Castro's bomb Read online

  Last was a package addressed to "Sister Catherine" from "Father Malone." Puzzled, she opened it. There was a note. "I discussed your situation with a nice lady named Elena and she suggested I include these."

  Cathy didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Kotex.

  Kraeger once again waited by the Lincoln Memorial. He wondered why spies thought this was such a great place to make a contact. Certainly it was easy to hide in the large numbers of people milling around, but it also made surveillance by the other side so easy. Maybe they should meet in a desert.

  He recognized Georgi Golikov from a photo provided by the CIA. The Russian was of average height and build, excellently forgettable, which was good for an intelligence operative. Golikov nodded and held out his hand. They shook as if they were two business people who knew each other or old friends. None of the tourists milling about saw anything out of the ordinary. Charley wondered whether Golikov was KGB or the intelligence chief operating out of the Washington embassy, or both. He sure as hell wasn't the cultural attache any more than he was the tooth fairy.

  Golikov looked over Kraeger's shoulder and quickly identified the two agents who had accompanied the American. For his part, Kraeger did the same, easily spotting the poorly dressed Russians who'd accompanied Golikov and were pretending to admire Honest Abe.

  "Mr. Kraeger, my congratulations on escaping from the delights of the people's paradise of Cuba. And please accept my further congratulations on getting to Comrade Sokolov before we could. When you're done with him, we have some interesting questions we'd like to ask him."

  I bet you do, Kraeger thought. "I don't think that's very likely. He's said he's interested in running a gas station in Tulsa."

  Golikov blinked in surprise then realized it was a joke. Sort of. The steppes of Oklahoma sounded like a great place for Sokolov to spend the rest of his wretched life. "You are right, of course, and, unless you or he does something incredibly stupid, we will never see him again. Since he has nothing more to tell you that you don't already know or will soon find out, our interest in him is waning rapidly. Contrary to your movies and your spy books, we are not interested in useless vengeance. I hope he enjoys running that gas station, or perhaps cleaning dog shit in a pet shop. Perhaps he'll manage to set fire to himself at that gas station, eh?"

  Sure, Kraeger thought. They'd just love to get him back if for no other reason than to put the traditional two bullets in the back of his skull as a way of telling others not to even think of defecting. "Comrade Golikov, I would enjoy knowing that General Pliyev has recovered all those nuclear warheads."

  "What nuclear warheads?" Golikov said in clearly feigned astonishment. "The Soviet Union would never admit to having tactical nuclear warheads in Cuba, especially after our agreement to withdraw our strategic nuclear weapons. It would make no sense whatsoever to have such little horrors in Cuba where they might be lost and recovered either by a madman, Castro, or his lunatic assistant, Guevara."

  Charley nodded and Golikov shrugged. Each man knew that the conversation was being recorded by the other side and neither wanted to say anything that would be incriminatory. In Golikov's case, incriminatory comments might get him shot.

  "I am glad to hear it, but why then would Sokolov tell such a terrible lie?"

  Golikov looked around. "Perhaps he's delusional."

  Enough, Kraeger thought. "Then let's be hypothetical. Let's pretend you did have tactical nukes in Cuba and let's pretend that Castro or one of his henchmen stole a handful of them. What might your country's response be?"

  Golikov nodded solemnly and glared. "Our anger and our fury at being betrayed, much less having several of our soldiers killed in the taking of them, which would certainly have happened in such a hypothetical event, would know no bounds. We would move heaven and earth to recover those weapons."

  "If such a raid were to have occurred, how many do you think such hypothetical bandits would get?"

  "No more than four. At two kilotons each, more than enough to cause of great deal of mischief, isn't it?"

  Mischief? That isn't quite the word, Kraeger thought. "Of course, Comrade Golikov, it never happened and you don't believe in heaven in the first place, is that fair?"

  "Very."

  "Do you think Comrade Fidel understands that using nuclear weapons against us would provoke a nuclear response from us that might incinerate Cuba, turning him and Che into large cigar ashes?"

