Castro's bomb

by Robert Conroy

  There was no guard. They slipped the specially made silencers over the muzzles of their weapons. Their trip was not suicidal. They were to destroy the radio, kill the operators if they could, and get the hell out. A hero's welcome awaited them in Havana.

  They opened the flap of the tent and stepped in. What looked like a radio was on a table. They'd barely taken a step towards the bulky item they presumed was the radio when bullets slammed into their chests, hurling them backward, killing them almost instantly.

  Major Sam Hartford looked down on the two dead men. His own AK47 had also been silenced, as had the guns held by the others in the tent.

  Despite that, there was commotion from the nearby tents and heads stuck out. "Civil defense exercise," Hartford said, "everybody duck and cover." The American POWs grinned and went back inside.

  "Stupid bastards," Hartford said as he leaned over the dead Cubans. "Did they really think we wouldn't notice them?"

  Captain Tom Keppel jabbed one of the dead men with his boot. "They wore our uniforms which makes them spies, which entitled us to kill them outright."

  "Screw that," Hartford said. "They were the enemy and we killed them. And we’ve added two more weapons to our growing little arsenal."

  "What do you propose we do with the bodies? Keppel asked.

  Hartford thought for a moment. He couldn't have them dumped outside. That would raise too much of a stink and make it obvious that the prisoners, along with being armed, were able to go in and out of the camp at their leisure. There would have to be an investigation and maybe a search of the camp, which could not be permitted to happen. He smiled.

  "We'll bury them under the chapel tent and stamp down the ground so nothing shows. We get started now and I want it all done by reveille."

  Later that morning, Castro's man from Havana, Dominico Allessandro, sat in General Cordero's office and looked worried. Why not, Cordero thought. His prize plan had collapsed. The two men had been sent into the camp over Cordero's objections, and he found it hard to sympathize with the agent from Havana. He had no doubts as to the fate of the two Cubans who had not returned from their foray.

  "What are you going to do now?" Allessandro asked peevishly. "They should have been back by now."

  Cordero sighed and farted, which his guest didn't seem to notice. Cordero wondered how many times he would have to do it before getting the man's attention.

  "Senor Allessandro, I think's painfully obvious what happened. The agents you attempted to infiltrate in were detected and have likely been killed."

  Allessandro stiffened. He was a small, dark man with a perpetual scowl. It seemed affected and Cordero wondered if he thought it made him look more sinister. Still, he was one of Castro's secret police, which gave him the power of life and death. Cordero decided he would not fart again.

  Allessandro leaned forward. "You will raid the camp and recover their bodies, won't you? And then of course you will prosecute the killers."

  Cordero laughed harshly. "Do you think there are any bodies left for us to find? Disposing of bodies is something the American gangsters always did quite well."

  A bomb went off in the harbor as another American jet flew over the city. Allessandro jumped, his scowl giving way to sudden fear. He wasn't yet used to a steady diet of bombs from enemy planes. Havana was still off limits to them. A chorus of cheers came from the camp only a few hundred yards away. Allessandro was livid with fury and frustration.

  "They think we won't touch them because the damned Red Cross is squatting here," Allessandro snarled. "They'll behave differently when the real fighting ends and we are victorious."

  With that, Allessandro stormed out of Cordero's office. Cordero wiped his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief that had been clean once. Yes, he thought, the Americans will be different when the fighting ends. They'll likely all be home with their families while we are all dead.

  "Mr. President, the ships have sailed. The army will be in a position to attack within a day."

  Kennedy nodded. It was no secret. The whole world had watched on television as a score of troopships had departed from American ports and headed out to sea to join a host of American cruisers and destroyers, along with submarines to escort them. Only battleships were missing. A shame, Kennedy thought. He'd like to have seen the Missouri and some of her Iowa-class cousins leading the American fleet while blasting the Cuban shore with their sixteen inch guns. He’d always thought it was a mistake to have deactivated them, leaving the navy without a single battleship. Sadly, it was just a little too late to activate one of them.

  "Thank you General Taylor."

