that seemed far too high for its needs.
Even though they'd marked the spot, finding it in the dark had proven difficult. They were about ready to give up and try again tomorrow when they spotted it. They grinned at each other and approached carefully. They moved the last few yards on their hands and knees.
Castro's bomb Page 26