  Golikov now looked nervous. "Again hypothetically, he is likely not to believe that or, if he is indeed becoming mad, might not care. My people would care very much, of course."

  "Just curious, but how would that color any future relations between your country and Castro's Cuba? Hypothetically speaking, of course."

  Golikov smiled grimly. "Any nuclear military actions by Cuba, or even a threat of such actions, would require a thorough reassessment of our position vis a vis any relations with a leader we cannot trust and who may be mad."

  Kraeger grinned inwardly. The Soviets were thoroughly pissed off. He wondered how this might be used to America's advantage.

  Chapter Twelve

  Lt. Colonel Ted Romanski and Master Sergeant Wiley Morton threw themselves on the ground. The small plane had zoomed past them only a few feet above the trees and their heads. Coming at them in the dark had compounded their shock. Flying low and fast had the plane long gone before they could begin to react.

  "You okay, colonel?" Morton said. He picked himself up and brushed off dirt and twigs.

  "I am, master sergeant, although I am now five years older and a lot grayer than I was a few moments ago. At least I don't have to change my underwear."

  Morton chuckled. "That was close for me, too, sir. How's your leg holding up?"

  Romanski had begun walking while using a tree limb as a crutch. "So far, so good. Now, did you happen to see whose plane that was, or anything else that might be useful? Damn, that was a surprise."

  "I couldn't pick out any markings. There might not have been any, but I think it was likely one of ours."

  "Why so? It could have been Cuban. It would make sense to use small planes to ferry around important people, messages, and other things wouldn't it? A small plane flying low would be pretty safe from our planes. Our hotshot fighter pilots think it's beneath their dignity to hit a little target like that. Hell, they wouldn't even get a little red star to put on their plane to show they made a kill."

  "True enough, colonel, but I still think it was one of ours. It was headed north like it had just done something, and north is the direction of Florida and our ships. If it was flying east-west I'd say it was Cuban, but not north-south."

  "Good thinking, master sergeant, I agree completely. I think they were either dropping off men or supplies or both. Maybe there's a pro-American Cuban underground nearby, or maybe they're sending in men behind enemy lines like they used to do in France in World War II. I'm thinking Special Forces, of course. I've even reconciled myself to their wearing those green berets that Kennedy recently authorized. Regardless it's a good sign and I think we should follow the approximate line of flight for that little plane and see where it leads us. Not exactly like driving one of those new interstate highways, but it'll do for the time being."

  Maybe, just maybe, they both thought, it will lead us to a path out of this mess.

  Secretary of State Dean Rusk knew he was in trouble the moment he realized that he was almost alone in the Oval Office. Other than the president, the only other person present was Marine Commandant, General Shoup, who looked livid with anger. To his own dismay, Rusk thought he understood why both the president and the general were so upset.

  "Who the hell blabbed?" Shoup asked.

  Rusk sighed. "One of my people thought he was doing me a favor and putting out a fire. The Canadian government had made several inquiries regarding the safety of the so-called Canadian missionaries, and a group called something like the Council for Canadian Missionaries issued a press release saying that they'd never hea
rd of any of their people working in Guantanamo Province. Canadian papers started asking pointed questions and someone in my office told his counterpart at the Canadian Embassy that they were marines who'd managed to escape capture, and not missionaries. He even confirmed the names of Ross and Malone and gave the Canadians the others."

  "Let me guess," Shoup snarled. "The asshole who works for you made them cross their heart and hope to die and promise not to tell."

  Rusk sighed again. "Not quite that bad but close enough. After promising to keep the confidence, the man at the Canadian embassy fed the information to his leaders at Ottawa, and the Canadian government then told the Canadian Missionary organization that it wasn't their people. The real missionaries were outraged at being used and told the Canadian press and then it began to steamroll."

  Shoup slammed copies of several newspapers on the table. One of the headlines glared "Woman Guerilla Fights Commies." It showed a photo of Cathy Malone that had likely been taken in high school. One was clearly a graduation photo and in the other she was dressed as a cheerleader. The article also named all of the marines with Cathy, listing home towns and anything else the enterprising reporters could dig up.

