CURSE THE MOON

by Lee Jackson

Atcho mulled the options. He did not trust Clary, but he agreed with Juan’s assessment. Juan looked at him seriously. “Atcho, you know you tend to be impulsive.”

  Atcho jerked as if stung. Then, quietly, he acquiesced. “You’re right, my friend. We’ll follow your plan. Let Clary know.” Juan left the room.

  Lying back in bed, Atcho covered his face with his hands. “Where are you, my little sweetheart?”

  PART II

  4

  Atcho settled into the back of the old bread truck bumping its way over a narrow country road in the central province of Matanzas. He felt desolate. More than two months had passed since the firefight, and there had been no word of Isabel. He and Juan had paid a surreptitious visit to the plaza, but found nothing to suggest such an event took place.

  Through the CIA, Atcho received confirmation of Lieutenant Clary’s story from Major Richards. “He might be overzealous in carrying out his duties,” the note read. “But I assure you he is harmless.” Atcho remained dubious.

  Now, he and Juan were on their way to a meeting of underground leaders in a country house outside Jaguey Grande, a village near the southern coast. They were to help coordinate resistance groups supporting the coming U.S. invasion of Cuba, led by Miami-based exiles. Castro already expected the assault. And the CIA had airdropped armaments that had been stockpiled by the resistance, although coordination was poor, and tons were lost in dense swamp.

  Atcho had not wanted to attend the meeting, but Juan prodded him. “No one else on the island has military education and training like yours,” he had said. “We need you.”

  Juan was right. Atcho’s education at West Point was unequaled in Cuba, and so was his Ranger training. He glanced at Juan’s deeply tanned face, lined from strain. He tried to think of the meeting, but his mind traced back to Isabel’s plight. All other matters paled to insignificance.

  Juan read his concern. “Others will be at the meeting who might help find Isabel,” he said reassuringly. He closed his eyes and slept while the van continued its bumpy ride. Atcho regarded his tanned, leathery face affectionately. He was about twenty years older than Atcho. When Atcho was a boy, he had revered Juan as the only man whose advice his father took without question. After the fire, he had become Atcho’s closest friend. “I owe you my life twice now,” he muttered softly. Juan did not stir. Atcho drifted off to sleep, where memories became nightmares.

  Smoke billowed, ceilings collapsed, and timbers fell as flames leaped higher, greedily consuming the majestic structure that had been Atcho’s family mansion. A fiery serpent streaked across the carpeted floor toward his parents’ lifeless bodies, and he gagged at the smell of their burning flesh.

  He tugged desperately against the large cabinet pinning his right leg to the floor. The deadly smoke that had overcome his parents now engulfed him. As flames reached for him, he cried out for Isabel.

  Fire streaked closer, lashing within inches of his imprisoned leg. The tile floor under him radiated infernal heat. As smoke inhalation overcame him, only time stood between him and excruciating death.

  A dark figure lumbered over him. Strong hands wrestled with the heavy cabinet until at last his leg was free. Then the dark figure seized Atcho under his arms and dragged him through a long hallway, past the kitchen. He felt himself hefted onto broad shoulders and carried down a flight of stairs into the cellar. A door in one corner stood ajar. The great lock that had secured it lay in its hasp on the floor. Panting with exertion, the dark figure struggled through the door and downward through an earthen tunnel until gradually the air became cooler. Atcho felt himself lowered to the ground. The light of a lantern shone down on him. A steadying hand settled on his shoulder and a thermos of cold water pressed against his parched lips. He drank deeply.

  “You’re safe for the moment, Atcho.” The light shifted, and Atcho looked into the strong face of the plantation manager, Juan Ortiz.

  “How is Isabel?” Atcho gasped. “And my sister?”

  “They’re safe,” Juan replied. “They were at Raissa’s house when the fire started.”

  “My parents?” Atcho already knew the answer. He had tried to get to them, but the heavy cabinet had crashed down on him, and when the smoke overcame them, they fell into flames.

