Castro's bomb

by Robert Conroy

  LeMay turned as if to leave the room, then thought better of it and sat down.

  "Therefore," Kennedy continued, "we will do nothing more than expand the perimeter of the base at Gitmo to make it more defensible. We will not even take Santiago. However close and tempting it might be, Santiago is a hotbed of support for Castro and we'd be inviting armed resistance from within the city and guerilla warfare later."

  LeMay remained incredulous. "I just cannot believe we aren't even considering using the Strategic Air Command's bombers. Why the hell do we have those weapons if we're not going to use them?"

  "Because I consider them deterrents, not first strike weapons," Kennedy said. "They are for defense, not offense."

  "The exiles are going to be furious," McCone commented softly. Behind him, Charley and Elena sat in rapt fascination. Their knees touched slightly as if they were trying to communicate their thoughts as they sat watching history being made. Someday, it'd be a helluva tale to tell the grandkids.

  "I know," said the president. "A few days after the fighting stops and the situation in Cuba stabilizes, I'll send Lyndon Johnson down to Miami to mollify them. He'll do that by telling the exiles what a no-good prick I am for betraying them and what a great good friend they have in Lyndon Johnson if he should ever decide to run for president." Kennedy smiled tightly. "Since Lyndon believes that I am a no good prick and he does want to replace me, he will be a very compelling speaker."

  "I still can't live with this," LeMay said and stood. "You'll have my resignation as soon as this crisis is over."

  Kennedy glared at him. "General, there was an Air Force before you and there'll be an Air Force after you. If that is how you genuinely feel, resign now."

  "Then I resign," snarled LeMay.

  "Accepted, now get the hell out of here."

  The president stood and walked angrily out of the meeting and returned to the Oval Office. Bobby Kennedy awaited him, a stunned look on his face. Dear God, JFK thought, what the hell is it now?

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Emilio Esteban hated Haiti and the Haitians almost as much as he hated Fidel Castro. Castro had taken his parent's business, a department store, nationalized it, and driven them away from it. Castro hadn't even given them the opportunity to manage it for the state. No, Castro’s representatives said they were capitalist pigs who'd oppressed the Cuban people and deserved to live in poverty. That the Esteban family had started with nothing and worked hard to reach a level of prosperity in Cuba meant nothing to Castro and those Emilia considered his thugs. Nor did it matter that his parents had never cheated anyone. They were capitalists and needed to go.

  Of course, none of the Esteban family had ever directly met Fidel Castro. His minions were the ones who'd done the deeds. Emilio's parents had tried to endure state-sanctioned poverty in Cuba, but had finally immigrated to Miami with little more than the clothing on their backs. Castro's police had even stolen their watches and jewelry.

  Fortunately, the now thirty-year old Emilio had preceded them to Miami where he'd made contact with the exile community. Even more fortunately, he hadn't been part of the tragic attempt to liberate his beloved homeland in the Bay of Pigs fiasco. Still, he learned from the experience not to trust the United States and, in particular, not to trust the Central Intelligence Agency. He was not worried about the FBI. A bunch of pasty-faced white guys in dark suits who stood out like sore thumbs when observing Cubans in Miami was not going to infiltrate his new organization.

  The Haitians, under their dictator, the evil Papa Doc Duvalier, were corrupt, brutal and never to be trusted. They knew that he had plans involving Castro and Cuba and, under ordinary circumstances would have stopped him or betrayed him. This time, Emilio thought, Duvalier was angry with the United States for butting into his fiefdom and with Castro for threatening to export his revolution to Haiti. This meant that anyone who wanted to hurt both and who paid cash was acceptable.

  For the moment, that is. Emilio and his associates knew that Duvalier could change his mind in a heartbeat and attack either their camp or the rusting freighter they’d bought through a dummy corporation. They'd renamed the ship the Marti, after Jose Marti the legendary Cuban freedom fighter who'd been killed by the Spaniards in 1895. If they were betrayed and attacked by the Haitians, Emilio and those of his men taken prisoner would be sold to the highest bidder, probably Castro, if they were lucky, and shot outright if they weren't. Of course, being turned over to Castro might not count as luck, he thought grimly. He'd heard too many tales of life and excruciatingly painful death in Castro's dungeons.

