Castro's Bomb (17 page)

"Damn it," he bellowed, his volcanic temper almost at the breaking point.
 
"Does anyone know what exactly is going on in that pigsty of a country?
 
What the god damn hell does that pig fucker Castro think he is doing?"

Khrushchev was considered a crude man, even by Russian standards.
 
He was always disheveled, and some of his enemies thought he bore a striking resemblance to a hog that was able to walk upright.
 
Although nowhere as ruthless as Josef Stalin – he had stunned the world by daring to criticize the monstrous Soviet leader of World War II – he was still a very deadly adversary.
 
Like most Russian men he was a heavy drinker, which made him even less stable.
 
By this time, Khrushchev had already had several shots of vodka and this did not help his turbulent disposition.

Nor did anyone one else in the room possess enough power to argue with him.
 
It was apparent, however, that there had been a massive intelligence failure.
 
There were forty thousand Red Army personnel in and around Havana, along with a large number of KGB operatives on hand to help Castro keep control of the Cuban population.
 
Also, the Red Army had its own intelligence arm, the GRU, and they too had been silent regarding the Castro's unexpected operation.
 

Khrushchev accepted that neither the military nor his intelligence units had known anything, and that was most shocking.
 
Either that or that someone had been complicit in this Cuban operation in order to embarrass him and possibly lead the Soviet Union down a new and possibly very dangerous path.
 

That the attack on Guantanamo had taken place hundreds of miles from the still active fleshpots of Havana where Soviet agents congregated might also have been a factor.
 
Besides, he thought, who the hell would be dumb enough to think that Castro was so crazy that he would try something like this on his own.
 
What did that raggedy-ass Cuban want and what the hell could the Soviet Union do about it?

Khrushchev paced and raged.
 
For the time being, he could do nothing whatsoever about the situation.
 
He had no air assets in Cuba and the Soviet navy was far, far away.
 
He laughed harshly.
 
He could imagine the scrawny, young, and inept John Kennedy in Washington fuming and raging as well and being just as impotent. Khrushchev took another healthy gulp of vodka and calmed himself.

America's impotence would only last for a little while longer.
 
In October, they had gathered a massive invasion force just prior to the end of the previous missile crisis, and would doubtless do so again.
 
Castro would be squashed by overwhelming American power.
 
Or, Khrushchev thought, did the stupid prick in Havana think that Russia would pull his ass out of the fire just because he was a fellow communist?
 
That was something he would have to talk over with his advisors and the members of the Politburo.
 
Was it worth the risk of an all-out war with the United States, and possibly a nuclear one just to save the revolution in Cuba?
 
After all, wasn't Cuba rightfully in the American sphere of influence in the first place?

Perhaps the Soviet Union and the United States could negotiate something other than a complete return of Guantanamo.
 
After all, didn't the Cubans now have a large number of American prisoners?

Unlike Josef Stalin, his unlamented predecessor who had died in 1953, Khrushchev's rule was not absolute.
 
All around him were other high ranking Soviet officials who were constantly jockeying for power and the opportunity to replace him at the top.
 
Leonid Brezhnev and Alexi Kosygin were the two who worried him most.
 
If they managed to topple him, would they let him live, or would his reward be the traditional bullet in the back of the head?
 
They were unhappy with the way the Cuban Missile Crisis had played out; therefore, he must solve this problem and do so decisively.

Khrushchev had another thought and it chilled him.
 
What if Comrade Castro wasn't so dumb and irrational?
 
What if he had something else planned?
 
More vodka, he decided.

Cathy Malone picked her way through the rubble of several destroyed buildings.
 
The devastation on the base appalled her.
 
Especially shocking was the destruction of what had been the homes build for civilian and military families.
 
Cuban and American bodies lay about, giving testimony that the base hadn't fallen easily.
 
Quickly yes, but not easily.
 
The Cubans had been bloodied.

Good, she thought and was surprised at the depth of her feelings.
 
She'd always thought war was horrible and now she knew that it was, but she also wanted to fight one.
 
The Cubans had hurt her and her country.

She was scared, hurt, and angry.
 
He fears were almost too numerous to mention.
 
She was afraid of being seen by Cuban soldiers and captured again.
 
Maybe the next ones wouldn't rape her, but who knew?
 
She would not take the chance.
 
Maybe she'd been lucky that she'd only been raped and not murdered as well.
 
Or gang-raped and murdered.
 
Or mutilated like she'd been threatened.

She was afraid that the Cuban sergeant, Carlos Gomez, she would never forget him or his name, had made her pregnant.
 
That would compound the horror.
 
Had he ejaculated inside her or just on her leg?
 
She shuddered at the thought of the self-examination she'd forced herself to make.
 
She'd been a virgin until Gomez assaulted her, and had always thought she'd remain one until she got married, or really fell in love.
 
And rape was something that was whispered about and always happened to someone else.
 
Or to someone who managed to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, or got so drunk on a date that she wasn't able to stop a guy.

She was realistic enough to not be concerned that her so-called virtue had been compromised.
 
This Gomez pig had forced it from her and she was the victim, not a co-conspirator.
 
She knew some cultures that blamed the victim, and she'd always thought that was utterly stupid.

She remembered Catholic school catechism classes where nuns and priests glorified young girls who chose death over losing their virginity to a rapist.
 
