General Juan Ortega lay on his belly in the scrub grass and looked through his German binoculars and down at the hated American base that squatted obscenely on sacred Cuban soil. The sun was unusually hot for December, and he was sweating profusely. He was beginning to feel older than his fifty years. He was a little overweight and out of shape for this type of endeavor and had no one but himself to blame for that situation. Too much good food from his wife, Maria, and too much good drink with his fellow officers, he admitted with only mild regrets. And yes, he could and did have others watching the Americans, but this was something he wanted to do for himself. It was his duty and he took his duty very seriously.
The gringos had stolen the magnificent Guantanamo Bay from Cuba in 1898 under the guise of helping the native Cubans liberate Cuba from the Spanish. The Spanish had been gone now for more than half a century. So why hadn't the Americans returned the bay to Cuba? Instead, they had forced the allegedly independent infant republic they'd created to deed over the bay to the United States as a permanent naval base. Yes, he knew the deed called for Cuba to take over the base at some time in the future, but he didn't believe for a moment that the Americans would ever depart voluntarily. They would have to be expelled forcibly, purged and bloodied.
And that was what he was going to do. Blood would be shed, and people would die and that would be necessary. Regrettable, but necessary, and Cuba would emerge triumphant and proud.
Ortega squinted through the binoculars and could see little or nothing unusual the American presence and that was good. Marines and sailors were going about their business, just like they had every other time he'd spied on them. There was no indication of anything unusual going on, and this meant the Americans suspected nothing.
Better and better.
Ever since Fidel Castro had taken over Cuba in 1959 and broken with the Americans, there had been Cuban military forces around what the Yankees called Gitmo. He hated the term. The proper name was Guantanamo, and it was, or should be, part of the province of Guantanamo on the eastern tip of the long, thin island of Cuba. Gitmo. It was an insult to every Cuban, like calling a dark skinned Cuban a nigger. He almost laughed. So many Cubans, like him, had very dark skins.
But it wouldn't be called Gitmo very much longer. The gradual buildup of men and equipment had gone unnoticed by the arrogant and now complaisant Yanquis.
Ever since the revolution that had ousted the previous regime of the decadent dictator Fulgensio Batista and his corrupt cronies, and the American criminal enterprises, there had been a Cuban military presence around the American base. During the crisis two months ago, the Cuban forces had been built up, but not much. Now it was different. Very different.
Cathy Malone finished her morning run, thankful that the weather wasn't terribly oppressive. It wasn't the heat, people said, it was the humidity. Bull. It was both of them.
She had run her normal five miles and endured the usual stares and occasional whistles from what she thought were really hard up sailors and marines at Gitmo. Although there were several hundred women on the base, most of them were wives, frequently officer's wives, and very much untouchable. They almost never got whistled at, poor things, no matter how cute they were, lest an officer husband or father get angry at insolent enlisted men. The rest were civilian workers like her, many of whom were older and married. She was one of the few who were both civilian and single, as well as reasonably attractive. Thus, those who knew who she was felt free to whistle at her. It was innocent fun and she often waved at them, which drew friendly laughs.
The running relaxed her, cleansed her, and she sweated profusely as she cooled down. It reminded her of her days as a cross-country runner in the small Catholic high school she'd attended in Pennsylvania. She'd been a good runner, but not a great one. No Olympics or nationals for her. Nor was she offered an athletic scholarship, because women didn't get them. The nuns at the school had mixed emotions about women in athletics. Some hated her for participating even though the school offered the sport, while others admired her for having what they cloyingly called spunk.
She'd had to work to help pay for her tuition and it had taken her more than five years to get her liberal arts degree at the University of Pittsburgh. She would become a high school English and history teacher, not solely because it was one of the few professions open to women, but because she genuinely liked teaching. The barriers to women in business were beginning to come down, but only just beginning. It didn't matter. The world of business didn’t interest her. She would teach because that's what she wanted to do.
Some of the men who had recognized her had waved instead of whistled. They knew her as the young teacher lady who'd been brought in to help enlisted men improve their reading skills so they could be promoted. After only a couple of months, she'd developed a reputation for being sincere, helpful, and successful. It made her feel that her one big adventure before settling down with a real job and real students was worth it.
In a perverse way, she liked the whistles. She almost never got whistled at back home in Pennsylvania. She didn't think she was terribly pretty. Attractive, yes, but pretty? Never.
She was about five-four, had short light brown hair, and her figure was slender to the point of being thin and, as her older sister used to joke, everyone wondered when her breasts were going to develop. Cathy was twenty-four. What she had up front was going to be it, she thought ruefully. Her sister had also joked that the real reason behind her going to Gitmo was so she could meet desperate guys who were as horny as Cathy. There were times when she wanted to strangle her sister who, she realized, might have been jealous. Cathy had gone on to college and not gotten knocked up by her high school boyfriend like her sister had, and then gotten married to the jerk at seventeen, and divorced at nineteen.