  That Emilio now had nearly a thousand well-armed men at his disposal was also deterring the avaricious Duvalier. Emilio thought it was too late for Duvalier's brutal but inept and rag-tag army to make a move against him. One nice thing about dictators like Duvalier or Batista, they ordinarily had lousy armies. Good armies were a threat to their regime, but not bad ones. Duvalier's army existed as a palace guard to protect Papa Doc, not fight an enemy force.

  Nor was Emilio's goal the re-establishment of the corrupt Batista Regime. No, Batista and his goons were gone along with the casinos and brothels and good riddance. His hope was to establish a democracy in Cuba along with the return of the property taken by Castro's government. He understood that much of it had been given over to Cuban peasants, but that was just too bad. They had received stolen property and would have to return it. Even in America, no one could legally profit from receiving stolen goods. Emilio planned to play a significant role in the future Cuban government and vowed to solve the problem of property rights as equitably as possible.

  And if anyone resisted, then they were communists and would get what they deserved.

  Stuffed with men and equipment, the Marti left the small port of Aquin on the southern coast of Haiti. There were parts of Haiti that were very close to Guantanamo and he'd thought of launching his attack in that direction, but American naval presence was too strong, and the political impact would not be the same as landing near Havana. No, they would steam south and towards the western tip of Cuba. They would stay on the edge of the American exclusion zone, which had been moved closer to the Cuban shore as a result of protests from other nations who felt that their trade routes to Mexico other Central American nations were being impeded by a war that wasn’t theirs.

  The cruise of the Marti was largely unnoticed. An American destroyer hailed them and asked them their destination. Vera Cruz, Mexico, they'd responded. The Marti was registered under her real name and was shown as Panamanian. After a brief delay, she was allowed to proceed.

  As they came close to the western tip of Cuba, they turned sharply north. Their radar showed no American ships within fifty miles, although there might be a submarine lurking beneath the waves. Emilio thought it was highly unlikely that the American navy would attack a rust bucket like the Marti.

  It was time to make their move. The ship speeded up as best it could and headed to their target, the sleepy port of Playa Malana, about fifty miles from Havana and on the southern coast.

  At first, all they saw as they approached the shore were fishing boats and a small number of people staring at the approaching freighter. Emilio laughed. They probably thought the Marti was either lost or having engine problems.

  He got as close to shore as he could and lowered the boats and rafts. They were filled with armed men who quickly made it to shore, jumped out of their small craft, and spread out, shouting that the good people of Playa Malana had been liberated from the clutches of the communists and Fidel Castro. Emilio was in the first boat.

  "Who the hell are they?" one of his aides asked. Emilio turned to where the aide was pointing. Men in strange uniforms were piling into vehicles and driving away.

  "Shoot them," Emilio hollered without thinking, and his men happily complied with a barrage of bullets, but apparently hitting nothing.

  Then, one of the vehicles slowed and stopped. The passenger door opened and a man fell out. He tried to craw
l away but gave up the effort and collapsed.

  Emilio rushed to the vehicle. The driver was dead, but the passenger who’d fallen onto the ground was still alive, although barely. He gave orders for the man to be given medical help. A medic checked quickly and shook his head. The second man was dead as well.

  He checked the man's uniform and papers. A chill went up and down his spine when he realized the significance of what he'd done.

  He'd just shot and killed two Russian soldiers.

  Shit, he thought. He hadn't planned to involve the Soviets. Now what? He heard screaming from behind him. The town's people were yelling and gesticulating at his men who were yelling back. Damn. Along with killing a pair of Russians, it looked like he'd landed his troops at a place that didn't particularly want to be liberated.

