Castro's Bomb (49 page)

"Slow down," Phillips finally said and Lawson complied.
 
He would have preferred to stop, but going slowly was okay.
 
They'd entered an open field and there was dense foliage about a hundred yards to either side.
 
Another stand of shrubs and trees was to their front.
 
It smelled of ambush.

"Ride on the shoulder," Phillips ordered.
 

Lawson understood.
 
The road might be mined.
 
Maybe the lieutenant wasn’t that crazy after all.
 
Of course the shoulder might be mined, too, but that was a chance that had to be taken.

He first sensed, then saw and heard the missile shriek from the bushes to his right.
 
It slammed into an APC behind them.
 
It burst into flames and men tumbled out of the rear hatch, some of them on fire and screaming.

Stemple quickly opened fire on where he thought the missile had been launched.
 
As he did so, a Cuban machine gun opened up from their front.
 
Bullets kicked up dust around the jeep and a couple pinged off the hood.
 
Lawson frantically turned the jeep, screwing up Stemple's aim, but he didn't give a damn.
 
Machine gun bullets were kicking up everywhere.
 
Phillips was screaming something incoherent.

Lawson felt something slam into his chest.
 
He lost control of the jeep and it rolled on its side on the road.
 
There was an explosion and the jeep jumped into the air, launching Jimmy Lawson upwards.
 
They'd hit a mine.
 
Jimmy landed on the ground beside the ruined jeep.
 
He saw Lieutenant Phillips lying close by, but the lieutenant didn't have any legs and the side of his head had been blown off.

Stemple grabbed Lawson by the collar and, ignoring his screams, dragged him away from the jeep which had begun to burn.
 
Tanks and PCs were firing at something.
 
Another Cuban missile hit a tank and knocked off a tread.
 
Who said the Cubans were cowards?

"We're screwed," Lawson said.
 
Stemple grunted something and tried to stuff a bandage onto Lawson's chest.
 
Lawson felt something warm and sticky running down his chest.
 
He was bleeding.
 
He realized he couldn't feel his legs.
 
He began to cry.

Golikov separated from the lovely translator, Oksana, and greeted Charley.
 
Elena and the Russian woman walked off, chatting amiably, pretending they were friends, and in a small way, perhaps they were.
 

They were several blocks away from the White House and the perpetual ring of noisy, chanting demonstrators.
 
This time the police presence was huge and they seemed to have everything well under control.
 

Golikov eyed Elena, "Very, very pretty.
 
Tell me, are you fucking her?"

Kraeger stiffened, then realized the Russian was jerking his chain, "If I was I wouldn't tell you.
 
Secrets, you know.
 
How about you and the lovely Oksana?"

"Of course I'm fucking her.
 
She's been my mistress for a year now and wants desperately to be promoted to Moscow, and I so like fucking her.
 
She's absolutely wonderful and she will definitely be promoted.
 
I also like when she sucks cock.
 
But so much for pleasure," he sighed.
 
"Let's talk about your invasion of the peaceful and wonderful working people's republic of Cuba."

"Those peaceful people are surprisingly efficient at fighting a war," Charley admitted.

Golikov nodded, his expression solemn.
 
There was no humor in people dying.
 
"Indeed they are.
 
They ambush your paratroops and your armored columns, and then send their women out to harass you.
 
You will ultimately prevail.
 
Of that I have no doubt.
 
But you will pay a very high price for your success.
 
Unfortunately, your army hasn't fought in nearly ten years, which means they have few veterans and even they have forgotten much of what was learned in Korea and in World War II.
 
I sometimes wonder what expensive and bloody lessons the Red Army would have to relearn the next time we go to war."

"Is that what you wanted to talk about?
 
You want us to re-train your troops?"

"No.
 
My government wants to know what your government has decided about Fidel.
 
Are you going to overthrow him or not?
 
Comrade Khrushchev wants desperately to assure the filthy bearded man and his idiot brother that they and their regime are safe.
 
In so doing, it will shore up Khrushchev's position in the Soviet Union.
 
I am certain you do realize that it is far better to have him in the Kremlin than some of the others who are so primitive, reactionary, and bloodthirsty."

Charley did not admit that his own government shared that opinion.
 
Some underestimated Khrushchev, thinking him a table pounding buffoon, as evidenced when he'd pounded his shoe on a desk at the United Nations while an incredulous world watched on. Others, more prescient, recognized Khrushchev as both an ultimate survivor and a man who wanted to avoid war while appearing warlike in defense of communism and the Soviet Union.

Still, guarantees of any kind presented problems. "You know I cannot speak for the United States government."

"Be hypothetical, then, just like the missing nuke, which, I presume, you haven't found."

Charley ignored the jibe and continued.
 
"Let me guess.
 
Fidel is understandably nervous about his future.
 
Therefore, he has surrounded himself in his Havana fortress with at least a quarter of a million regulars and militia, all of whom have sworn to die for him.
 
If we announce that he is safe, then he will see no reason to keep so many good soldiers around him and will, instead, send them to fight the Yankee invaders.
 
Thus, it is very much in our best interest to keep your hairy-faced friend guessing and insecure and with so much of his army well out of the war."

Golikov chuckled.
 
"That was a very good hypothetical answer.
 
I will inform my leaders that it is in everyone's best interest to keep Fidel off balance, at least for a while.
 
