Castro's Bomb (30 page)

"Just curious, but how would that color any future relations between your country and Castro's Cuba?
 
Hypothetically speaking, of course."

Golikov smiled grimly.
 
"Any nuclear military actions by Cuba, or even a threat of such actions, would require a thorough reassessment of our position vis a vis any relations with a leader we cannot trust and who may be mad."

Kraeger grinned inwardly.
 
The Soviets were thoroughly pissed off.
 
He wondered how this might be used to America's advantage.

Chapter Twelve

Lt. Colonel Ted Romanski and Master Sergeant Wiley Morton threw themselves on the ground.
 
The small plane had zoomed past them only a few feet above the trees and their heads.
 
Coming at them in the dark had compounded their shock.
 
Flying low and fast had the plane long gone before they could begin to react.

"You okay, colonel?" Morton said.
 
He picked himself up and brushed off dirt and twigs.

"I am, master sergeant, although I am now five years older and a lot grayer than I was a few moments ago.
 
At least I don't have to change my underwear."

Morton chuckled.
 
"That was close for me, too, sir.
 
How's your leg holding up?"

Romanski had begun walking while using a tree limb as a crutch.
 
"So far, so good.
 
Now, did you happen to see whose plane that was, or anything else that might be useful?
 
Damn, that was a surprise."

"I couldn't pick out any markings.
 
There might not have been any, but I think it was likely one of ours."

"Why so?
 
It could have been Cuban.
 
It would make sense to use small planes to ferry around important people, messages, and other things wouldn't it?
 
A small plane flying low would be pretty safe from our planes.
 
Our hotshot fighter pilots think it's beneath their dignity to hit a little target like that.
 
Hell, they wouldn't even get a little red star to put on their plane to show they made a kill."

"True enough, colonel, but I still think it was one of ours.
 
It was headed north like it had just done something, and north is the direction of Florida and our ships.
 
If it was flying east-west I'd say it was Cuban, but not north-south."

"Good thinking, master sergeant, I agree completely.
 
I think they were either dropping off men or supplies or both.
 
Maybe there's a pro-American Cuban underground nearby, or maybe they're sending in men behind enemy lines like they used to do in France in World War II.
 
I'm thinking Special Forces, of course.
 
I've even reconciled myself to their wearing those green berets that Kennedy recently authorized.
 
Regardless it's a good sign and I think we should follow the approximate line of flight for that little plane and see where it leads us.
 
Not exactly like driving one of those new interstate highways, but it'll do for the time being."

Maybe, just maybe, they both thought, it will lead us to a path out of this mess.

Secretary of State Dean Rusk knew he was in trouble the moment he realized that he was almost alone in the Oval Office.
 
Other than the president, the only other person present was Marine Commandant, General Shoup, who looked livid with anger.
 
To his own dismay, Rusk thought he understood why both the president and the general were so upset.

"Who the hell blabbed?" Shoup asked.

Rusk sighed.
 
"One of my people thought he was doing me a favor and putting out a fire.
 
The Canadian government had made several inquiries regarding the safety of the so-called Canadian missionaries, and a group called something like the Council for Canadian Missionaries issued a press release saying that they'd never heard of any of their people working in Guantanamo Province.
 
Canadian papers started asking pointed questions and someone in my office told his counterpart at the Canadian Embassy that they were marines who'd managed to escape capture, and not missionaries.
 
He even confirmed the names of Ross and Malone and gave the Canadians the others."

"Let me guess," Shoup snarled.
 
"The asshole who works for you made them cross their heart and hope to die and promise not to tell."

Rusk sighed again.
 
"Not quite that bad but close enough.
 
After promising to keep the confidence, the man at the Canadian embassy fed the information to his leaders at Ottawa, and the Canadian government then told the Canadian Missionary organization that it wasn't their people.
 
The real missionaries were outraged at being used and told the Canadian press and then it began to steamroll."

Shoup slammed copies of several newspapers on the table.
 
One of the headlines glared "Woman Guerilla Fights Commies."
 
It showed a photo of Cathy Malone that had likely been taken in high school.
 
One was clearly a graduation photo and in the other she was dressed as a cheerleader.
 
The article also named all of the marines with Cathy, listing home towns and anything else the enterprising reporters could dig up.

"Where'd they get the picture of Malone?" Shoup asked.

"From her family," Rusk said.
 
"They were so happy to find that she's okay, they let a reporter take one of her high school graduation pictures along with the cheerleader one.
 
They're going to be interviewed on television, probably tonight.
 
They think she's a heroine and I guess I can't disagree or blame them for being happy."

"Jesus H. Christ!" Shoup roared.

Kennedy finally spoke.
 
"Mr. Secretary, I have to admit it's a great public relations triumph, but your man's carelessness has put them all in danger.
 
We had hoped that the group, and Lieutenant Ross is obviously its commander and not Cathy Malone, would remain under Castro's radar.
 
They and we did not feel that anyone was actively looking for them and we all rather liked it that way.
 
We wanted them to lay low and do nothing more than feed us information.
 
As a result of that monumental stupidity by someone at State, that situation may change for the worse."

"My associate is extremely sorry," Rusk said.

"Who the hell is he?" Shoup snarled.
      

"His name is Geoffrey Franklyn and he's an assistant deputy under-secretary and been with the State Department for more than thirty years."

Shoup laughed harshly.
 
"Assistant deputy under-secretary?
 
Shit, that sounds like an assistant produce manager at a supermarket."

Kennedy stood and glared at Rusk.
 