  No matter. His radio was set up and it was time to broadcast to the world that liberation was at hand and that Castro’s days were numbered.

  Sergeant Carlos Gomez lay on his substantial belly while the bullets whipped about him. Someone screamed in agony. That was enough, he swore. That idiot Guevara was going to get him killed.

  Only a handful of Americans were advancing and firing, but that was enough since there was less than a handful of Cubans left to fight them. The war had become very small. Che Guevara was with the rocket launcher along with a couple of men who said they knew how to operate it, and that left Gomez and three others to fight off the approaching Americans.

  A few days ago, he'd had twenty men, but desertions and the American bombs had whittled that number down to the few who remained. Guevara had grabbed a mobile anti-aircraft battery to help defend his nuke, and that was now a pile of burning scrap along with its crew. Gomez knew it was time to go. The enemy, the damned gringos, was coming in overwhelming strength. It was time for Gomez to leave Guevara to whatever insane plans he had and dig up the money and other valuables he had squirreled away. Gomez smiled. With all his men getting shot, there might not be anyone else to share it with.

  The Americans were drawing even closer. One of his remaining men lurched forward, the top of his head blown off. Gore spattered all over Gomez, covering him in blood. Thank you, he said to his dead companion as he threw his own weapon a few feet away. Being unarmed was a chance he would have to take if he wanted to get out of this mess, Guevara's mess. He spread more blood on himself and lay face down, beside and half under his comrade's mangled body.

  The Americans were close enough to hear them talk and he watched them through squinted eyes. They saw the bodies and he could hear their comments. One of them, apparently a young officer, ordered them to continue forward. Gomez closed his eyes and held his breath. They were after the launcher and any dead or wounded Cubans were of no concern to them. In a way, Gomez hoped they got to the launcher before Guevara had a chance to light up Guantanamo, but he also admitted to himself that it would be equally pleasant if a number of Americans were consumed in a nuclear fire.

  What would be, would be, he decided as he lay, feigning death.

  The Americans passed by without giving him a second look. He waited a few moments to give them a chance to get far enough away that they wouldn't see him. Enough, he thought. It was time to leave. He stood and grabbed his rifle. He heard a noise. He was staring right at Cathy Malone.

  Cathy saw the man arise from the ground looking like an apparition from hell. He was covered with blood and looked like he should be dead. Instead, he smiled and took a couple of steps toward her. He looked somehow familiar. Then she recalled and it felt like someone had punched her in the gut.

  Gomez, Gomez the bastard who had raped her. Gomez was the man who had stripped her like meat and laughed while he violated her in her own apartment and in front of other human filth like him. And now he was standing just a few feet in front of her and laughing, a gun in his hands.

  "Pussy," Gomez said laughing. "Now you will come with me and we will finish what we started before I leave this damned island. One more time I will show you how a Cuban man really fucks a woman."

  He pointed his automatic rifle in her direction. She was carrying one of her own, but it was pointed downward. She couldn't move. She was paralyzed with shock and growing fear. A part of her said she had to try and kill him, but her body wouldn't obey. Where were the others? Where was her help? She was as alone as the day Gomez had violated her.

  Gomez laughed again and reached for her. She stepped backwards, almost stumbling. He was only a few yards away and was becoming impatient. He had to end this soon before the others came back. He slung his weapon over his shoulder. He was that contemptuous of her defenses.

  "Get over here, you stupid cunt!" he snarled.

  His words finally penetrated her consciousness. She screamed in animal fury, raised her weapon and fired on full automatic. Most of her shots went wild, but a line of bullets exploded across Gomez's chest and belly. He flew backwards and flopped onto the ground. A few seconds later, he stopped flopping and lay still. Cathy threw down the AK47 and dropped to her knees, sobbing.

  A moment later, a badly limping Romanski lurched by. "You okay, Cathy?"

  "I think so."

  Romanski continued on and looked at the mutilated corpse. He had heard only the last comment the dead Cuban had made, but he thought he understood. "Tell me, was this someone you knew?"

