Acquitted? Fidel was outraged. He denounced the verdict in an inflammatory television broadcast, and had them tried again. This time the judges got the message; 29 airmen were given prison terms of twenty years or more, and twelve received lesser sentences. The presiding judge of the first trial, the one who had blundered so badly as to find the men all innocent merely because there was no evidence, was found dead; the authorities said it was suicide. Perhaps it was.
Another case was that of Major Sosa Blanco, accused of the crimes of another man, Mero Sosa. There was no proof; time and again the government's case against him was shown to be fallacious. Finally they had to stop televising the proceedings because the whole thing was "a Roman circus," making the government look ludicrous. But the case was not thrown out; it had gone too far for that. So the Major was convicted and sentenced in decent privacy.
Sharing the wealth? True, assets were taken away from the rich, and the poor applauded. But somehow that wealth did not filter down to the poor people, and a precedent was set that in the end was ruinous. First the possessions of the remaining Batista supporters were confiscated. Very well, that's called the spoils of war, and it is customary around the world. It had not been Cuban policy before, however. Then the very rich were deprived, and the property of foreigners taken, especially Americans. Well, Americans weren't very popular in Latin America anyway; served them right. But after the spoils, and the rich, and the foreigners—who would be next?
Agrarian reform? It became against the law to own more than 3,000 acres of land in Cuba. Then the limits were reduced. In due course all private property—land, business, houses—was taken by the government, and no one could own his own home. With whom, then, was the land and wealth being shared?
Personal freedom? From the outset Castro began to restrict it. He abolished gambling—yet doesn't freedom mean the right to choose for oneself whether to gamble, rather than having the government make the decision? Total press censorship was invoked. It became a crime for any writer to criticize the government, and citizens were sent to jail merely for listening to American radio broadcasts. Political parties were abolished with one notable exception: the Communist party. Unions were taken over, and strikes forbidden. Most Catholic priests were expelled. "Voluntary" membership in militia groups was required, and "voluntary" sugarcane cutting duty, and contributions of salary to the government for special purposes.
As a result, there was a phenomenal exodus from Cuba by anyone able to move—until travel outside the island was prohibited. Doctors, lawyers, University graduates, the rich and middle class exited first; but as repression intensified it became a complete cross section of the population. Fishermen departed in droves, using their boats to cross the channel to Miami, Florida. To date, the number of exiles approaches one million—of a total population of six million at the time of Castro's takeover. In terms of per cent, that is one of the great migrations of modern history. One sixth of a nation, exiled.
Education? First the religious schools were banned, then the private schools. Foreign magazines and newspapers were eliminated. Every child had to attend the government schools where literacy was achieved by studying propaganda texts. But at first the process was subtle. Roberto Fuentes was a law student at the University of Havana in 1959. A small Communist clique tried to take over the University. Two of Fuentes' professors, Tony de Varona and Aureliano Sanches Arango, made comments that they were against Communism. An assembly was called, at which there was an attempt made to drive out these professors. Fuentes and a few others stood to rebut the Communists: "Since when is it a crime to be anti-Communist in Cuba?" he demanded. "If it is then you must expel me too, because I am also anti-Communist." The president of the law school, Major Maximo, replied: "Fuentes, it is not a crime." Then many others stood to declare their own anti-Communism, and the expulsion effort failed. But this showed the trend that was developing—and in due course, it did indeed become a crime to be anti-Communist in Cuba.
Free elections? These were "temporarily" postponed, then abolished as unnecessary. In fact, Fidel's government from the start was hardly distinguishable from a dictatorship. He ruled by personal fiat.
Thus it was scarcely surprising that Roberto Fuentes, who had the background and training to appreciate the erosion of ideals and practice that was happening in Cuba, evolved gradually from a moderate skeptic into a confirmed enemy of the government. His father's family properties were confiscated—a manganese mine, tenement houses, and a small hotel in Sto. de Cuba—and his mother's family farm of 1,000 acres. His uncle was jailed. Roberto himself lost his job at the Havana tunnel, and his judo teaching position—for he was the judo champion of Cuba—and was expelled from the University of Havana. Oh, yes, Fuentes had reason to oppose the new order!
But there was no freedom to protest the administration or to vote it out of power. So the idealists who had actually believed in the promises of the Revolution became disillusioned, and some of them gradually hardened into anti-Castro guerrillas.
This is the story told in this book. It could happen to anyone with the courage to stand up for his convictions as he sees his country progressing into an alien philosophy, its traditions and freedoms despoiled stage by stage, while the majority of citizens merely accept it with sheeplike passivity. There are disturbing signs that it could happen in America.
Such resistance is a hard course. Yet there is a certain psychological appeal to terrorism, as Fuentes says: "It is the great Ego booster. You might be a nerd, a failure at everything, but you know you are superior to all those lawyers making $50,000 a year. You can blow up twenty of them with a bomb, or you can change the world like Oswald, Sirhan and so many others. While you are doing it you are no longer a failure, no longer discriminated against, no longer a disappointment. You are the greatest."
The authors hope that this book will help show the way to make the world safe from terrorism. But not too safe—so long as oppression remains.
