Castro's bomb Read online

  Thus, they listened with unbridled joy as the Americans were being humbled. Earlier they'd watched in happy disbelief as long columns of tanks and trucks filled with soldiers had gathered near their home. They'd been told by happy soldiers that they were going to liberate Guantanamo, but didn't believe it until now.

  A large, flaming explosion lit the night to their south. "I want to go and see," said Manuel.

  Marinda thought about saying no, but her nephew was almost a man, even though he was skinny and wore glasses, and he might just go towards the fighting on his own. "So do I. Go put on something that doesn't look like a uniform so we don't get shot at."

  Getting onto the once well guarded base was now ridiculously easy. The gates had been blown or smashed and they simply walked in. The fighting appeared to be several miles in front of them and moving away, although they did see several clusters of frightened and shaken American civilians gathered together and doubtless wondering just what had happened to their safe little world. Marinda wanted to curse at them, but decided against it. Americans had a habit of carrying guns and would certainly be on edge.

  Manuel gasped. A dead body lay in the street. It was a Cuban soldier and he'd been shot a number of times. Marinda started to reach down and feel his pulse, but realized from the huge amount of blood that had poured from his many wounds that it would be an exercise in futility.

  "We will continue on," she said grimly.

  In a short while, they heard the sounds of cheering. Groups of Cuban soldiers ran by. "The Americans have surrendered," one of them yelled, and they joined in the shouting. Rifles were fired in the air until officers made the soldiers stop.

  Manuel and Marinda continued on to the place where fighting had clearly raged. Burned trucks and a charred tank still smoldered. A column of beaten and weary Americans was being moved away from a badly damaged building.

  Manuel announced that he would be joining the militia, which saddened Marinda but she recognized the inevitability. She realized that the taking of the base might just be the first step in what could easily be a long war. Would the United States simply roll over and leave them alone because they'd lost Guantanamo, or would they counter-attack? She thought she knew the answer and it saddened her.

  Chapter Six

  Andrew gathered the small group around him in the inadequate shade of a grove of scrub trees. He hoped the pattern of limbs and leaves would hide them from at least some prying eyes. It was decision time. They had found a shallow ditch about a hundred yards away from the bunker and had carefully enlarged it for protection. They were safe for the moment.

  The sounds of battle had faded and an unreal silence now prevailed. They knew it could mean only one thing. The battle for Guantanamo Bay was over and the Cubans had won. And that meant they were totally adrift and alone in an alien and hostile land.

  Andrew took a deep breath and began, "Men, the way I see it, we have two choices. First, we can find a Cuban unit and surrender to them. If we do that, the odds are very good that we will be well treated. You saw what they did for Levin and Stillman and I'm pretty confident that we'd be treated just as well. Once in a prison camp, there's a reasonable expectation of ultimately being released for the simple reason that this war can't go on forever. I believe that, in a very short while, a very pissed off United States will kick Castro's ass right up between his ears."

  Hollis glared at him. "But we'd be like convicts if we surrendered, wouldn't we?"

  "Yes," Andrew said. "But we'd be safe."

  "I didn't join the Marines to be safe," Hollis said. "If I'd wanted to be safe, I'd have joined the navy and wear a condom all the time. Besides, didn't we all swear not to surrender unless we have no other choice? Sorry, sir, but I think we still have some better options. Surrendering's without a good reason’s for pussies."

  Andrew smiled inwardly, pleased by the comment. The Code of Military Conduct prohibited surrender except as a last resort and their situation was a long ways from anything resembling a last resort. He saw the others in agreement with Hollis.

  "Okay, that leaves option two. We stay out here and try to get in contact with U.S. forces and also try to be useful, whatever that means. Of course it also means that we'd be considered combatants and maybe even guerillas, in which case we might be shot if we were captured."

  "Life's a bitch," PFC Groth added. "If I have a vote, I say we stay out of the prison camps as long as we can. Besides, don't the Commies torture and try to brainwash people into betraying the U.S.? I don't want any part of getting my brain washed."

