Castro's bomb

by Robert Conroy

  Cordero stared at the sprawling POW camp. The multitude of tents said nothing. A few men were wandering around, but nothing out of the ordinary. The Americans were always wandering around.

  Cordero pulled out an old cigar and lit it. He had the nagging feeling that the Americans in the camp were a lot less innocent than they appeared in this matter.

  Should he confront Hartford? About what? Had the POWs attacked the bunker? How the hell would they have accomplished that? Had they hidden Special Forces in the camp? A thought, but did he want to use scarce men to scour the camp? Maybe Hartford and the others did know where Ortega was. Would that matter? Everyone said he was badly wounded, if not dead. He would not be commanding the Cuban army for a very long time.

  Cordero decided that he would wait. His job was to re-establish communications with Ortega's forces and that would take time. A lot of time.

  The silence was deafening. It was a trite phrase that Lieutenant Chris Mellor always thought was oxymoronic and amusing. Today, however, it took on a very real meaning. Where was the intermittent sniper fire? What happened to the shouted obscenities? There was nothing but silence from the close by Cuban lines and that was even more frightening then the hostile sounds that had been replaced by the humming of bugs and the chirping of birds trying to eat the bugs. Cuba's wildlife was trying to return to normal. Why?

  Mellor looked at his companions. "Well, I volunteered for this, didn't I?"

  They said nothing. A couple looked away. There was only one way to find out why the Cubans were so silent and that was to go out and ask them. Well, not actually ask them, but to crawl out and see what they were up to. A couple of enlisted men had volunteered, but he would go. He was the officer and he would lead. Damn it, why hadn’t he stayed as a civilian until he’d been drafted into the army? With any luck, he’d be a PFC in a supply center in New Jersey counting down the days until he got discharged. No, he had to go and enlist in the Airborne.

  Mellor slithered over the dirt embankment, trying to make himself as small as possible. It was only small comfort that a dozen rifles, BARs, and machine guns would open up and provide cover if he needed it. He clearly understood that he'd probably be dead by the time they began laying down covering fire if he truly needed it. Still, it was the thought that counted. That a handful of other men would be following him was also not very helpful. He was the lead dog and he had only one clip of ammunition.

  He crawled forward, his carbine tucked in his elbows, and tried very hard to keep his ass down. He felt that his butt was sticking up as a big juicy target. He felt thoroughly exposed and vulnerable and he'd barely begun his journey. They’d guessed that the Cuban lines were only a hundred yards away. He thought he’d gone ten yards. Then twenty. He passed several dead bodies. Some had been dead for a while and stank terribly and had swollen in the heat. Most had been badly mangled and were scarcely recognizable as human. Parts of bodies lay everywhere and a pair of severed heads seemed to be in conversation with each other. The stench was becoming overwhelming and he tried not to vomit lest the noise give him away. The smell had been bad enough back in his shallow trench and while he was crawling, but this was right up close and personal. Obviously, the Cubans thought it was too dangerous to retrieve their dead. He thought Colonel Rutherford would have agreed to a truce to do it if they'd asked.

  Fifty yards, and still no reaction from the Cubans. Had they mined the area? Was he crawling over something that was going to explode and rip him apart just like that grenade had disemboweled his good buddy Santini? Jesus, he told himself, stop thinking about it and get the job done.

  Mellor tried to peer through the underbrush without exposing himself and realized that he couldn’t. A lot of it had been shot away, but much remained and it blocked his view. Any number of Cubans could be only a few yards away, laughing like hell at the idiot American who was trying to sneak up on them. Why the hell had he volunteered for this patrol? He could have accepted the offers of those guys who’d volunteered, but no, he had to have a sense of duty. Shut up and keep crawling, he told himself.

  Why the hell had he gone Airborne in the first place? Because he was crazy, he answered himself. It was a simple answer. Everybody who went Airborne was automatically deemed loony-tunes and here he was proving them correct by trying to sneak up on an enemy army all by his lonesome. Only Airborne were crazy enough to jump out of perfectly good airplanes, or stupid enough to try and sneak up on the Cuban army.

