Castro's Bomb (34 page)

The boy gave a salute that was sloppy even by militia standards and ran out, thankful that he wasn’t going to be punished.
 
Salazar sighed and allowed that he had done a good thing.
 
The boy was useless as a soldier and he would be away from both the inspection and the coming fighting.
 
Everyone knew that the American attack would come from the south, by the former base and the prison camp.
 
Therefore, the north would was being guarded at this time by third and fourth rate troops.
 
Hidalgo would fit in just fine.

As Manuel ran by the barb wire that enclosed the camp, a handful of the prisoners looked at him and smiled to each other. One more rifle and two clips of ammunition weren't much, but they would help.

Chapter Thirteen

The American jet dropped its bomb and pulled out of its dive.
 
At that moment, a streak of fire lifted from the ground and sped towards it.

"No!" screamed Ross, but there was nothing he or the others could do.
 
It was like watching a horror movie.

The pilot either saw or sensed it at the last moment and tried to juke away.
 
Like the predator it was, the missile followed.
 
The surface to air missile closed in on the plane and smashed into the tail.
 
The tail exploded into a hundred pieces while a large portion of the front of the plane continued on in an obscene parody of flight until it realized it had been killed and plummeted to the ground.
 
There was another explosion, this one mercifully masked from their view by trees.
 
A plume of dark greasy smoke lifted into the sky.

They all looked at each other.
 
"What chance the pilot survived?" Ross asked.

"Slim and none," Cullen answered, "but we still have to check it out.
 
I didn't see a chute but it could've been masked by the explosions."

Cullen stood and stared at Ross. "I'll go.
 
More than one person might attract attention and, besides, I'm the best here at working the ground."

Ross reluctantly agreed, but with a sense of relief.
 
He knew he was competent, but the gunnery sergeant was far superior as a tracker and a war fighter.
 
It also made sense for Cullen to go alone, but what if the pilot was still alive?
 
How would Cullen resolve that problem?

Cullen smiled.
 
Ross was easy to read.
 
"He's probably either very dead or very unhurt and hiding, lieutenant.
 
I'll solve any problem."

Cullen left almost immediately and moved as quickly as prudence would allow.
 
He hoped that he would get to the crash site before the Cubans did, but it was not to be.
 
At least a squad of Cuban soldiers and a couple of officers were scouring the debris littered ground around a major piece of wreckage.
 
He got close enough to hear them talking excitedly and happily.
 
After all, hadn't they just destroyed a gringo plane?
 
Viva Cuba!
 
Viva Castro!
 
Viva the Revolution!

After a while it became obvious that the soldiers were scrounging for souvenirs, and that nothing of consequence remained.
 
At least nothing useable remained.
 
But that did not answer the question of what happened to the pilot.

Finally, an officer called the men together and they began to walk casually in the general direction of Guantanamo Bay.
 
Cullen waited patiently until they were well out of site and then made a wide circle of the area.
 
He wouldn't put it past the bastards to either leave someone behind or double back to see who showed up.
 
He wondered if Lieutenant Ross would've thought to do that.
 
Probably not, he decided and then wondered if he was selling the lieutenant short.

After another hour, he moved to the wreckage.
 
Charred debris was everywhere and he had to walk carefully so as not to step on something, especially something that might have been human.

He reached the cockpit.
 
The scent of burning flesh had already told him what he would find and his eyes confirmed it.
 
The pilot had not ejected.
 
What was left of him was still strapped in his seat.
 
Cullen was not a particularly religious man, but he fervently prayed that the pilot had been dead before hitting the ground and before being so hideously burned.

He made a quick decision not to disturb the corpse.
 
Someone would doubtless come back to do further and more intelligent checking on the man’s papers, and he didn't want them wondering what had happened to the dead American.

He shuddered.
 
Missiles that could chase a plane around the sky and kill it?
 
Christ.
 
Was nothing sacred anymore?

Charley Kraeger and Elena Sandano walked hand in hand and smiled like lovers as they walked by the Jefferson Memorial.
 
It wasn't at all difficult to pretend that they were fond of each other because they were.
 
Charley hadn't yet convinced Elena to go to bed with him although he thought she might be weakening.
 
Probably her conservative Catholic and Latino background was restraining her, he ruefully concluded.
 
Still, she did like him and their kissing was getting more and more passionate.
 
He just thought they were too old to play like they were in high school. Hell, when he'd tried to caress one of her lovely and full breasts, she'd told him no and removed his hand.

What the hell.
 
He'd do whatever she said.
 
He was not about to screw up a lovely relationship by acting like a jerk.

After two meetings at the Lincoln Memorial, both Kraeger and Golikov agreed that a change of venue was in order, and Thomas Jefferson's magnificent rotunda it was.
 
When Charley told Golikov he was bringing a date, the Russian laughed and said he would as well.
 

Two couples meeting in a public place would not attract any attention, assuming anybody was looking.
 
Elena accompanied Charley and a surprisingly attractive blond Russian woman named Oksana came with Golikov.
 
Charley wondered if Oksana was a "honeypot" used to seduce potential sources of information, or if she was really a qualified member of the Soviet embassy.

Golikov and Charley separated from the two women who stood aside and pretended to gossip.
 
"I was thinking about the hypothetical situation you presented me with," Golikov said.
 
"And I have decided to think further.
 
