Castro's bomb Read online

  Khrushchev paced and raged. For the time being, he could do nothing whatsoever about the situation. He had no air assets in Cuba and the Soviet navy was far, far away. He laughed harshly. He could imagine the scrawny, young, and inept John Kennedy in Washington fuming and raging as well and being just as impotent. Khrushchev took another healthy gulp of vodka and calmed himself.

  America's impotence would only last for a little while longer. In October, they had gathered a massive invasion force just prior to the end of the previous missile crisis, and would doubtless do so again. Castro would be squashed by overwhelming American power. Or, Khrushchev thought, did the stupid prick in Havana think that Russia would pull his ass out of the fire just because he was a fellow communist? That was something he would have to talk over with his advisors and the members of the Politburo. Was it worth the risk of an all-out war with the United States, and possibly a nuclear one just to save the revolution in Cuba? After all, wasn't Cuba rightfully in the American sphere of influence in the first place?

  Perhaps the Soviet Union and the United States could negotiate something other than a complete return of Guantanamo. After all, didn't the Cubans now have a large number of American prisoners?

  Unlike Josef Stalin, his unlamented predecessor who had died in 1953, Khrushchev's rule was not absolute. All around him were other high ranking Soviet officials who were constantly jockeying for power and the opportunity to replace him at the top. Leonid Brezhnev and Alexi Kosygin were the two who worried him most. If they managed to topple him, would they let him live, or would his reward be the traditional bullet in the back of the head? They were unhappy with the way the Cuban Missile Crisis had played out; therefore, he must solve this problem and do so decisively.

  Khrushchev had another thought and it chilled him. What if Comrade Castro wasn't so dumb and irrational? What if he had something else planned? More vodka, he decided.

  Cathy Malone picked her way through the rubble of several destroyed buildings. The devastation on the base appalled her. Especially shocking was the destruction of what had been the homes build for civilian and military families. Cuban and American bodies lay about, giving testimony that the base hadn't fallen easily. Quickly yes, but not easily. The Cubans had been bloodied.

  Good, she thought and was surprised at the depth of her feelings. She'd always thought war was horrible and now she knew that it was, but she also wanted to fight one. The Cubans had hurt her and her country.

  She was scared, hurt, and angry. He fears were almost too numerous to mention. She was afraid of being seen by Cuban soldiers and captured again. Maybe the next ones wouldn't rape her, but who knew? She would not take the chance. Maybe she'd been lucky that she'd only been raped and not murdered as well. Or gang-raped and murdered. Or mutilated like she'd been threatened.

  She was afraid that the Cuban sergeant, Carlos Gomez, she would never forget him or his name, had made her pregnant. That would compound the horror. Had he ejaculated inside her or just on her leg? She shuddered at the thought of the self-examination she'd forced herself to make. She'd been a virgin until Gomez assaulted her, and had always thought she'd remain one until she got married, or really fell in love. And rape was something that was whispered about and always happened to someone else. Or to someone who managed to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, or got so drunk on a date that she wasn't able to stop a guy.

  She was realistic enough to not be concerned that her so-called virtue had been compromised. This Gomez pig had forced it from her and she was the victim, not a co-conspirator. She knew some cultures that blamed the victim, and she'd always thought that was utterly stupid.

  She remembered Catholic school catechism classes where nuns and priests glorified young girls who chose death over losing their virginity to a rapist. She'd always thought death was a wrong, even stupid, decision under those circumstances. Now she knew she was right. She wanted to live and she wanted to see Carlos Gomez brought to justice, whatever that meant. The thought of her being canonized as Saint Cathy Malone, Virgin and Martyr, was appalling. Her church, she realized, was dead wrong.

  Most of the young women she knew were more or less ignorant about sex and most at least claimed to be virgins, no matter how much they experimented sexually. There was a growing movement among women that said women should be freer sexually, but she had not yet been converted to that line of thinking. Voluntarily going all the way, screwing, fucking, or whatever term one preferred was for marriage.