  Eighty yards. He was almost there. He could clearly see the Cuban trenches as raw slits in the ground. If the men back in the perimeter had mortars they could have clobbered the Cubans. Of course, so too could the Cubans.

  A big damn spider crawled across his hand. He crawled closer. Anybody home? There was no way he was invisible to the Cubans. Anybody in their trenches could see him plain as day. How many weapons were trained on him by grinning Cubans gently squeezing their triggers? Any second now, they'd all open up and blow his ass back to Florida. Some kind of lizard hopped out of the trench and looked at him. It moved away as if offended by his presence. He moved forward to the lip of a trench. He took a deep breath and looked over.

  Empty. Just some junk and debris confronted him. Candy wrappers, cigarette butts, and some papers littered the earth. No dead bodies here. The Cubans had been able to remove their dead from this area at least. The Cubans had also removed themselves.

  Mellor slipped into the trench and moved carefully in either direction so he could see quite a ways. Nobody home.

  He took another deep breath and slowly stood up. The birds continued chirping and that was all. He stood on a mound of dirt and waved his rifle back at the American lines. A moment later, the handful of men following him, this time not crawling, began to slip in beside him. They fanned out and began to explore further. Mellor moved a little ways deeper into what had been the Cuban rear. There was nothing but more trash. The Cuban militia unit they'd been fighting had gone away.

  Two hours later, the first airdrop of supplies landed in the paratrooper's expanded perimeter, bringing ammo and medical supplies. Another hour later, the first of a steady train of small helicopters brought in medical personnel and left with the most badly wounded.

  Ten hours later, a column of M48 tanks from the First Armored Division arrived at the perimeter. They'd finally punched their way through from the beachhead.

  A tanker, a greasy-faced captain, grinned at Mellor. "Hey, Airborne, Kennedy sent us here to rescue you."

  Mellor pretended to look puzzled while Colonel Rutherford glared. "Who the fuck said we needed rescuing? If you haven't noticed, tank jockey, the Airborne has the situation well in hand."

  There was chaos as the generals and admirals tried to speak at once. It was the first time Charley Kraeger had been invited to an ExComm meeting and he wasn't impressed. He'd expected a lot more in the way of dignity and decorum and these guys were acting like grade school students.

  He stood behind Director McCone who had maintained silence. Elena Sandano stood beside him wearing a navy blue jacket and slacks combination that could almost pass for a uniform. The military leaders had brought their own experts, so they were not the only civilians in the very crowded, steamy, and smoky room.

  Finally, the president entered and stilled the din. He looked at the angry faces. "I will presume that there is not a consensus regarding what is happening in Cuba," he said wryly.

  "That is a very safe assumption," General Taylor said. His face was drawn and Charley wondered when the old man had last slept. "Nobody knows for certain what the hell is going on."

  Kennedy grimaced. "Then let's stick with the facts and leave the speculation for later. First, has there been a breakout from the beachhead?"

  The army's General Wheeler responded. "There has been, sir. And elements of the First Armored have linked up with that trapped detachment of the 101st. They are being re-supplied and reinforced as we speak, and some of the more seriously wounded evacuated."

  "
Excellent," Kennedy said softly. The thought of any wounded saddened him. The responsibility came with the job, but he didn't have to like it.

  "A number of the wounded have declined to leave," Wheeler continued. "It's a combination of unit pride — they don't want to leave or abandon their buddies, along with an intense dislike of military hospitals."

  Kennedy grinned and the others chuckled, lightening the tension. "Having been a guest in a military hospital on more than once occasion, I can understand their motives. I believe the people at Bethesda would have had me handing out bed pans if they could have. But what about the overall condition at the beachhead?"

  Taylor continued. "Sir, the Cubans have taken a serious pounding and it looks like their army is starting to fold. That armored column from the First managed to punch its way through without too much difficulty. We now have three full divisions on the ground, plus most of the two airborne divisions. We are expanding the perimeter and moving south. Resistance, while still present, appears to be crumbling."