For instance, I said that we would move heaven and earth to recover any stolen items and that was and is true.
 
I would think that such efforts would bear fruit rather quickly."

"I'm not surprised."

"I hypothesized that no more than four items would be missing.
 
I can now say that three of them would be quickly and decisively recovered.
 
The fourth would likely need significantly more effort to locate.
 
Sadly, it may well be that the remaining item would prove to be out of our reach.
 
If nothing else, the potential for damage through its misuse would be drastically reduced."

"Glad to hear it," Charley said.
 
"Not a perfect solution, but three out of four is much better than nothing."
 

Charley thought quickly.
 
If the remaining warhead wasn't in the Havana area, it was probably en route to the Guantanamo area, or was already there.
 
Either way, it represented a major problem for the agency and the military.
 
A two kilo bomb was relatively small but would devastate a major unit, like an infantry division, and easily result in several thousand casualties.

"How might this have affected any relationship between Cuba and the Soviet Union, had this actually happened, of course?" Charley asked.Golikov thought for a moment before responding.
 
"I did mention a reassessment, didn't I?
 
Ah well.
 
Any limited military efforts on your part to protect yourselves and your property would not be considered a threat to the world's equilibrium.
 
Berlin, therefore, would not be part of any reaction on our part."

"What about Korea and the Chinese?"

Golikov looked pained.
 
"Why do you annoying American capitalist running dogs persist in thinking that we have any control over our slanty-eyed Asiatic socialistic brethren?
 
When will you realize there is no massive Soviet hegemony?
 
Just do what you have to and don't get us directly involved."

Charley didn't know how to respond.
 
They shook hands and parted.
 
Charley wondered exactly what Golikov meant by ‘decisively’ recovered.
 
An interesting word, he thought.
 
Did it mean that the Reds had used violence?
 
Probably, and the thought made him smile.
 
Fidel's poor amateurs wouldn't stand a chance against the Russians who would have used either KGB goons or elite Spetsnaz or both to make the recovery.

Elena slipped her arm in his.
 
"Everything okay?"

"If you think three out of four is okay."

"Ouch."

"Tell me about the lovely Oksana.
 
KGB?"

"Probably, but isn't everyone at the Soviet Embassy a spy of some sort?"

"True.
 
Of course that's what they feel about our people in Moscow."

"She said she was a translator and her English is outstanding.
 
She rather indignantly insisted that she is not a honeypot.
 
She also said you were cute in a capitalist sort of way.
 
I told her you were taken and she could go to hell."

Major Sam Hartford stifled a smile as General Cordero babbled on. The Cuban was trying to make it seem like he was being helpful by cluing Hartford in on what Cordero thought was a big secret.

Either Cordero was unaware that Hartford was in radio communication with brass in Washington, or knew and decided on this method to let Hartford know that the subject was okay to talk about.
 
Hartford decided that Cordero might just be a little more devious than he thought.
 

"I would like your help, Major Hartford."

"And I will be happy to give it if I can, General Cordero.
 
However, you know full well that I will not do anything that would endanger my men or compromise anything my nation might do to recover Guantanamo."

Cordero sighed.
 
"Do you ever have problems with your Pentagon?
 
Do they ever become fixated on a trivial problem and drive you to distraction until you allocate disproportionate resources to solve it?
 
What is your phrase?
 
Ah yes, like having a burr under your ass."

Hartford laughed.
 
"Are you saying that Fidel is a pain in the ass?"

Cordero managed to look shocked.
 
"As a good communist I would never say that about my beloved leader.
 
However, some of his lieutenants are, shall we say, very zealous and their actions can cause hemorrhoids."

Cordero slid the copy of the newspaper with Cathy Malone's picture on it.
 
Hartford hadn't seen it, but he had heard of it and knew of the existence of Ross, Cullen, and the others.
 
He had been delighted to know that his favorite accountant was not only alive and well but likely raising a little hell with the Cubans.
 
Still waters run deep, he'd concluded.

On seeing the picture, he recalled meeting Cathy Malone at some function or other.
 
Cute kid, he thought, but a guerilla leader?
 
Not a chance.

Hartford took the paper.
 
"I assume I may keep this."

"But of course."
 

"What do you want from me, general?"

Cordero sighed.
 
"I wish Havana off my back.
 
Can you get this young officer, Lieutenant Ross, to surrender?
 
If there is any question of his being in danger, I will even arrange to have him surrender directly to you with the Red Cross and the United Nations and maybe Pope John the Twenty-Third looking on."

"What about the woman who leads them?"

Cordero snorted with laughter.
 
"Oh please, major.
 
The woman's picture is in the paper because she is attractive.
 
We looked her up in the base's personnel files.
 
She's a high school teacher.
 
She is in no danger from us.
 
We will make every reasonable effort to see that she is unharmed.
 
Ross, on the other hand, is a qualified marine office and Cullen is a gunnery sergeant.
 
I am also aware that Ross worked with you, which means you know a good deal about him."

Hartford saw no point in lying, although he saw nothing wrong in exaggerating Ross’s prowess.
 
"I do.
 
He was, is, a very good marine and an even better officer.
 
I can see where he would be a very formidable opponent."

"Which is why I have several hundred men out looking for him," Cordero said, exaggerating ten-fold the force searching for Ross.
 
"And let me be candid, major, we have hurt his little group and he has hurt us.
 
We would like that to stop."