Chapter 1
Return
We stood on the deck of a small yacht, peering through the night at the forbidden island. I was half-eager, half afraid; I wanted more than anything to destroy the Communist usurpers of my country, but I knew it was just as likely that they would destroy me instead. Already some of my closest friends had been gunned down, and I myself was marked by Fidel Castro's government for death.
It really would have been easier, and a whole lot safer, to stay home. But where was home? In exile in Florida? My heart was in Cuba, so in a very real sense I was coming home.
It was cool in that pre-dawn darkness, but most of the chill was in my mind. Beside me, Tomas and Nilo were impassive, even confident; they did not seem to have any weak-sister doubts. Tomas was to be our guide; I had been assured that he knew every inch of this area, so why should he worry? Nilo, an illiterate peasant, had stolen a gun and joined a guerrilla band the day his father's small farm in Las Villas province had been confiscated for incorporation into a larger "cooperative." If that was the agrarian reform that Castro had promised, Nilo did not want any part of it! When the guerrilla leader, "Black Thorndyke," was surrounded in a cane field by 5,000 militiamen and burned alive, Nilo had led the surviving guerrillas in a daring raid on a government patrol boat and sailed it right into the Miami River with 25 men. He was extremely lucky to have survived at all—yet here he was, once more ready to give his life for his country. Nerve? He had proved he had it!
I tried to keep my face positive, though I knew they could not make out my expression. My heart was racing, not exactly with enthusiasm. Who in his right mind would volunteer for a suicide mission like this? But there would be no backing out now.
I was returning: that was my overriding thought. I had some fear, but as I explored it in my mind, I found it was not entirely for myself, though I knew the danger we faced. About half the missions into Cuba at this time were aborted, because of lights on the coast, the presence of a strange boat, noises or something similar. To my mind, these wer
e flimsy excuses; the real reason was cowardice.
Oh, sure, people get afraid in the presence of danger. That's natural; in fact fear is an essential human emotion. I have been afraid many times. I don't like the sensation, but I don't let it dominate me. So I had vowed to myself that no matter how afraid I might get, I would keep going. If my companions tried to back out, I thought I would pull a gun on them to make them go through with it. Because I was the leader of this mission; it was my responsibility.
Another complication was the fact that I was virtually a newlywed. Just one month before, I had married the red-headed Nurmi. By day I trained in radio operation; by night I—well, it was a very busy time.
Now I was riding high, as if I were drunk or on some drug; I felt like the most macho man in the world, the greatest, the bravest. So what if I might be going alone against ten thousand militia-men? Once I passed the test I would be a real man!
We lowered a small fiberglass boat called a "Boston Whaler" and a rubber raft with a silent outboard motor. Five of us were going in; two would remain with the boat.
Our mission was complex. On one level, it was to train guerrillas and saboteurs on the island. Many people opposed the Communist regime, but few were trained or equipped to act against it effectively. The expertise we brought was vital. Oddly, we were not to make contact with existing anti-Castro organizations. We had been warned that they were riddled by Fidel's G-2 Intelligence operatives and could not be trusted.
On another level, our mission was to go in and learn as much as possible about a wild story concerning Russian missiles in Cuba. I was to be alert for railroad tank cars transporting liquid oxygen—"LOX"—which was fuel for large missiles. Of course the Soviets wouldn't dare put offensive missiles in Cuba, so this was a wild shot, probably dreamed up by some CIA man who fell asleep reading science fiction. Nevertheless, I would check it out as well as I could.
And I was supposed to journey on to Havana, and contact some of my old collaborators there, men I could trust, and perhaps bring one of them out secretly for special training.
We got into the rubber raft. My body performed automatically, doing the things it had been conditioned to do. My mind was still riding that high: we were committed, we were on our way at last!
We were heavily laden. Besides the three of us in the raft, there were about 100 pounds of explosives, and two big oil drums containing twenty M-3 machine guns for the guerrillas we were to train. This, after all, was a complete Cuban exile operation for the MRR—Movement for Recovering the Revolution. We felt that Fidel Castro had betrayed the revolution he fomented, and delivered us all into a worse situation than we had before he came. So now we hoped to recover the original purpose. The founders and many members of the MRR had been in Fidel's "26th of July" fight against Batista.
One of these founders was Captain Nino Diaz, who had been a member of Raul Castro's column, before becoming disenchanted by the ruthless character of Fidel's brother. Another was Jorge Sotus, chief of the uprising against Batista in Sto. de Cuba in 1956, and leader of the first group of reinforcements Fidel received in the Sierra. Another was Sergio Sangenis, an anti-Batista guerrilla in Matanzas province and for a while chief of Fidel's military intelligence. And Manuel Artime, zone chief of INRRA in the Sierra Maestra. And Rogelio Gonzales Corso, once chief of Agriculture under Castro. These men had not intended to make the country a Communist satellite! So now we all worked to reconvert the Revolution into a Christian socialist movement for the benefit of all the people.
We had substantial American help, of course, but no evidence of that was permitted to show. The Americans had their own motives, not necessarily the same as ours. The Bay of Pigs fiasco was still fresh in their memory. But since they also had a hell of a lot of money and equipment and know-how, we weren't in a position to be choosy.