Regarding Cathy's motives in going to Cuba, her sister was somewhat correct in wanting to meet guys, but the number of dates she'd gone on so far at Gitmo was very small. Nor had they led to anything anymore consequential than some furtive gropings that she'd stopped before they'd gone any further. She had told her parents that she wanted to get over a broken relationship with a guy she'd been dating in college and they'd bought the story. However, Cathy had dumped him, not the other way around, and used that as an excuse for them to approve of her going to Cuba. She just wanted to get away from home and do something just a little exciting, and Cuba had seemed just perfect.
It was going to be a lonely Christmas, she thought sadly, but that was her choice. Well, her saving's account's choice. She'd had to decide whether to go home in the summer or Christmas, and had chosen summer. There would not be enough money for both trips. Guantanamo at Christmas had seemed like such a good idea at the time. Now so many people were taking vacation or leave that the base seemed deserted. She would have to work to find things to fill her time. She would go to church on Christmas Eve and maybe someone would invite her for Christmas Eve dinner. Good idea. She would go to church again on Christmas day and try to wangle a second meal. After all was said and done, the holidays were going to be boring. Fattening perhaps, but boring.
Not that she wished a rerun of the excitement of the Cuban Missile Crisis during which she and other civilians had been hurriedly evacuated to Virginia. Days spent stuffed in a miserable transport ship with barely adequate food and totally inadequate bathing and toilet facilities were not her idea of a Caribbean cruise. They'd all been relieved to get off the ship in Virginia. Not only were they safe in the good old U. S. of A., but they could eat and shower, along with taking a crap with some element of privacy.
Only in the last few weeks had the civilians been permitted to return. Being prudent, Cathy now kept an overnight bag filled with a change of clothing, underwear, some dry cereal, sanitary napkins and some other things she might need if another sudden evacuation should occur.
She went into the three bedroom apartment she shared with two other women, stripped off her sweaty shirt and shorts, kicked off her shoes and stepped into
the shower. She thought about who she might get to invite her over for dinner. Never, never pass up a free meal.
CIA Director John McCone knew a Class-A dilemma when he saw one. His agency's reputation had almost recovered from the Bay of Pigs debacle in which he'd virtually guaranteed a decisive and swift victory over Castro. He'd announced that his Agency-sponsored invaders would meet light resistance from the poorly trained Cuban military on the invasion beaches and there would be a quick and massive popular uprising against Fidel. No problem, he and the CIA had said, and, soon after, no Fidel.
It hadn't happened, of course. The anti-communist landing force had been cut to pieces by a surprisingly strong Cuban army and air force, and the survivors forced to surrender. That President Kennedy had, in the opinion of the anti-communists, reneged on a promise to provide air cover for the invasion was but one of the causes of the debacle. Those survivors, who hadn’t managed to escape to Florida, were now languishing in Cuban prisons, primarily on the Isle of Pines on the coast south of Havana. Worse, there hadn't been the hint of a popular uprising, which led the CIA to conclude that their low estimates of Castro’s popularity were tragically flawed and that Fidel was going to be in charge of Cuba for the long haul.
For a quite a while after that, McCone had been a virtual pariah in the White House. Fortunately, he and the CIA had done a much better job when it came to proving that Castro and the Soviets had been importing medium range nuclear capable guided missiles into Cuba, which precipitated what everyone called the Cuban Missile Crisis. The relationship with the Kennedy brothers wasn't perfect, but at least McCone and the CIA were allowed to participate and their reports were given some credence.
But this report could all blow it all to hell and back.
McCone wondered just what to do with the report from one hitherto unknown agent named Charles Kraeger that said that Castro was going to attack the base at Guantanamo Bay and would do so in just a day or so.
When he first received the report, he'd been incredulous. How could Castro go against the agreement that Khrushchev and Kennedy had made to prevent nuclear war just a few weeks earlier? The agreement also said the United States would never invade Cuba. So what was going on? The answer was easy — Castro hadn't signed the agreement and Castro was nuts.
Still, it was going to be a hard sell with the Kennedys because, quite frankly, McCone wasn't certain he believed it in the first place.
It was the devil's choice. He could bury the report and wait until it was confirmed or proven false. However; should the report prove correct, any attack would have already occurred and likely with catastrophic consequences for American interests. He glanced at his calendar. It was December 24, 1962, and Christmas was obviously the next day. If the attack took place and he had done nothing, he would be worse than a pariah. He would be guilty of criminal inaction. At best, he'd lose his job.
But if he warned President Kennedy and nothing happened, he'd be guilty of being an alarmist fool who cried wolf. It could easily also cost him his reputation and his job, as well as making the Central Intelligence Agency again look like a pack of idiots in the eyes of the President and his young brother, Attorney General Robert Kennedy.
Damn it all to hell. Why hadn’t he stayed on as an executive at Consolidated Steel, or even remained as Chairman of the U.S. Atomic Energy Commission. He knew the answer. He loved being around the seat of power and hated the thought that one foolish miss-step could cause him to lose that privilege.
He took a deep breath and made his decision. It was surprisingly easy. He could live with being considered a fool for being over cautious, but never a criminal. People would not die on his watch if he could help it. He called for his car.
