Castro's bomb Page 13

  Kennedy agreed. People would die whatever he did. He would do what was necessary to minimize casualties.

  The marine commandant continued. "The Air Force will mainly operate out of MacDill and Homestead and a number of other bases in Florida and elsewhere in the south.

  Shoup paused for effect. "In total, it will number more than half a million men."

  Kennedy took a deep breath. Even though he'd heard the numbers before, they were still staggering.

  "At least the weather's in our favor," Shoup continued. "This is the cooler, drier season so we've got a couple of months of decent weather before it begins to get hot and rainy." He chuckled. "We wouldn't want anybody to be uncomfortable."

  Kennedy squirmed. Was that a dig? The Marine Corps Commandant was known to be outspoken.

  General Shoup continued. "Sir, if Castro wants a fight, we'll squash him. There are, however, a few questions that need to be answered."

  "Go ahead, general," Kennedy said quietly as he tried to digest everything he was being told. Was all this firepower really at his command? It was almost beyond comprehension. And now he was already using it, sending men into harm's way. American warplanes were clashing with MiGs and dodging missiles as they spoke, and bombs were falling, however ineffectively, on Cuban targets.

  Shoup stood with his arms behind his back. "We need to know our goals, sir. Are we to simply recover Gitmo, or are we to topple Castro and recover Gitmo, or are we to conquer the whole damn island? Please recall, sir, that Fidel has nearly four hundred thousand men under his command and, while we'd go through most of them like shit through a goose, there is a large number who are reasonably well trained, well equipped, and who would fight long and hard for their homeland and that would mean a lot of American casualties. I don't really give a care about Cuban casualties, but I do care about ours.

  "Also please recall that the original OPLAN called for an attack near Havana, while Gitmo is at the other end of the island, about five hundred miles away. So, do we land at or near Guantanamo, or Havana, or both? We need to know so we can begin to plan in detail. Of the two, retaking Gitmo would be the easiest and would involve fewer U. S. casualties, but it would still leave Castro in charge of Cuba."

  "What are we up against?" Kennedy asked.

  "As stated, sir," Maxwell Taylor answered. "At they have at least four hundred thousand men in their army, more than one hundred and fifty tanks, all of them Russian T34 and T54s. They lost an unknown number taking Gitmo and more since then, but they still have a lot left over. The remainder are now well hidden and we don't know how many they have around either Gitmo or Havana."

  LeMay injected angrily. "And they have more than fifty MiG 17 and 19s."

  Admiral Anderson smiled. "At least their navy isn't worth much. Little more than some patrol boats.

  Taylor concluded. "For a small Caribbean nation, they are very well armed."

  There was silence in the room. Finally, Lyndon Johnson spoke. "Hell, I say we go in whole hog and dump Castro into a sewer where he belongs. That son of a bitch has been a pain in the ass for three years now, and he simply can't get away with killing our people and stealing our base. I know the United Nations isn't going to like that and maybe the Organization of American States will get their collective tits in a wringer too, but the hell with all of them. Both the UN and the OAS are a bunch of whiny pussies."

  Kennedy thought quickly. While he basically supported the thoughts of his outspoken vice president, there were other factors to consider. The United Nations was going to meet in emergency session, and Soviet Ambassador Dobrynnin was racing back to Washington and wanted to meet with him. Add to that the fact that there were nearly twenty thousand Soviet soldiers still in Cuba, and, although their strategic nuclear missiles had gone, and there was the very real possibility of escalation if Russians were attacked.

  Kennedy stood. "You will prepare two plans. The first will involve only the recovery of Guantanamo Bay and the taking of whatever surrounding areas we need to secure the base for the foreseeable future, and the second will be for the recovery of the base as well as the conquest of the entire island. Both plans will include sufficient safeguards to keep the Russians out of the fighting."

  He left the room and walked back to the Oval Office. His brother followed him, a stunned look on his face. President John Fitzgerald Kennedy was a media darling. He and his lovely wife Jacqueline and all their relatives lived in a fairy-tale land the press called Camelot. But who the hell just stole Camelot?

