Ruiz was not concerned that anyone would recognize him. He'd left as a boy, but returned as a man. He was dark-skinned like most Cubans, betraying Negro heritage, and spoke the local language fluently. Some things are never forgotten, he concluded. Ruiz found it amusing that a few faces in the civilian population did look familiar, even though he couldn't recall their names. Just as well. He wasn't there to make friends.
Santiago had been one of the key pieces of Castro's revolution. It was called the “Heroes City” because of its citizen’s efforts supporting several revolutions, beginning with fighting the Spanish in the last century, and culminating in Castro's rise to power.
Ruiz was amused by the post-revolutionary name changes. Major streets and parks had been renamed in honor of the new order. Ruiz thought it was all cosmetic. Giving a street in a slum a new name did not mean it was no longer a slum, or that Castro wasn't a dictator. He was puzzled as to why the people seemed so happy since they still had next to nothing. There had been no new construction of any significance, yet life under Castro must be better than it had been under Batista. He would have to discuss this with his family when he got home. He laughed to himself. First, of course, he would have to get his young navy ass home.
His goal this day, as with other days, was to find out just where the hell General Cordero went when he left his office, which was in a building adjacent to the camp. The major wanted intelligence and Ruiz would do his best to comply.
The overweight and slow moving Cordero was usually easy to follow, and nobody gave a thought to an innocuous young man in uniform tailing him. Cordero frequently visited friends in the city's dwindling civilian population. Santiago's quarter of a million people was down to less than a third of that because of fear of American bombings. Tent cities had sprung up everywhere outside the city and Ruiz wondered if they were safer there than in the city. At least it meant that the bomb shelters weren't very crowded when the sirens went off.
On most occasions Cordero's trips to Santiago were very basic. He visited a house where a plump woman greeted warmly and the good general got himself royally laid. Nothing wrong with that, Ruiz thought with a laugh. He considered visiting the woman himself and seeing if she took American money. Not a good idea, he'd concluded. One time Ruiz had gotten close enough to an open window to hear their grunting and panting and concluded that no military secrets were being discussed. Although, as he'd facetiously told Lieutenant Skronski, it was clear that something was coming.
This time Ruiz was puzzled. The general had gone to a small house across a field from an abandoned and ruined school. As far as Ruiz could tell, there was nothing in the small building that would interest the general. However, Cordero had been inside for more than an hour, so something important must be going on. He'd already noted the presence of several guards in a loose perimeter around the building and had also seen other people going into that small building and another one across the street.
He got up and walked around. He debated looking inside the small building or walking across to the school, but dismissed the thoughts as foolish and maybe dangerous. There was no way he could explain his interest in the school if guards stopped him, and the guards sure as hell would stop him if he tried to go into that small building.
Then he saw it and couldn't stifle a grin. The sun and shadows brought out the outline of a filled-in trench leading from the building to the school. No, he realized, it wasn't a trench. The earth covered a tunnel. Something very, very important was under that school. Now this was something Lieutenant Skronski would love to hear.
"What are you doing here?"
Ruiz nearly jumped out of his skin. It was General Cordero. He'd come out of the building and Ruiz hadn't noticed. Ruiz managed a quick sloppy salute that seemed to satisfy Cordero's sense of military protocol.
But not his curiosity. "I said, what are you doing here?"
"Sir," Ruiz stammered. "Nothing. Just staying out of trouble." The nervous stammer was real. He was scared to death that Cordero suspected something.
"By avoiding an honest day's work? Get out of here you lazy piece of shit. I see you hanging around doing nothing and I'll have your ass nailed to a wall. Now go."
Ruiz managed another sloppy salute and ran off towards the Mancudo Barracks, the place where many of the militiamen were quartered. After a block or two he turned around. Cordero was heading in the other direction, towards the prison camp. Ruiz would wait until nightfall to sneak back inside. He couldn't run the risk of Cordero recognizing him as one of the camps "guards" and possibly realizing that whatever secret was buried underground at the school was no longer a secret.
It would be a long few hours and he was dying to tell Skronski what he'd seen. Skronski had told him that care and patience were required to be a good observer and he'd surprised himself to find that he was good at it. Ruiz preferred to think of himself as a spy. It was a lot more glamorous and the chicks would love hearing about it when he got himself home.
But first he had to get back to the camp. He squatted down against a wall like several other militiamen were doing and waited. He wanted a cigarette, but he didn't dare carry any American ones, and the ones available in Santiago were wretched. A huge picture of Fidel Castro glared at him from another wall. Ruiz felt like getting up and pissing on Fidel's face. Maybe next time.
Chapter Seventeen
Cathy Malone leaned against the warm earth and relaxed, letting the warmth of the sun dry her. It had rained. Just a sudden shower, but she and the others had gotten fairly well drenched before they could get their ponchos on. It was a reminder that the rainy season was coming and that Cuba could be miserable and unhealthy.
Andrew was off doing something and she was seated comfortably between Colonel Romanski and Sergeant Morton. The two men enjoyed her presence and liked talking to someone who wasn't in the military.
