Castro's bomb Read online

  Gunnery sergeant Cullen had been poring over a coded message and had obviously completed the translation.

  "Let me have the good news," Ross said.

  "You've been promoted to first lieutenant. Congratulations and it's long overdue. I guess that asshole you insulted couldn't hold you back forever, could he?"

  Andrew flushed as Cathy laughed. Did everybody know about his situation? "I think you should buy us all a drink," Cathy suggested.

  "Will a sip of brackish and warm water from a canteen suffice or will you take a rain check?"

  "Rain check," they chorused.

  Cullen signaled that he wanted to talk to Andrew alone. Nobody questioned it. They'd done it before. The two men walked a few dozen yards away from the others and stopped.

  "Like I said, lieutenant, the second part is interesting. We're instructed to be on the lookout for a tracked vehicle, a cut-down tank chassis, carrying a missile launcher."

  "What kind of missile are we talking about?"

  "They called it a Luna or a Frog 3, and, sorry, but those are names I'm not really familiar with, so I don't know what the hell makes them so important. I just felt just the two of us should talk about it first."

  Andrew searched his memory for the answer. There had been multiple briefings on Soviet weapons systems and special emphasis had been given to those that the Cubans might possess, or that the Soviets might bring in. The only tracked vehicle that wasn't a tank or armored personnel carrier were anti-aircraft systems and they either fired regular shells or surface to air missiles. The Cubans had SAM2 surface to air missiles mounted either on tracked vehicles or Soviet Zil trucks. These were the same missiles that had shot down the U-2 spy plane piloted by Gary Frances Powers and the American jet that Cullen had seen destroyed.

  So what the hell was a Frog 3? He wished he'd paid closer attention, but, hell, he was an accountant and a short-timer. It had to be important or his handlers wouldn't have bothered with the information, so why?

  Oh yeah, he thought as he began to remember. It was a short range tactical ballistic missile that had a range of about fifteen miles and was nothing more than a glorified very heavy artillery shell. One of them just wasn't all that important.

  Unless it had a nuclear warhead. He paled. Oh shit.

  "Lieutenant, what is it?"

  "Gunny, we got problems."

  Elena Sandano thought the president looked like death warmed over when she entered the Oval Office with Director McCone. Only Bobby Kennedy was there. Lyndon Johnson was conspicuous by his absence. Tough. She didn't like him.

  She'd gone to the trouble of wearing a skirt and jacket that were far more modest then the outfit she'd worn for the first meeting and now knew she'd wasted her time. The skirt was pleated and hung well below her knees, almost to her ankles, and the blouse was high-necked and full. This time, JFK was far too tired to stare at her legs or breasts. His eyes looked vacant for a moment, like he wished he was elsewhere. He shook off his lack of alertness and managed a politician's warm smile on her behalf.

  "Good to see you again, Dr. Sandano. I trust you once again have some blunt advice for me."

  "If you'd like some, sir, but I've actually come with some information."

  "Really?"

  "Yes sir. We have just received confirmation that Castro is going to hold a land lottery in the next week to start giving parcels of land in and around Guantanamo Bay to so-called deserving peasants and other workers. That means that, in a very short time, more than a hundred thousand civilian men, women, and children will be setting up housekeeping in and around what had been our naval base."

  Kennedy looked stunned. "Which means that any bombing of that area or invasion will incur enormous civilian casualties, and I'll go down as the butcher who did it."

  Elena nodded. "Pretty much, sir."

  "Just how good is your information?" Bobby asked.

  McCone answered for her. "Extremely high probability factor, sir. At least ninety per cent."

  "To the best of my knowledge," Kennedy said, "the naval base is, was, built on land that is marginal at best for farming and there are no industries present. Almost a desert is what I've heard. How the devil are those people supposed to support themselves once they've moved in? Without outside help, they'll starve."

  "Sir," she said, "Castro will support them, with Russian help, of course. Once the Russians realize they have no choice but to accept Fidel as he is, he assumes they will get over their snit and begin helping him again, and we agree. As to the people who'll move in, they will become a human barrier to counter what Castro refers to as our aggressive tendencies. It won't matter if they're economically productive or not. All they'll have to do is exist and they will deter us from invading."

