"Boo," he said with a tender smile.
"This is ridiculous," she said.
"Absurd," he answered.
They kissed tentatively, then with a little more intensity. They parted and looked at each other incredulously. "I've waited a long time, Cathy. I think it was when I first saw you running on base wearing a pair of shorts. I thought you were the cutest girl I'd ever seen."
"I wish I had known you then, Andrew, although things would have been different, wouldn't they?"
"Yeah, I would've been one of a score of guys trying to get you to go out with them."
She squeezed his shoulder. "Andrew, the line wasn't anywhere near that long. But you're right. Maybe we wouldn't have had the opportunity to get to know each other as well as we have these past few weeks. Or has it been longer? I keep losing track. Maybe I'm losing my mind."
"It doesn't matter."
"We've gotten to know each other at our worst," she said. "I'm filthy, ragged, my hair is butchered short, I have no makeup, and I've probably lost ten or fifteen pounds and I was thin to begin with. Admit it, I'm a mess."
"Yes, but you're a lovely mess. And we've actually known each other at our best, not our worst. We've fought our way through adversity. We've seen people die and been responsible for people dying, along with being hurt by people who want to kill us, and, so far, we've made it through.
She laughed. "I guess I agree, but if this is the best, I don't want to even think of what the worst might be."
"Cathy, I think we both know this time in our lives is going to come to an end, one way or another, and in a very short while. And when it does, it will be with us being together."
She squeezed his hand. "After all this, I'm not sure I want to go back to being a school teacher. What are you going to do? Still law school?"
"Yes, although I've been thinking of going to work for the FBI, or even the CIA when I’m done. You're right. After this I can't see myself writing up wills and suing on behalf of people who've been in car accidents."
Ross leaned back and looked at the sky. He was afraid it was starting to clear and that meant the others would be around.
Cathy snuggled in closer to him. "Then tell me something else. How scared were you during the missile crisis last October?"
He shifted so he could see her better. Her face was tense. "Cathy, we were all scared. Hey, here we were at Gitmo, out in the middle of nowhere and surrounded by Castro's Cubans and just about as helpless as a newborn baby. We would have put up a fight, but, like what happened later, we would have been overwhelmed really quickly.
"Fortunately, we didn't have a whole lot of time to spend thinking about it. All the offices worked around the clock giving out weapons and supplies and who cared about any paperwork. Then, during what down time we did have, we spent it all digging trenches and prepping bunkers. Then we were put on guard duty around the clock. Some of the older guys knew what could happen and they were quite serious, although I do recall a couple of marines spending a lot of time sharpening knives. I thought they were nuts. So, bottom line, I was scared, but not terrified. How about you?"
She took his hand and squeezed. She wanted to kiss him again. "I was terrified and so were a lot of people. We saw the likelihood of nuclear war, and all we ever had and loved would be reduced to ashes. When we arrived in Virginia, a lot of people thought they should move way out west and not be in a major port or a military facility during an atomic attack, which made sense. I knew some people who had shelters and they stayed in them until it was all over."
Cathy laughed at the memory. "A lot of people went to church during that period, and that includes me. Of course, they stopped going right after things calmed down and life got back to normal."
"So how do you feel about right now?"
She smiled, "After all that's happened to me, not too badly at all. I am now reasonably confident that I will survive and will get home. I'm scared, but I can function and sometimes, like right now and even though we are talking about it, I can push it out of my mind. Well, not all the way."
He reached out and gently touched the spot on her cheek where Gomez had cut her with his ring. The scabbing had gone but a scar remained. "They can probably get rid of that, you know."
She shook her head. "Not a chance. It's part of me and it's going to remain. If it fades away naturally, so be it, but no plastic surgery."
"When we do get out of here, we'll probably be sent to Washington so all the people in the Pentagon can talk to us. You will probably be on television and, who knows, maybe they'll make a movie about you. I see Natalie Wood playing you."
"No, not her. She's too pretty."
"You're right. You're a lot prettier."
Andrew was acutely aware of the feel of her small breasts against his chest and of the fact that he was getting aroused. He had no idea how she felt about little things like his erection pressed against her hip. Hell, he thought. She was a school teacher not a school kid. What did she think was happening?
"How much time before they come back?" she asked. The rain was beginning to slacken.
"Not enough."
"Then let's make the most of it," she said and they kissed with a sudden voraciousness that surprised them.
He slipped one hand over her breast and she covered it with hers. He removed it and shifted so that his one hand was inside her blouse. She reached behind and unsnapped her bra so he could caress her bare flesh. She groaned in his ear as he touched her nipples. His touch told her that what Gomez had done could never be forgotten, but it could be compartmentalized and she would lead a normal life and, hopefully, with Andrew Ross.
Enough. They had to stop. The rain had practically ended and the others would be back at any moment. Stopping wasn't fair to either of them, and particularly not to Andrew. She could feel him hard against her. It wasn't fair but life wasn't fair. Cathy gently removed his hands from her body and straightened her clothing as he did likewise. Petting like adolescents was inadequate for both of them, but it would have to do for right now.
"We can't do anything more," she said, “at least not here and now."
