Castro's bomb Page 14

  While the military minds planned war against Cuba, President Kennedy received information from the political and diplomatic fronts, and none of it was very good.

  First, the United Nations had done what it does best, which is nothing. An American Security Council resolution condemning Cuba's aggression and demanding the return of Guantanamo was vetoed by Russia and China, with France abstaining. It looked like a number of nations were enjoying America's pain and discomfort.

  Another resolution, this one by Russia and condemning obvious American plans to attack Cuba, was vetoed by the United States and Great Britain. Again, France abstained. JFK wondered just what the hell that arrogant and imperious pain in the ass, Charles de Gaulle, was thinking of. Making France a permanent member of the Security Council with right of veto had been a foolish thing. The UN’s structure had been formulated at the end of World War II and now others had to live with it.

  The United Nations General Assembly had debated furiously, with many smaller and newly formed countries applauding Cuba's throwing off the final vestiges of colonial chains. In the end, a resolution calling for a peaceful resolution to the problem was passed almost unanimously. Kennedy seethed when he read it. Apparently the UN thought theft and mass murder were negotiable. The motion said nothing and meant nothing.

  Domestically, his political opponents were having a field day. Arizona Senator Barry Goldwater, a conservative Republican and a possible opponent in the coming 1964 presidential election was raging that the United States was taking far too long to respond to the insult and the casualties to her servicemen. He and others in both parties wondered just when the president was going to go to congress and ask for a declaration of war against Communist Cuba.

  A knock on the door and he was told that Soviet Ambassador Anatoly Dobrynnin had arrived. Kennedy greeted the Communist and bade him sit. To his surprise, Dobrynnin declined and suggested they go for a walk. Did the Russian suspect that conversations in the Oval Office were being recorded? They were, of course. Too bad he hadn't thought to carry a wire under his suit.

  Dobrynnin was only a couple of years senior to Kennedy but looked much older. Like most of his countrymen, he was dour and rarely smiled and his suits looked like they had never been tailored or pressed. Communism must do that to a man, Kennedy thought. Even the women went out of their way to appear plain and frumpy. He and Bobby liked to joke that they'd never seen a truly happy communist.

  They went outside. It was a cold, damp day which meant the meeting would not be overlong. Kennedy flashed his winning smile. "May I wonder if the Cuban attack was as big a surprise to you as it was to us?"

  Dobrynnin smiled wanly. "You can wonder all you want and I would never confirm or deny that anything would surprise us."

  "Then what happened to the agreement we had?" Kennedy inquired with a hint of anger in his voice. "Or are your agreements worthless?"

  "Our word is our bond," the Russian said stiffly, conveniently forgetting that the Soviet Union had torn up many agreements in the past if it suited their purposes. "Apparently, however, our fraternal socialist comrades in Havana felt that we had insulted them by not giving them a greater role in planning the agreement. They feel we dishonored them."

  "I don't understand. According to the terms of that agreement, we promised never to attack Cuba."

  Dobrynnin laughed. "After the Bay of Pigs and other attempts to oust Castro, do you really think they'd believe you? No, Castro wants a formal treaty between the United States and Cuba regarding Cuban ownership of Guantanamo. This will not only give Castro the base in perpetuity, which the Cuban people feel is theirs in the first place, but also make him a hero in the eyes of many Latin and Central American nations. It will also give him the opportunity to export his revolution, which is quite important to him. I'm sure you're aware that Che Guevara will be on his way to Bolivia to stir up trouble when this is all over."

  Kennedy wasn't aware and made a note to check with the CIA and Director McCone. "So he really did surprise you?"

  "Let's just say we were not as well informed as we could have been. Let's also say that Castro is a complete fucking lunatic who is rapidly wearing out his welcome."

  "Therefore, you would not object to us ousting him."