"Being a mere civilian, can I ask some questions?"
Romanski laughed. "Since you are a mere civilian, there's no way I could stop you even if I wanted."
"Okay. First off, were you concerned that Andrew would resent your coming in and taking over?"
"Does he?"
"No. He's actually relieved. Like Sergeant Cullen says, he did real well for an accountant. Cullen's teasing, but there's an element of truth in it."
"He did better than real well," Romanski said and Morton nodded. "He saved his people, at least those it was possible to save. He wouldn't be human if the loss of so many of his men didn't upset him, but he has no one to blame but the Cubans and those who hung him out to dry in the first place." He tried to stifle his anger. After all, it was much like what had happened to him and the Morton. "And I'll include a whole bunch of people in Washington who might have known the Cubans were going to attack. A lot of people were sent out to fight and die without proper resources."
"Good," Cathy said. "I was hoping you felt that way. I certainly do, but what do I really know about these things?"
Romanski stifled a smile. He'd notice how Cathy and Andrew looked at each other. If they ever got back safely, Romanski thought they were going to have an interesting future. At least they'd so far had the discretion to keep from openly displaying their developing feelings for each other. Apparently they'd gone no farther than sit close and maybe discretely hold hands when, deep down, they were probably near to exploding with emotion and unrequited passion. He smiled as he remembered just how he and Midge had behaved in circumstances when extreme discretion was required and how quickly they’d gotten out of their clothes when they’d gotten some privacy. He swallowed hard as he wondered just what Midge was doing.
"Cathy, if Andrew was planning on reenlisting, he'd get a lot of endorsements from real professionals who appreciate what he's done. Since he's not, he'll probably have to settle for a medal. As to his resenting me coming in and taking over, you're right — he doesn't resent it at all. He is relieved. I have the rank and the seniority, and, oh yeah, the experience. And even if he did resent i
t, tough. The military runs on a rather harsh hierarchy: rank rules and nobody cares a damn about other people's feelings. Right now, I'm top dog and he's second. Morton and Cullen come next in that order."
She smiled sweetly. "Where do I fit in?"
"Any place you want, but probably close to Ross," Romanski said with mock solemnity, making her giggle.
"I'm curious," she said. "You're retiring and Andrew, I mean, Lieutenant Ross, isn't going to reenlist. Is anybody going to be left? What about you, Sergeant Morton, are you going to stay in?"
Morton laughed harshly. "Only choice I have young lady."
"Why? The economics? Surely you can earn more in civilian life."
"But first I'd have to survive civilian life. Here, let me show you something." He pulled out his wallet and opened it. "It's a picture of my wife."
Cathy stared at it. "Oh."
"Notice something?"
Cathy recovered her poise. "Yes I do, sergeant, she's definitely not as dark complexioned as you are."
The photo was of a very attractive blond white woman in her thirties. Sergeant Morton was black and his wife was white. She'd heard of such mixed race marriages before but had never known anyone in such a strange situation. She didn't count Ward's so-called Italian aunt. Ward admitted he'd made it up just to get a reaction. People in her circles universally condemned such relationships and, in many places they were illegal. If nothing else, there was the fear for the safety of the children of such unions.
Morton put the wallet away. "Her name is Heidi and I met her when I was stationed in Germany. Her former Nazi family hates me ‘cause I'm a nigger and from an inferior race, and my side of the family hates her because she's white and they think she grabbed onto me so she could get my money and get out of Germany and into the United States. It never occurred to either sets of fools that we might just love each other."
"How long have you been married?"
"Ten years now, and we needed to jump through a lot of hoops and get permission before we could."
"Kids?"
"None and there won't be any. Won't bring half-breeds into a world that's gonna hate them because they either aren't all white or aren't black enough. Got enough troubles."
"Half-breeds? You make them sound like Indians?"
Morton shrugged. "Don't know what else to call them. Mulatto sounds like something from the Civil War. No, the children would bear the pain, the sins of the parents, if you will."
"Sad but true," Cathy said.
Morton shook his head. "Of course we'd be happy as hell to be parents, but it ain't gonna happen. Heidi even joked one time that we should adopt a Korean kid just to confuse the hell out of anyone who saw us. No, just staying alive is hard enough. Hell, Heidi and I can't even drive in the same car off base, especially down south, without some redneck yelling something that starts with the letter 'f' and ends with nigger. Once we tried driving with her in the back seat and me acting like a chauffeur but that didn't work either. Chauffeurs don't drive old light blue Ford Falcons with dings in the fenders. Even the dumbest redneck saw through that ruse.
"Hell, we can't even go to a restaurant, and that includes places in the so-called liberated north. No one's gonna seat us together and, if they did, all the nice white folks would up and leave. That and our food would be delivered cold a day or two later and probably with a cockroach's ass sticking out of the mashed potatoes."
Cathy was fascinated and horrified. This was a part of the world she'd never visited, never even knew existed. Negroes were background in her environment and seemed reasonably happy with their lot. Now she wondered just what their lot was, their place in life.