  Cathy did not consider herself a prude and had permitted a select few boys and young men from high school and college to take what her old aunt used to refer to as "liberties" with her, but had never gone anywhere near sexual intercourse. Above the waist was her rule.

  She was also afraid that the filthy and disgusting Gomez had given her what the sailors and marines called the clap. She'd heard many of the young men talk about it. Syphilis and gonorrhea were the names most commonly given to venereal disease and she wondered just when and how she'd know she had it or not. Time would tell, she supposed.

  Fortunately, the physical pain was endurable and receding. She was young and would heal, at least physically. If she wasn't pregnant and didn't have the clap, she thought she could handle the mental part. She laughed bitterly. Did she have a choice? She'd have to help herself. She didn't see anyone standing around volunteering to help her by providing a shoulder to cry on. No, she would have to be tough. Either that or she might perish.

  Cathy had not wanted to return to the base, but an examination of her carry bag showed serious deficiencies. She'd only planned to use it for creature comforts while on a boat or plane to the States, not for living in the wild like a refugee. Thus, and with great reluctance, she'd returned to do some scrounging. Even though it was tempting since it contained all of her stuff, she decided to stay away from her ruined apartment. She had no idea where this Gomez bastard who'd raped her might be. He said he'd be back and Cathy believed him.

  Her foraging had resulted in a mixed bag. Literally. She now had a duffle bag full of C and K ration packages that she'd never tasted but heard were both awful and nourishing. She'd even steeled herself to take some off of the bodies of sailors and marines. If the military said it was food, she'd take it. She had no idea how long she'd be on the run, but part of her said it could be quite a while. It was now late in the afternoon of Christmas Day and there was no sign of any further American response. She'd cheered when she'd seen the American jets, but they'd disappeared. Cold hard logic told her she was on her own for the foreseeable future.

  She was more than a little surprised to find that her wanderings had brought her outside her old apartment. Did she dare? She checked in all directions. Alice's mangled remains were gone. Had the base's new owners begun cleaning things up? Everything appeared deserted. She entered through the back door and wished she knew how to fire the rifle she'd picked up from where it had been abandoned on the street. It was a strange looking thing and she presumed it was from a Cuban, since the markings indicated it was Russian. She hoped it might deter someone if they saw her carrying it.

  Cathy grabbed a blanket off her bed and hung it over her shoulder. Then she took a second one. Who knew where she'd be sleeping in the future? She stuffed some more clothing and personal items into her original bag and wrapped the blankets around some more, tying them up with electric cords. She would be weighed down but could toss them quickly if she had to.

  She cautiously went out the back door. She had just taken a couple of steps when she froze in horror. A small black man wearing combat fatigues was standing a few feet away from her and was pointing a rifle directly at her.

  Lieutenant Colonel Ted Romanski groaned in pain. The cast that Sergeant Morton had made out of pieces of wood was less than adequate, to put it mildly.

  "You want some more morphine, colonel?"

  Romanski had taken some of the painkiller while Morton was setting the break. The sergeant had tried to be gentle, but the injury wouldn't c
ooperate and the morphine had been necessary to calm him during the process. Still, he knew how little of the precious stuff they had.

  "No thanks. Let's save it for something important."

  Morton grinned. He didn't think the iron-assed colonel would've taken any more. Romanski had a reputation for being a hard driver who worked with his men even though he was at an age where he could be forgiven for sitting behind a desk.

  "Did you find any more survivors?" Romanski asked, even though he thought he knew the answer to the question. Had there been any more survivors who’d parachuted with them, they'd be with them.

  "No sir, but I did find evidence that some of the guys survived and were taken prisoner. I also found half a dozen bodies. I took their supplies and ammo and buried the dead as best I could."

  Romanski thought Morton had done a good job and said so. Now came the hard part. They were all alone in the wilds of a very hostile eastern Cuba. He had a broken leg and the one other man with him was going to have to help him physically go anyplace, assuming, of course, that they could decide where they should go. He had no qualms asking the highly regarded senior sergeant for his opinion.

