Castro's Bomb (37 page)

"And just how the hell do you know what I'm going through?" he snapped.

To his astonishment, tears welled up in her eyes and he immediately regretted what he'd said.
 
"Because of the guilt I felt when I lost my husband, that's why.
 
He was a marine pilot and he was killed in Korea when something caused him to fly a perfectly good plane into a mountain on a bright sunshiny day.
 
I felt so guilty because I'd decided I didn't want to be married anymore to him, and he knew it because I’d written and told him. He was so obsessive and domineering and, yes, sometimes he hit me, which made him a shit, but not one who had to die for it.
 
He told me he couldn't deal with the idea of me leaving him, so what do you think made him fly his plane into a mountain?
 
His monumental ego, that's what.
 
His pride couldn't stand the thought of failure in marriage or flying a plane, or anything else, and now you can't deal with your own situation."

"I'm sorry," Watkins said weakly.

"Don't be.
 
I felt guilty for a long time.
 
The navy sent his remains home a year later in a tee-tiny box that I could have put in my purse.
 
I thought I'd lose my mind, and then I realized I wouldn't and I thought that was worse.
 
Insanity would have been so helpful, such a nice dark place to hide.
 
But no, I had to recover and go out and face the world.
 
And so will you Commander Watkins."

He took a deep breath.
 
She was right.
 
Women were always so damned right.
 
"All right, I'll recover, but only one on condition.
 
You go out to lunch with me."

She nodded and smiled.
 
"But only if you walk.
 
Crutches are okay, but no wheel chair.
 
A cane would be great.
 
Men with canes look so dapper and distinguished, especially if it's a man in uniform with a chest full of medals.
 
Oh yes, I want you to tidy yourself up and lose some weight.
 
Show me you have pride in yourself.
 
You lose twenty pounds and I'll lose ten and we'll see how we like each other's refurbished bodies."

"Agreed," he found himself saying and meaning it. "And tell the guys that if they're dumb enough to want to talk to me, I'm dumb enough to let them.
 
Oh yeah, when we go out, will it be a date?"

"If you want it to be," she said.
 
Lord, it had been a long time.
 
Maybe she would take him home.
 
She was a nurse after all and the sight of an amputated leg wouldn't be shocking.

Watkins grinned.
 
"One last thing, will alcohol be permitted?" She touched him gently on the cheek.
 
"Only if taken internally."

Chapter Fourteen

The rumble of exploding bombs came from only a few miles away.
 
The actual site being hit was obscured by some low hills and the dense foliage in which Ross and the others were hidden, but they could clearly see the smoke billowing and could feel the ground beneath their feet quivering.
 
If this was what it was like so far away from the bombs' impact point, Ross thought, what was it like up close, like right on the target?
 
He decided he didn't want to know.
 
Shelling by Russian-made Cuban tanks during the takeover had been bad enough, but this had to be a hundred times worse to the Cubans on the receiving end.

"We should've done it sooner," Ward said to Cathy.

"You mean a few weeks ago?" she said.

"Naw, we should've done it when Castro came to power and we found he was a commie.
 
That would've saved everybody a lot of sweat and aggravation."

Andrew pretended he really wasn't paying attention.
 
Ward was directing his comments to Cathy because she was a civilian and he could speak more freely to her even though everyone knew his commanding officer was listening in.
 
The games people play, he thought.

"It would've been nice," she said, "but it was never going to happen.
 
Since I'm a teacher, let me give you a history lesson.
 
World War II, which we won overwhelmingly, ended seventeen years ago and the Korean War, which was something less than an overwhelming win, ended less than ten years ago.
 
Remember, Korea cost more than fifty thousand dead Americans and many people feel it accomplished nothing."

"So what's that have to do with Cuba and Castro," Ward asked.

Cathy smiled and continued.
 
"Because the country isn't ready for another bloodbath that doesn't accomplish very much.
 
That and the fact that we are so vulnerable all over the world deterred us from doing anything to topple Castro other than that farce at the Bay of Pigs.
 
We've got responsibilities in Korea and a lot of men staring at the North Koreans, we've got Berlin with a garrison surrounded by the Soviet army, and there is our commitment to protecting the Chinese Nationalists on Formosa, and now we've got our people started moving into Vietnam.
 
Ward, do you know where Vietnam is?"

Ward grinned.
 
"Not really."

"It's just south of China."

Ward brightened.
 
"You mean what used to be French Indo-China?"

"Exactly," she said.

"Yeah, I've heard of that place.
 
It's where the French got the crap kicked out of them by the little yellow locals.
 
What're we doing in that rotten little country?
 
I've heard it's a nasty place no matter what they call it?"

Andrew decided to answer.
 
"The president has decided to send advisors to help the South Vietnamese train their rotten little army to better protect their rotten little country.
 
Vietnam is divided into two parts.
 
The north is already commie and he doesn't want the south to fall as well.
 
It's supposed to be a small mission but we all know how these things grow when the federal government gets involved."

Ward laughed.
 
"Yeah, we sure know that, lieutenant.
 
All we gotta do is look around at the mess we're in right now.
 
We all sucked up to Batista and now Batista's history and the Cubans hate us.
 
Thanks for the info Cathy, lieutenant.
 
Hey, Cathy, how'd you learn so much?
 
I thought you were an English teacher?"

She stuck out her tongue.
 
"I am, smart-aleck, but I also have a minor in history and I love to read. You ought to try it some time."