  "Yeah," Sergeant Cullen said somberly. "At least that's what they did in Korea, but the Cubans aren't the Chinese and I really don't think they'd try anything like that. The United States is so close to Florida that they have to know that there'd be retaliation by our side. The Cubans also must realize that this'll be over fairly shortly and they wouldn't want anybody accusing them of atrocities and later hanging their asses for war crimes. I think we'd be reasonably safe if we managed to surrender without getting shot in the first place."

  Andrew nodded agreement. He thought it almost inconceivable that the Cubans would behave in any way like the Chinese Communists had done in Korea, where they'd starved, beaten, tortured, and murdered prisoners of war. However unlikely, though, such brutal behavior couldn't be totally ruled out.

  Andrew smiled tightly. "Then we've decided? We stay out here and keep free for God knows however long we can and try to take part in whatever is going to happen?"

  All nodded or said yes.

  "Look," Andrew continued, "this isn't a democracy and we all know it. For better or worse, I'm the senior person here and I will give the orders. But I don't want anyone here who doesn't want to stay. We can't afford that, so if anybody does want to wander off down that road and find some Cubans to kiss up to, go do it and nobody will say a word. But do it now."

  Nobody made a move. Andrew stood. "Okay, that's that. The next order of business is to find food and shelter."

  "And toilet paper," Ward added and everyone laughed.

  "No shit," Andrew grinned. "And take all the ammunition we can find as well as any weapons we can carry. The machine gun in the bunker is destroyed, but we might find some other useful stuff, so let's get scrounging. Right now we all have weapons, but who knows when we might find other strays like us or just need replacements. Let's hustle. There'll be more Cubans passing by any time now."

  Cullen stood. "Heads up, people. I want you to pick up all the food, ammunition, and weapons you can find. And then grab all the blankets and rain gear, ponchos, you see. This may be Cuba, but it’s winter and, while it's not going to be very cold, it's not going to be all that hot at night, either. Anybody gets sick and they're just shit out of luck."

  "That's gonna make for mighty heavy packs, sarge," Ward complained.

  Ross answered with a grin. "Hell, we're all marines, aren't we? Hauling a couple of hundred pounds of equipment all day will be nothing."

  A distant sound caught their attention. They looked up as it got louder. Jets.

  "Ours," Cullen said, recognizing the silhouettes of American F104 Starfighters. "Finally, a day late and a dollar short, as usual with the fucking Air Force."

  General Ortega was pleased. Fidel himself had phoned and was beside himself with praises for Ortega and his brilliantly conceived and executed mission. Still, it had not come without a heavy price. At least a thousand Cuban soldiers were dead or wounded and a hundred more were missing. The outnumbered, disorganized, and overmatched Americans had fought stubbornly and well. The final scene had played out only a few moments earlier with the surrender of the hundred plus Americans from their command bunker.

  Taking this one bunker had cost more than a hundred casualties, including the fifty or so dead, along with one almost irreplaceable tank. It was lost when an overzealous officer had personally led a charge against the American guns. Fortunately, the officer was dead. Now he could be revered as a hero of the state instead of
being court-martialed for his consummate stupidity.

  Ortega had promised this Major Hartford that his soldiers would be treated well and he had every intention of keeping his promise. He was a Cuban and a professional soldier, not a barbarian. When it was appropriate, the approximately three thousand American prisoners, many of whom were noncombatants, would be moved to another site, probably the nearby port city of Santiago.

  Until that time, they served another purpose as, overhead; the first wave of American fighters was busy shooting down and chasing Cuban MiGs and while avoiding heavy anti-aircraft fire that had been another unpleasant surprise for the Americans. While several MiGs had been shot down, so too had at least a pair of American fighters, although by anti-aircraft and SAM 2 missiles and not by Cuban pilots who were no match for the Americans. A shame, but Ortega never thought Fidel's fighter planes would be a major factor after the initial attack on Guantanamo.