  "Well, colonel, it doesn't look like we'll be doing anything useful other than surviving for a while. I don't know if and when our guys will be striking back, so I'd suggest finding a place to hole up until you get at least a little bit better."

  "Then what, Morton?"

  "Then maybe we should move slowly towards Gitmo. If our guys are going to come back, then that's a place where they'll likely go real early."

  Romanski took a deep breath. He was exhausted, which pissed him off since he hadn't done much except lie there while Morton patched him up. "Sounds like you're reading my mind, Master Sergeant Morton. Let me get some rest and we'll begin."

  "And then I said, what the hell are you doing here, Miss Malone? And damned if she didn't scream and drop everything she had in her arms including that little commie rifle she was carrying. Then I had to remind her who I was and then she came running like she was a little kid who'd just found her daddy and jumped into my arms. Been a long time since a good-looking white girl hugged me,” Ward said solemnly.

  "Been a long time since anybody hugged you," Groth retorted.

  Andrew Ross turned to Cathy Malone and winked. Cathy smiled weakly. She was exhausted and emotionally drained. She was safe and just wanted to go to sleep.

  Ward had been one of her better pupils in the government sponsored education program. She had heard the story of her rescue or deliverance by PFC Ward a dozen times already and it had only been a couple of hours since he'd found her by her apartment. Ward had scared the poor girl out of her wits, although Ward cheerfully admitted he'd been just as surprised as she was. But he had never been scared, no sir. Marines are never scared.

  She was so disheveled and dirty that Andrew hadn't recognized her at first, and her face was badly bruised, almost like someone had punched her, and there was a nasty cut on her cheek that Sergeant Cullen had cleaned and bandaged. It took a while before Ross realized he'd not only seen her several times on base, but that she was the young woman he'd been trying to find someone who could introduce him to. Now they'd met, but under some very trying circumstances. She seemed like she might be the kind of person he thought she was, but his original idea of asking her out to dinner and a movie was clearly down the crapper. So much for making a good first impression, he thought. At least she was as big a mess as he was, although she sure looked a lot cuter, bruises and bandages notwithstanding.

  She was a welcome if not puzzling addition. Andrew didn't know quite what to do with her. Even if he wanted to, and he definitely didn’t, he couldn't abandon her. First, she wasn't likely to leave. The men he'd sent into the base to scavenge had returned with the information that POWs were being kept at the airbase at Guantanamo, while civilians were already being sent by train to Santiago where they would be moved by boat to Mexico and then to the United States. Even if he wanted to, he couldn't send her through Cuban lines to find a civilian train that might no longer exist. And, she was clearly terrified of the Cubans and he wondered why. She would stay with them for as long as she wanted, but it represented another burden for him.

  On the bright side, his scavengers had found the base strewn with useful goodies, the inevitable debris of battle. Along with the heartily despised C and K ration packs, they'd picked up additional weapons and a quantity of ammunition. They'd also found several of what Cathy had also brought with her — Russian built AK47 assault rifles and ammunition. Andrew insisted that the men carry the AKs along with their own M1 Garands. His marines might be few in number but now they could pack a lot of firepower. Sergeant Cullen approved heartily, which shut up any complaints. After all, if things got really scary, they could lighten their load by dumping the additional stuff.

  Sergeant Cullen suggested caching supplies at various spots in case they had to abandon their base camp which was now in a grove a couple of miles north of the base. Andrew thought it was an outstanding idea.

  Andrew's scavengers, they preferred to be called looters, reported that the battle had not all been one-sided. They found several burned out Russian made T34 tanks and BTR60 armored personnel carriers. One BTR60 contained the corpses of a dozen Cubans who'd burned to death. Andrew wondered what happened to that truck they'd sprayed with gunfire. Had the driver reached his destination only to find a cargo of dead bodies? What a lovely thought.