  "Where'd they get the picture of Malone?" Shoup asked.

  "From her family," Rusk said. "They were so happy to find that she's okay, they let a reporter take one of her high school graduation pictures along with the cheerleader one. They're going to be interviewed on television, probably tonight. They think she's a heroine and I guess I can't disagree or blame them for being happy."

  "Jesus H. Christ!" Shoup roared.

  Kennedy finally spoke. "Mr. Secretary, I have to admit it's a great public relations triumph, but your man's carelessness has put them all in danger. We had hoped that the group, and Lieutenant Ross is obviously its commander and not Cathy Malone, would remain under Castro's radar. They and we did not feel that anyone was actively looking for them and we all rather liked it that way. We wanted them to lay low and do nothing more than feed us information. As a result of that monumental stupidity by someone at State, that situation may change for the worse."

  "My associate is extremely sorry," Rusk said.

  "Who the hell is he?" Shoup snarled.

  "His name is Geoffrey Franklyn and he's an assistant deputy under-secretary and been with the State Department for more than thirty years."

  Shoup laughed harshly. "Assistant deputy under-secretary? Shit, that sounds like an assistant produce manager at a supermarket."

  Kennedy stood and glared at Rusk. "Apologies won't cut it, Mr. Secretary." The formal use of his title instead of his name caused Rusk to wince. "I want that person either fired, retired, or shipped out to some wonderful place like the Balkans where he can't get into trouble, and I want it done yesterday."

  Rusk nodded glumly. For not the first time, he, a former Rhodes Scholar and president of the Rockefeller Foundation, wondered just why he'd ever gone back to government. Nor could he recall ever meeting Geoffrey Franklyn. What a hell of a mess that man had created.

  Sergeant Carlos Gomez was not happy at getting new orders. He was rather enjoying himself as part of the garrison of Santiago where he could gamble, drink, steal, and whore to his heart's content, and wondered why he had been chosen out of so many for this special assignment. Simple, he'd been part of the original attack on Guantanamo and, with so many of those who'd gone in with him stationed farther away from either Guantanamo or Santiago, the choice of him was perversely logical.

  That and the fact that the lieutenant and the captain over him hated his guts and thought he was a lazy, lying criminal were added factors. They would want him gone under any circumstances. Well fuck them, he thought.

  Still, he was astonished to be brought to the hidden headquarters of General Ortega, who stared at him balefully, like he was examining an unwelcome insect. "You have a mission, sergeant. El Presidente is very unhappy that a band of marines led by a woman is out there rampaging over the countryside and he wishes it stopped."

  Gomez was puzzled. He'd heard nothing about guerillas rampaging anywhere. He wondered how it affected him and thought he knew. "Sir, you wish me to stop them?"

  Ortega smiled coldly. "I'm glad to see you're not as stupid as I'd been told."

  "Sir?" Gomez practically squeaked.

  "You are being given command of two squads, a total of twenty men, and your job is to track down and find these people who are such an embarrassment to Havana. Now, you're probably wondering why I am wasting my time on such a small matter as a woman and a half dozen lost marines and also talking to a total asshole like yourself. Well, it's because Comrade Fidel said it's very important that the woman and the marines be stopped, so I will now assure him that I have one of my best men looking for them. I don't of course, I have you. You are a lying, thieving, and corrupt and everyone wants you out of Santiago. You will take your men north of Guantanamo Bay and take however long you must to find those marines and the woman who leads them and I don't care if it takes the rest of your miserable life. Just send in reports that you are trying real hard."

  Gomez understood that lost marines might be wandering the area, but a woman? "What woman?"

  Ortega flipped a copy of a newspaper to him. It was a grainy facsimile that had been sent by telephone lines, probably from Mexico. A photo of a young, smiling woman stared up at him. She was vaguely familiar. Then he recalled. He had fucked her, or at least tried to. And she'd been gone when he'd gone back for her the next day, not that he really ever thought she'd stay. Nobody was that stupid.