  Ortega had broadcast in the clear the fact that the prisoners were being kept in close proximity to the Cuban forces in order to keep the American planes from bombing and strafing them and, of course, his own men. When darkness fell, he would move and hide his armor. He had no doubt that the Americans would quickly and completely control the skies. Now, however, there was chaos both in the air and one the ground and it served him well.

  He counted his losses. Along with the dead and wounded, most of whom were relatively useless militia and therefore expendable, he'd lost a dozen tanks and personnel carriers. He would see what could be salvaged. He would need every armored vehicle available when the inevitable American counter-attack occurred. Comrades Fidel and Che seemed to be of the mind that the Cuban military was strong enough to deter the Americans from returning to Guantanamo, but Ortega was not so foolish as to believe that.

  No, the defense of Guantanamo and Cuba would depend on guile and skill. He grinned. Like his using several of the half dozen ambulances to carry him and his headquarters staff to the battle. The American planes would never attack clearly marked ambulances, which meant he was safe unless he did something stupid, and he was not stupid. He'd even stopped to pick up two wounded Americans assuming that other Marines were watching and that any false move would have resulted in a fire-fight that could have cost him his life. Had he not stopped, observers would have guessed that the ambulances were not real and might have opened fire.

  Those two wounded men were with Major Hartford and the others where they would all be treated in accordance with the Geneva Convention. He ducked instinctively as yet another American fighter flew low over the base. The pilot looked down on them, but did not fire. Ortega had won. Guantanamo Bay was once again part of Cuba and Cuban was once again whole.

  And he would never permit it to be called Gitmo.

  The fifteen old C47 transports carried a total of three hundred well armed and veteran American paratroopers and flew southward in a long, single line. Lt. Col. Ted Romanski tried to relax, but that, of course was impossible. He was going to war.

  Along with finding pilots and crew for the transports, it had taken him precious time to get the small number of men available for the interdiction mission organized and on board the transports. Instead of the thousand plus paratroopers he'd hoped for, he'd rounded up only a little more than three hundred. Still, he had his orders. General Bunting had been specific. President Kennedy had given the order for the jump onto Guantanamo and they would do their best to relieve the beleaguered forces at Guantanamo. He was very uncomfortable, but he would do his duty. He always did.

  Sporadic reports from Gitmo indicated that the place was being overrun, which made him wonder if they'd have anyplace to jump onto. Their plans called for them to land if possible, but they would parachute directly on or near the airfields if they were under fire. But what if they'd fallen, then what? And how the hell would he know? This had all the earmarks of a hastily thrown together disaster, a FUBAR.

  There was doubt as to whether they'd be getting fighter cover. The Cubans had Russian MiGs among other types of warplanes and lack of cover could be even more disastrous. Romanski wondered if Bunting had had all the info necessary to make a good command decision.

  Master Sergeant Wiley Morton sat beside Romanski. He was a short, barrel-chested black man who stared grimly ahead. He hadn't said much, but it was evident from his few comments that he thought the mission was ridiculous at best. Still, he'd volunteered. He'd served with Romanski in the past and was part of the Airborne Training School cadre that Romanski commanded. Romanski totally respected the master sergeant and it was reciprocated.

  "We're over Cuba," the pilot's voice announced over Romanski's headset. About time, Romanski thought. It seemed like they'd been flying forever. In a very few minutes they'd be over beleaguered Gitmo. He ordered his men to check their gear for the tenth time. Nobody complained. You didn't jump out of a perfectly good plane without checking your gear as often as you could.

  He wondered what Midge was doing. They'd planned to go to church early and spend the rest of the day celebrating Christmas with the boys. Some celebration they'd be having. At least they'd be having a better day than he would. He hoped his efforts would serve a purpose and not be wasted. He did not want his epitaph to read, "He died for no good reason."

  The plane shuddered. He looked at Morton who shrugged impassively. It was anti-aircraft fire and it was dangerously close. Something rattled against the thin side of the plane. Anti-aircraft shells were exploding very close nearby. The plane rocked again and several men lurched forward, cursing but otherwise unhurt. Romanski forced himself to be calm. It was one more thing he couldn't control. If the plane was hit, so be it. He hoped he would either be able to jump or die quickly. He kind of wished he’d gone to Confession.