"I know," he said with such sadness that she almost laughed.
"I've wanted this to happen for a long time," she said.
"Me too."
"Andrew, you know a Cuban soldier hurt me, don't you?"
"I figured as much."
"And it doesn't bother you?"
"Why should it, Cathy? I'm concerned about you, not me. How are you dealing with it?"
She tucked her head on his shoulder. "Better than I ever thought I could. And now it's going to be even better with you knowing, understanding, and being on my side, and yes, touching me."
Andrew kissed her on the forehead. "I'll always be by your side."
"Will you be with me a year from now?"
He was puzzled. "That depends. Where will you be?"
Cathy giggled, "Lying naked on a bed."
He laughed and hugged her tightly. "Then you know I'll be there."
About fifty yards away, Romanski and Morton looked at each other. Morton chuckled. "I never thought you were such a romantic, colonel? Y'know we could've found a place to keep dry within a couple of feet of those two lovebirds."
Romanski laughed. "Not much fun for them if we did that, now is there?"
He remembered one time when he and Midge had gotten soaked in a rainstorm and made love on the grass while waiting for their clothes to dry. God, he missed her.
Romanski stretched and stood up carefully. The wet weather made his leg ache. "Since it's pretty well stopped raining, I suggest we make some unnecessary noise and return to the happy couple. Cullen and the others could return at any minute and we don't want them to see anything shocking. Marines are such innocents when it comes to love and sex, you know."
Major Sam Hartford looked through the barbed wire fence and tried to feign indifference. It was difficult. The three army trucks parked by the guard shack belonged to him, not t
he Cuban army. The insignias and unit designations were lies. Skronski had told Ruiz and his buddies to steal them and the assignment had been carried out with aplomb. The real Cubans guarding the prisoners were curious, but that was it. If someone in authority wanted to park some trucks by the guard house, so be it.
Now it was time to do something to help both their situation and the United States military. Ruiz had gotten a good look at General Ortega when he'd unexpectedly popped up during the day. The General had actually spoken with Ruiz who said that Ortega seemed like a friendly, decent sort.
Hartford thought that was just too fucking bad. Ortega was the enemy and who cared if he was kind to puppies and bunnies or had a wife and kids. The man headed the Cuban army in the area and had to go. Hartford's only problem was that he couldn't go with Skronski and the two dozen men who would be riding in the trucks. Thanks to his bad feet he just wasn't agile enough to function when the shit hit the fan.
They waited for night to fall. The guard shack was only twenty feet from the main gate and, during their time in the camp, a tunnel had been carefully dug to it from a nearby prisoner tent. The men slithered through and captured the pair of guards and the lieutenant commanding them without a fuss. The Cubans were bound and gagged. The lieutenant glared at them ferociously, but Skronski had the feeling it was all show. When he winked at the man, the lieutenant shrugged.
The drive through Santiago was uneventful. Their main concern was that American planes might find the three truck convoy a juicy target, so they departed at two minute intervals. Maybe an American pilot wouldn't want to waste a bomb on one truck.
Hide in plain sight was the plan. Skronski got his men out of their trucks two blocks from the entrance to the bunker. Ruiz, who looked and sounded Cuban because he was Cuban, was designated to "command" the column of men in Cuban uniforms. When they got to the entry point, a guard inside the bolted door asked what the hell was going on and Ruiz, with total confidence, loudly told him that the detachment was additional security against American Special Forces, and if nobody had told the guard they were coming, well, what else was new?
The guard grunted and opened the door. The Americans raced in, clubbing the Cubans in the room before they could get off any shots. Skronski started to lead down the steps to the tunnel but Ruiz pulled him aside.
"I think you still need my unique skills, sir. Nothing personal, but no fucking way you're gonna pass for Cuban and every second we fool them counts big."
Skronski agreed and settled for fourth spot behind Ruiz and the two other Hispanic Americans who'd also been prowling around Santiago.
"What is this?" someone asked as they entered the room. The question was one of curiosity, not concern. A dozen men sat behind desks or in front of radio sets. Jesus, thought Skronski, and there's Ortega himself, on the telephone and not even looking in his direction.
A young officer finally saw that the "Cuban" soldiers had their weapons pointed at them. "Treason!" he yelled and was cut down by automatic weapons fire that echoed through the room. Other real Cubans grabbed their weapons and all the Americans opened fire. The effect was shattering and deafening in the closed room. Dust and debris flew as bullets chewed up men and equipment. Cuban soldiers fell and screamed. The Americans reloaded and looked around for more targets. Dust and smoke obscured the room and people were groaning in pain and shock.
There were no more targets. All the Cubans were down in tangled, bloody messes. One American was seriously wounded and two slightly. They'd surprised and overwhelmed the Cubans who probably weren't all that great combat soldiers in the first place. Staff and communications pukes, Skronski thought.
Skronski checked the fallen Cubans for signs of life. A couple of them were still breathing, and that included Ortega who'd been shot in the chest and the arm.
"Take him out and load him in the truck," he said of Ortega. "Do first aid on the others and leave them in the tunnel."
