Castro's bomb Page 2

  If I'm dead and this is heaven, then it isn't what I expected, Kraeger thought as he slowly regained consciousness. For one thing, since when did heaven roll slightly and since when did heaven have bare light bulbs in the ceiling. And heaven should have clouds and not starkly painted ceilings. And be painless. Christ, he hurt like hell from a number of places. If this was heaven, it was a serious disappointment, and he’d wasted a number of Sundays going to church with his parents.

  He concluded that he wasn't dead and checked to see if he was restrained. He wasn't, which meant he wasn't a prisoner, unless the Cubans or the Russians thought he was totally harmless, and that was insulting. He checked his body parts — two arms, two legs, and one pecker and, of course, he could see. All was well. The thinking exhausted him. He would have gone to sleep except for the fact that he hurt all over and his shoulder still throbbed. He closed his eyes again and let the darkness comfort and envelope him.

  When he opened them again, a young man in a sailor's uniform stood over him. "Welcome back," the young man said softly and then grinned sheepishly. "I suppose I should first ask if you speak English, Mr. Fullmer?"

  Kraeger nodded that he did, but who the hell was Fullmer? Oh yeah. That was the name on his passport. He tried to say something, but his voice wouldn't work. The sailor put his hand on Kraeger's shoulder. "Don't try to speak. Your throat was all crudded up with all the oil and salt water that you swallowed. We cleaned it out as best we could but you probably won't be able to speak coherently for a couple of days."

  The sailor fluffed Kraeger's pillow. "Now, my name is Vitale, and I'm the medic here on the Coast Guard Cutter Willow, and when he has a moment, the captain will be here to talk to you. In the meantime, we've gotten that splinter out of your shoulder, bandaged you, and shot you full of penicillin to take care of any infection. Oh yeah, your hands were pretty much a mess, too, so we cleaned them and bandaged them up tight as well. You'll recover but you won't be performing surgery for a while."

  Kraeger nodded, even smiled at Vitale’s bad joke. He was safe. The Cubans wouldn't get him. He had so much to say but no strength with which to say it. He closed his eyes and drifted off again.

  When he awoke again, Vitale managed to get some water past his swollen lips by getting him to suck on a straw. It was beyond delicious and even comforted his ravaged throat. A moment later, Kraeger was staring up at a disheveled and overweight middle-aged man, a lieutenant commander.

  "I'm Lieutenant Commander Watkins, Mr. Fullmer, and I'm the captain of this ship. Obviously I have some questions for you. First, what the hell were you doing out there and, second, why were the Cubans shooting at you?"

  Kraeger again tried to speak but nothing happened. "Okay," said Watkins. "Let's do it the basic way. I'll ask and you nod or shake your head, okay? According to your passport, your name is Ulrich Fullmer and you're a Dutch citizen, is that correct?"

  Kraeger hesitated then shook his head.

  Watkins looked surprised. "Well, well, your name is not Fullmer?"

  He nodded.

  "Then who the hell are you?" Watkins asked and then realized to his chagrin that the man in the bed couldn't respond.

  Vitale anticipated the captain's next question. "Sir, I don't think he can hold a pencil, either. Look at his hands."

  Watkins agreed. Fullmer, or whatever the hell his name was, had his hands swathed in heavy bandages.

  Vitali shook his head. "Sorry, sir, but his hands were all cut up and swollen. I had to bandage them like that."

  "Christ, Vitale, it's not your fault," said Watkins. "You've done a great job. Blame the Cubans or even this guy for the mess he's in, not yourself."

  Watkins looked around and found a letter-sized pad of paper. He took a pencil and drew quickly. Then he took the straw from the water and taped it to Kraeger's bandaged right hand.

  "Okay, stranger, what I have so cleverly done is written all the letters of the alphabet on this pad along with the numbers zero through nine. I want you to tap a letter and spell out a word which I will write down. When you're through with a word, just point this at empty part of the paper. Understood?"

  Kraeger nodded and Watkins smiled.

  "Good, now what's your name?"

  Kraeger slowly tapped out the letters of his first and last names.