  General Juan Ortega hated flying on principle and hated flying in a small plane with a passion. Thus, he was beyond miserable in the tiny Piper Cub. It contained a pilot and himself and the pilot was under orders to fly as low as possible in order to appear innocuous to the American fighters whose contrails drew lines in the sky.

  The pilot, an air force captain, interpreted this to mean that he shouldn't fly more than a hundred feet above Cuban soil and much lower if possible. On several occasions treetops slapped against the belly of the plane and, frequently, people and cattle scattered in fright.

  Ortega threw up twice during the trip and repeatedly cursed the pilot who cheerfully ignored him. His orders were to deliver Ortega to Havana safely and that was what he was going to do.

  Ortega was relieved and able to breathe deeply again when the tiny plane touched down at a dirt field outside Havana. He thanked the pilot for a safe ride and informed him he'd be executed the next dawn. The pilot laughed and said he'd be happy to fly the general back to Guantanamo. They shook hands. The American jets in the sky had not threatened them and that was a miracle of sorts in itself.

  A civilian Chevrolet met him and he was driven to Castro's secret headquarters in the outskirts of town where he was met and greeted effusively by both Fidel and Raul Castro.

  Fidel was taller and reached down to embrace Ortega. "Congratulations on a job done magnificently. Guantanamo is again ours and all Cuba is rejoicing. I am sorry that we'll have to delay the victory parade, but the Americans are likely to bomb it if we present them with too many juicy targets. We believe that they will not bomb Havana, not at this time anyway, but who needs to take chances."

  "I prefer to live to a prudent old age, comrade," Ortega answered. He was delighted by Fidel's enthusiasm. He had only met El Presidente a couple of times before the planning had begun on the attack on Guantanamo.

  "Who wouldn't," Fidel chuckled. He stuck a cigar in his mouth but didn't light it. "Still, I want you to know that all Cuba is proud of what you have done in driving the imperialist running dogs from our land. I am going to leave you with Raul while I go and try to govern Cuba, but first, I want you to know that you have been promoted. You are, next to me, Raul and Che, the most senior military man in Cuba. This means that virtually all of our military strength is at your disposal."

  Ortega was stunned. "I'm honored."

  Fidel slapped him on the back and handed him a cigar. "Just as we are honored to have you on our side. Now, you and Raul must plan to defend what we have gained."

  When Fidel had left, Raul Castro, younger than Fidel by five years, stared hard at Ortega. Raul had the reputation of a man who was far more severe than his older brother when it came to transforming the corrupt and capitalist former Cuba into a socialist economy where there would be neither wealth nor poverty. Many felt that Raul's hard line approach to seizing land and wealth from the rich had resulted in so many tens of thousands fleeing to Florida.

  "Comrade General," Raul said, "What do you think the Americans will do now?"

  Ortega didn't hesitate. "They will attack us. We have something that they want back very much. The little pinprick air attacks of theirs are of no consequence yet. They lack targets and direction."

  Raul smiled grimly. "You are to be congratulated not only on the way you took the base, but how you've managed to keep the Americans from detecting our tanks and soldiers."

  Ortega shrugged. "I have good people."

  "Where will th
e yanquis attack? Here or Guantanamo?"

  "Like you, I have given it much thought and I feel they will try to retake Guantanamo and the area around it, including Santiago. At least that will be their initial objective."

  "Why?"

  "Because it is the sore point. We took it from them and they want it back. Like a petulant child wanting his toy returned, the Americans are predictable and that can be to our advantage. Oh, they want Fidel out as president and all their corrupt businesses and gangster cohorts back in charge, but first things first and that means Guantanamo and, very importantly, the liberation of their prisoners at Santiago."

  Raul nodded which further encouraged Ortega. "Also, they are afraid of the Russians. And by the way, Comrade Raul, how are our comrades in Moscow taking the little surprise we sprung on them."

  Raul smiled. "They are hugely pissed. They are trying to make a brave face, but they have to know now that they cannot shove Cuba around and force an agreement we don't want down our throats. They are coming around, however, and will work with us. They have to. They will not abandon Cuba to be a third rate power. With the Russians, we will dominate the Caribbean and Central America."