If you do not go after him, which will be evident in only a few days, then Nikita will take credit for saving his lying ass.
 
A few days will not matter much.
 
On the other hand, I do not envy your President Kennedy.
 
He cannot topple Castro without losing Comrade Nikita, and he cannot satisfy his constituents without toppling Castro."

Charley smiled wryly.
 
"It's called American politics."

Elena and Oksana walked up to the two men.
 
Elena slipped her arm in Charley's.
 
Charley smiled wickedly.
 
"Elena, my good communist friend thinks you're very pretty and wants to know if I am fucking you."

Elena reached over and patted a clearly flustered Golikov on the cheek while Oksana laughed hugely.
 
"Comrade Golikov, if I told you I would have to kill you."

Major Sam Hartford was elated.
 
The American army had commenced landing on the north coast of Cuba and was there any doubt that the marines would soon follow?
 
It irked him slightly that the army had landed instead of his beloved leathernecks, but what the hell.
 
Their day of liberation was almost at hand and the men of the prison camp were smiling happily and giving their now very nervous guards a hard time.
 
Both Cuban and American radio stations were full of the news.
 
The American stations had the army advancing steadily, while the Cubans said the hated yanquis were on the verge of annihilation.
 
Hartford put his money on what the American stations were broadcasting.

That said, there was the nagging feeling that the prisoners should be doing something to help out the cause.
 
The military's code of conduct said that prisoners should make every effort to escape and, if escape was not possible, then prisoners should not in any way help their captors.
 
This was interpreted as screwing with their captors heads as much as possible.

For all the time they'd been prisoners, it was obvious that the idea of escaping was simply not practical.
 
As they'd discussed a hundred times, where would they go and what would they do when they got there?
 
They were on an island surrounded by both an ocean and millions of people who hated them.
 
The best of a bunch of bad solutions would have escapees making it into the mountains and fighting a guerilla war against the Cuban army.
 
That a large number of gringos who didn't even speak Spanish could hide in the wilds of a hostile country was never seriously considered.
 
The second alternative, stealing boats and trying to make it out to sea was only marginally less foolish.
 
Even though most of the POWs were navy, few knew anything about handling small boats, much less getting their hands on enough of them in the first place.

But now, with the army landing less than a hundred miles away and the marines just offshore, they felt a screaming urge to help out.
 
Messages from the Pentagon, or wherever the signals were coming from, told Hartford that he and his men should sit tight and wait to be liberated.

Bullshit.
 
Marines don't sit tight.
 
Nor, for that matter, do the sailors who made up the bulk of his command.
 
They all wanted to strike back.

But how was the question.
 
At least it was the question until navy lieutenant Bill Skronski brought Hartford the information that Ruiz had provided.
 
Now Hartford had the germ of a thought and had called the others together in his tent.

"If Skronski's man is correct, and there's no doubting him, something important is going on under that abandoned school building and we might just have it in our power to disrupt it, maybe even destroy it.
 
Tuttle, one more time; just how many weapons do we have?"

Tuttle cleared his throat.
 
"Not anywhere near as many as we'd like.
 
Last count was a dozen working AK47s, thirty bolt-action rifles, mainly of the Springfield variety, and a dozen handguns of various sizes, along with two dozen ancient hand grenades that may or may not go off.
 
Each AK has two full clips, enough for maybe a minute's worth of fighting.
 
The other rifles and handguns have maybe a full clip each.
 
The Cubans have cracked down on carelessness with weapons so they are now very hard to get our hands on, and getting ammunition is even more difficult.
 
All of the men have been taking their arts and crafts lessons very seriously, and have made a ton of spears and knives, but I sincerely hope you're not planning on using them."

"Don't worry about it," Hartford said.
 
"I'm thinking of something much smaller, like a raid on that headquarters building when we're certain either someone important is there or something important is going on."

"What's your man think?" Tuttle asked Skronski.

"Ruiz thinks it's Ortega's headquarters, or at least one of them.
 
At the very least, it's a major communications center."

"Which means we should very seriously consider putting it out of action when the time is ripe," Hartford said.
 
"I do not mean doing it now or even anytime real soon.
 
We hit it and the Cubans take it back a little while later, we could wind up in bad shape."

"There is something else," Skronski said and Hartford signaled for him to continue.
 
"My people are picking up rumors that the Cubans want to ship us by rail to Havana."

"I thought the lines had all been bombed?" Tuttle said.

"They have," Skronski replied, "but the sneaky little Cubans have been working every night to repair them."
      

Tuttle nodded.
 
"If that's the case, then those spears and knives might come in handy to stop that from happening.
 
The Red Cross people will have a kitten if armed soldiers try to take on virtually unarmed prisoners."

"The Red Cross will not be a factor," Hartford said.
 
"If the going gets hot, the Red Cross people will get going to where it's safe and I don't blame them.
 
They're not paid to get in the way of fighting."

"So what do you want us to do, major?" Tuttle asked.

Hartford smiled, "Two things.
 
First, let's plan for a raid on that headquarters place.
 
Second, we contact our people in the states and get them to keep hitting the rail lines in and around Santiago.
 
Maybe they can use SEALS and Special Forces to make sure the train lines stay broken.
 
Contacting the Pentagon will mean broadcasting our concerns in the clear, but fuck it.
 
I'd almost guess that the Cubans are too busy with the landings up north and the possibility of marines landing down here to give a damn about our conversations with home."