I dipped my hand in the water. It was pleasant, and its blackness made it seem to be immensely deep. Somewhere down below there would be fish, maybe sharks, sleek torpedoes of the sea. But I knew that sharks seldom attacked groups of men. My mind was mainly concerned with larger threats, such as thousands of militiamen waiting on shore to nab us. Better the sharks than that!
And, in opposition to that threat, I had a vision of glorious victory: riding into Havana on a white horse, with cheering throngs, beautiful women such as Onelida in her white dress, saved especially for this occasion—of course I was recently married, but I was never much of a monogamist, and I knew some girls in Havana that... but right now there was nothing but darkness and water and hope. The real fascination was that these were the waters of home, that I had swum in as a boy, when Cuba was free.
When Cuba was free...
A wind came up. "Oh-oh," Nilo said. He was a young man, short and light but very strong. A killer with nerves of steel. A good partner for a mission like this. "Squall."
He was right. I wish he'd been wrong. The last thing we needed was a storm!
In moments the squall was upon us. These storms are called Turbonadas in Cuba, short but violent. Rain pelted down, whipped into our faces by the wind. It was just a little altercation of the weather, nothing serious—to anyone in a closed house on land. Here in an insubstantial rubber raft, overloaded on open water at night, it was like a damned hurricane. The black waves loomed up like traveling mountains, spraying us with their rabid froth, foaming over the sides, soaking us.
Tomas grabbed a bucket. "Bail!" he exclaimed. I joined him, scooping out the water. We couldn't capsize, really, but we sure as hell didn't want to sit in a deepening puddle either. Supposedly everything was waterproof, but you can never be sure. Our weapons might have been damaged, and our maps and code books, and our radio could have corroded.
I was wearing my poncho, but I was cold and miserable as the water sloshed over my ankles and the waves drenched us completely. Suddenly I needed to urinate; the suggestion can become extremely powerful in such a situation. Not that it would have made any difference, wet as my pants were already. I worried about my glasses and my steel calendar watch, necessary to keep track of the date when out of touch with civilization; the proper date was essential to make closely-timed pre-arranged radio contacts with the U.S.A.
I remembered what a squall had cost me once before. I had been waiting in the Spanish Club in Havana with a BAR—Browning Automatic Rifle—ready to assassinate Fidel Castro as he came to a Chinese Exposition there. But just before Fidel arrived, a squall had struck, and he had returned to the dry Presidential Palace. But for that coincidence, I would now be safe and sound in the city—or snug in a grave. Assassination is a tricky business, even when successful.
So we bailed, while the fury of the tropical storm made our efforts seem futile. At least the exercise warmed us a little. After about fifteen minutes that seemed more like an hour, the squall passed. We had lost some headway, but now resumed forward progress. The Boston Whaler was just ahead. If this were the worst we had to contend with—
Then our motor quit. "Singao!" Nilo swore under his breath. He jerked the starter cord, but the thing was dead. The rain had shorted it out. It was a five thousand dollar silent motor, supposedly proof against such malfunction. Yeah, sure! Maybe a little spy mission into the American manufacturing business was in order, to find out who was goofing off in the motor department. We were stalled on the ocean—and dawn was coming. We were running out of time.
We were in the middle of some small keys that separated a kind of bay, with mainland Cuba not far beyond. No help there. The Boston Whaler realized our problem. It cut back, and Oreja Mocha threw us a tow-rope. That was the purpose in having it along: to make sure we got where we were going despite our dependence on American equipment. I could not pull a gun on a cowardly silent motor to make it perform! So now we were hauled along at reduced speed.
But the delay was too much. It was getting light. Light was our enemy; we would surely be spotted if we tried to go ashore now. "We have to go back," Mario said. He was an old hand, about sixty years old, whit
e haired. He was an intelligent conversationalist, in contrast to Nilo, but he had a yellow streak.
My hand moved toward my special 9mm assassination pistol with the silencer. "No turning back!"
"But the light—"
"We'll hide out for the day in the largest key," I decided. "Tonight we'll go ashore."
That was it. I was the leader, and I had the pistol. We were down to basics. The islet I saw was mostly swamp and mangrove, a good place to hide—except for one thing. It was close to a fishing village.
We had no choice. We pulled in and anchored our two craft amid the huge boles of the mangroves, hidden from view of the mainland. Tomas, our guide, was an old man; we had to trust his experience. He assured us that he had brought fishermen here in the past, and that no one else ever came near.
We had to stay concealed from the air, too; an occasional helicopter patrol could pass. But the overhanging trees seemed sufficient. Now for the long wait. The sun came up. It would have been nice to bask and get a tan, or at least to play a game of poker. But we had to remain silent and alert. I wished half our number were female; a lot can be done with a woman who has to keep immobile and quiet all day. Instead I leaned against a tree and swatted mosquitoes, snarling inwardly. We hadn't even started our mission, and here we were stalled. I had to watch to see that Mario didn't try to bug out, going back to the yacht.
Amazon Slaughter and Curse of the Ninja Piers Anthony Page 39