  "So do you agree with me that Guantanamo will be the American's target?"

  "Yes."

  "Then how much of the military can I use for defense?"

  Raul paused thoughtfully. "Fidel will wish to keep a strong force here in Havana in case we are wrong and in case some fools attempt either a coup or an invasion from Miami. We have roughly four hundred thousand men under arms and more joining every day, thanks to your victory. You had twenty thousand men to attack the base. You will have at least a hundred thousand to defend it, including many of the best, along with approximately two thirds of our armor, artillery, and anti-aircraft guns and missiles."

  Ortega beamed. "Excellent. We will make them pay in blood for any attempt to land."

  Raul nodded knowingly. "And, comrade general, there are many other things occurring that will make an American landing even bloodier than you can imagine."

  Ortega left. The driver and pilot awaited him. He would have to endure another gut-churning flight back to his headquarters in Santiago. But he wondered just what the hell Raul was talking about when he said "other things?"

  Major Andrei Sokolov couldn't stand the sight of blood and what he saw before him was nauseating. Sokolov was an engineer, a slightly built technician in his mid-thirties who looked more like a librarian than a soldier. Like a much older man, he needed glasses to read with, but generally kept them in his pocket out of vanity. His field of expertise was rocketry, not infantry, and the sight of the three mangled corpses lying face up on the ground before him made him ill. Six dead eyes were wide open in apparent disbelief, and their throats had been sliced from ear to ear.

  Sokolov turned from the slaughter and to the great hole in the barbed wire fence. The muddy trail made by the missing tracked vehicles led through it and down to the road below. The vehicle park was located outside the city of Mariel, in western Cuba and very near Havana. Thousands of Russian soldiers were billeted in the area, but no one had seen or heard a thing. They were probably all drunk, he thought bitterly. If there was one thing the Russian soldier had mastered, it was the art of getting drunk every time he could. Sokolov was not a prude, but he disliked the thought of being out of control and that's what drunkenness meant. Of course, now these three men were out of control forever.

  He turned to the very uncomfortable Russian sergeant who had survived the attack. Doubtless the fool had been asleep and as drunk as the other in his guard house, while his three subordinates wandered about the vehicle park and been slaughtered. Perhaps the dead Russian soldiers had been drunk as well. He wondered if that had that made their passage from the land of the living less painful. Sokolov doubted that.

  The sergeant was lucky. He would survive with only the loss of his stripes and maybe a few years in a gulag if negligence could be proven or if someone needed to be blamed for the debacle.

  "When did this happen?" Sokolov asked.

  "I last saw them alive about two in the morning. Everything was fine, comrade major." The sergeant was sweating profusely and had begun to shake as fear began to take over. He'd survived murder, but could he survive the next few weeks?

  Of course everything was fine, Sokolov thought. You were probably so drunk you could hardly walk and your men were thrilled to be rid of you so they could get drunk, or even take some of the narcotics that were still so easy to obtain in Comrade Fidel's Socialist Workers Paradise. Like most Russians, Sokolov had utter contempt for the Cubans.

  Sokolov glared at the sergeant. Could he be complicit in the thefts? Probably not. He looked terrified, not greedy, but he would leave that up to the subtle interrogation skills of the GRU, the Soviet Army's agency for discipline and spying. If the GRU, or its civilian counterpart and rival, the KGB, even sensed a hint of something treasonous or criminal, they would begin by pulling out the sergeants finger and toe nails, and then get serious with his teeth and testicles. Or at least that was the rumor.

  An army staff car pulled up. "Get out of here," he told the sergeant who scurried away like a bug. The sergeant's trousers were wet. He'd pissed himself.

  Sokolov saluted General Issa Pliyev, commander of all the Russian forces in Cuba. The general had been briefed on the situation. Pliyev's second in command, Lieutenant General Dankevich emerged from a second car and began to take charge.

  "This is awful," Pliyev said and he was not referring to the three dead men. "Although," he sighed, "it could have been worse, a lot worse, although I wonder how."

  "They only got two of the vehicles," Sokolov said hopefully.