She'd always thought death was a wrong, even stupid, decision under those circumstances.
 
Now she knew she was right.
 
She wanted to live and she wanted to see Carlos Gomez brought to justice, whatever that meant.
 
The thought of her being canonized as Saint Cathy Malone, Virgin and Martyr, was appalling.
 
Her church, she realized, was dead wrong.

Most of the young women she knew were more or less ignorant about sex and most at least claimed to be virgins, no matter how much they experimented sexually.
 
There was a growing movement among women that said women should be freer sexually, but she had not yet been converted to that line of thinking.
 
Voluntarily going all the way, screwing, fucking, or whatever term one preferred was for marriage.
 

Cathy did not consider herself a prude and had permitted a select few boys and young men from high school and college to take what her old aunt used to refer to as "liberties" with her, but had never gone anywhere near sexual intercourse.
 
Above the waist was her rule.

She was also afraid that the filthy and disgusting Gomez had given her what the sailors and marines called the clap.
 
She'd heard many of the young men talk about it.
 
Syphilis and gonorrhea were the names most commonly given to venereal disease and she wondered just when and how she'd know she had it or not.
 
Time would tell, she supposed.
 

Fortunately, the physical pain was endurable and receding.
 
She was young and would heal, at least physically.
 
If she wasn't pregnant and didn't have the clap, she thought she could handle the mental part.
 
She laughed bitterly.
 
Did she have a choice?
 
She'd have to help herself.
 
She didn't see anyone standing around volunteering to help her by providing a shoulder to cry on.
 
No, she would have to be tough.
 
Either that or she might perish.

Cathy had not wanted to return to the base, but an examination of her carry bag showed serious deficiencies.
 
She'd only planned to use it for creature comforts while on a boat or plane to the States, not for living in the wild like a refugee.
 
Thus, and with great reluctance, she'd returned to do some scrounging.
 
Even though it was tempting since it contained all of her stuff, she decided to stay away from her ruined apartment.
 
She had no idea where this Gomez bastard who'd raped her might be.
 
He said he'd be back and Cathy believed him.

Her foraging had resulted in a mixed bag.
 
Literally.
 
She now had a duffle bag full of C and K ration packages that she'd never tasted but heard were both awful and nourishing.
 
She'd even steeled herself to take some off of the bodies of sailors and marines.
 
If the military said it was food, she'd take it.
 
She had no idea how long she'd be on the run, but part of her said it could be quite a while.
 
It was now late in the afternoon of Christmas Day and there was no sign of any further American response.
 
She'd cheered when she'd seen the American jets, but they'd disappeared.
 
Cold hard logic told her she was on her own for the foreseeable future.
 

She was more than a little surprised to find that her wanderings had brought her outside her old apartment.
 
Did she dare?
 
She checked in all directions.
 
Alice's mangled remains were gone.
 
Had the base's new owners begun cleaning things up?
 
Everything appeared deserted.
 
She entered through the back door and wished she knew how to fire the rifle she'd picked up from where it had been abandoned on the street.
 
It was a strange looking thing and she presumed it was from a Cuban, since the markings indicated it was Russian.
 
She hoped it might deter someone if they saw her carrying it.

Cathy grabbed a blanket off her bed and hung it over her shoulder.
 
Then she took a second one.
 
Who knew where she'd be sleeping in the future?
 
She stuffed some more clothing and personal items into her original bag and wrapped the blankets around some more, tying them up with electric cords.
 
She would be weighed down but could toss them quickly if she had to.

She cautiously went out the back door.
 
She had just taken a couple of steps when she froze in horror.
 
A small black man wearing combat fatigues was standing a few feet away from her and was pointing a rifle directly at her.

Lieutenant Colonel Ted Romanski groaned in pain.
 
The cast that Sergeant Morton had made out of pieces of wood was less than adequate, to put it mildly.

"You want some more morphine, colonel?"

Romanski had taken some of the painkiller while Morton was setting the break.
 
The sergeant had tried to be gentle, but the injury wouldn't cooperate and the morphine had been necessary to calm him during the process.
 
Still, he knew how little of the precious stuff they had.

"No thanks.
 
Let's save it for something important."

Morton grinned.
 
He didn't think the iron-assed colonel would've taken any more.
 
Romanski had a reputation for being a hard driver who worked with his men even though he was at an age where he could be forgiven for sitting behind a desk.

"Did you find any more survivors?" Romanski asked, even though he thought he knew the answer to the question.
 
Had there been any more survivors who’d parachuted with them, they'd be with them.

"No sir, but I did find evidence that some of the guys survived and were taken prisoner.
 
I also found half a dozen bodies.
 
I took their supplies and ammo and buried the dead as best I could."

Romanski thought Morton had done a good job and said so.
 
Now came the hard part.
 
They were all alone in the wilds of a very hostile eastern Cuba.
 
He had a broken leg and the one other man with him was going to have to help him physically go anyplace, assuming, of course, that they could decide where they should go.
 
He had no qualms asking the highly regarded senior sergeant for his opinion.

"Well, colonel, it doesn't look like we'll be doing anything useful other than surviving for a while.
 
I don't know if and when our guys will be striking back, so I'd suggest finding a place to hole up until you get at least a little bit better."