Castro's Bomb (23 page)

"I know.
 
They're too busy playing hockey to really understand what's going on in the big ugly world.
 
Do you think there are any other American soldiers wandering around Cuba?"

"Elena, I think it's a helluva lot more than likely, which makes it so important that we get in contact with this Ross guy.
 
If we find him and get to communicate with him, we might get a lead on others.
 
In the meantime, we're all in the dark."

Lt. Col. Ted Romanski's busted ankle was improving, but only slightly.
 
He still needed a crutch to walk.
 
He was totally dependent on Sergeant Morton for everything he ate or drank.
 
Fortunately, Sergeant Morton was up to the task.
 
He'd taken all the army’s survival courses and knew what fruits and vegetables were edible and how to track, catch, and cook small animals.

A tree-climbing rodent Morton identified as a ‘jutia’ was caught and cooked by Morton and eaten with gusto.
 
"Does it taste like chicken, colonel?"

"It tastes like rodent, sergeant."

There were mangoes, avocado, papaya, banana, orange, and grapefruit trees in the area.
 
All they had to do was find them.

Romanski couldn't believe how damned depressing he found his situation.
 
And what the devil was Midge doing?
 
How was she making out?
 
Had the mindless boobs at the Pentagon told her he was missing and presumed dead, or just plain missing?
 
Christ, he hoped they hadn't had a funeral for him.
 
Then he wondered if he'd gotten a posthumous promotion and would he have to give it back if he got rescued?

"What are you thinking of, colonel?"

"Just wondering if they held a memorial service for me and who came and what they said."

Morton grinned.
 
"Good question.
 
I'd like to know the same thing.
 
I've got a wife and her relatives are probably trying to get her the money from my life insurance policy.
 
I wonder if people will be glad or embarrassed when we get back.
 
I hope somebody recorded all the nice things people said about me so I can hit them for loans.
 
Ever notice how every dead person is a saint?
 
How come nobody stands up and says that late Uncle Freddie was a drunken shit who beat his wife and molested his children and should've died a lot sooner."

Romanski laughed and stretched his bad leg.
 
It hurt but seemed to help.
 
He'd also like to know more about the half-assed plan to send his several hundred men on a fool's errand.
 
They'd been lucky, after a fashion, that only three planes full of fine young men had been destroyed.
 
He was going to have some frank words with General Josiah Bunting and the hell with the difference in rank.
 
Someone had screwed up royally and dozens of good people had died.
 
And here he was, limping along in the eastern end of Cuba surrounded by tens of thousands of enemy soldiers and eating rodents.
 

"So let's make it a point to get back home and raise holy hell.
 
Any thoughts, sergeant major?"

"I still think we should head south, toward Gitmo, sir.
 
If anything's going to happen, like a landing or an attack by our guys, it's likely gonna be there or near there."

"I agree."

They understood that getting closer to a likely American landing site would also place them in the heart of Cuban defenses.

"You still don't speak Spanish, do you sergeant?"

"Just fluent Korean, colonel."
 
It was a standing joke.
 
Morton had even facetiously suggested he might try to pass as a North Korean officer.

Morton took out a map of Cuba.
 
They had been moving parallel to a narrow dirt road and it seemed to be leading them to a town called Arroyo Honda, and to their north was a town called Jamaica.
 
At least they hoped it was a town.
 
If it meant the island of Jamaica, they were well and truly lost.
 

Avoiding towns was a very good idea.
 
Towns meant police and soldiers and nosy people wondering about the two gringos who couldn't speak Spanish.
 
This also meant that traveling was even more arduous then it would normally be and, in Romanski's case, sometimes downright painful.
 
They generally stayed within sight of the road, but out of the view of anyone on it.
 
At least that was their plan and so far it had worked.
 
When they saw traffic or people they scooted down and hid, which further slowed their progress considerably.

Fortunately, there was very little traffic on the road during the day.
 
The fear of American fighter-bombers, which they could see and hear in the sky above them, told even the bravest Cuban to stay out of sight.
 
Romanski and Morton were deeply concerned that they would be spotted and killed by friendly fire.
 
It seemed illogical that a plane would attack two people, but one never knew when a bored pilot might decide to have some fun, and it was far better to be safe than sorry.

During the night, the road was a more active.
 
Columns of infantry, spread out very widely, moved down the road in the direction of Guantanamo.
 
Trucks and what looked like camouflaged armor moved one at a time, and again very widely spaced.
 
It was only a trickle, but a steady trickle.

It meant that they had to be careful where they walked during the day.
 
They might just stumble on to where the Cubans were bivouacking during the day while waiting for the relative safety of night.

"How many miles to go?" Morton asked.

"Too damn many," Romanski said and wondered again just what Midge was doing.
 
He hoped to hell that she wasn't planning a memorial service.
 

Major Sam Hartford was reasonably pleased at the way his new command was shaping up.
 
Everyone had personal space in a tent, a bunk with a blanket, was protected from the elements, and the food, while bland, was in sufficient quantity and better tasting than they expected.
 
Just as well it was bland, he thought.
 
His stomach rebelled at anything too spicy, which meant that he’d always avoided Cuban food.
 
He knew some of his younger men called him an old fart behind his back, but he didn't have to prove them right.

Colonel Cordero was proving himself to be a reasonably decent person.
 
