Castro's Bomb (25 page)

"I like that, gunny."

"Yeah, and just think how much shit we could cause if we could only contact our friends offshore."

They waited fifteen minutes to make sure the planes didn't return and moved cautiously towards the wreckage of the column.
 
Only a couple of Cubans were still alive and they were in terrible shape, missing limbs and otherwise horribly mangled.
 
They would die soon and there was nothing the two marines could do, so they steeled themselves and checked the debris for anything useful.
 
Another dozen or so were dead.
 
An actual count would have been difficult considering the fact that many of the bodies had been destroyed.
 
Besides, who cared?

"Got me an AK47," Ward said happily, "and a couple of clips of ammo."

Cullen had found another one for himself along with a Russian made pistol.
 
It was a 9mm Markov automatic pistol and a welcome addition to their arsenal, even though it came with only the bullets in the clip.
 

"Belated Merry Christmas, Ward.
 
Too bad the other Cubans were carrying old weapons.
 
Christ, some of these guys had old American Springfields from 1898."

They completed their search by taking some Cuban rations and blankets.
 
"Okay, Ward, time to go back to base and tell Ross what happened."

Chapter Ten

Finding a way to plug into the phone lines had proven to be an unexpectedly difficult problem.
 
The lines generally ran parallel to the roads which meant anyone climbing the poles during the day would be visible, while climbing them at night meant they might meet up with Cuban soldiers who were marching south.

Finally, they found a line that ran from the road and down a long driveway to a large farm compound and which wasn't all that high off the ground.
 
Ward climbed a low pole, clamped on, and scooted down as quickly as he could as they all held their breath, praying that no one would see him.
 
The others quickly buried the line in a shallow trench that ran about a hundred yards into some covering bushes.
 
Cullen had once again gone back onto the base and cannibalized some telephone wires that were lying all over Guantanamo.
 

"I sincerely hope this is the last time any one of us has to go into that place," Cullen said of their forays into Gitmo.
 
"It's just too damn dangerous."

Andrew Ross couldn't argue.
 
But they needed the wire and that made the risk necessary.

It had been agreed that Cathy would be the one to make the phone call on the logical assumption that she, as a woman, wouldn't be taken for a soldier by anyone who happened to be listening in.
 
They had no idea to what extent the Cubans monitored the phone calls of ordinary people.
 
She only hoped her Spanish was adequate enough and that she wouldn't be connected to Finland by a confused operator.
 
They all wondered if phone connections to the U.S. still existed.
 
It was time to find out.
 
If this didn't work they were going to call the Canadian Embassy in Havana and ask them to relay a message to the fictitious “mother house” of the poor confused Canadian missionaries.
 
Cathy took a deep breath and, in halting Spanish, contacted the operator.

A few minutes later and hundreds of miles to the north, Charley Kraeger was jolted out of his reveries by the sound of the phone ringing.
 
His thoughts had largely revolved around Elena and what she might look like without any clothes.

"Hello," he said, and then, realizing it was on the special line, quickly added in a cheerful voice, "Canadian Evangelical Missions."

A woman with a heavy Spanish accent inquired if he would accept a collect call from a Sister Catherine from the Canadian Evangelical Missions in Cuba.

Charley thought quickly.
 
Who the hell was Sister Catherine?
 
Was it another jokester?
 
He'd had a couple of them since the line had been set up and wanted to strangle them all.
 
But the operator sounded like she was Cuban.

He didn't have a choice.
 
"I will accept the call."
   

What the hell, he thought.
 
It was the government's money.
 
As he waited the moment it took for the call to be connected, he scanned the short list of missing civilians for anyone named Catherine.
 
He grinned as he found a young teacher named Catherine Malone.

"Hello?"
 
It was a young woman's hesitant voice.
 
The line was surprisingly clear considering they were in contact with an enemy country.
 
"This is Sister Catherine.
 
To whom am I speaking?"

"This is the Reverend Malone," he said, in a sudden burst of genius using her last name to indicate he knew who she was.

He heard her sob and then laugh on the phone and immediately decided he liked her.
 
"Reverend Malone, it is so good to hear your voice after all that has happened."

"Are you safe?"

"For the moment yes.
 
There is no fighting near us, although that could change at any moment if the capitalist American aggressors should attack.
 
We would like your help in either getting us out or getting us to safety."

"How many are you?" Charley asked.

"Along with the Reverend Ross and Reverend Cullen, there are five others," and she rattled off their names.
 
Kraeger and one of his assistants quickly checked them off a list of the missing and exulted at the find.

"Are there any other members of our flock in the area?" Kraeger inquired.

"None that I know of, your eminence."
 

Your eminence?
 
He nearly choked to keep from laughing.
 
He wanted to hug her. "How can we reach you?"

"Reverend, the telephone is very uncertain under the circumstances," she said and added a couple of addresses where mail could be dropped off.
 
The addresses were coordinates on a map for a large field nearby.

"Sister," Charley said soothingly, "we will make every effort to contact you, perhaps even drop in on you.
 
Be comforted.
 
No one has forgotten you.
 
It may take a couple of days, even nights, but be assured that you are uppermost in our thoughts and prayers."

"Thank you, Reverend," Cathy said and hung up.
 
The others were gathered around and staring at her.
 
Andrew had managed to hear the conversation and was breathing heavily in relief.
 
