Cienfuegos could see it was a military plane. When it came closer the men knew it was a twin-engine Douglas A-26 Invader, the American manufactured light attack bomber that had been used during World War II and then sold as surplus equipment to several countries, including Cuba. It was a masterpiece of design and destructive power with six fifty-caliber machine guns mounted in its nose.
As the bomber banked east, the rebels could hear the two Pratt & Whitney R-2800 eighteen-cylinder radial air-cooled engines chewing up the sky as the throttles opened up. It seemed to be headed straight for them, and it was closing fast as it went into a shallow dive at around 350 miles per hour.
Cienfuegos ordered his men to take cover as the plane was nearly on top of them. Looking up, he could see that the bomb bay doors were now open, and as it passed, it released its entire payload of four thousand-pound bombs, which found their target, obliterating the ancient stone house.
The craft then executed a hard turn, kicking the tail around with its rudder while banking gently to the left. It circled around for another pass, this time opening up with all six of its machine guns, spitting a quarter ton of lead in and around the wreckage of the destroyed building as white puffs of smoke emitted from the guns.
As Cienfuegos and the two men packed up their gear and prepared to return to the main rebel encampment, they could see Cuban army soldiers—it looked like an entire platoon—pour out of the two trucks with rifles at the ready, no doubt to mop up any survivors.
When Cienfuegos returned to base camp and reported to Fidel, Che, and Raúl what would have occurred if they hadn’t been informed that the meeting was a trap, Fidel’s reaction was, as could have been predicted, hyperbolic.
“That is the end of our dealing with the CIA and the Americans!” he shouted. “This proves the weapons embargo against Batista was a trick. We cut off all communications.”
Salazar arrived at Thompson’s office just after 3:00 p.m. that same day, the first day of spring, wearing a telephone contractor’s uniform and carrying a tool bag, his standard disguise when he met with Thompson on the base. The building was mostly empty. He walked into the office, prepared to receive praise for the successful raid.
“You wanted to see me?” said Salazar, a greasy smile on his face.
“The house was empty. Somebody warned them!”
Salazar appeared mystified, then frightened, as if he had just been pushed into an abyss. He was speechless at first; then his temper flared.
“It wasn’t my fault! It must’ve been one of your people,” he told Thompson. “You have a mole in here.”
“Not possible,” Thompson said. “I didn’t tell anyone other than the information carriers.”
“Really? No one? Are you sure?”
Thompson thought for a moment, a sick feeling overtaking him. Could he have been betrayed by the trusted girl that had been such an obedient servant to him in the bedroom? He couldn’t fathom how he could had made such a mistake. “Just a minute.” Thompson said as he crossed the room to the door. “I’ll be right back.”
He shut the door behind him, leaving Salazar alone in the office, and strode quickly toward Holton’s office. When he arrived, he looked for Alicia but didn’t see her. He asked one of the uniformed clerks if he knew where Alicia was.
“I’m not sure but I think she’s getting something for the Lieutenant from the commissary,” the clerk said. “She should be back in a few minutes.”
Thompson was screwed. If it was rumored that he was fucking the lieutenant’s new assistant, nobody would blame him; finders’ keepers was the rule when it came to the native women. But if it got out that he had shared sensitive information that compromised an operation, it would be an early dishonorable end to his flourishing career. He pushed the possibility out of his mind, determined to find the answer elsewhere. Surely, he told himself, that rat Salazar was responsible for the blown op. He would have to sweat it out of him.
Salazar had become impatient, wandering out of Thompson’s office and down the hall to the head. After relieving himself, he spent a few moments looking in the mirror above the sink, brushing his thinning hair forward over his forehead to cover his early receding hairline. He replaced his green hat and exited, heading back toward Thompson’s office.
On his way down the hall, he noticed a familiar face. One of the secretaries carrying a file passing him in the hallway reminded him of someone. She didn’t see him as she turned quickly into the stairwell leading up to the third floor.