He'd arranged for clothing to be provided for those who had lost much of their gear in the fighting and had told Hartford that Red Cross packages would be allowed, and that Red Cross representatives would be visiting.
 
The issue of sending and receiving personal mail was still up for debate.
 
Hartford could understand that Cordero didn't want packages or secret information coming and going.
 

A shame, Hartford thought.
 
That was exactly what he'd wanted to do.
 
He thought they could compromise on sending and getting postcards, and decided to suggest that to Cordero.
 

He rose and walked from his tent and intentionally took a roundabout path to his destination, the small tent he would use for the conference with his “administration committee.”
 
He hoped that any observers from the guard towers would find it virtually impossible to track the seemingly random movements of the committee members, and if they were being watched, attribute wanderings to boredom.
 
The simple precaution of changing shirts and hats would confuse the guards watching from a distance.
 
Having several hundreds of men milling around would further confuse any observers.

This meeting had been called by Navy Lieutenant William Skronski, who was head of Hartford's intelligence committee.
 
Skronski had volunteered for the position even though he, like everybody else had no experience in being prisoners and gathering intelligence.
 
The young man had seemed bright enough and certainly eager.
 
Hartford had gratefully accepted his offer and wondered how it would turn out.

As Hartford turned a corner, Skronski reached out from a tent and grabbed his arm.
 
"In here quick, sir."

Hartford complied and found him staring at three dark-skinned uniformed Cuban soldiers who were pointing AK47s right at his gut.
 
"What the fuck?"

One of them laughed cruelly and stuck his weapon under Hartford's shin while the other two held guns to the side of his head.
 
The Cuban with the gun under his chin spoke in heavily accented English.
 
"You are under arrest for being a capitalist war monger and for committing crimes against the people of Cuba.
 
You will be tried and then you will be executed."

Hartford turned to Skronski, a difficult task with three guns at his skull.
 
"What have you done to me, you fucking bastard?"

Skronski raised his hand and the three Cubans lowered their weapons.
 
Hartford realized to his chagrin that there were no clips in the guns.
 
They were unloaded.
 

Skronski was grinning impishly.
 
"Impressive, wasn't it, sir?"

The three "Cubans" were also grinning hugely.
 
Hartford tried to will his heart to slow down and his stomach to stop churning.
 
He had been conned and most effectively.
 
"That was not nice, lieutenant.
 
Well done, but not nice.
 
Now, who the hell are these three guys?"

Skronski signaled and the three men moved to the other side of the tent and stripped off their Cuban uniforms, replacing them with marine and navy gear.
 
"First, sir, I don't think it's a good idea to give you or anyone else their names.
 
What nobody knows they can't tell."

"Good."

"Two of these fine young men are navy and one is a marine.
 
All of them were born in Cuba and emigrated to the U.S. in the last several years.
 
All of them obviously speak fluent Cuban accented Spanish and one of them even grew up here in the Santiago area.
 
And did I mention they hate Castro?"

Hartford felt that his body had returned to normal.
 
"Fantastic."

"We thought you'd like it, major."

"Now where the hell'd you get the uniforms and the guns?"

Skronski laughed.
 
"We simply bought the uniforms from Cuban guards using the money and cigarettes we'd hoarded.
 
Some of the militia are so greedy and crooked they'd sell their mothers if only they knew who they were.
 
All we had to do was set out some feelers and hints and they came sniffing like dogs smelling bitches in heat.
 
As to the guns, we suited up the guys and they went out with other guards and into Santiago itself where about a division of militia is hiding in buildings.
 
Simply put, they stole the AKs, along with a couple of extra clips of ammunition."

"Jesus, Skronski, you have done good."

Skronski grinned happily.
 
The three "Cubans" had disappeared out the tent and into the prison population where they were just three more black guys.

Skronski continued.
 
"There's an armory in town and, since everything is chaotic, we may be able to break in and steal some more guns, although not likely AK47s.
 
There won't be enough to arm everyone, but maybe enough to cause the Cubans some grief when the time comes."

It sounded like thunder but there were no clouds in the sky.
 
Bombs or artillery, they wondered.
 
Bombs, they decided.
 
They were even too far inshore for it to be a naval bombardment.

"Up there," said Williams, pointing to the sky.
 
A flash of light, a reflection as a plane was momentarily visible in the misty clouds.

They spotted another plane, and the pair of them began to swoop down like eagles or hawks dropping on a mouse.
 
They never saw the bombs drop, but they did see a flash of light and then another and then the smoke.
 
A moment later, they felt the explosions.

Cathy had mixed emotions.
 
She wanted to exult that American warplanes were pounding a Cuban target, but she realized that the explosions likely meant that some people had died or been terribly maimed.
 
She thought about praying for them.
 
But they were the people who had killed her friends, destroyed her property and been among the enemy who'd raped her.
 
Perhaps her rapist, this Sergeant Gomez, had just been obliterated by one of the bombs.
 
Would that be a good thing or a bad thing?
 
There were no easy answers in life.

They started to move back to the house when Sergeant Cullen held up a hand.
 
They halted, froze, just like he'd trained them.
 
He turned and said, "Fire drill!"

They moved quickly to the house where they gathered up everything they had.
 
It was like a fire drill they'd practiced repeatedly.
 
Their house was a temporary refuge and now it was time to depart.
 
Run.
 
Nobody asked why, they just ran.
 
The lowest ranking marine among them could have given the command and it would have been obeyed instantly.