  The pilot's voice came back on. "Colonel, we've been ordered to abort, repeat abort, and return to base. Gitmo has fallen."

  Romanski exhaled deeply. Maybe he would get home in time for a late dinner. He immediately regretted the thought. People had been killed on the ground below him.

  The plane shook violently. "We're hit," said the pilot after a moment's hesitation. "One engine is out and we're losing power. We are not going to make it. Get ready to jump right now!"

  Romanski stood. Through the small window he could see the left wing was burning and pieces were flying off. So much for dinner. "Everybody up," he ordered. "Like the man says, we're gonna jump right now."

  The hatch opened. He was the ranking officer and should jump first. He thought for an instant that he should let the others go ahead of him, but no, there wasn't time to change places with anyone. The damn plane was going to crash. He suddenly found himself flailing around in the sky. He thought Morton had pushed him.

  After what always seemed an eternity, the parachute opened and he was able to look around. A handful of other men had made it out and were still jumping from the plane when it took a direct hit and exploded in a ball of fire, with bodies thrown from the cockpit.

  He swore and tried to find the rest of his column of transports. He saw the other planes peeling away and heading north, back to the United States. Another C47 was hit and lost a wing. It tumbled and cart-wheeled into the earth, where it exploded in a ball of fire. Then a third exploded in the sky.

  Romanski wanted to weep. So many good men lost and for what reason? Damn it to hell, someone in the Pentagon had fucked up royally and it had to be General Bunting. Lights twinkled up and he realized that Cubans on the ground were shooting at him and the remnants of his command. It was now daylight and there was no place to hide as they fell from the sky. But the Cubans weren't shooting at him that much. They were aiming for a cluster of parachutes well behind him.

  The ground was coming up quickly. He braced himself for the landing and wondered again if Midge wasn't right and he wasn't too old for this shit. He hit the ground and began the tumble that would soften the impact when his foot caught in something. A sound like a piece of wood breaking was followed by a wave of agony and he nearly
passed out from the pain. He felt strong arms lifting him and half-dragging him off to someplace. He couldn't focus his eyes. Had he banged his head? What the hell was going on?

  All the captain and crew of the Coast Guard Cutter Willow needed to do was steer for the column of greasy black smoke that could be seen for scores of miles and was billowing from the stern of the damaged Fletcher-class destroyer, the Wallace. The plan was to get close enough for hoses from the Willow to help put out the fire that was raging through the charred mess that had been the destroyer's stern turret.

  Lt. Commander Watkins could see the five inch guns on the destroyer pointing aimlessly towards the sky. This, he decided, was a good day to help people. Already he had one pilot from a shot down American fighter in sick bay being tended to by Seaman Vitale. The pilot had a broken hip and a multitude of cuts and bruises but would likely make it.

  The United States was at war and he wondered if it had anything to do with the CIA agent he'd picked up. He'd probably never know for certain, but he'd bet money that it did.

  When the Willow was about two hundred yards from the destroyer, the stern of the Wallace simply exploded. Flames and debris were hurled high into the sky as ammunition in the turret and rear magazine cooked off. Pieces fell on the cutter like shrapnel and Watkins thanked God everyone was wearing helmets and life jackets. Someone screamed when he realized that body parts were part of the debris descending on them.

  "That's ugly," he said to his XO, thankful that the explosion hadn't occurred when they were closer. "Lower boats. People must've been blown off into the water. And get the hoses going as quickly as possible."

  Harkins relayed the orders. He would control fighting the fire on what remained of the Wallace. Soon they were close enough and hoses sent streams of water onto the destroyer, but without apparent effect on the raging inferno. Explosions still ripped through the ship, sending more debris onto the cutter. Even though all his men were protected by their helmets, they ducked nonetheless. A number were struck and badly bruised.