  "Excellent. You are now Mr. Charles Kraeger and, for some reason, you were using someone else's passport. This, of course, means you were hiding something. Will you tell me why the bastard commies were shooting at you?"

  Kraeger tapped out a series of numbers. Watkins was puzzled for a moment and Vitale piped up. "Skipper, it looks like a telephone number." Kraeger nodded eagerly.

  "And you want me to call that number and let whoever answers know you're alive and well, is that right?"

  Again, Kraeger nodded.

  "Wonderful. Now, why should I do that? Making phone connections like that are expensive and we usually don't make personal calls from a government ship. Especially not from a Coast Guard ship because we barely have enough of a budget to breathe on."

  Kraeger tapped three letters on the pad. Watkins looked incredulous. His guest had spelled out CIA. "Oh shit," Watkins said.

  "He's a spook," Vitale laughed and said eagerly. "We rescued a spook. Hot diggity-damn. Wait'll I tell the rest of the guys."

  Kraeger again tapped three letters on the pad. This time, there was no laughter. Watkins and Vitale stood and looked in shock. The three letters simply said, WAR.

  Two hours later, a navy seaplane from Florida had gingerly but skillfully landed on the gently rolling swells and CIA agent Charles Kraeger, snug in a litter, was put in a lifeboat and transferred to her. Moments later the seaplane was airborne and Lieutenant Commander Paul Watkins was told he was going to be commended for his prompt, decisive and discreet action in rescuing CIA agent Charles Kraeger.

  Vitale, on the other hand, had been told by Watkins to keep his damned mouth shut and not tell any of his little chums about the CIA spook. So far as anybody was to know, their visitor was a rich guy with Washington connections who'd gotten in trouble with the Cubans while deep sea fishing.

  Chapter Two

  Second Lieutenant Andrew Ross, United States Marine Corp, walked up to Mrs. Desmond's desk. She was Major Hartford's middle-aged civilian secretary and a very nice lady who liked him, sometimes almost seemed to mother him. This made her a vast improvement over Hartford's clerk, Lance Corporal William Fleming, a plump and obnoxious little prick who thought he ran the place instead of the major.

  "He'll be just a minute, Andrew," she said and motioned for him to sit down. Fleming sniffed and turned away. He liked telling lieutenants to wait and she had just spoiled his fun.

  She called him Andrew and he appreciated it. He hated being called Andy. There'd been too many jokes about Amos and Andy and they just weren't funny anymore. The major's summons was unplanned and he wondered what he'd done now. His undistinguished tour of duty was almost over. In a few weeks, he'd be out of the corps and be a civilian and could get on with the rest of his life.

  He grinned sheepishly at Mrs. Desmond. "Well?"

  Mrs. Desmond rolled her eyes in mock dismay. "Well, as in did I find anything about the young lady? As in who is she, is she single, and would she be interested in meeting and possibly going out with a thoroughly average looking marine lieutenant with no future as a marine?"

  He nodded solemnly., "As a matter of fact, yes."

  "Andrew, I may have some good news for you. I do think I know the young lady, and I'll say something to her after Christmas. That is, if you can wait that long. Goodness, she's been here for a couple of months. A little wait won't matter."

  "Do I have a choice? Just remember that I'm not going to be a marine lieutenant all that much longer."

  "Don't I know it," she answered. "I just can't understand why an officer and a gentleman and a trained warrior and killer can't work up the nerve to just go up and say hello to the young lady. I really don't think sh
e'd bite you."

  "Because, Mrs. Desmond, I am a coward along with being a short-timer."

  They both laughed and Fleming walked away in disgust.

  Ross had joined the Marine Corps ROTC in college at the University of Indiana where he'd majored in accounting. ROTC helped pay the bills and he enjoyed the challenge of being a marine more than he'd hoped. He held the Marine Corps in highest esteem and, while in college, wondered if he'd be worthy of being an officer. He was, but just barely. Now, after the requisite time on active duty, both he and the Corps had decided it was time to go their separate paths.