  Kennedy nodded. "Just how much of that is due to the chaos in Santiago? And, by the way, just what the hell actually happened in Santiago?"

  Taylor answered. "We are still trying to sort that out. All we know is that an armed group wearing Cuban uniforms hit the supposedly secret headquarters of General Ortega. We know that Ortega is either dead, or badly wounded, or kidnapped, or who knows? Regardless, he's gone and the others on his staff are either dead or wounded. The Cuban army in the east is headless and that is helping our efforts since there's no way they can really coordinate their defenses. That Ortega and his staff have been wiped out are facts. That’s been confirmed by reports to Havana and by people on the ground."

  "Good for us, I think," Kennedy said. He wondered what was meant by people on the ground, but decided to ask for a clarification later. "Now, who did it?"

  Kraeger stood up straight as McCone answered. "We aren't certain. We have suspicions and a lot of possibilities, but nothing certain."

  Kennedy glared. He wanted answers. "Run them by me."

  "Sir, the Cubans are speculating, in private I might add, that it was American Special Forces."

  Wheeler shook his head. "And we had none in the vicinity. So, as much as I'd like to claim credit for the army, it had to be someone else."

  "No SEAL action in that area either, sir," added Admiral Anderson.

  If the interruptions annoyed McCone, he didn't let it show as he continued. "The second choice is Cuban dissidents. That sounds good except for the fact that they've been pretty well crushed by the Cuban state police, so we don't think they have either the numbers, the weapons, or the skills to pull off something like this. Also, Santiago is a hotbed of pro-Castro activity, so, while there certainly are dissidents out there, I don't see them doing it."

  Kennedy agreed. "What about the exile community in Miami?"

  McCone shrugged. "They've been silent about it. The FBI has poked around, but they say it wasn't them and I believe it. Frankly, if it had been, I think they'd be crowing from the rooftops. The FBI says the dissidents no longer have much in the way of any military capabilities. I wonder about that, however."

  Again, Kennedy agreed. J. Edgar Hoover himself had said that the Miami exiles were toothless.

  "Any other suspects?" JFK asked.

  "Three," McCone said. "The first is Castro himself. He might have figured that the war is lost and wants Ortega out of the way instead of being a living hero and a rival."

  "You believe that?"

  "No sir. The second choice is organized crime, but, again, I just don't see them being able to do this."

  Kennedy smiled, "Not their style unless Ortega shows up wearing cement galoshes. What's your next choice?"

  McCone turned to Kraeger and Elena. "You two figured it out, tell him."

  Kraeger swallowed. "Sir, we think it was the POWs from Guantanamo."

  Kennedy leaned forward, intrigued. "Go on."

  "Sir, we checked personnel records and found that a number of the prisoners were from Cuba, and one had even been raised in Santiago. It isn't too much of a stretch to think of them forming a raiding group and attacking Ortega's HQ. They can't communicate with us in code because they don't have one, and they sure as hell aren't going to say anything in the clear. Havana figures out what happened and they'll smash the POWs and we'd have a lot of casualties."

  "Where would they get the weapons and uniforms?" Marine General Shoup asked almost eagerly. Many of those boys in the compound were his marines. If they had pulled off the raid, he wanted the world to know it.

  Elena smiled and answered, "Money talks, general. What they couldn't buy, they probably stole. We've picked up complaints from the Santiago area from officers whining about missing weapons and uniforms. At first we thought it was people who’d lost or sold stuff trying to justify it." She caught the president looking at her. Had he just winked?

  Kennedy sat back and smiled. "Jesus Christ. Now what do we do?"

  Shoup was agitated. "Mr. President, it's all the more reason to send the marines in now. We've got twenty thousand of them in ships off the southern coast of Cuba and right between Santiago and Guantanamo Bay. If the Cubans get wind of what the CIA suspects has happened, or they figure it out themselves, our boys in that camp will be toast."

  "And what about the missing nuke?" Kennedy inquired.