  Taylor continued. "And there have been no major changes to the plans you approved. It will be a two-pronged assault with the army landing first on the north coast and then driving south. It's about sixty miles from the north landing sites to Gitmo. We believe that it will force the Cubans to come out in the open so our planes can hit them while they are on the move."

  "And we also hope to flush out their nuke, don't we?"

  "Absolutely, sir. We think it's probably closer to Gitmo than the north, so maybe we can kill it while it's on the move."

  They had been over this before and the president thought it was a risky move. He'd had to admit that he didn't have a better idea.

  Taylor tapped the map of Cuba with his pointer. "No more than a couple of days later, the marines will land on the south of Cuba, on each side of Guantanamo Bay against what we hope will be weakened defenses. The two forces will strike towards each other and link up. Airborne troops will be dropped on and around several small airfields which can be used to ferry in more troops before the linkup between the two landing groups. We hope the Cubans will be confused and disoriented."

  We hope, we hope, we hope, Kennedy thought. He seemed to recall something about plans going to hell when the shooting started. "And what more do we know about their nuke?"

  "Still nothing," Taylor said grimly.

  "Director McCone, have your people turned up anything new?"

  "Not a thing, sir. The Russians are looking as well, but nothing from them either. We do believe that Guevera himself is accompanying it."

  Kennedy was surprised. "And how do we know that? I thought our intelligence sources had all dried up since the Bay of Pigs."

  McCone smiled tightly. "We are getting intelligence because a handful of CIA operatives have been working hard at rebuilding the intelligence apparatus we once had."

  "I assume you mean people like Kraeger?"

  "Yes sir. That and the fact that a number of people in Havana are horrified that Castro attacked our base and that he had stolen nukes from the Russians. Some of those people are providing us with a lot of information. When we take over and Castro's gone, they hope to get a chance at running a new government. That is, of course, if they don't get a bullet in the back of the head in the first place."

  Kennedy digested that last comment. Topple Castro? The Miami exiles were lusting for American help in that regard, but did they want a new Cuban regime to come from inside Castro's communist government? Damn.

  "Well at least your people were able to keep that Franklyn fellow from blabbing to the press. About twenty-five years from now you must tell me what you did to shut the man up."

  McCone chuckled. "You might want to wait a while longer."

  Kennedy turned from the map of Cuba and adjacent waters to a larger map of the Atlantic Ocean. Several red dots showed in international waters off New England. Each one represented a Soviet submarine, riding on the surface as if they were daring the Americans to stop them. What the hell were they up to, he wondered? Hell, they all wondered. Other dots represented a Russian surface squadron, consisting of several cruisers, also headed towards the Caribbean. Would Khrushchev be so arrogant as to use them to force the blockade, or was he just showing the flag to impress the world’s other small nations?

  Kraeger and Golikov met across Pennsylvania in front of the White House where large and noisy demonstrat
ions were routinely taking place. Most of the demonstrators were Cuban exiles bearing signs calling for the American invasion and liberation of their homeland, the ouster of Castro, and for Kennedy to be a man. Opposing them were a fair number of civil rights advocates and others against war, any war, and for any reason. Their signs carried the now familiar peace symbol and called for an end to fighting for any reason and in any place.

  Kraeger thought it ironic that the peaceful people were on the verge of rioting against the police and the exiles, and looked like they would be happy to use their signs to bash in the skulls of the other side. The police were having a hard time keeping the two angry groups separated.

  "Amazing," said Golikov. "In your country you start a riot and call it a democracy. In my country, such nonsense would not be tolerated. A few years in a gulag would teach them the error of their ways."

  "I thought the peaceniks like these demented fools were helpful to you?" Kraeger said.

  Golikov smiled. "They are very helpful, but such protesters in the Soviet Union or the satellite nations would not be tolerated. You know you are fools to put up with this."

  Something flew through the air and landed in front of a cop who angrily looked for the thrower. It was an egg and had come from the Miami exile team. Kraeger was glad he had decided not to include Elena in the little group. Two cops had begun to wrestle a peace demonstrator to the ground and other demonstraters were threatening to attack the cops. Maybe an American gulag was a good idea, Kraeger thought.