  In the weeks that followed, Atcho struggled with fresh grief. He recovered from the effects of smoke inhalation, and although his leg was sore, there were no broken bones. Juan believed that the fire had been started by peasants caught up with enthusiasm for Castro’s plan to redistribute private lands.

  During Atcho’s convalescence, Juan convinced him to maintain the fiction of his death and talked about the growing resistance to Castro, of which Juan was a member. “Small organizations are forming all over the country,” Juan said. “We’ve started one here, but we’re leaderless. You could help.”

  Atcho resisted. “I just want to get Isabel, and maybe Raissa and her husband, and go to the U.S.,” he said. “You could come too.”

  Juan reacted angrily. “Cuba has given so much to you. You owe it to your country and your people to fight for freedom! Castro isn’t the first dictator here.” He paused, and then continued more fervently. “Do you think your father would shirk from defending his country?” Atcho felt stung. “Besides,” Juan went on, “If you try to leave, you’ll either be forced into a commission in Castro’s army, or go to prison. Face it, Atcho; in this country, you are a valuable commodity.”

  After more heated discussion, Atcho acquiesced. “Good,” Juan said. “And we need to keep your identity secret. People think you’re dead. Let them think it. You can operate more freely. Your daughter and sister would be better protected. They won’t even have to move. We’ll use that nickname your father called you, the one you used at West Point.”

  “You mean Atcho?”

  “Sí. Only a few people have heard it here in Cuba. It’s a perfect code name. How did he come by the name, anyway?”

  Atcho thought a moment. “When he went into the U.S. Army during WW II, a lot of his officer friends had trouble pronouncing Arturo, his first name – so they shortened it to Atcho.”

  “Well, it works.”

  At dawn, the little bread truck groaned over a rise, veered to the right, and halted. The two men sat up stiffly. Atcho turned the door handle, swung the gate open, and stepped into the morning. His spirits buoyed with the sight that greeted him.

  The vista dropped gently across lush, green fields into wide, thick marshland. Atcho moved away from the van to better observe his surroundings. The area was ringed on three sides with thick stands of wild pinones, a rapidly growing tree often used for fences. Vegetation was sparser to the west, breaking into another field encircled by more trees. A cacophony of songbirds, screeching parrots, and loud crickets filled the air. Through the mist, a lone dog sounded his morning warning, and was answered by other dogs nearby. The land sparkled with dew, and a breeze carried the rich scent of wildflowers mixed with dank smell of swamp.

  The nearest stand of trees continued into thicker growth. A guide waited for them; the sound of the van driving away nearly drowned his quiet greeting. Without ceremony or delay, he led them down a path that trailed through dense brush. A few minutes later, they arrived at a large bungalow in the center of a clearing.

  Inside, a group of around twenty men clustered about the single room. Some, known to Atcho and Juan, greeted them. At one end of the room, several guerrillas grouped respectfully around a burly man in swamp fatigues. The man answered in fluent Spanish with a distinctly American accent. “He’s the CIA man honchoing this meeting,” Juan whispered.

  After several minutes, “Burly” called the meeting to order and opened his remarks with normal pleasantries. He assured the counter-revolutionaries of U.S. government support and recalled the close histories of their two countries. “We helped achieve your independence from Spain. What happens to you directly affects us.”

  Atcho’s skepticism grew. The atmosphere seemed almost festive. But aft
er reminding himself that Burly’s life was at risk just for being on the island, he listened attentively.

  For the next two hours, Burly outlined the general concept, which called for a force of Cuban exiles to execute amphibious landings at locations still to be announced. They would be supported by U.S. naval gunfire and air forces. After a beachhead had been established, a government in exile would be transported to shore, declare itself to the citizens of Cuba, and call for popular support to depose Castro. Then, the new government would request military assistance from the United States, which would deploy Marines to reinforce the invasion. From that point, it would be a cakewalk to Havana.

  By the time Burly reached this juncture, the gathering had taken on a carnival air, with shouts of “Cuba Libre!” punctuating his proclamations. Atcho looked around with growing amazement, particularly on seeing Juan swept up in the atmosphere.