  Wheeler answered. "That was the gist of the argument when you arrived. Some of us no longer believe that the nuke exists, if it ever did. They believe that the time for using it has long since passed since the army is bearing down from the north. Naval air has pounded a couple of suspected sites based on information provided by Romanski and Ross. We wonder if the whole thing wasn't a red herring designed to keep us chasing our tails. Either that or it has been destroyed by our planes."

  "Interesting," Kennedy said thoughtfully. "And what if it wasn't? Didn't you say, General Wheeler, that our landing on the north coast was a surprise to the Cubans? What if that nuke is still in the south and pointed out to sea where the marines are expected to come ashore? And how much longer will it take the army to reach Santiago and free the POWs?"

  "Perhaps three days."

  "Why so long?" Kennedy snapped.

  "Mr. President," Taylor said, "Resistance is crumbling, but it hasn't disappeared. There are still many pockets of resistance where the fighting is intense. We could suffer many, many casualties if we attempt to move any faster. Also, the farther we push inland, the rougher the terrain gets, which obviously favors the defense."

  Kennedy turned to Shoup. "And when can the marines land and free them?"

  "Tomorrow."

  There was silence while the president thought it over. He nodded as if to himself, and then sighed. "General Shoup, the marines go in and God help us if that nuke exists."

  Chapter Twenty

  The morning after the re-capture of the three nuclear warheads and the Luna rockets, Captain Pyotr Dragan had been called into General Pliyev's office. The general was clearly unhappy and the reason was obvious — one nuke was still missing.

  Dragan had stood impassively as the general had smashed a cigarette into an ashtray with enough force to spill ashes onto the floor. "I have been on the phone with our embassy and there have been numerous radio communications with Moscow. While Khrushchev is mildly pleased that the three nukes have been retrieved, he is thoroughly angry that they were stolen in the first place and is horrified that one remains in the hands of that bearded lunatic in Havana. You are to be commended formally for your efforts. However, you have one more task."

  Dragan had smiled. "Let me guess, comrade general. You want me to move heaven and earth to find the lost missile." Pliyev had laughed harshly. "You may move earth all you wish, but we do not believe in heaven. However, if it helps, do whatever you have to."

  That had been several weeks earlier and, as he sat tired and filthy in a Cuban swamp, Dragan recalled telling the general that he had spent the night thinking about
the feasibility of just such an assignment. Both men concluded the obvious, that the missile would be on the way to Guantanamo to protect and hold the base against the inevitable American counterattacks.

  Dragan had asked for and received a squad of Spetsnaz along with a full platoon of regular soldiers. He also got technicians from the 74th Motor Vehicle Regiment. It had been from that regiment that the Lunas had been stolen and it was their men who'd had their throats sliced. Dragan had not lacked for volunteers to help disable and transport the weapon when it was found.

  For equipment, he'd taken a number of vehicles. These included one truck mounted battery of Oerlikon anti-aircraft guns, and a pair of heavy trucks with cranes and winches strong enough to lift the damn thing if it became necessary to dispose of the tracked vehicle on which it was mounted. He also had a towed 37mm anti-aircraft gun, although he thought it would be fairly useless against American jets. Still, it did make his men feel good that they had one more weapon to shoot back with. His platoon of regulars traveled in regular trucks.

  Driving slowly and at night, it had taken them what seemed an eternity to drive the more than four hundred miles to the boundary of Oriente Province, the home of Guantanamo Bay. It struck him as ironic that the province had also been Castro's sanctuary before the revolution when his miserable little force had hidden out in the Sierra Maestra Mountains to the west of Santiago. As he drove through the area, he could see how a handful of men could hide from an army, which was precisely his problem. Where the devil was the rocket?

  Dragan's force had been halted several times by officious Cuban militia who'd questioned his need to go towards the liberated base. On most occasions Dragan had bluffed his way through, but one time he'd been forced to wipe out a militia squad and hide their bodies, hoping that, if somehow found, their deaths would be blamed on American planes. After all, he'd earlier lost one truck full of regular Red Army soldiers because they'd done a poor job of hiding themselves. Dragan accepted full blame for that action. He was in charge.