Castro's bomb Read online

  Geoffrey Franklyn was most pissed. He was mad as hell and he was going to do something about it. He'd spent thirty years in the State Department and considered it more of an honorable vocation than a career. He was proud to have risen to the position deputy assistant director. He very strongly felt that he was being abused. Accepting a transfer to Albania was totally out of the question as was the tongue lashing he'd received directly from Secretary of State Dean Rusk.

  First, Albania was a sewer of a country, and so backward that it made tribal enclaves in deepest Africa seem palatial and sophisticated in comparison. He was not going to Albania. He had more than enough time to retire and qualify for a pension, which he really didn't need since he'd inherited a goodly amount from his mother. What he didn't like was being forced out for doing his job in the best manner possible.

  Second, what in God's name had he done? Relations between nations were built on honor and truth, not lies and deceptions, and that was what he had tried to prevent. Canada was a friend and neighbor and deserved to be taken into our trust. Therefore, telling his good friend at the Canadian Embassy that there were no Canadian religious groups lost in Cuba and, instead, that the so-called missionaries were marines wandering around and doubtless causing ill-will among the people of Cuba. He'd been to Cuba and thought the people were warm and gentle. That he'd never left Havana and that several of the warm and gentle people he'd found were very young prostitutes didn't concern him. Franklyn was deeply sympathetic to Fidel Castro and his plans for wealth distribution. He did not see the irony in his being wealthy and possibly a target for wealth distribution in a communist state.

  Further, Geoffrey Franklyn did not like marines. Everyone he'd met had been smug and superior, especially those he'd met while on embassy duty in other countries. They were large and obnoxious cretins who deserved to be put in their place. The battle for Guantanamo was over. Therefore, why on earth didn't that lost group just surrender and get it over with? That would be the honorable thing to do, but the marines, he thought, were sadly lacking in honor. The whole Guantanamo Bay situation should be resolved by the United Nations, which he considered the hope of the future. He considered it wrong that the United States had a base in a foreign country when that country didn't want us there in the first place.

  And now he was going to be punished for the dishonorable behavior of the marines, the CIA and, yes, President John F. Kennedy. Well, not if he could help it. He had friends all over the place and had picked up little snippets of information that indicated that the Russians in Cuba, another bunch of barbarians, had lost some very valuable weapons, weapons that might cause the ground to glow in the dark if used. Fears were rampant that they would be used on American soldiers should they try to invade Cuban soil.

  He was not foolish. He would not call from a phone in the State Department. He walked a few blocks away and dropped coins in a pay phone, and asked for the long distance operator. He gave her the number of the New York Times. He had a good friend working there, and that reporter had a friend at the Washington Post. Geoffrey Franklyn smiled. This could be fun.

  The Soviet Union's new elite and secret special forces were called "Spetsnaz," which was the Russian abbreviation for "voiska spetsialnogo naznachenya," all of which meant ‘special forces.’ The Red Army had always had elite units, especially during World War II, but these new Spetsnaz were being developed as a response to President Kennedy's decision to form Special Forces units in the American Army.

  The new Spetsnaz were particularly trained to infiltrate and destroy American and nuclear sites in Europe in case war with NATO became imminent. They were all skilled, therefore, in handling nuclear weapons and material. Unlike American Special Forces, they did not have any distinctive uniforms or badges, preferring anonymity. General Issa Pliyev had a company of them under his command, a hundred men in ten man teams. In a different theater of operations, he would have had many more, but Moscow saw no need for additional men in such a backwater as Cuba. Each Spetsnaz soldier was highly dedicated, superbly trained, and a lethal killer. Their job was to operate behind enemy lines, and this was what Pliyev now called on them to do.

  Many of them were fluent in Spanish, although none could ever pass as a native, either linguistically, physically, or culturally.

  For his part, Pliyev asked for and received cooperation from Russian diplomats in Havana. Armed with quantities of money, along with threats of exposure to the Cuban government for being criminals, homosexuals, and closet capitalists, the Russians made numerous but discreet inquiries. Where would Castro have hidden four nuclear warheads?