  While he never regretted his decision to enlist, he sometimes wondered at his motives. He'd been dominated by his mother and his two older sisters who always called him Andy, which was another reason why he hated that nickname. His father never said much of anything and rarely challenged the three women in the house. Andrew's father owned a men's clothing store and worked long hours. Perhaps, Andrew wondered, he worked them to get away from the women in his life.

  Was becoming an officer in the Marine Corps a chance to tell them all to stuff themselves? Certainly they'd been upset at his decision and hoped he'd come back home just as soon as he got out. Fat chance. There was no way he was going back to Indiana and he especially wanted nothing to do with his father's store. His father understood and wished him well. He was counting the moments until he could unload the thing and retire.

  "Lieutenant Ross, get your furry young ass in here so I can kill you!" came the familiar roar from Major Hartford's office.

  Second Lieutenant Andrew Ross grinned at Mrs. Desmond who smiled back. "That's his way of saying he really likes you," she said.

  Major Hartford, a bull of a man had only one tone of voice — loud. Mrs. Desmond, however, was not in the slightest bit intimidated, although most of the men in his command were.

  Ross squared himself and walked into Hartford's office.

  "Sit down and shut the door, Ross," Hartford said.

  Ross did as he was told and wondered just what he'd done now. He fixed his eyes on the picture of Hartford's family on the shelf behind the desk. It showed a pleasant, plump woman named Edith who lived in Gitmo and two boys who were away at college. Despite the smiles in the picture, there were rumors that all was not well at the Hartford household. Like many service families, money, or the lack of it, was the cause of the serious problems. Andrew hoped the rumors were false. They were good people.

  It was common knowledge that Hartford was a Marine Corp major who was frustrated that he could no longer command a line outfit. A foot injury, caused when he'd tripped over a log while leading his men on maneuvers, had ended the active part of his career. As a result, he couldn't wear combat boots and knew he looked silly in fatigues and wing tips. Now he was in charge of the supply outfit in which Ross worked controlling the budget and finances. Hartford openly hated it. This was not the career he'd planned for and he was reasonably certain he wouldn't be allowed to reenlist the next time. He'd get a medical discharge and he prayed he'd be able to keep his pension. Ross was pretty certain that the major's foot problems and career issues were affecting his marriage. It wouldn't be the first time. He genuinely hoped the two of them worked their way through it.

  For all his gruff demeanor, Hartford was a very good man and he and Ross generally worked well together. Unless, of course, Andrew had screwed up again.

  Hartford leaned back in his swivel chair and shook his head. "Ross, just when I've decided that you are a complete flaming idiot who probably had no human ancestors, you go and disappoint me by doing something both intelligent and decent."

  "What'd I do now, major?" Andrew said, relaxing slightly.

  "Taking Hannigan's guard duty over Christmas, Andrew. That's damned decent of you."

  "Hell, sir, Hannigan's got family in Florida and I had no plans. Hannigan's also my friend, so it's not that big a deal."

  Hartford smiled. "That and the fact that you're getting out in a few weeks and you're saving your leave time so you'll have more money once the Corps sets you free had nothing to do with it, right?"

  Ross smiled back. Of course the extra money had been a consideration. "Nothing whatsoever, sir," he said with a smile.

  Hartford sighed deeply. "If you weren't so totally un-promotable I would try to convince you to re-enlist and help the corps save the free world. As it is, it's probably better for all of us that you revert to being a lowly civilian. You're a pretty decent guy, Ross, but that will never cut it in the Corps, especially as an officer. They need nasty obnoxious hard-asses like me, not nice-guy accountants like you."

  Ross reluctantly agreed. Even if he was allowed to re-enlist, he'd probably never make it higher than captain, which meant a career as a marine was out of the question. At one point an ROTC commission in the Marine Corps had seemed like a splendid idea and he looked good in the dress uniform. And it did help pay the bills, which were a major issue since his parents had him and his two older sisters to care for.

  That had been a couple of years ago and he'd early on decided that he didn't want the Marine Corps as a career. Nor did the Corps want him, and with some justification. He was an okay officer, but not a great one. Not that he regretted anything, far from it. He had learned much about himself and would cherish the experience and never forget the camaraderie.