A secondary explosion shook the ground emphasizing the incongruity of their holding deep discussions during a bombing raid.
 
Dark clouds of smoke billowed from over another hill.
 
Tongues of flame licked within it.
 
Another explosion and more flames billowed up.

"Gas or ammo?" Ward asked.

"Maybe both," Andrew said.
 
"Or possibly we dropped napalm.
 
I'm not too sure it matters just so long as we hit the target."
 
      

"And think what horrible things are happening to the people on the ground." Cathy said and shuddered.
 
Her eyes were fixed on the terrible and angry clouds that seemed to be alive.

Sergeant Cullen trotted over and squatted beside Ross.
 
"Lieutenant, is it my imagination or is the bombing getting closer?"

Andrew listened closely.
 
"I think you're right, gunny.
 
Think we should move?"

"Where?"

"You're right," Andrew said.
 
"We can't run but maybe we can hide.
 
I think we should start making our foxholes a little deeper."

He paused.
 
The bombs were falling closer, but it seemed like the intensity was fading, like a summer storm.
 
What they should really do, he decided, was to contact Washington and get their suggestion as to where the hell would be safest for them.

Miami would be nice.

The Cuban soldier thought he heard something.
 
Curious, he began to poke at the bushes around him.
 
He was not going to call his sergeant.
 
The last time he did that, it had turned out to be some kind of large insect or lizard and his sergeant had cursed him fluently in both Spanish and English.

No, he would solve his own problems.
 
He would not cry for help like a baby, which is what his sergeant had said he was the last time he'd called for help and awakened the fat prick.
 
So what if he wasn't comfortable with the slight rustlings in the dense foliage.
 
He was from the city, not the jungle.
 
Maybe all these insects and little animals making noise was normal.

He jabbed at a bush with the bayonet on the end of his old rifle.
 
Ironically, bush jabbing was better with the old, long Springfield rifle then with a new but shorter-barreled AK47.

He never saw the broad bladed knife emerge from a bush and ram into his throat, severing his spinal cord.
 
His last expression was one of total astonishment.
 
A black arm pulled back and the Cuban soldier dropped forward.
 
His throat was destroyed and his body flopped lifelessly.
 
Blood gushed out and over the black arm.
 
In a minute, the Cuban was dead.

"Damn," said Master Sergeant Wiley Morton in an angry whisper at the mess on his uniform.

He wiped the knife on the grass and cleaned himself off as best he could.
 
He dragged the dead Cuban into the jungle.
 
With a little luck he wouldn't be missed for a while.
 
With more luck, he'd be considered a deserter and quietly disappear while the animals and insects devoured his remains, which would be too bad for the young soldier.
 
He'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Morton quickly searched the dead man's pockets and gear for anything useful.
 
Food would have been nice, but no, the man hadn't been carrying his pack.
 
Damn shame.
 
He and the colonel were getting hungry.
 
Morton sneaked a look at the Cuban camp less than a hundred yards away.
 
A half dozen of the dead man's comrades rested around a small fire.
 
They were cooking something and the smell was intoxicating.

Romanski slithered up to Morton.
 
"Got a plan?"

"We got a little while before they miss their little hombre, colonel, but I don't want to push our luck.
 
Still," he mused, "I surely would like to get some rations."

Two of the soldiers got up and walked away.
 
In a moment, two more followed.
 
"Wonder where they're going?" Romanski asked.

"Don't care, sir.
 
But they did just give us an opportunity."

Morton crawled through the grass, conscious of the fact that it was only a little bit higher than his butt.
 
Sunlight was fading which provided long shadows that he hoped hid him.
 
He froze as a voice yelled.
 
One of the two remaining soldiers swore, yelled a response, and got up.
 
He said something to the last Cuban who grinned.
 
Morton understood enough Spanish to know that the soldier had been told to watch the camp.
 
The Cuban thought he was lucky.

The Cuban was fixated on the fire and saw nothing.
 
He was also totally destroying his night vision with his contempt for his surroundings.
 
Morton decided he must be thinking that they were safe because they were in Cuba.
 
He neither saw nor sensed Master Sergeant Wiley Morton moving up behind him.

Morton's strong left hand clamped over the Cuban's mouth while the knife in his right, the blade that had killed his comrade, sliced across his throat.
 
This time the blood gushed on the ground and not on Morton.

He grabbed the Cubans’ packs and anything else that looked interesting.
 
One of them had left an AK47 and he took that as well, along with a couple of clips of ammunition.
 
He took them to where Romanski was covering him with his rifle.
 

Morton ran back to the dead Cuban.
 
He dragged him away and into the brush with the first dead one.
 
A last trip to the camp site to kick dirt over the blood on the ground and both he and the colonel were satisfied.
 
They dragged the corpses deeper into the jungle.

"They'll miss them immediately," Romanski said, "but I'm guessing it'll take them at least an hour to find the bodies and even then they'd have to be real lucky.
 
By that time we'll be well away.
 
Maybe they'll even think their buddies had deserted and stolen their gear."

"My thoughts exactly, colonel," Morton was rummaging through the packs.
 
There was some food but not as much as they'd hoped. There’d be enough to keep hunger away for a while, though.

Explosions rumbled in the distance.
 
They two men looked at each other.
 
"Methinks it's going to get a little interesting around here," Romanski said while chewing on a piece of stale bread.