With a little luck, Skronski hoped they'd survive and inform others that their attackers had been fellow Cubans. Treason was what one man had cried out and let them believe that, at least for a little while. As this was being done, others of his group were happily smashing the radio equipment and ripping out wires, letting loose a several month's worth of frustration.
Cautiously, they exited through the tunnel and went outside in the night. Skronski couldn't help but grin. The Cuban guards were where they left them and nobody outside the building had heard a thing. The bunker's thick walls had muffled the sounds of the shootings and the killings. Santiago had slept through it all.
"Now what sir?" Ruiz asked. Even though he wasn't the most senior in rank, Skronski thought it was interesting how the others had deferred to the young man. He would talk to Hartford and see if they could do something about that. Ruiz was definitely officer material.
"We load up and go back to Disneyland," he said. "And then we hope we get rescued before too long. The Cubans are likely to get pissed when they finally figure out that it was really us who disabled their headquarters and kidnapped their commanding general. Hey, he is still alive, isn't he?"
Ruiz assured him Ortega was still breathing and that his bleeding had been stabilized by one of the medics who'd accompanied them. With a little decent medical care, the Cuban general should survive, and wouldn't that be interesting.
When they returned to their compound, Major Hartford was more than pleased. Their prisoners from the guard shack were safely inside the camp as was General Ortega who’d begun getting medical help. The medics agreed that he would live, but wouldn't be commanding an army for a long while.
Hartford hoped that, along with decapitating the Cuban command and communications structure, they'd sown enough confusion so that the remaining Cubans wouldn't know exactly where the attack had originated. The Cubans had initially cried “treason,” and he hoped that possibility would confuse them. He also hoped the missing guards from the guard shack would be considered deserters. There had been a lot of desertions lately thanks to the bombings and the threat of an American invasion.
It occurred to him that he was hoping an awful lot.
Now, he thought, it was time to let the Pentagon know what had just gone down and he still didn't have a code to use. He would assume that the Cubans were listening to everything he said and would have to watch his words very, very carefully. He didn't want Cubans trying to liberate Ortega or wreaking vengeance on his largely unarmed command. Damn, he would have to be clever.
General Humberto Cordero thought the bunker was a charnel house. Blood in blackening pools congealed on the floor and the wall, and mangled bodies lay everywhere, stiffening as rigor mortis set in. The handful of survivors, the guards topside and two men in the tunnel, were adamant that the attackers had all been Cubans. They'd worn Cuban uniforms and had spoken Spanish, ergo, they were Cubans.
But why would other Cubans have shot and taken General Ortega? The two wounded men in the tunnel thought he'd been carried out by the attackers, which made no sense. If the idea was to wipe out Ortega's command structure, then why take him along when a bullet in the head would be more efficient.
This had all the earmarks of something Che Guevara would do, but Guevara was out in the countryside with his beloved Russian rocket. Cordero shuddered. That was something he wished his cousin, General Ortega, had never confided in him about. The idea of that maniacal asshole Guevara with his hands on a nuke was frightening.
They had already contacted Havana via short wave and Cordero had even spoken to Fidel himself. Cordero had told Fidel that the attackers had worn Cuban uniforms but he didn't think they were Cubans. Either American Special Forces in disguise or, God help them all, some of the lunatic exiles from Miami. Even Fidel had gone thoughtfully quiet on hearing that opinion.
But who was to command the army? It was locked in mortal combat with the Americans a little more than a score of miles to the north and chaos would ensue if no one was in charge. There were generals more senior and far m
ore experienced in military matters than Cordero out in the field, but they were in no position to coordinate and command. Fidel gave the order to Cordero. First, he was to re-establish communications and then attempt to coordinate their efforts until a new general could be sent from Havana,
Cordero almost snorted on hearing Fidel say that. It would take days, if not longer, for a new general to arrive thanks to American control of the air, and even he, with his limited military experience, knew the crisis point of the battle would have long passed.
He gave the orders to clean up the mess in the bunker and replace what they could of the equipment. A new security detachment was on duty, even though he thought that a repeat of the attack was highly unlikely. The survivors of the old security detachment were sent to the front lines for their collective stupidity. They were told they could either be shot by the Cuban police or take their chances against the Americans. They chose the Americans. Cordero thought they'd take maybe thirty seconds before attempting to surrender.
Without any way to communicate with units in the field, there was little Cordero could do to affect the fighting at the moment. He walked and found himself a little ways from the POW camp. He stared at the rows of tents as a thought grew. He'd been told that yesterday there had been three trucks by the guard shack. No one had thought to ask why the trucks had been parked there. Today, though, the trucks were gone and so were the two men on night duty in the shack and the lieutenant who'd been officer of the guard. Cordero had no idea who the enlisted men were, but the officer had been a young lieutenant who'd talked about his unproven bravery and seemed terrified at the thought of actually going into combat, which had made him a good choice to guard over the prisoners.
The two enlisted men might have deserted, but he had doubts about the lieutenant. The young man had too much to lose, like his life, if he was caught. As an officer he'd be shot and not sent to the front lines to take his chances.
Castro's bomb Page 34