  "That depends," Dobrynnin added. "We will, of course, continue to block you in the United Nations, which is of no real concern to either of us. Who cares what those idiots do? We will have a small propaganda victory at your expense, while you regain your base, but only after expending a considerable amount of Cuban and American blood. However, we cannot agree to your conquering the rest of the island, which means that Castro would likely stay, if only for the short while."

  The Soviet ambassador pretended to examine a plant that was turning brown as winter drew near. "We have a great investment in Cuba and we also have forty thousand soldiers on the island who we cannot allow to be sucked into any war between Cuba and the United States. If you want your base back, then you are free to try and take it. If you want Castro out, then do so by some means other than storming Havana. If you overreach, there could be other problems and ramifications."

  Kennedy nodded. He was obviously referring to Berlin's precarious position as a bastion of democracy in a sea of East German communism, surrounded as it was by huge Soviet and Warsaw Pact armies. Berlin had been a near flashpoint on several occasions since the end of World War II.

  Quid pro quo, tit for tat. It was the way the world worked, Kennedy thought. If we take Havana, the Russians will take Berlin, and many will die. "Thank you for coming by, Ambassador Dobrynnin. I believe we can agree to the assembled media that we had a frank and meaningful exchange."

  "Indeed," Dobrynnin said with the hint of a smile. "You can even add that the exchange was cordial." They returned to the Oval Office and the Russian departed.

  A few moments later, Bobby Kennedy poked his head into the Oval Office. "How'd it go?"

  "My fucking boyish charm didn't work at all."

  Chapter Nine

  It was December 28, and boredom was setting in among Ross and the others. The adrenalin rush from the fighting and running from danger on Christmas day had long worn out and they were all as rested as they could be. Now they wondered just what was going to happen next.

  Andrew and the others had made the dilapidated house as comfortable as possible without drawing anyone's attention. They kept a continuous watch, especially on the dirt road that ran only about a mile from the house. They'd seen only a few vehicles and most of those were clearly civilian. They were driven quickly, as if terrified of American planes. Good, they all thought. All Cubans should be fearfully watching the skies.

  Food was beginning to become an issue. The C and K rations had long since ceased to satisfy. Hollis said they made him constipated while Groth said they gave him the runs. Cathy thought that they made her feel bloated and maybe pregnant, then realized that it wasn't funny. She prayed that the bloating indicated her period was coming and that she hadn't been knocked up by that bastard, Gomez.

  Andrew and Sergeant Cullen discussed it, and all agreed that they couldn't just run to a nearby store, so C and K rations would remain an important part of their diet. Andrew authorized Cullen to take a couple of men back onto the base for additional supplies, and that foray resulted in cans of soup, peanut butter, jams, jellies, and other items, including more toilet paper. They wouldn't starve, at least not for a while, but the ruined base had been pretty well picked over by Cuban scavengers, so future forays might prove fruitless and dangerous. No matter how careful the scavengers were, there was always the possibility of discovery.

  Cullen reported that much of what remained of the base after the fighting was being systematically blown up by Cuban demolitions squads. Andrew thought they were trying to erase what they felt was a shameful stain on their history.

  Before Cullen made his run, it was admitted that no one knew how to build a radio that could send messages. This was frustrating as they could hear th
e news on the Miami station, but couldn't react to it. They had no way of telling anyone they were safe and free, a point that Andrew felt was becoming critical.

  Their radio listening ritual centered on listening to the Miami station's news at seven in the evening. This night, only Andrew was paying strict attention. Finally, they heard the words that grabbed them and made them sit at attention.

  The deep voiced announcer said, "And finally, there has been no word on the missing Canadian missionaries led by the Reverends Ross and Cullen. While it is presumed they are still safe in Cuba, it is hoped that they will be able to contact their church in Toronto, and their pastor, the Reverend Kraeger."

  The announcer concluded by giving a phone number and repeating it, while Andrew and the others frantically wrote it down.

  "Will somebody tell me what just happened?" Cathy asked.