Salazar wracked his memory as to who the girl reminded him of, but given the context of the sighting and the crisp professional attire she was wearing, he just couldn’t place her.
Thompson and Salazar arrived back at the same time. Thompson slammed the door as the two men resumed their heated discussion about the failed raid.
Pilar returned to her desk.
“Thompson from downstairs was looking for you, Alicia,” said the clerk.
“When?” asked Pilar
“Just now. I told him you went to the commissary.”
Pilar, not knowing anything about the timing of the meeting she had told Campos about, had no reason to suspect that anything was wrong. She walked downstairs to see what Chip wanted, but when she arrived at his door, she could hear the shouting coming from the other side. She heard what Thompson was screaming about and realized that it was only a matter of time, a very short time, perhaps minutes, before he found out about her.
She went as quickly as she could back to her desk to grab her bag before she left the building. After reaching the gymnasium, she changed into her running gear as fast as possible. She began to run on Sherman Avenue past the administration building heading toward the Northeast gate. Salazar, who was perched at Thompson’s window listening to Chip’s continuing tirade, watched the girl as she ran past the windows like a gazelle, and suddenly it hit him. He remembered where he had seen her before.
“Pilar!” Salazar shouted. “Holy shit, what’s she doing here? Do you know this girl, Thompson?”
Thompson came to the window just in time to catch the familiar sight of Pilar’s rear end, in running shorts, as she ran toward the gate, where she would as always wave to the friendly guards.
Thompson was obviously shaken at the sight of her, his world unraveling. “That’s Alicia, the girl I was with the other night,” he replied.
“Her name isn’t Alicia, it’s Pilar,” Salazar shot back. “She’s the daughter of a Castro sympathizer from Miami.” Salazar was connecting the dots. “Is there something you’d like to tell me, Thompson?”
The color drained from Chip Thompson’s face. Now he knew. His intelligence career was effectively over.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Pilar ran straight to the apartment in Guantánamo City. She had hoped to live in Cuba until the end of the revolution, using her position working for the base administrator as a perch from which to glean whatever useful information she could to secretly benefit the movement. To her, it seemed her career as a spy had just begun. In reality, she now realized, it was a one-shot deal. Just like Chip Thompson, her espionage career was now over. She was part of the revolution, but it was no longer a secret.
When she said goodbye to her mother the day before at Santiago Harbor, she missed her last chance to leave Cuba before the revolution ended. Win or lose, she had made her choice and she had no regrets. She realized what a blessing it was that her mother was on her way home to be with Pilar’s newly liberated father. It would have been too dangerous for Maria to stay in Cuba now.
Pilar had spoken to Miguel on the telephone, explaining her decision to stay. Although he was compelled to toe the family party line and strongly suggest, as Maria had insisted, that Pilar return home with Maria, Pilar felt certain that he inwardly approved of her commitment to remain in Cuba. Her papa had to be proud to know his daughter was doing her part against Batista, even if he couldn’t say it. “You are an adult now,” he had told her. “I can’t force you to come ho
me, but I miss you terribly and only want you to be happy.”
What was a choice twenty-four hours ago was now a necessity. She packed a few things in her backpack, including her father’s pistol, and left the apartment with great haste, almost certainly for the last time. It wouldn’t be long before Chip Thompson would arrive looking for her. The only way she could ensure protection from him was to join the rebels. Thompson would not stand for her betrayal, and she could not rule out the possibility that he might even turn her over to Salazar’s slave traders to cover his own incompetent tracks.