  “Wait!” Burly shouted over the growing buzz of voices. “Let’s not get carried away! There is still a lot of work to do. We can’t succeed without coordinated effort.”

  He outlined assignments for setting up clandestine radio transmitters, seizing existing communications facilities, and clearing brush from potential landing sites. “Many more tons of weapons and ammunition will be air-delivered,” he said, “and teams are needed to guide pilots into drop zones using ground signals.” Others were required to retrieve, transport, and distribute equipment. Medical squads would have to organize, train, and assemble to care for casualties in the field. “And everyone,” Burly stressed, “should help mobilize the population to join the battle! If we fight hard, we’ll win this thing, and Cuba will again be a free country!”

  Inside the bungalow, the mood reached fever pitch. Men of all ages shouted, arms piercing the air in wild anticipation of heroic deeds soon to be accomplished. “Before we close,” Burly beamed, “are there any questions?”

  Atcho looked around. A few others looked concerned, but they seemed unsure or too nervous to ask. Most already celebrated victory.

  Atcho stood. “I have a few questions.” The challenge in his voice surprised even himself. Juan looked up sharply. A hush settled over the room.

  Startled, Burly turned to regard the person behind the voice. He saw a tall young man with broad shoulders, and rippling muscles barely disguised under loose clothing. His face and bearing were proud, eyes serious and street-smart.

  “What would you like to know?” Burly composed himself.

  “Where and when will the invasion take place?” Atcho asked.

  Burly coughed nervously. “For security reasons, we can’t yet divulge specifics.”

  “Then try this,” Atcho pursued, his tone rising. “When will the next weapons drops take place? Where? What are the signals, and how will you make sure they won’t be lost in the swamp one more time?”

  Burly coughed again. “That information is only for those who need to know. I’m sure you understand?” Several in the room voiced nervous agreement.

  Juan tugged at Atcho’s sleeve. “What are you doing, Atcho? These people are friends! They want to help!”

  Ignoring Juan, Atcho pulled away. “Let’s see. So the people who will do the fighting don’t have a need to know?” He let the question hang. “Bueno!” he continued. “Maybe you can make a valid argument. Let’s try another angle. Who makes up this government in exile?”

  Burly stared at him blankly. “You want to know that?” he asked in amazement. “I don’t know that I could tell you, even if I knew!” He paced the room in deep thought. He had not expected an interrogation such as this. Then he relaxed, and a smile returned to his face. “Young man,” he began paternally, “we’re here to help. But surely you understand that we have to be conscious of security at all times.”

  “You’re here,” Atcho cut in, “because America fears that Khrushchev will establish a military base right here in your own back yard.” Atcho warmed to his argument. “As for security, where is it around here?”

  Men exchanged worried glances and whispered comments. Atcho continued. “When I arrived, I wasn’t challenged. I saw no more than four guards, armed with light weapons, and no one checked my identification. If we are raided while plotting strategy, what is the escape plan?”

  Burly peered at him. “Young man, what is your name?”

  “I am Tomas.”

  Burly peered closely at him. “I have heard of you, Señor Tomas. You must believe in our sincere effort to help your country.”

  “I know you’re at risk here, but I don’t fool myself about U.S. motives.”

  Burly frowned. “What else bothers you?”

  Atcho studied Burly for a moment. He was tall, nearing forty, with cropped steel gray hair wrapped around a balding head. “Mr … uh, Burly. Do you mind if I call you Burly?” He smiled. “It fits. You won’t tell me your real name anyway.” Burly glared at him.

  There was no sound in the room. Then Burly relaxed, laughing. “All right, Tomas, but I’m going to stop calling you ‘Señor.’ A snot-nosed kid like you doesn’t deserve respect.” Tension broke. Men breathed easier and even laughed for a moment, but then the room fell silent again.

  “Look, Burly. The way I see things, your government asks us to risk our lives supporting an invasion by people we don’t know, for leaders we didn’t choose. Furthermore, we are to do this crazy thing at undesignated places, on a schedule that hasn’t been established. We’ll accomplish this with weapons still to be delivered by unknown procedures at sites not yet chosen.” Noting Burly’s respectful attention and thoughtful expression, he paused for breath. “And I have other major concerns.”