  At that point, he ordered the commander of the Spetsnaz detachment, thirty-five year old Captain Pyotr Dragan, to take charge of the investigation. Dragan was a favorite of the general’s. Slightly built, he was wiry and strong. His small size and his prematurely gray hair sometimes made people assume he was weak. Dragan was experienced, intelligent and ruthless. Pliyev was confident that he would locate the missing weapons.

  There was an unfortunate delay since Dragan, like all of the Russians, was unaware of Castro’s intentions at the time of the attack on Guantanamo, and was on leave in Mexico City, where he was relieving himself of accumulated stresses by indulging in the Russian tradition of drinking heavily and frequenting some of the better whorehouses. When he was found, he returned quickly and took charge.

  Several leads proved false, and at least one opportunistic Cuban functionary had his throat slit by Dragan for lying in an attempt to get a fat bribe. Finally, an informant told the Soviets that an abandoned sugar warehouse on the outskirts of Havana had suddenly sprouted antennae and was surrounded by barbed wire behind which heavily armed Cuban soldiers patrolled. After ascertaining that what the informant had said was accurate, the man was thanked and paid. On the way home, he was run over by a truck driven by a Russian who was part of the KGB.

  Loose ends were deplored by the Russians.

  Later that night Dragan’s Russians staged a car accident outside the barbed wire and, while the Cuban guards were distracted for the few minutes needed to decide, after much yelling and flailing of arms, which driver was at fault, slid a ten man team under the wire and inside the perimeter. They stealthily worked their way to what they presumed was the guard barracks and found four men inside. Short bursts from their silenced AK47s solved that problem. In another building they found two men on duty by the radio and telephone, and slit their throats before they realized they were in danger.

  Dressed in Cuban uniforms and coming from within the wire, the Dragan’s Spetsnaz team simply walked up to the guards at the gate and killed them. Since outsiders expected to see guards on duty, they took the place of the dead Cubans and no one noticed.

  Dragan fervently hoped that what they were looking for was in the warehouse. Otherwise, someone was going to have a hard time explaining the carnage. Then he realized that it was going to be difficult to explain under any circumstances and, besides, he didn't care. He had his orders and he served the Soviet Union.

  Incredibly, the warehouse door was unlocked. Two mechanics were working on the PT76 tank carriage that was the missile launcher. Dragan permitted the sobbing mechanics to live. He had them bound and gagged. His instructions were to make sure the Cubans knew who had visited them. Pliyev's orders had been clear. "The fucking greasers cannot fuck with the Red Army and get away with it." When angry, Dragan thought General Pliyev had an eloquent way with words.

  A column of six trucks pulled up to the gate and the "guards" let them in. Two more Spetsnaz were in the front of each and two of Pliyev's rocket engineers sat nervously in the back. When the trucks were in the warehouse, Dragan was amused when one of the Soviet engineers puked noisily at all the death. What did the fool expect? Didn't the man work on atomic bombs? What did he think would happen when one went off? Scientists were such fools.

  The thirty-four foot two-stage solid fuel missiles were not on the converted tank chassis. Three were found lying carelessly on
the floor alongside a wall. This confirmed Dragan’s opinion that the Cubans could not be trusted with anything as important as nuclear weapons. The engineers quickly confirmed that the 800lb warheads were not armed, and even the hard-bitten Dragan breathed a sigh of relief. He expected to die someday, but it was not his wish for today and most certainly not as dust billowing upward in part of a mushroom cloud.

  After a thorough search of building and grounds, the fourth missile and warhead were nowhere to be seen. Nor was its carrier. Too bad, Dragan thought, but three out of four was better than nothing. Pliyev would not be totally pleased, however. Dragan was not thrilled either. He had a good idea just who was going to have to search all of Cuba to find it.