It was almost five o’clock when she left GTMO and it had taken her two hours to reach the apartment. Her legs still felt strong, but she had only an hour or so more before darkness would become a problem. With only her backpack and still wearing her running shorts, Pilar made her way out the back door of the building and sprinted down an alley that led to a side road. Checking carefully to see that no one followed her, she again ran as fast as she could past the outskirts of town. She headed in the direction of Niceto Pérez the next major stop on the route to Santiago, just beyond which the foothills of the Sierra Maestra would begin to ascend. She ran without resting for about five miles until she reached a back road of the small village and smelled something delicious cooking. The pangs in her stomach reminded her how hungry she was, and she slowed her pace to investigate the source of the odors. On the other side of a creek next to the road, she could see lights and hear pots and pans rattling as sounds of the busy kitchen filtered through thick brush growing along a creek. She crossed the creek, getting her shoes wet in the process, and discovered a foot path that led to what appeared to be a small café, an inviting place to stop for something to eat, she thought.
She quickened her pace, pushing branches aside as she moved toward the lights and sounds, and above all, the smells, coming from the other end of the trail. Finally, she broke through, and was amazed to discover her friend, Alberto, with broth dripping off his chin, sitting at his usual outside table behind Emilio’s, enjoying an offering from the small roadside café his family owned in Niceto Pérez.
He was delighted and relieved to see her. “Pilar! Holy shit, do you know what you’ve done?”
Campos brought Pilar up to date on the day’s events as they ate some Ajiaco Cubano, another of his mother’s specialties, a hearty beef and pork stew with vegetables that had been enjoyed on the island for several hundred years. It was just what Pilar needed to refuel after her long run. Alberto hadn’t heard anything from Cienfuegos since the botched raid, nor had there been any chatter on the US base, but he knew from the gossip around town that something big and embarrassing had happened to the Cuban army near Bartolomé Masó. He was hoping to get confirmation from a courier that very night, but wasn’t surprised that he hadn’t shown up, as patrols had suddenly been stepped up.
Pilar told Alberto that she had certainly been identified by Thompson as the mole who had warned the rebels of the trap, and that she would now only be safe with the rebels in the mountains. He agreed that this was probably the best course of action, but made the case for her sneaking out of Cuba altogether and joining her parents back in Miami.
“They’ve been through enough, my father especially, for being associated with the anti-Batista movement,” she told him. “Even if it would be safe for me to attempt the crossing, I’ve decided to see this through with deeds, not words. I’ve got to go, and fast, before they find and arrest me.”
“Just stop and think for a moment, girl. I know you can run like the wind, but do you know it’s another 45 miles to get past Santiago from here.”
“The bus would be perfect for me Alberto, but it has to be too dangerous.”
“Sit still, I’ll be back in a moment.” He returned quickly pushing a small pale green moped. It was a motorized bike which the French manufacturer Motobécane had been making since 1949. Its 49 cc air-cooled, two stroke engine was capable of reaching a top speed of 40 miles per hour. “I have it filled up with a gallon of gas which can take you from 95–125 miles. Even if running at low speed it’ll do 25 miles per hour and get you to the mountains a lot faster, and with your feet and those gorgeous legs feeling much better.
Pilar blushed at the compliment, but at the same time realized that she had not really developed feelings for Alberto, whose green eyes had her smitten at their first meeting.
“When you are starting from a full stop pedal it like a bicycle up to full speed before you start the engine. That’ll save some gas.”
“Alberto, how will I be able to return this handy scootmobile to you?”
“That’s the best part. You don’t return the Moby. You present it to Major Cienfuegos with my compliments as a contribution to the Cuban Revolution. I’m sure that imaginative rascal will find many ways to put it to good use.’
“This is fantastic! Thank you so much.”
“By the way, when you reach the mountains you may have to push it up some of the trails, but it sure beats having the kind of giant blisters you’d be getting if you run it and then make the climb by foot.”
With a growing sense of confidence and with a full belly, Pilar slept well through the night.
Early the next morning, before the family had awakened, Pilar gathered her things and slipped quietly out the back door of the humble house adjacent to the café. She worried that if she were found there, Alberto and his family would face serious consequences for providing her sanctuary.