  JFK turned to Bobby with agony on his face. "I've gone out of my way to delay major fighting in the hope that Castro will somehow see reason. Looks like that idea's down the crapper," he said to Bobby. "Why the hell does it seem like Castro is constantly outmaneuvering us all the time."

  "Because he is," Bobby replied laconically. "He doesn't have to answer to Congress or the press or his adoring public, and he can be as ruthless as he wants. He's the innocent little guy and we're the big bully in the playground."

  McCone interjected. "It gets worse. Once again the exile community in Miami is planning military intervention. They're organizing yet another brigade of soldiers and will shortly insist on accompanying our invasion when it occurs."

  Kennedy was perplexed. "Where the hell are they getting the manpower after all they've gone through?"

  Elena answered. "Sir, there are fresh refugees arriving almost daily despite the military situation, and, even though some of them might be spies, they are filling the exile ranks. Also, there is a strong likelihood that the exile brigade will include several hundred women and older men who are desperate for justice."

  The president felt helpless. The exile community had ignored his pleas to stay out of the way. The Republicans, led by Arizona Senator Barry Goldwater and former Vice President Richard Nixon, were screaming that he was an appeaser and that he was paralyzed by the specter of a war with Communist China over Vietnam that he was disinterested in events in Cuba. Even within his own party, there was anger and disappointment. It was obvious that Lyndon Johnson thought JFK would be a one-term president and had begun to position himself as a hawk regarding Cuba. Eggs and omelets, JFK recalled the tall Texan saying with an unconcealed sneer. You can't make an omelet without breaking some eggs.

  The president turned to Elena. "Tell me, what are the people of Cuba and other Latin American countries saying about our efforts to find a peaceful solution to this crisis?"

  Elena took a deep breath. "Sir, they are laughing at you. Their governments are polite, but their newspapers say you have no balls."

  There was stunned silence. Elena looked around, memorizing the scene. Once again she was confident that her comments meant that this would be the last time she'd ever see the Oval Office, at least during this administration. She didn't care. She had told him the truth, and any president should hear that as often as possible. Charley Kraeger, she knew, would think it hilarious.

  Kennedy stood, his expression grim. "We will now re-convene ExComm. They want my permission to attack? They're going to get my permission."

  Commander Sam Watkins could handle the physical pain. Very quickly after surgery, he'd demanded a drastic reduction in the amount of drugs he was being given. He didn't want to become addicted like so many other guys he'd seen. Something to help him sleep was okay, at least for a while, but not for normal living. Life with pain was something he would have to endure, at least until he healed. He would not take the easy way out.

  Hell, he thought, just what was normal? He cranked the bed so he was sitting up enough to see where his left leg had been. He still had most of it, but not the part that rested on the ground. As his friends told him, now he would never wear out a pair of socks because he could use both of them. Of cours
e, he would always be stuck with a left shoe in virginal condition. With friends like those, who needed enemies?

  No, what upset him was the emotional and mental anguish. He kept seeing Lieutenant Harkins's destroyed body lying beside him. Harkins had been married and had two small children. How would they make out? They'd get a pension, of course, but it wouldn't be much. His widow was attractive and might just re-marry, but how would the kids handle the loss of their dad? And how much of it was his fault?

  He'd seen the list of dead and wounded and grieved for each one of them. The Willow had been small as warships go and Watkins had known all of his crew, his Coast Guard family. And now so many of them were gone, either dead or with their lives destroyed or forever altered.

  Like his. He would get a pension and a wooden leg. Hell, how about a patch over an eye so people would think he was a pirate? Maybe he could get a job with Ringling Brothers, or at Disneyland. Yo, ho, ho and a bucket of shit.

  "Feeling sorry for yourself again?"

  It was one of the nurses. He was being treated at the Bethesda Naval Hospital in Maryland. She was a first lieutenant. Her name was Mary Ann Ackerman and she was in her late thirties, a little plumpish, but pleasant enough.