  The rockets weighed a ton apiece so the Soviet engineers used winches to raise them and carefully remove the three warheads, which were then put in the lead lined containers they'd brought in the trucks. Dragan's orders were to leave the now useless rockets for Castro to play with. Pliyev's actual words suggested that Fidel and Raul could fire them up their asses and see if the two of them achieved earth orbit.

  Dragan checked his watch. Almost time to leave. Real guards would be along in an hour or so. The Cubans weren't terribly precise about these things, but it was highly unlikely they'd be early. He decided to exceed his orders by demolishing the engines of the tank chassis and by smashing anything he could on the rockets. They were solid fuel, so the engineers told him not to be overly concerned that he would cause an explosion.

  As an added bonus for Fidel and one he knew Pliyev would appreciate, he beheaded one of the two mechanics. He would let the now hysterical sole survivor try and tell his tale.

  Manuel Hidalgo's militia uniform fit poorly, but it was a Cuban military uniform and he was proud of it. It was also the finest piece of clothing he'd ever owned in his seventeen years. Unfortunately, he was sweating profusely and it had nothing to do with the oppressive heat. He had disgraced his proud new uniform and nothing could change that fact. If his Aunt Marinda found out she would beat him.

  Captain Salazar looked at him coldly. The captain was in charge of the guard detachment overseeing the activities of the American prisoners. Rumor had it that he had been a mortician in civilian life and his gloomy expression did nothing to dispel the rumor. It was hard to tell if the captain was angry, sad, or all of the above.

  "You are an idiot," Salazar finally said, coldly and softly, "a complete and utter fool. How the living hell does a soldier go about losing his rifle? You would have been better off if you'd managed to lose your cock."

  Manuel gulped. Unfortunately, he had no idea either. It was an M1 Garand, one of those captured from the Americans when the base had been taken. He'd proudly and lovingly cleaned it and oiled it. He was glad to be a soldier, even if it was only as a militiaman guarding helpless prisoners of war. He'd been given minimal training, which included firing the first couple of rounds in his life, and told to shoot any prisoners who tried to escape. He had serious doubts as to whether he could kill anyone, even despised Americans, but he hoped he could do his duty for Cuba.

  As to the prisoners, they all seemed docile enough. Some of them even spoke Spanish, which surprised him. So what the devil happened to his rifle?

  "Were you drunk?" Salazar asked.

  "No, sir."

  The captain nodded thoughtfully. "Had you been drinking the night before?"

  Manuel winced at the memory. "Yes, sir."

  "Let me guess. Some of your new and older friends decided to take you out and introduce you to some of the finer things in life, such as alcohol, and I'll bet they got you thoroughly, totally drunk, and maybe even got you laid for the first time in your idiotic life, and I'll bet you had a hangover this morning that made you wish you were dead and in hell just so it would feel better."

  "Yes, sir," Manuel said miserably.

  Some of the others had gotten hold of several bottles of Canadian Whisky, Hiram Walker, and they'd all drunk heavily. He'd had rum before, of course, but never American or Canadian whisky and he vowed he never would again. Worse, he slightly remembered trying to have sex with a whore who was almost as old as his aunt and very fat. He shuddered. Maybe it was better he didn’t remember.

  "Let me guess some more," Salazar continued. "You managed to make it through your duty and were so tired that you decided to take a nap under a tree near the prison and, when you woke up, it was dark and your rifle was gone along with the two clips of ammunition you'd been issued."

  "Yes sir, but I was not drunk on duty and I did not fall asleep on duty. I just took a nap. I had no idea someone would steal my weapon," he said, almost in tears.

  Salazar nodded thoughtfully. This poor child should not have been given a rifle in the first place. He should be home with his aunt who was a heroine of the revolution. Damn. What to do with the incompetent boy. And what had happened to Manuel's weapon? It wasn't the first time that a rifle, or even an AK47, had been spirited away. There were those who insisted it was criminals selling the weapons on the black market, and there were others who felt that the American prisoners were somehow getting out of the camp and taking them. He thought the latter was preposterous; however, Fidel's special agent, Dominico Allessandro would be arriving in a few days for a surprise inspection. A friend in Havana had just alerted him to that unwelcome fact. Allessandro wanted to look over the camp records. If the boy was still here and the rifle not found, Manuel Hidalgo might face the firing squad.