  She managed a wan smile. She was now used to the stench of death, and along with the blood, Gomez had messily evacuated his bowels and bladder as he died. She thought it was fitting that had died in his own filth.

  "You could say it was."

  He smiled knowingly. "Is this chapter closed?"

  She reached for the weapon she'd dropped. "Damned right."

  Ross crawled through the grass and the bushes. There had been a burst of gunfire from behind him and he wondered if that meant that the Cubans were in his rear or what. Regardless, the situation called for extreme caution. He knew that he was finally getting very close to the launcher and its nuclear warhead.

  And finally, there it was, tucked neatly into a very small clearing less than a hundred yards away. Its rocket was in an upright position, like an obscene erection, and it was pointed south towards the ocean where everyone expected that the marines would soon be landing.

  Guevara was hunched over in the vehicle, probably working the controls and two Cubans were on the ground, checking things over.

  Ross looked around as best he could without exposing himself. Where were the others? The unexpected firing behind him had stopped, but Cullen, Morton, and the others were nowhere to be seen, and where the devil was Cathy? Had the firing distracted them or had they gotten separated in the underbrush? It didn't matter. He was on his own and it looked like Guevara was going to try and fire the thing at any moment.

  Ross moved forward in a running crouch. About halfway there, the two Cubans on the ground spotted him. He opened fire and one of them fell while the second ran away. Guevara looked up, stunned. He recovered quickly and pulled his pistol out of its holster.

  Ross aimed and squeezed the trigger. Nothing. His clip was empty. He struggled to replace it and Guevara fired several rounds at nearly point-blank range.

  Ross was hit in the chest with enough force to knock him backwards and stun him. It took all his strength to roll over. Even if he could have reached it, his carbine was smashed. One of Guevara's bullets had hit it. His world began to spin and he thought he would black out.

  Guevara laughed and went back to work.

  A wraith in a gray uniform silently emerged from behind the launcher and jumped up and behind an unsuspecting Che Guevara. A large knife flashed and blood began to gush wildly from the Cuban's throat. The wraith pushed Guevara out and onto the ground where he lay still.

  Additional gray clad wraiths leaped onto the launcher and lowered the rocket. With swift, practiced motions, they removed the warhead and laid it on a sledge which they then proceeded to drag away into the underbrush.

  Andrew's mind finally accepted the fact t
hat they were men and not phantoms and that they wore uniforms, but ones he didn't recognize.

  The first one, the man with the knife, stood over Andrew. He was clearly in charge of the group. He knelt and wiped the blade on some grass.

  "There is no blood, so you will live, I think," he said in heavily accented English.

  "You're Russian?" Andrew managed to say.

  "Spetsnaz," Captain Pyotr Dragan answered. "Tell your superiors that we have done nothing more than retrieved stolen property along with taking care of some human garbage we've been tracking for some time."

  Dragan signaled and his fellow Russians disappeared like they'd never existed. The sledge with the warhead was already out of sight. All that remained was a missile launcher without a warhead. A Russian ran back and threw a grenade into the launcher’s command area. The explosion started a fire that resulted in the fuel tank catching fire. The launcher was history and the Luna was gone.

  Ross lay back and tried to figure out whether the Russian was right and that he would indeed live. He checked himself over and, miraculously, found no evidence of a bullet hole. Something had hit him hard in the chest, but it wasn't a bullet and it wasn't going to kill him. His ribs hurt like hell and he thought at least one was broken.

  Morton and Cullen ran to him and checked him over. A moment later, Cathy did the same thing, except that she was crying. The verdict was unanimous. He would live. Romanski finally limped up. Once again he was using a tree limb for a crutch. He looked at the launcher and the dead bodies.

  "Is that what I think it is?" the colonel asked.

  "Yes, sir," Ross said. "That's what we've been chasing."

  "Then where the hell is the warhead," Romanski said as he looked around, deeply concerned. The marines had commenced landing a few miles south at Gitmo and east near the town of Siboney.