  Ortega had noted Gomez's reaction. "You find her attractive, sergeant?"

  "Actually, sir, I think I've, ah, met her before."

  Gomez smiled. The new assignment was actually beginning to look interesting. With twenty men looking for a handful of probably half-starved marines and a woman there'd be plenty of opportunities for fun and games. More and more he was becoming disenchanted with the stifling rules of the worker's paradise that Cuba was becoming, and was thinking of getting out to, say, Mexico or Florida where he could make money and didn't have to share it with anyone. That would take money to start with, and now he had a chance to acquire some if he had what was an independent command. Who knows, he might just find that woman and get a chance to fuck her again, and this time properly.

  Gomez snapped off a salute. "I will do my best, general."

  "Then go meet the woman again," General Ortega said. He wondered under just what circumstances a pig like Gomez would have met an intelligent and attractive young American woman. He decided he really didn't want to know.

  A young Spec 4 opened the door to General Bunting's office and Midge Romanski entered. General Josiah Bunting stood and tried to smile affably, after all, they'd known each other for years. He could see that she was not in the mood for smiling and stopped.

  "Midge, it's good to see you, even if it is under trying circumstances. Please, take a seat."

  She took a chair and placed it closer to Bunting's desk. She was wearing a full dark skirt and dark jacket with a white blouse. Not quite a mourning outfit but close to it. Bunting caught himself staring at her shapely legs and stopped it. Not now.

  Midge Romanski glared at him. "General, I will come to the point. I am not pleased to be here and I am not glad to see you, and I don't give a shit about your rank. I just want to know what the hell is going on with my husband."

  Bunting sat back. He was neither surprised nor angry. This had happened far too often in the recent past. Dealing with grieving widows and loved ones was the worst part of a military career. Some cried, some pleaded, and some, like Midge, were royally pissed. He'd similar conversations a dozen times since the attack on Gitmo and hated it every time.

  "Okay, Midge, specifically what is happening that's disturbing you? I thought you understood the circumstances."

  Midge blinked back tears. Again, Bunting couldn't help but note again how attractive she was. "General, I was originally told that Ted was missing
and presumed dead. When I thought I could handle it, my sons and I began planning a memorial service. Then some very young jackass lieutenant, he was maybe thirteen years old, shows up at my door and says that maybe I want to hold off for a while. What's the story? Is my husband presumed dead or not?"

  "Midge, until we know otherwise he is considered missing and not dead. We originally told you that he was presumed dead because that's what we believed, and even saying presumed means we really don't know. His plane went down. It exploded in the air. Nobody could have lived through that and nobody did. Later, a couple of the pilots of the surviving planes said they saw a handful of men parachuting from that transport before the explosion and crash."

  "Oh, God," she said and doubled over in emotional pain.

  "Yeah. Then the Cuban commies decided to be cooperative. They informed the Swiss and the Red Cross that at least four men had indeed jumped from the plane. Two were killed and two were captured. Neither was Ted. The Cubans found the crash site and recovered a number of other bodies. None was Ted. He and one other man, a Master Sergeant Morton, are truly missing and we just don't know where they are or what the hell is going on with them."

  Midge almost smiled. She knew who Morton was. "Do you mean he could be wandering around Cuba?"

  "Don't get your hopes up. I've got to be frank. It's equally possible, maybe even more than equally, that he was killed and his body hasn't yet been found. Regardless, I sent that lieutenant, and he's twenty-two by the way and not thirteen, to suggest that you hold off on a memorial service. I don't want to get your hopes up, but it is still possible that it would be premature. I hope to God it won't be much longer before we can provide a definitive answer."

  She paused a moment, digesting what he'd said. "I have another question and I'm not going to be nice. In a short while, Ted was going to retire and we were going to get on with our lives. So, I'm not going to put up with any more army bullshit from you or anybody else. I simply want to know — who was the flaming asshole who sent him on this stupid mission?"