She took three bananas, an orange, and a jar filled with water and strapped on her backpack. Dressed in her GTMO running shorts, she pushed the bike through the brush and back onto the farm road she had come in on. It was just before dawn, and she thought that she would now cover the remaining distance to the Sierra Maestra before dark. Even with the Moby cruising at low economy speed it was wonderfully cool as her body was propelled through the clear morning air. She felt euphoric.
Oh, Papa, how I wish you were here riding with me and going off to join the army of the revolution!
Pilar skirted around the City of Santiago. As the terrain began to climb up into the foothills, two men wearing the khaki uniform of the regular Cuban Army stepped out of the bushes and knocked her off the moped which she was easing slowly up a steep slope. They had been waiting just off the road, hidden from view.
As she struggled to her feet the taller, heavier man, wearing the stripes of a corporal, threw her to the ground. It happened so fast she didn’t react.
“What have we here, a two-dollar whore from Caimanera on her way to make a house call on the rebels?” he said.
He drew a US Navy issue Colt .45 from his holster and pointed it at Pilar with his right hand while he unbuckled his gun belt with his left. Then he unbuttoned and dropped his uniform pants revealing that he wore nothing underneath. He did it with such practiced efficiency that Pilar surmised it wouldn’t be the first time he had done this.
He turned to the man of lower rank who had placed his rifle against a tree, and was unbuttoning his own pants, also preparing to take advantage of the situation with the helpless girl.
“Hey, wait your turn!” said the corporal, pointing at the stripes on his sleeve. “We go by rank.”
When he turned around to face his victim, he was surprised to see that Pilar had her father’s revolver pointed directly at him.
“No, me first,” she said. “Drop your weapon.”
The corporal stood frozen, his pants around his ankles. Pilar definitely had him at a disadvantage. He dropped the gun and held up his hands, smiling.
“I was only kidding honey,” he said. “You don’t have to do that. I have money, I’ll pay you for it.”
“No way!” she said.
Perhaps out of nervousness, the other soldier began to giggle at Pilar’s insult.
“You think it’s funny? Let’s see who the bigger man is, go ahead and drop your drawers, too.” She picked up the Corporal’s sidearm with her left hand and pointed it at the other soldier.
“Come on, Romeo,” she said. “I said drop ‘em. Show us what you got.”
The soldier, shaking with fear and rage, complied, dropping his pants and then raising his hands in surrender.
Pilar squinted, “Just as I suspected, a couple of cowards.”
Suddenly, the corporal made a move for his gun, grabbing Pilar’s left hand and elbowing her in the face. A brief struggle ensued.
The corporal became tangled up in his pants, giving Pilar the opportunity to get a shot off with the .38 revolver, right through his boot.
He screamed in agony, “Owww, fucking whore shot me!” Grabbing his foot with both hands, he immediately abandoned the struggle.
Pilar trained the gun on the other soldier, in mid-stride, going for his rifle, pants around his ankles. He raised his hands again in surrender.
Then, from out of the jungle above the road on the upslope, the sound of laughter and applause. Pilar looked up to see four bearded, armed men wearing rebel uniforms scurrying down to the road from their vantage point in the trees. They looked and smelled like they hadn’t bathed in over a month, but they were obviously quite amused by the scene they had witnessed.
“Looks like you got caught you with your pants down,” one of the rebels taunted the young rifleman, laughing.
Two of the rebels grabbed the corporal, still writhing in agony on the ground.
“Don’t be such a baby,” said one of them, holding the injured man down while the other one forcibly removed his boot. “It’s not that bad.”
The boot removed, the exposed foot revealed that Pilar had, in fact, shot his big toe clean off. The rebel holding the boot shook it, and sure enough, what was left of the corporal’s toe fell mangled to the ground, much to the amazed delight of the rebels.
“Shit,” said the man holding the wounded soldier. “I think the war’s over for you, my friend. Look at the bright side, at least you still have your dick.”
The Girl from Guantanamo Page 13