  Damn it to hell.

  Finally, the solution occurred to Salazar. "Idiot, you can no longer stay here and guard anything, not even the kitchens or the latrine. You would hurt yourself in the kitchen and fall into the latrine where you would drown because no one would want to help you. No, you will go to a new unit that is forming on the coast north of La Lima. This is not a second chance, boy; this is your last chance, your only chance."

  The boy gave a salute that was sloppy even by militia standards and ran out, thankful that he wasn’t going to be punished. Salazar sighed and allowed that he had done a good thing. The boy was useless as a soldier and he would be away from both the inspection and the coming fighting. Everyone knew that the American attack would come from the south, by the former base and the prison camp. Therefore, the north would was being guarded at this time by third and fourth rate troops. Hidalgo would fit in just fine.

  As Manuel ran by the barb wire that enclosed the camp, a handful of the prisoners looked at him and smiled to each other. One more rifle and two clips of ammunition weren't much, but they would help.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The American jet dropped its bomb and pulled out of its dive. At that moment, a streak of fire lifted from the ground and sped towards it.

  "No!" screamed Ross, but there was nothing he or the others could do. It was like watching a horror movie.

  The pilot either saw or sensed it at the last moment and tried to juke away. Like the predator it was, the missile followed. The surface to air missile closed in on the plane and smashed into the tail. The tail exploded into a hundred pieces while a large portion of the front of the plane continued on in an obscene parody of flight until it realized it had been killed and plummeted to the ground. There was another explosion, this one mercifully masked from their view by trees. A plume of dark greasy smoke lifted into the sky.

  They all looked at each other. "What chance the pilot survived?" Ross asked.

  "Slim and none," Cullen answered, "but we still have to check it out. I didn't see a chute but it could've been masked by the explosions."

  Cullen stood and stared at Ross. "I'll go. More than one person might attract attention and, besides, I'm the best here at working the ground."

  Ross reluctantly agreed, but with a sense of relief. He knew he was competent, but the gunnery sergeant was far superior as a tracker and a war fighter. It also made sense for Cullen to go alone, but what if the pilot was still alive? How would Cullen resolve that problem?

  Cullen smiled. Ross was easy
to read. "He's probably either very dead or very unhurt and hiding, lieutenant. I'll solve any problem."

  Cullen left almost immediately and moved as quickly as prudence would allow. He hoped that he would get to the crash site before the Cubans did, but it was not to be. At least a squad of Cuban soldiers and a couple of officers were scouring the debris littered ground around a major piece of wreckage. He got close enough to hear them talking excitedly and happily. After all, hadn't they just destroyed a gringo plane? Viva Cuba! Viva Castro! Viva the Revolution!

  After a while it became obvious that the soldiers were scrounging for souvenirs, and that nothing of consequence remained. At least nothing useable remained. But that did not answer the question of what happened to the pilot.

  Finally, an officer called the men together and they began to walk casually in the general direction of Guantanamo Bay. Cullen waited patiently until they were well out of site and then made a wide circle of the area. He wouldn't put it past the bastards to either leave someone behind or double back to see who showed up. He wondered if Lieutenant Ross would've thought to do that. Probably not, he decided and then wondered if he was selling the lieutenant short.

  After another hour, he moved to the wreckage. Charred debris was everywhere and he had to walk carefully so as not to step on something, especially something that might have been human.

  He reached the cockpit. The scent of burning flesh had already told him what he would find and his eyes confirmed it. The pilot had not ejected. What was left of him was still strapped in his seat. Cullen was not a particularly religious man, but he fervently prayed that the pilot had been dead before hitting the ground and before being so hideously burned.