  Andrew grinned hugely. "Finally, I think I did something right. I hoped that Levin and Stillwell would be repatriated because of their wounds so I told them to tell the CIA or the Corps or anybody about us and to use the missionary story and see if they could get it broadcast at the right time. I guess that's what happened and that's why we’ve been listening each night at that time."

  Cathy yelped and gave Andrew a quick hug while the others patted him on the back and shook his hand.

  "Not bad for an accountant," Cullen said with a huge grin. "Not too damn bad at all."

  "But how the hell do we get in contact with this ‘reverend’ who is obviously with our government?" Andrew asked.

  PFC Ward smiled sheepishly. "Y'know, sir, when I was a kid I had a deprived childhood and all that, and one of my uncles taught me how to steal from the public utilities. Since we couldn’t afford anything we tapped into electricity, heat, and, yeah, the telephones. You get me a telephone and I think I can tap into that line that runs along the road and nobody will know anything about it."

  "What do we do when we do get a dial tone?" Cullen asked. "Call home?"

  "Why not?" Andrew responded. "All we can do is fail. Sergeant Cullen, would you and Ward like to volunteer to go back on base and bring us back a telephone?"

  "I think we need a couple of them, sir," Ward said. "Some of them might just be smashed up and I'll have to work with parts to make a good one."

  Charley Kraeger and Elena Sandano had gotten to know each other fairly well during that first Christmas morning breakfast. They had accomplished this by not discussing work. Instead, they had satisfied their mutual curiosity about each other.

  Elena had been intrigued by Charley's wartime experiences and, since her mother was half-Jewish, more than delighted to find that he had killed a Gestapo officer. Her mother had lost family members in the Holocaust. Elena thought mom would be thrilled to meet Charley.

  She was further pleased to find that Charley was not what she thought was a typical field agent. He was housebroken, did not eat raw meat unless it was Sushi, could actually read and write, and even had a master's degree in political science from Boston College, in part courtesy of the GI Bill. It didn't hurt that he could speak German, Dutch, Russian and French and even a decent level of Spanish, although with an atrocious accent.

  For his part, Kraeger was impressed that the very attractive woman had a PhD in Latin American studies from the University of Miami in Florida, not Ohio, and that she had worked her way through college until graduating and getting a job with the CIA, after which they paid for her ongoing education. Bona fides established, they could now talk about work.

  Elena was a desk person and Charley swore he was too, for now and maybe forever. "No more floating away from foreign countries while some idiot tries to fill my little boat and my delicate body full of bullet holes."

  More pragmatically, his identity was now blown. "Every commie embassy in the world probably has my passport photo on its wall, if not at the center of their dart board."

  "You're inflating your importance," Elena said. "The wall I'll give you, but the dart board belongs to Kennedy. They hate him with a passion."

  "How about pictures of me naked as the centerfold of Pravda, or my photo in the bottom of urinals in the Kremlin?"

  Elena nearly choked on her soup. They were again in the CIA cafeteria. She was working with McCone on likely Cuban civilian responses, while Charley was babysitting a telephone.

  "Any word on the so-called Canadian missionaries?" she asked after recovering her equilibrium.

  Charley laughed. "Only from the Canadian Embassy who wondered just who the hell these people were and, oh yes, could they assist in helping the poor demented souls get out or find sanctuary in the Canadian Embassy in Havana? At some point we might have to let the Canadians in on the secret, which would be a shame since most Canadians don't have much of a sense of humor."

  "Why did you choose Canada as these so-called missionaries' country of origin, and how come you're doing this and not the Marines?"

  "First, Canada is not a military threat to anyone and it's one of those do-good things that you'd expect from Canadian missionaries. As to why us and not the Marines, it's simple. We are good at the clandestine stuff, while the Marines are great at storming beaches and killing the enemy. And yes, there was some grumbling, especially from the Navy, but JFK apparently said they would do it his way, and that meant the CIA. At any rate, thank God for the Canadians. If they didn't exist, we'd have to invent them."