  "A little bit," he admitted, "but I'm feeling sorrier for the men I lost. Sorry too for the guys who got mangled more than I did."

  "Do you blame yourself?"

  "Of course. I am — excuse me, was — the captain of the Willow. Whatever happens, from a sailor farting to the ship sinking, is my responsibility."

  She sat on the chair by the side of his bed. He was supposed to be sharing the room but the second bed was empty. He wondered if that had been intentionally? Was he a pariah? Who the hell wanted to be near someone who'd lost his ship? Maybe they thought that bad luck was contagious or would rub off. He wondered if JFK had been shunned after losing PT109? Not likely, he concluded. Kennedy's family came from enormous wealth and that can always buy absolution. Regardless, he liked the privacy and hoped it stayed that way for a long while.

  "Don't you think the Cubans had something to do with what happened?" Nurse Ackerman asked. "And how about the admirals who ordered you out there?"

  "Them too, but I was the man on the scene."

  "I hear you're getting a medal."

  "Fuck the medal."

  "Don't talk like that in front of me."

  "Sorry. Screw the medal."

  She smiled sweetly. "That's better. And like it or not you are getting better. I understand they're going to fit you with an artificial leg pretty soon, and you know you can go out and about in a wheel chair anytime you wish."

  "How jolly fucking wonderful. Sorry."

  "You know, it could've been much worse."

  Watkins looked away. "Sure, and now you're going to tell me about the beggar who was sorry for himself because he had no shoes until he met another beggar who had no feet. Hey, holy shit. I only have one foot, so I guess I should only feel half sorry for myself."

  Nurse Ackerman scowled. "You are disgusting, Commander Watkins. Some of your officers and crew are anxious to see you. When would you like to schedule it?"

  Watkins turned to the window. He had a great view of a half empty parking lot. "Right after the world ends."

  "Too bad. The medal ceremony will be in a few days. I don't know which one you're getting, but if I have a vote, it's likely going to be the Order of the Royal Pain in the Ass with Oak Leaf Clusters."

  Despite himself, Watkins laughed. "Good one."

  "Actually, I understand it'll be either the Silver Star or the Coast Guard Distinguished Service Medal."

  "Semper paratus," Watkins said, quoting the Coast Guard motto, "Always Prepared." Well, hell, he hadn't been prepared. If he had been prepared, his ship would have fought back more effectively, and he couldn't claim crummy radar as an excuse since it was his responsibility to ensure that everything on the Willow was in working condition no matter what. "Seaman Vitale will be getting one, too," Ackerman continued, "because of how he worked and saved so many lives, maybe including your own annoying butt. Yours will be for your lifesaving efforts in rescuing the crew of that destroyer and for doing everything you could to put out the fire at great risk to you and your ship before and after the destroyer sank. Lord, I sound like I'm reading the commendation. Also, the ship is getting some unit citation."

  She stood and straightened her uniform. He noticed that she had nice full breasts. "Commander, I will not let you feel sorry for yourself. I will not let any of my patients feel sorry for themselves. I know what they're going through and I know that you and they can get through it."

  "And just how the hell do you know what I'm going through?" he snapped.

  To his astonishment, tears welled up in her eyes and he immediately regretted what he'd said. "Because of the guilt I felt when I lost my husband, that's why. He was a marine pilot and he was killed in Korea when something caused him to fly a perfectly good plane into a mountain on a bright sunshiny day. I felt so guilty because I'd decided I didn't want to be married anymore to him, and he knew it because I’d written and told him. He was so obsessive and domineering and, yes, sometimes he hit me, which made him a shit, but not one who had to die for it. He told me he couldn't deal with the idea of me leaving him, so what do you think made him fly his plane into a mountain? His monumental ego, that's what. His pride couldn't stand the thought of failure in marriage or flying a plane, or anything else, and now you can't deal with your own situation."

  "I'm sorry," Watkins said weakly.