  Cullen was playing with an AK. He said it was named for some guy named Kalashnikov. "Not a bad weapon, lieutenant, you can fire it either semi or full automatic. Someday we'll have something like this. For whatever it's worth, I read in Mechanics Illustrated that Armalite has offered the government an automatic weapon somewhat like this, and we're considering it."

  Andrew yawned. Both the M1 Garand and the M1 carbine, which was what he carried, were semi-automatic only. This meant one shot fired for each trigger pull. A full automatic was a nice option, especially for close range shooting. "The Pentagon'll reject it. If they didn't invent it, they'll decide it can't be worth anything."

  Cullen laughed. "Ain't that the truth?"

  Andrew was tired, but suddenly realized what he should be doing. Damn it to hell, had he shut down his brain when the shooting started? "Anybody here got a transistor radio, preferably one that has batteries and actually works?"

  Three hands went up. Of course people took creature comforts with them on guard duty and they grinned sheepishly. All three radios ran on batteries. PFC Anders had one that included an electric cord if they could find a plug. Eagerly, they turned one on. At first, they couldn't pick up anything other than static and a small local station which was, of course, broadcasting in Spanish.

  "Anybody understand this crap?" Cullen asked. Hollis said that he did a little, but the guy was speaking too fast to really understand. "I'll bet it's just propaganda anyhow, sergeant."

  Anders climbed a tree with a wire that extended the antenna. After a bit of fiddling, a clear voice came over the air. All of them grinned at each other like idiots.

  It was a radio station in Miami and the voice was speaking English.

  General Taylor handed the president a manila folder. His expression was grim. "These are the latest casualty reports, sir."

  Kennedy took the folder hesitantly and with a sense of dread. He was exhausted. It was almost midnight. In a few minutes it would be the day after Christmas, traditionally the day when people went in droves to the stores to return unwanted presents. He opened it and began to read. Among the military, three hundred and forty-eight known dead, six hundred and seventy-four wounded, about a third of them seriously. Thirty six known civilian dead and another twenty wounded, and all at Gitmo.

  Seventy-five of the dead had been on the Wallace, along with twenty-four wounded, many of them badly burned. Twenty others were missing and presumed dead, including the destroyer's skipper. Approximately a hundred other military personnel were missing, many of th
em considered killed in the shooting down of three C47s during Roman Force's abortive attack.

  And lastly, more than twenty-two hundred sailors and marines had been taken prisoner. According to representatives of the Swiss Embassy who had finally cancelled their holiday and gone to work, the prisoners would soon be taken to a compound rapidly being thrown together outside Santiago, on the southeastern coast of Cuba. Nobody missed the irony that Santiago was the sight of most of the fighting during the Spanish-American War of 1898. The conclusion of that short war had resulted in the U.S. getting and keeping the controversial base at Guantanamo Bay.

  Six hundred civilians had either escaped by boat or had been interned by the Cubans. The civilian internees were on their way from Santiago to Havana where they would be flown to Mexico on neutral planes. The number of civilians missing was unknown at this time.

  Kennedy shook his head. "Explain the civilian casualties, please."

  "Nothing much to explain, sir," responded Taylor. "The Cubans were good with the accuracy of their guns, but a long ways from perfect. Several artillery rounds, perhaps even entire barrages, landed in civilian residential areas by mistake. I rather don't think it was intentional, it's just that war is hell."

  "So I've heard," Kennedy said drily. Earlier he'd been recalling his own time as a PT commander in World War II. "And how good are these figures?"

  Taylor shrugged. "They’re definitely not final, sir. And the figures from Guantanamo come from Major Hartford through the Cubans. The missing from Roman Force come from the commanding general at Fort Benning, and the civilian numbers are just an estimate. We simply don't know how many people were on the base at the time of the attack. Unlike military personnel, the civilians were free to come and go, and we hope to God most of them show up on the mainland during the next few days."