  "I know. They're too busy playing hockey to really understand what's going on in the big ugly world. Do you think there are any other American soldiers wandering around Cuba?"

  "Elena, I think it's a helluva lot more than likely, which makes it so important that we get in contact with this Ross guy. If we find him and get to communicate with him, we might get a lead on others. In the meantime, we're all in the dark."

  Lt. Col. Ted Romanski's busted ankle was improving, but only slightly. He still needed a crutch to walk. He was totally dependent on Sergeant Morton for everything he ate or drank. Fortunately, Sergeant Morton was up to the task. He'd taken all the army’s survival courses and knew what fruits and vegetables were edible and how to track, catch, and cook small animals.

  A tree-climbing rodent Morton identified as a ‘jutia’ was caught and cooked by Morton and eaten with gusto. "Does it taste like chicken, colonel?"

  "It tastes like rodent, sergeant."

  There were mangoes, avocado, papaya, banana, orange, and grapefruit trees in the area. All they had to do was find them.

  Romanski couldn't believe how damned depressing he found his situation. And what the devil was Midge doing? How was she making out? Had the mindless boobs at the Pentagon told her he was missing and presumed dead, or just plain missing? Christ, he hoped they hadn't had a funeral for him. Then he wondered if he'd gotten a posthumous promotion and would he have to give it back if he got rescued?

  "What are you thinking of, colonel?"

  "Just wondering if they held a memorial service for me and who came and what they said."

  Morton grinned. "Good question. I'd like to know the same thing. I've got a wife and her relatives are probably trying to get her the money from my life insurance policy. I wonder if people will be glad or embarrassed when we get back. I hope somebody recorded all the nice things people said about me so I can hit them for loans. Ever notice how every dead person is a saint? How come nobody stands up and says that late Uncle Freddie was a drunken shit who beat his wife and molested his children and should've died a lot sooner."

  Romanski laughed and stretched his bad leg. It hurt but seemed to help. He'd also like to know more about the half-assed plan to send his several hundred men on a fool's errand. They'd been lucky, after a fashion, that only three planes full of fine young men had been destroyed. He was going to have some frank words with General Josiah Bunting and the hell with the difference in rank. Someone had screwed up royally and dozens of good people had died. And here he was, limping along in the eastern end of Cuba surrounded by tens of thousands of enemy soldiers and eating
rodents.

  "So let's make it a point to get back home and raise holy hell. Any thoughts, sergeant major?"

  "I still think we should head south, toward Gitmo, sir. If anything's going to happen, like a landing or an attack by our guys, it's likely gonna be there or near there."

  "I agree."

  They understood that getting closer to a likely American landing site would also place them in the heart of Cuban defenses.

  "You still don't speak Spanish, do you sergeant?"

  "Just fluent Korean, colonel." It was a standing joke. Morton had even facetiously suggested he might try to pass as a North Korean officer.

  Morton took out a map of Cuba. They had been moving parallel to a narrow dirt road and it seemed to be leading them to a town called Arroyo Honda, and to their north was a town called Jamaica. At least they hoped it was a town. If it meant the island of Jamaica, they were well and truly lost.

  Avoiding towns was a very good idea. Towns meant police and soldiers and nosy people wondering about the two gringos who couldn't speak Spanish. This also meant that traveling was even more arduous then it would normally be and, in Romanski's case, sometimes downright painful. They generally stayed within sight of the road, but out of the view of anyone on it. At least that was their plan and so far it had worked. When they saw traffic or people they scooted down and hid, which further slowed their progress considerably.

  Fortunately, there was very little traffic on the road during the day. The fear of American fighter-bombers, which they could see and hear in the sky above them, told even the bravest Cuban to stay out of sight. Romanski and Morton were deeply concerned that they would be spotted and killed by friendly fire. It seemed illogical that a plane would attack two people, but one never knew when a bored pilot might decide to have some fun, and it was far better to be safe than sorry.