  "Are we in danger here?" Golikov asked.

  "Show them your diplomatic passport. That usually stops rocks and pisses off cops."

  Golikov thought the idea was amusing. The two men moved down the street and a block away.

  "You called for this meeting," Kraeger said. "So why did you want to meet this wonderful winter day?"

  "To let you know what is happening in Moscow."

  "Shouldn't the diplomats be talking and not us?" Despite the disclaimer, Kraeger was intrigued.

  Golikov shook his head. "No. It was decided that this should be informal, what you call back-channel. Diplomats have nasty habits. They are indecisive, they argue, and then they write memoirs or leak information. By the way, the way you handled that Franklyn idiot was masterful."

  Kraeger was shaken. How the hell did the Soviets find out about that? Fucking Washington does leak like a sieve. Or was Golikov saying there was a leak in the CIA? Damn it to hell.

  "I'm so glad you approve. So what's happening in Moscow that's so important?"

  "Comrade Khrushchev is in trouble. There are those in the Politburo who feel he has been too lenient, too generous to your president regarding the handling of Comrade Castro."

  "And here I thought you people thought Castro was crazy and untrustworthy."

  "He is, but that cannot be permitted to matter. He is a fool but he is our fool and more important, a communist fool who is being watched by every socialist state in the world along with those we would like to become socialist. In short, Comrade Kraeger, Fidel Castro cannot be allowed to fall or you may be dealing with ultra hard line Stalinists like Brezhnev and Kosygin."

  "And if Khrushchev falls he gets a couple of bullets in the back of the skull and it's pronounced a suicide."

  Golikov shook his head solemnly. "I already told you we don't do that anymore, or at least not very often. No, Comrade Khrushchev would likely be allowed to retire to a small dacha in the middle of nowhere where he would live in obscurity and fill his days by milking goats."

  "I think I'd rather take the bullet," Charley said.

  "Say that when the time comes, Kraeger. But let's get back to Cuba. You may get your base back, but Fidel will, must, remain in charge of a communist, socialist Cuba. Any attempt to depose him will put assets of yours in serious jeopardy."

  "Berlin?"

  "I did not name anything specific. However, Berlin would be in obvious peril, located as it is in the middle of East Germany and surrounded by hundreds of thousands of Soviet and East German soldiers eager to liberate it."

  Kraeger took a deep breath and tried to remain outwardly calm. "An assault on West Berlin by either your forces or the East Germans would mean a major military confrontation with the United States and NATO, and result in thousands of dead on each side and the possibility of a full-blown nuclear war."

  Golikov nodded. "There are those reactionary Stalinists who consider that an acceptable risk. They think so because they do not think Kennedy will risk nuclear war over such a small matter as Fidel Castro remaining in power. Punish him, humiliate him, take back your base, but you must leave him in control. If American forces approach Havana, General Pliyev's Soviet forces will assist in its defense."

  Behind them, crowd noises reached a crescendo. The fighting had clearly escalated out of control. Charley wondered if he was seeing the future as it too escalated out of control.

  "We presume you have noticed an increase in our submarine activity? Good. Last October we sent a handful of what you call Foxtrot submarines down to Cuba and you made fools of us as we showed our weaknesses. Not only did some of them not make it all the way because of mechanical problems, but you found the others and forced at least one to the surface. By the way, it had nuclear torpedoes and was considering using them. Fortunately, her captain had second thoughts."

  Wow, Kraeger thought, but it did tie in with what Sokolov had said. Nukes were first strike weapons to the Russkis and not weapons of desperation like they were to the U.S.

  Golikov lit a cigarette. "It was a humiliation and it won't happen again. This time we are sending a much larger force and they will also have nuclear powered torpedoes. They have orders not to use them unless either attacked or given orders directly from Moscow. But the threat should be clear. Even without firing shot they will raise havoc with your carrier formations and impede your invasion unless you assure us that Castro will survive in power."

  "And what if Fidel is killed in action?"

  "Don't let that happen," Golikov said.