  Pliyev glared at him. "Yes, two P76 tracked launchers that can go anywhere, and four short range Luna nuclear battlefield missiles. What the god damned hell were our fucking fraternal socialist comrades thinking, major? I hope someone fires one of those missiles right up Castro's ass!"

  Sokolov was surprised by the tirade. He thought that Pliyev had supported the attack on Guantanamo, which Sokolov had thought was both foolish and dangerous. That danger had led Sokolov to contact the Dutch or American spy, Ulrich Fullmer, or whatever his real name was, and tell him of the threat. Sokolov lived with the gut-churning fear that he'd be discovered. Perhaps this new crime would deflect attention from him, although, in truth, he'd noticed no additional interest in him or his actions. Every Russian in Cuba was being watched by someone, but that was to be expected in a communist state. Perhaps he was paranoid, which wasn't a bad thing to be in a post-Stalin Soviet Union.

  Pliyev continued. "I can read your mind, major. Yes, I thought it was wonderful that Castro was going to tweak Uncle Sam's beard and so did the Kremlin, although after the fact. But giving that bearded idiot Castro control of tactical nuclear missiles, no matter how small they are in comparison to strategic missiles, is creating a problem that is almost beyond comprehension."

  "Are the Cubans declaring war on us as well?" Sokolov asked.

  "Hardly. Even though we are fewer in numbers, we have enough men and firepower to demolish them. Don't forget that, while they may have stolen four of our nuclear rockets, we still have many more and they know we would not hesitate to use them on them. No, this is an attempt to embarrass us and let us know that Fidel Castro and his pigsty island of Cuba are still important." He laughed harshly. "At least they think they are important."

  Pliyev shuddered. "The absolute last thing we want is this mess to escalate again to another nuclear confrontation with America. We had enough of that two months ago." He took Sokolov by the arm and steered him towards the fence, away from General Dankevich, the dead Russian soldiers, and the several curious men who stood around. "Walk with me. Too many are trying to hear what I am saying."

  A moment later, Pliyev gestured and they halted. "Do you have civilian clothes and can you pack quickly?"

  "Of course," Sokolov said, "but why?"

  "And I assume you are
prudent enough to have some alternate identification and, preferably, a diplomatic passport in someone else's name?"

  Sokolov flushed and answered weakly. "Yes."

  "Because I want you to get the hell out of here and on a plane to Mexico City along with some of the American wounded who are being sent out of Cuba. From Mexico you are to go to Washington and contact your CIA friend Fullmer — his real name is Kraeger, by the way — and give him the information about the missing nukes. You will also try to convince him and his government that we will do everything in our power, everything, and that includes killing Cubans, to get those damned missiles back."

  Sokolov was almost too stunned to speak and his knees felt like they could no longer carry his weight. How long had Pliyev known that he'd leaked the information to Fullmer, or Kraeger if that was his real name? His knees wobbled and he thought he'd stumble. Or maybe he'd piss himself just like that fool of a sergeant.

  The general laughed harshly. "You are a terrible liar and an even worse spy, major. It served me to have you warn them, but not in time to change things. Tell me, do you have family back in Russia?"

  Sokolov could barely speak. "No, Comrade General. My father was killed in the Great Patriotic War fighting the Hitlerites at Stalingrad, and my mother simply disappeared during the fighting. I was raised in a state orphanage."

  "Good. Then no one will miss you, not even me. I am not fond of people who go behind my back even though it is useful sometimes. The Americans will give you a new identity and a new life, which is better than what the GRU or KGB would do if they got their hands on you. Maybe the Americans will let you start a little grocery store or even teach Russian to their spies? It doesn't matter. What you think you know of our deepest secrets is next to nothing. If you pack now and drive quickly, you will probably pass the KGB and our beloved political officer, Major General Petrenko, on the road heading here. It will likely be a number of hours before they finish investigating and interrogating that cretinous sergeant before they and I realize you are missing and, therefore, someone who should be questioned thoroughly about this and other things. One more thing, send Captain Dragan in to see me and no, I am not going to have him kill you, at least not right away. Now get the hell out of my sight."