"What about restaurants for colored?"
He shrugged. "Same thing. And the food's not as good as white restaurants. And we can't go to movies, either, unless we're up north and buy separate tickets. Even then, people make remarks when we sit together in the dark. There are a lot of southern whites in the military who belong to the Klan and a lot of northern whites who wish they could. A black man with rank is barely tolerated, but a black man screwing a sacred white woman is the worst possible sin against humanity and their interpretation of God's law."
Morton smiled grimly. "So you see, Cathy, my wife and I are going to stay military for as long as we can and then find a place in or near a base to call home, and sanctuary. By the way, we always carry guns, whether we're allowed to or not. Never had to pull one yet, but you never know."
Cathy was about to respond when they saw Andrew and Cullen jogging towards them.
Romanski stood up awkwardly. His leg had stiffened up from the rain. "What is it, lieutenant?"
"Sergeant Cullen's spotted an anti-aircraft battery about a mile away, sir."
Romanski grinned wolfishly. "Well, well, and what do you fine young men propose to do about that?"
Cullen responded. "Sir, the lieutenant and I propose to take it out."
The Cuban anti-aircraft battery consisted of a pair of 24mm Swedish-made Oerlikon cannon mounted on a tracked chassis. Andrew was a little nonplussed that they'd missed the damn thing since it was so close, but Romanski let him down easily.
"Ross, it might have been moved there just recently and, besides, you have barely a handful of men to guard the camp, much less patrol the area. There's no way you could've checked a wide area even if you'd wanted to. Even though he'll never admit it, young Gunnery Sergeant Cullen found it because he was lucky."
Cullen grinned. "With respect, sir, luck had nothing to do with it. It was highly honed Marine Corp skills all the way. Semper Fi!"
Cullen told them he saw no more than four men at the guns, but agreed that others might have been in the area. Still, they decided killing it was worth the try. The weapon was a danger to American planes and should be taken out if they possibly could.
"Gentlemen," Romanski said, "we don't do suicides. If it looks too dangerous, pull back. This group is small enough as it is and we still have that Russian missile to deal with, and that is our first priority. Assuming, of course that we find the damn thing."
It was decided that Ross would lead the effort with sergeants Morton and Cullen backing him up. Andrew accepted the obvious. The two NCOs were much more experienced then he and would step in if it looked like he was screwing things up. PFC Ward was included in the group.
Morton glared at the other black man, Ward. "Somebody's gotta carry our luggage, boy."
The only one who didn't laugh was PFC Groth who protested that he should be allowed to go along, too.
"Not a chance," Romanski said. "You're as bad off as I am. Just a little while ago you were complaining of headaches and that you were still sometimes seeing double. No, young marine, you stay here with your gimpy colonel and the beautiful young lady."
Before they left, Cathy got Andrew alone. "Look, this sounds like a cliche from a bad cowboy movie, but please be careful and please come back to me." With that, she hugged him and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek that Romanski and Morton pretended not to see.
Carrying only their weapons, grenades, and extra ammunition, the four men were able to move rapidly and soon came on the vehicle carrying the anti-aircraft guns. It was camouflaged under tree limbs. They counted two men who were eating from a mess kit while they lounged around the vehicle.
"Whatcha think, lieutenant?" Morton asked
"We know there are at least two more men because Cullen saw them and because somebody had to make the food they're eating. My guess is there are a lot more than the two others Cullen saw. They don’t appear too concerned about ground security which may give us a good shot at destroying those guns."
Ross was concerned about other Cubans, but decided against investigating farther. He said there was too much risk that the other Cubans might be more alert and discover them if they did. He said they should take quick advantage of the apparent overconfidence of the men at the guns. To his surprise, Morton and Cullen agreed.
"Plans?" Morton asked.
"We keep it simple," Ross answered. "Having only four people does not make for opportunities for grand strategy. And it's going to start raining real soon and that's good. Rain'll make it difficult for them to track us after we hit them."
When the two sergeants again agreed, Ross continued. "I suggest we creep up as closely as possible to those two yo-yos and kill them. Then we dump grenades on the guns and run like hell."
Cullen nodded. "You three do the killing and I'll take care of the grenades. I'm pretty good at blowing things up."
As threatened, it began to rain, although not heavily at first. The two Cubans moved closer to their vehicle and tried to keep dry as the rainfall increased in intensity. They were looking anywhere but where they should have been, enabling the four Americans to slither up to within twenty yards of them. Finally, one of the Cubans looked in disbelief at the apparitions appearing before them.
"Now," Ross yelled. His heart was pounding in his chest and he could barely squeak out the order. No matter, all four men opened fire at point blank range, dropping the two Cubans. Ross, Morton, and Ward formed a short skirmish line. Suddenly, a third Cuban jumped up and only a few feet away. He looked puzzled and they stared at each other for only an instant before they fired into his chest and head. Where the hell had he been? Ross wondered. Probably taking a nap. Cullen jumped into the vehicle with all their grenades.
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