He gave a thumbs-up to the others who all grinned foolishly.

Cathy was crying.
 
She - they - no longer felt so alone and lost.
 
She felt her abdomen cramp.
 
She felt it again and started to laugh.
 
Her period was starting.
 
How hilarious.
 
She'd hated having her period since she'd had her first at age thirteen, and now she was thrilled because it meant she wasn't pregnant by that pig of a Cuban soldier.
 
She wasn't pregnant and they'd contacted the United States.
 
She started to laugh and cry at the same time.
 
Life was good and going to get better.
 
She hoped.

General Juan Ortega munched on a piece of fruit and looked across the table at Colonel, now General, Humberto Cordero, commandant of the prison camp housing the American POWs.
 
"Humberto, if I didn't need you and if you weren't related to my wife I would have you executed, just like I almost did to that maniacal pilot who flew me to Havana and back."
 
      

 
Cordero laughed.
 
"If you did that, my general, you would have no one to trust and no one to make you look good by displaying my own inadequacies."

Ortega sighed.
 
"True enough."

"And if I was so bad, then why would you have promoted me and given me control of all Santiago?"

"I promoted you because you are an honest man in your own way and, despite the fact that you have planned the prison so insanely that the inmates now run it.
 
You have done a reasonably good job considering the human waste matter I gave you as guards."

Cordero smiled.
 
"And now you have blessed me with a militia division of eight thousand untrained and poorly armed men with which I am to defend Santiago from the American hordes.
 
How can I possibly thank you, dear cousin?"

"By delaying them for at least a couple of minutes when they arrive, my equally dear cousin.
 
No, I have no illusions.
 
The Americans can sweep in and retake Guantanamo if they are willing to pay the price.
 
Their planes fly overhead unopposed and attack anything they think is military.
 
If it weren't for the fact that our forces have been disbursed so widely, our losses would already be unacceptable.
 
You have done well by scattering your division throughout the civilian areas of Santiago."

Cordero shrugged.
 
"Which is against the Geneva Convention, but who cares?
 
I didn't sign the damn thing."

"Nor did I and neither did Comrade Fidel, although I have been told to try and adhere to its terms as much as possible.
 
Tell me, what are your thoughts on the American prisoners in your control?"

"They are quiet," Cordero said, "which is worrying.
 
Their senior officer, Major Hartford, is very smart and very clever.
 
I think they are playing a waiting game because they know that escape is virtually impossible.
 
Even if they were to breach the wires, where would they go?
 
This is an island and a host of gringos would stick out like a nun in a whorehouse."

"I am well aware that Cuba is an island," Ortega said.
 
"But are they getting their hands on weapons?
 
Are they in radio contact with the United States?
 
What?"

Cordero sighed.
 
"A few of the uniformed rabble now under my command have managed to lose some weapons and have been severely punished, but I have no idea if they were lost, stolen by Americans for use against us, or stolen by thieves wanting to make some money.
 
As to the yanquis having a radio in camp, we have not picked up any transmissions coming from the camp.
 
We assume they have transistor radio receivers and are following news broadcasts and may well be receiving coded messages."

"Of course."

"And even if we do detect a broadcast, what should we do?
 
I'm certain that any short-wave radio will be small and easy to hide on almost an instant's notice.
 
Just like transistor radios, we would never find them."

"Have you any spies in their camp?" Ortega asked and immediately realized how foolish the question was.
 
American marines and sailors were running the camp under their own officers.
 
They knew each other, which meant spies were out of the question, and the Americans hadn't been in prison long enough to seduce any of them as traitors.
 

"Forget I asked."
 
Ortega sighed.
 
"Continue to do the best you can.
 
Now, what about those men you found?"

Cordero felt good about this.
 
His patrols had found two seriously wounded sailors hiding just outside the base and had also located a number of bodies in the rubble, largely from the stench.

"The two sailors are recovering and will be sent to Havana so the Swiss can send them to Miami.
 
We have notified the Swiss of the identities of the bodies and they will forward the information to the Americans.
 
We have also located places where the Americans may have buried their dead.
 
We are in no hurry to disinter them, although I will if you so desire it."

Ortega nodded.
 
"I do, but send some prisoners from the camp to do it.
 
They will treat their own dead with more respect.
 
Such considerations will play well with other Latin nations and at the United Nations.
 
Now, what have you heard about those Canadian missionaries?
 
Fidel is concerned that they haven't been located, despite the fact that they managed to telephone their office in Toronto."

Cordero looked at him in disbelief.
 
"Beloved cousin and general, do you and Comrade Fidel truly believe that they are missionaries?
 
Or that they phoned Toronto?
 
I got a report on the names used and compared them with the American roster and they are all on it.
 
Missionaries my ass, my dear cousin, they are Americans marines calling for help, and the woman who made the call is a civilian employee who was among the missing."

Ortega flushed angrily.
 
How could he and his superiors in Havana have been so stupid?
 
Because they were busy gloating over their success and preparing for the American response, that's how.
 

"You will try to find them, won't you?" Ortega said sweetly.

"Of course.
 
But not to the extent that it detracts from my main goals, which are the control of the prisoners and the defense of Santiago.
 
A half a dozen lost and lonely marines are not a threat to Cuba.
 
By the way, Comrade Fidel's latest speech alluded to secret weapons that will drive away the Americans.
 
What can you say about that?"