  He'd been assigned to Guantanamo about a year ago, had lived through the fears of the recently contained Cuban Missile Crisis, spending much of that time in a newly constructed bunker with his M1 carbine and wondering if he was going to live through the coming few days that might end in nuclear holocaust. He had survived, of course, and now was playing out the dwindling number of days until he was discharged. His bachelor quarters were now littered with brochures and applications to law schools, and he'd pretty well settled on either Georgetown or the University of Maryland. Georgetown was his first choice. With an uncle who was chief of staff to a United States Senator, he was pretty certain he'd be able to get the recommendations needed to get in.

  "You know why you never made first lieutenant, don't you?" Hartford asked.

  "Yes sir. It's because I called Captain Martin an asshole."

  "Partly. Let's face it, Ross, Martin is an asshole, was an asshole, and will forever be an asshole. But you were an equal asshole for calling him that in front of several other people. If it had been just the two of you, nobody would have said anything. He would have been pissed and probably called you a bunch of snotty names, too, but that would have been it, with all insults being totally deniable comments between angry adults who were acting like little kids. But others heard you and, worse, they laughed because they agreed with your evaluation of the asshole. So Martin the asshole had to do something about it. Thus the reprimand in your file that says you were disrespectful and insubordinate, and thus you're not getting promoted or invited back to play Marine Corps games even if you wanted to."

  The story was true and Ross had a hard time regretting it, just like he did not regret his time in the Corps. Even though he had been a mediocre officer at best, the experience had made him grow and develop as a man, all of which would help him when he went on to law school. A lawyer with an undergraduate accounting degree and a background as an officer in the Marine Corps might just make his future career as a civilian look good, and Captain Martin would still be an asshole. Rumor had it Martin was un-promotable, too.

  Nor did Ross particularly look the part of a warrior. He was just under six feet and lean, weighing in at one-sixty after a big meal, had short brown hair, and, worse, needed glasses in order to read small print. They made him look professorial and ‘Prof' was one of his cleaner nicknames and one he found he really didn't mind. It was a hell of a lot better than Andy, which, along with Amos and Andy, always made him think of someone wearing overalls and standing in a cornfield. Still, he was in excellent shape, exercised almost daily, and worked with weights even though nothing ever seemed to show. He was wiry, not muscular. He was also an ex
cellent shot, but so too were most Marines.

  Hartford continued. "You know you'll be commanding Hannigan's men, don't you, or at least those who didn't trade or sell their duty. Hey, Hannigan's not paying you to do this, is he?"

  Ross laughed and shook his head. "Major, I'm not quite that hard up for money."

  "Didn't think you were and I wouldn't hold it against it if you did."

  A lot of servicemen bought, sold and traded duty, and, as long as a qualified body showed up to work, nobody much cared.

  Hartford turned serious. "Look, Andrew, even though this latest crisis is over, or appears to be over, don't take things for granted when you're out there watching the commies. Yes, Kennedy and Khrushchev have agreed to play nice and share this Cuban sandbox, but that doesn't mean that Castro won't do anything crazy, because we all know he is crazy. Frankly, I'm concerned that we've scaled down our level of alertness to almost nothing, but, hell, I'm just a supply officer. What do I know getting ready for a war people say will never happen?"

  Ross knew enough not to comment. The major's bitterness at being marginalized into a supply position was understandable. Still, he understood Hartford's concern. He wondered if either Colonel Killen, who commanded the Marine Corps Barracks, or Rear Admiral O'Donnell, who commanded the base at Guantanamo, commonly referred to as Gitmo, had concerns either. If they did, Ross thought they would keep them to themselves and not share them with Hartford or a lowly second lieutenant.

  Besides, it was Christmas, 1962, and he would be a civilian in three short weeks. He hadn't dated in months. He once had a girlfriend back home, but that relationship just simply faded away due to a mutual lack of interest as he went on active duty and she went on to a career in advertising in Chicago. Time to get started on a new career and maybe meet a girl who liked skinny guys called Prof. Or maybe the new girl would be the lovely young thing that Mrs. Desmond thought she knew and who Andrew desperately wanted to meet?