"Apologies won't cut it, Mr. Secretary."
 
The formal use of his title instead of his name caused Rusk to wince.
 
"I want that person either fired, retired, or shipped out to some wonderful place like the Balkans where he can't get into trouble, and I want it done yesterday."

Rusk nodded glumly.
 
For not the first time, he, a former Rhodes Scholar and president of the Rockefeller Foundation, wondered just why he'd ever gone back to government.
 
Nor could he recall ever meeting Geoffrey Franklyn.
 
What a hell of a mess that man had created.

Sergeant Carlos Gomez was not happy at getting new orders.
 
He was rather enjoying himself as part of the garrison of Santiago where he could gamble, drink, steal, and whore to his heart's content, and wondered why he had been chosen out of so many for this special assignment.
 
Simple, he'd been part of the original attack on Guantanamo and, with so many of those who'd gone in with him stationed farther away from either Guantanamo or Santiago, the choice of him was perversely logical.

That and the fact that the lieutenant and the captain over him hated his guts and thought he was a lazy, lying criminal were added factors.
 
They would want him gone under any circumstances.
 
Well fuck them, he thought.

Still, he was astonished to be brought to the hidden headquarters of General Ortega, who stared at him balefully, like he was examining an unwelcome insect.
 
"You have a mission, sergeant.
 
El Presidente is very unhappy that a band of marines led by a woman is out there rampaging over the countryside and he wishes it stopped."

Gomez was puzzled.
 
He'd heard nothing about guerillas rampaging anywhere.
 
He wondered how it affected him and thought he knew.
 
"Sir, you wish me to stop them?"

Ortega smiled coldly.
 
"I'm glad to see you're not as stupid as I'd been told."

"Sir?" Gomez practically squeaked.

"You are being given command of two squads, a total of twenty men, and your job is to track down and find these people who are such an embarrassment to Havana.
 
Now, you're probably wondering why I am wasting my time on such a small matter as a woman and a half dozen lost marines and also talking to a total asshole like yourself.
 
Well, it's because Comrade Fidel said it's very important that the woman and the marines be stopped, so I will now assure him that I have one of my best men looking for them.
 
I don't of course, I have you.
 
You are a lying, thieving, and corrupt and everyone wants you out of Santiago.
 
You will take your men north of Guantanamo Bay and take however long you must to find those marines and the woman who leads them and I don't care if it takes the rest of your miserable life.
 
Just send in reports that you are trying real hard."

Gomez understood that lost marines might be wandering the area, but a woman?
 
"What woman?"

Ortega flipped a copy of a newspaper to him.
 
It was a grainy facsimile that had been sent by telephone lines, probably from Mexico.
 
A photo of a young, smiling woman stared up at him.
 
She was vaguely familiar.
 
Then he recalled.
 
He had fucked her, or at least tried to.
 
And she'd been gone when he'd gone back for her the next day, not that he really ever thought she'd stay.
 
Nobody was that stupid.

Ortega had noted Gomez's reaction.
 
"You find her attractive, sergeant?"

"Actually, sir, I think I've, ah, met her before."
 

Gomez smiled.
 
The new assignment was actually beginning to look interesting.
 
With twenty men looking for a handful of probably half-starved marines and a woman there'd be plenty of opportunities for fun and games.
 
More and more he was becoming disenchanted with the stifling rules of the worker's paradise that Cuba was becoming, and was thinking of getting out to, say, Mexico or Florida where he could make money and didn't have to share it with anyone.
 
That would take money to start with, and now he had a chance to acquire some if he had what was an independent command.
 
Who knows, he might just find that woman and get a chance to fuck her again, and this time properly.

Gomez snapped off a salute.
 
"I will do my best, general."
 

"Then go meet the woman again," General Ortega said.
 
He wondered under just what circumstances a pig like Gomez would have met an intelligent and attractive young American woman.
 
He decided he really didn't want to know.

A young Spec 4 opened the door to General Bunting's office and Midge Romanski entered.
 
General Josiah Bunting stood and tried to smile affably, after all, they'd known each other for years.
 
He could see that she was not in the mood for smiling and stopped.

"Midge, it's good to see you, even if it is under trying circumstances.
 
Please, take a seat."

She took a chair and placed it closer to Bunting's desk.
 
She was wearing a full dark skirt and dark jacket with a white blouse.
 
Not quite a mourning outfit but close to it.
 
Bunting caught himself staring at her shapely legs and stopped it.
 
Not now.
 

Midge Romanski glared at him.
 
"General, I will come to the point.
 
I am not pleased to be here and I am not glad to see you, and I don't give a shit about your rank.
 
I just want to know what the hell is going on with my husband."

Bunting sat back.
 
He was neither surprised nor angry.
 
This had happened far too often in the recent past.
 
Dealing with grieving widows and loved ones was the worst part of a military career.
 
Some cried, some pleaded, and some, like Midge, were royally pissed.
 
He'd similar conversations a dozen times since the attack on Gitmo and hated it every time.
 

"Okay, Midge, specifically what is happening that's disturbing you?
 
I thought you understood the circumstances."

Midge blinked back tears.
 
Again, Bunting couldn't help but note again how attractive she was.
 
"General, I was originally told that Ted was missing and presumed dead.
 
When I thought I could handle it, my sons and I began planning a memorial service.
 
Then some very young jackass lieutenant, he was maybe thirteen years old, shows up at my door and says that maybe I want to hold off for a while.
 
What's the story?
 
Is my husband presumed dead or not?"