  “Let me address those first,” Burly interrupted. “The answers might not be satisfactory, but your points are valid. First, your Cuban exiles of all ages and classes make up the invasion force. They are mostly in Miami, and live for the day to come back home to Cuba. I can’t give evidence. Time is too short.” He strode across the room, rubbing his chin. “I won’t deny, the U.S. sometimes has selfish motives, but credit some humanitarian feeling to those of us who risk our lives by coming here.” A warm chorus of agreement supported him. “As for the government in exile, representatives were elected in Miami by the exiles themselves.” He raised his eyebrows. “But until my government delivered an ultimatum to choose leaders by a given deadline or lose U.S. support, no representatives were chosen.”

  A few men groaned. “You’ve convinced me,” one called. “Such absurdity sounds like a Cuban government.” Laughter rippled through the room.

  Burly went on. “As for operations, training, and logistics, your questions are good, but without good answers. We’ll coordinate as closely as we can. But to be effective,” he paused, and enunciated deliberately, “you must take initiative here. And let me say one more thing to allay fears. We have successfully done this in Guatemala.”

  As soon as he made the statement, Burly’s expression showed he wished he could take it back. Then, bracing himself, he continued. “The exile army is very well-trained. They include soldiers who defected from Cuba’s national army, and are led and staffed by Cuban officers. They call themselves the 2506 Brigade. I can’t tell you where they are being trained. But, if you walked through the swamps in the country I just mentioned, you might see strange things happening.” Laughter rippled again. “Now, Tomas, you have other concerns.”

  “Sí. And thank you for being candid.” Atcho suddenly felt a growing respect for the CIA man. He picked his words carefully. “I appreciate that the overthrow of a government was recently accomplished by your organization. But, several factors are different.

  “In this case, an amphibious landing is required. Also, you rely on an uprising by the Cuban people. What will cause that uprising?” He paused. “I lost everything to this regime. I hate Castro and all he stands for. Given the opportunity, I would kill him with my bare hands.” He lowered his voice. “But I don’t see strong opposition from the population. People who had no land now have what Castro took from ot
hers and let them live on. No one feels the U.S. trade embargo yet, so goods are still plentiful. At this moment, things are better for many in Cuba. And when the embargo is in full effect, they won’t blame Castro. They’ll blame the U.S., and us!”

  An outcry erupted. Burly contemplated awhile, and when he spoke again his voice was grave. “You might be right about Cuba’s population,” he said, “and if that’s the case, we’ll have made one hell of a miscalculation.” He paused. “As for the amphibious landing, you know that your guys will be trained and supported by the most successful, experienced landing force in history.” He noted approving reactions. “You had another question?”

  “Just one.” Atcho weighed his words. “This situation developed under President Eisenhower. Generally, he was believed to support the effort, but I have doubts about his enthusiasm. For two months now, Kennedy has been the president. What assurance do we have that he supports this operation?”

  “My presence here,” Burly answered.

  Just then, another voice cut in. “I’d like to answer that.” A distinguished, elderly gentleman in a business suit stood on the opposite side of the room. “My name is Enrique. I was in Key Biscayne in Florida last October.” All heads turned in his direction. “The occasion was a fundraiser held at a friend’s house for Kennedy’s election campaign.” The old man reached for the back of a chair. “Mr. Kennedy himself was in attendance.”

  All ears strained to hear. “This fundraiser was mainly sponsored by wealthy Cubans, so naturally, we were interested in Mr. Kennedy’s position regarding Cuba. We asked him the same question about supporting the resistance. Mr. Kennedy replied that he had lost a brother in World War II. He asked how he could do anything else but lend assistance to those struggling for liberty.” The old man’s voice shook. “He said that if we are willing to pay the same price, that is, risk our lives, then he would move heaven and earth to help us.”

  “Enrique,” a man called from a far corner. “Do you think Mr. Kennedy is a man of his word, or just a clever politician? Can we trust him?”