Charley Kraeger was thankful that he was recovering quickly from his injuries. Perhaps he wasn't as old as he felt. His still bandaged hands could now hold a pencil and his voice could now be heard as a whisper. His arm was in a sling as a result of the shoulder infection, but, as one of his friends said, it was better than having his ass in a sling, which was the case while he'd been out in a small boat in the Caribbean. He agreed. He had lost some meat and muscle from his shoulder and would have an ugly scar, but he was alive.
Charley had been quickly and thoroughly interrogated by several senior agents and he'd repeated what he'd learned from his contacts in Cuba. He'd told them that Castro's Cubans, with or without any assistance from the Soviets, were planning to attack the base at Guantanamo Bay and were going to do it very, very soon. Perhaps even sooner if they knew he'd carried the secret with him.
And why would they know that, his CIA interrogators asked? Why else would they have tried so hard to kill him, he answered, and they couldn't respond. Unless, one said smugly, the Cubans were trying to get President Kennedy to react to a phantom threat. Kraeger had no response to that comment. Perhaps it was a trap that the Cubans were laying for the Kennedy’s?
People escaped by boat from Cuba to Florida almost daily and the Fidel's commies generally just let them pass. Good riddance. After all, weren't they Fidel's enemies? So why to shoot him up if his information was false? Nobody had a real answer to anything.
He'd told his questioners almost everything he knew. He'd only held back the name of his major source. They hadn't been happy, but they'd understood. If they didn't know, they couldn't leak the information and threaten the existence of an asset they might want to use again. After the disaster of the Bay of Pigs, American agents and contacts in Cuba were few and far between.
Kraeger swung his legs over the edge of the hospital bed. He tried not to disturb the IV contraption that was pumping his body with fluids and medicine. He was hungry as hell, but still couldn't swallow or chew and the mush he was allowed to eat nauseated him. Another day or two, the nurse had told him, and his throat could handle scramble eggs. Screw that, he thought. He wanted a steak, a big fat thick and rare steak.
He also wanted to wear real clothes and not the ridiculous backwards facing shirt that bared his ass to the world when he stood. Patience, the head nurse had said. He was in excellent shape and recovering quickly and thoroughly. She joked that maybe he shouldn't smoke for a few months until the oil cleared his body lest he set himself on fire. He didn't think it was all that funny, but the nurse did. He wanted a cigarette.
Patience, hell, he wanted to know what was happening to the information he'd brought home. It had almost cost him his life and he thought that others had died as well, and he wanted to know that his efforts had been worth it.
The door to his room opened and Jock Soriano, one of his fellow agents and a longtime good buddy walked in and sat down on the edge of the bed. The name Jock came from the fact that he was powerfully built, like the six-foot, two hundred-thirty pound linebacker he'd once been at Notre Dame. He liked to pretend he had nothing between his ears in order to get people to underestimate him. Kraeger often wished he had a trick like that up his sleeve.
Instead of the usual cheerful grin, Soriano looked grim. "Shit's hitting the fan, Charley. You feel up to a trip?"
"Where to?" Kraeger rasped. "Somewhere nice or oblivion?"
Soriano finally smiled. "More than you deserve, jerk-off. How about up north in that truly weird city on the Potomac named after our first president. McCone wants to talk to you in person."
"I'm overwhelmed," Kraeger said and he was. Someone was listening to him. "Am I well enough to travel?"
"Not really, according to the doctors. So we're putting you on a private plane along with a medic to hold your bandaged hand. It'll be a guy, so don't let him hold anything else. And that's a lot of money being spent for a worthless, middle-aged, agent like you. And yeah, you do get to wear real clothes, although I'd give a month's pay to see you running across a runway in Washington with your ass hanging out of that shirt."
Chapter Three
Second Lieutenant Andrew Ross was not impressed with his new command, and had the feeling they weren't all that impressed with him. But what the hell, it wasn't
like they were going to be together for a long time. A day or two at the most out in the boonies would be about it.
The twenty men were fine, of course, but the site they were to guard or protect was anything but inspiring.
His defensive position was a small concrete bunker just off a road facing north to Castro’s Cuba. The bunker was one of a number built during the past couple of months and could hold a dozen men and came complete with a World War II vintage Browning.50 caliber machine gun that was aimed straight down the curving road and couldn't traverse very far at all. He had no anti-tank weapons and no mortars, only a score of guys armed with M1 Garand rifles that also were old when the Korean War had ended a decade earlier. The Garand had been replaced by the M14, which hadn’t made it to Guantanamo yet. This was fine with the troops because many of those who’d tried it didn’t like it.
The ammo was as old as the rifles and he wondered if it would work it they ever had to fire their weapons. Fortunately, all the experts and brass said there was only the slightest chance that they would have to shoot anything except targets on the range.
The rutted dirt road in front of the bunker led to nowhere. Once, before Castro took over, it had led to a small Cuban town and day laborers were allowed to come in and work on the base, returning each night to their squalid homes. Now it was sealed off with barbed wire, and according to Andrew's map, there were minefields flanking the road. These too had been added recently and he wondered if the Cubans knew about them. Probably. All the high ground was in Cuban territory. He had the nagging feeling that many pairs of communist eyes were watching their every move.
Castro's bomb Page 3