  "Don't be. I felt guilty for a long time. The navy sent his remains home a year later in a tee-tiny box that I could have put in my purse. I thought I'd lose my mind, and then I realized I wouldn't and I thought that was worse. Insanity would have been so helpful, such a nice dark place to hide. But no, I had to recover and go out and face the world. And so will you Commander Watkins."

  He took a deep breath. She was right. Women were always so damned right. "All right, I'll recover, but only one on condition. You go out to lunch with me."

  She nodded and smiled. "But only if you walk. Crutches are okay, but no wheel chair. A cane would be great. Men with canes look so dapper and distinguished, especially if it's a man in uniform with a chest full of medals. Oh yes, I want you to tidy yourself up and lose some weight. Show me you have pride in yourself. You lose twenty pounds and I'll lose ten and we'll see how we like each other's refurbished bodies."

  "Agreed," he found himself saying and meaning it. "And tell the guys that if they're dumb enough to want to talk to me, I'm dumb enough to let them. Oh yeah, when we go out, will it be a date?"

  "If you want it to be," she said. Lord, it had been a long time. Maybe she would take him home. She was a nurse after all and the sight of an amputated leg wouldn't be shocking.

  Watkins grinned. "One last thing, will alcohol be permitted?" She touched him gently on the cheek. "Only if taken internally."

  Chapter Fourteen

  The rumble of exploding bombs came from only a few miles away. The actual site being hit was obscured by some low hills and the dense foliage in which Ross and the others were hidden, but they could clearly see the smoke billowing and could feel the ground beneath their feet quivering. If this was what it was like so far away from the bombs' impact point, Ross thought, what was it like up close, like right on the target? He decided he didn't want to know. Shelling by Russian-made Cuban tanks during the takeover had been bad enough, but this had to be a hundred times worse to the Cubans on the receiving end.

  "We should've done it sooner," Ward said to Cathy.

  "You mean a few weeks ago?" she said.

  "Naw, we should've done it when Castro came to power and we found he was a commie. That would've saved everybody a lot of sweat and aggravation."

  Andrew pretended he really wasn't paying attention. Ward was directing his comments to Cathy because she was a civilian and he could speak more freely to her even though everyone knew his commanding officer wa
s listening in. The games people play, he thought.

  "It would've been nice," she said, "but it was never going to happen. Since I'm a teacher, let me give you a history lesson. World War II, which we won overwhelmingly, ended seventeen years ago and the Korean War, which was something less than an overwhelming win, ended less than ten years ago. Remember, Korea cost more than fifty thousand dead Americans and many people feel it accomplished nothing."

  "So what's that have to do with Cuba and Castro," Ward asked.

  Cathy smiled and continued. "Because the country isn't ready for another bloodbath that doesn't accomplish very much. That and the fact that we are so vulnerable all over the world deterred us from doing anything to topple Castro other than that farce at the Bay of Pigs. We've got responsibilities in Korea and a lot of men staring at the North Koreans, we've got Berlin with a garrison surrounded by the Soviet army, and there is our commitment to protecting the Chinese Nationalists on Formosa, and now we've got our people started moving into Vietnam. Ward, do you know where Vietnam is?"

  Ward grinned. "Not really."

  "It's just south of China."

  Ward brightened. "You mean what used to be French Indo-China?"

  "Exactly," she said.

  "Yeah, I've heard of that place. It's where the French got the crap kicked out of them by the little yellow locals. What're we doing in that rotten little country? I've heard it's a nasty place no matter what they call it?"

  Andrew decided to answer. "The president has decided to send advisors to help the South Vietnamese train their rotten little army to better protect their rotten little country. Vietnam is divided into two parts. The north is already commie and he doesn't want the south to fall as well. It's supposed to be a small mission but we all know how these things grow when the federal government gets involved."

  Ward laughed. "Yeah, we sure know that, lieutenant. All we gotta do is look around at the mess we're in right now. We all sucked up to Batista and now Batista's history and the Cubans hate us. Thanks for the info Cathy, lieutenant. Hey, Cathy, how'd you learn so much? I thought you were an English teacher?"