  A swarm of young people, the peaceniks, ran by. Many were bloodied and some were helping others get away. A group of Cuban exiles chased them and caught several, pummeling them badly. One wild-eyed exile grabbed Charley's coat and attempted to land a punch. Charley stopped that nonsense with a kick to the man's groin. He screamed and fell, writhing and clutching himself. Others began to circle Charley and a clearly worried Golikov.

  Charley pulled out his ID and his gun. "Back off. I'm a cop." Sullenly, the crowd moved on, looking for easier prey. The man Charley kicked limped off with his hands covering his balls. A few seconds later, a wave of police trotted past them. Charley waved his ID but prudently put the gun away before a DC cop noticed him and it.

  "Well done," said a clearly admiring Golikov. "A kick in the balls and a gun work a lot better than a diplomatic passport."

  Morton and Ward got the transistor radios working quickly. Romanski and Morton had been out of touch with the real world ever since the first day and listed intently to all the newscasts emanating from Florida.

  "Well," Romanski said, "the invasion must really be imminent. The news said that Huntley and Brinkley have reported on NBC television that the ships have sailed."

  "So much for a news blackout," Andrew said sarcastically, "and so much for the integrity of the press showing discretion and keeping the invasion a secret. And so much for protecting the lives of us poor guys in the trenches."

  "They have their own agenda," Romanski said, "and sometimes it gets guys killed."

  "That's just sad," Cathy said. "Why can't they keep their mouths shut for just a little while longer? There was no reason to publicize all that information about Andrew, me, and the others."

  Romanski smiled tolerantly. He rather liked the young woman and he'd quickly picked up on the fact that she was following Ross around like a puppy and that Ross rather liked having a puppy. He liked to think it reminded him of how he and Midge behaved when they were oh so you
ng. Of course, he recalled that he was the puppy, not Midge. Damn it, he missed her.

  "It goes to the fact that news is now a business," Romanski said. "The telecasts cost money and the networks get back their money by renting out commercial space. If nobody's watching then nobody's gonna buy the commercial time. Thus, they have to constantly dig up news and some of them are not above creating news if nothing much happened on that given day. That's what happened to you, Cathy. They had time to fill and they did it with your pretty face."

  Cathy flushed. "I'm not pretty."

  Romanski leaned forward and grinned. "I beg to differ and I think young Lieutenant Ross would disagree as well."

  She was about to reply when Ward yelled and whooped.

  "What's happening?" Romanski asked.

  Ward grinned. "I think Sergeant Morton has our real radio working again. He's gonna try and contact Washington."

  Homero Ruiz lounged against a crumbling cement wall that ran along a busy street, and concentrated on observing his world. Ruiz wore the scruffy uniform of the Cuban militia, and a casual observer would have surmised that he was just another lazy private killing a morning by goofing off in the sun.

  He wasn't. Ruiz had been a crewman on the destroyer Wallace. He'd been in the base's clinic with a mildly sprained shoulder and been left behind at Guantanamo when the ship had been bombed. He'd watched in stunned disbelief as she managed to make it to sea, only to be attacked and bombed again, sinking her. He'd lost a lot of good friends when the Cubans sank the Wallace, and he didn't think it ironic that he was able to call Cubans the enemy. He was an American, not a Cuban and especially wasn't a follower of Castro. He really didn't know all the details about the loss of his ship. It didn't matter. He hated Castro even more then he had before the attacks.

  Ruiz had been born in Santiago some twenty years earlier, and his parents had immigrated to the United States when he was ten. He’d enlisted right out of high school and, when he finished his tour of duty in the navy he would become a U.S. citizen, and just thinking of that made him very proud. He would then go to college on the GI Bill. He wanted to be a teacher. His parents were among the lucky ones. They had left Cuba before Castro came to power and had managed to take their savings with them. Thus, they were now the prosperous owners of a couple of grocery stores in Miami. Other relatives hadn't been so fortunate. A couple of them were in Cuban prisons and others had escaped with only the shirts on their backs. Those who’d made it out were being helped by his parents, which made him even prouder of them.