Castro's bomb

by Robert Conroy

  They moved out slowly. Romanski's leg still wasn't up to par and he wondered if they wouldn't be better off if they left him behind. Another reason they moved out at a slow pace was because they didn't want to blunder into the Cuban camp. The trail was fairly easy to follow and it appeared that the Cubans were making no effort at disguising it from the ground. They were doubtless far more concerned about threats from the air.

  Nor were they so foolish as to follow straight up the trail. They moved from side to side and kept an eye out for obvious ambush sites.

  They all cursed the necessity to be so careful, especially since the vehicle carrying the nuke could easily move much faster than they could. Romanski countered by reminding them that the launcher likely wasn't going to go far, and the tracks indicated it was heading towards Guantanamo Bay where it would have to halt.

  Finally, they breasted a hill and looked down on where the tracks ended at a ruined barn, the exterior of which was partly covered by a tarp and tree branches. At least a dozen men were hiding under other tarps and in trenches.

  They couldn't see it, but it was now very likely that the nuclear rocket was hidden less than a mile away from them.

  "Now what, colonel?" Ross asked.

  Now what, indeed. Romanski rubbed his jaw and tried to ignore the throbbing hurt in his leg. They were about two miles north of the coastline and maybe a mile from the boundary of the ruined American base. The Soviet built rocket could hit anywhere on the base or along the near shore line. Guevara, if that really was Guevara, had reached his destination. He would launch from where he was.

  Romanski turned to the others. "First, we'll try to pinpoint this place and get an air strike or two. If that doesn't work, we'll have to do it the old fashioned way and just kill it ourselves."

  Or get ourselves killed, he thought.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Midge Romanski was not uncomfortable having a three-star general in her living room, mainly because she still wanted Josiah Bunting's head on a platter. Heidi Morton, on the other hand, was very nervous. Even the wives of senior NCOs did not ordinarily visit with brass except on formal and structured occasions. This situation was very unstructured. Bunting was in civilian clothes and it was he who looked truly nervous.

  Midge glanced out the window. It was cold and rainy with the temperature in the low forties. It was a reminder of why she hated Fort Benning in particular and the south in general. It was too hot in the summer and clammy cold in the winter.

  Bunting finally began. He was pale and his hands trembled. "Ladies, I have submitted my resignation and retirement papers and I expect they will be acted on shortly. In the meantime, I wish to make up for my failures and the deceits that are ongoing.

  "Midge, Heidi, I am totally responsible for the situation that took place on Christmas and over Cuba. I overreached and sent those planes and those men on my authority. I pretended that I misunderstood President Kennedy and I hadn't. I knew he only wanted info, and for me to get back to General Taylor with the proper information regarding the unit’s readiness so that somebody higher up could make the decision. But I launched the attack on my own authority and it cost many, many lives. I am truly sorry for that and will have to live with it for the rest of my life."

  Midge glared at him. He was having an epiphany and so what? She was missing a husband and a number of other families had also lost loved ones. "Am I supposed to be happy with your confession, general? Do you want me to assign you a penance?"

  "No. Later you asked me and then asked the president if we had any further information and we both said no. We weren't lying. We had no further data at that time. That situation has changed."

  Midge leaned forward and Heidi gasped. "What?"

  "Please understand that I am under strict orders to keep this secret. It's just that I don't agree with them. You have every right to know. I only ask that you keep this to yourselves for the short few days it'll be necessary."

  Midge wanted to scream at him. Keep what a secret?

  Bunting looked at the two of them. "As of this moment, both your husbands are alive and reasonably well. Sergeant Morton is unhurt, while the colonel has some kind of leg injury, apparently nothing serious."

  Midge felt tears welling and tried to stop them. She didn't want to cry in front of Josiah Bunting. Heidi Morton was having no such qualms. Tears streamed down her face.

  "And why must it be kept a deep, dark secret?" Midge asked.

  "Because they are still almost alone in a combat zone. They are obviously behind enemy lines and are being hunted. On the plus side, they have somehow managed to hitch up with Lieutenant Ross and his small band, including the teacher, but anything bad could happen to them at any time. General Taylor and the others didn't want you to know anything prematurely that might later be snatched away. I disagreed and was told to keep still. I am violating orders by telling you all this."

  Bunting stood to rise. He'd had his say and was ready to leave. Midge saw no reason to stop him. "Thank you for stopping by, general, and we appreciate what you are doing for us. Don't worry, we will keep your secret."

  Bunting departed and Midge turned to Heidi. "What do you propose we do now?"

  "I don't know," she said. “He’s still an asshole, but at least he’s now a contrite asshole.”

  "Would you like a drink?"

  Heidi smiled. "Very much, thank you."

  Midge smiled back. "Perhaps a couple?"

  "I'm German. I don't believe in half measures," Heidi said, giggling.

  Private Manuel Hidalgo lay down beside his 30caliber machine gun and peered through the firing slit of his bunker. Like so many weapons in Cuba's arsenal it was an American Browning of World War II vintage. This was of no concern to Hidalgo, the thin and near-sighted seventeen year old had only learned how to use the weapon the day before. Despite that, he felt he was ready for the Americans who would come down the road. One probe had been beaten back but they would come again and be taught another lesson. Hidalgo and the others in his platoon would cause damage, stop the gringos if they could and, if they could not, pull back to the next position.

  The population of Guantanamo City and environs was firmly, solidly, behind Fidel Castro and the revolution. Castro had promised them a better way of life and was beginning to make good on the promises. Already, there was more food, and there were many jobs available working for the government. The Americans wanted all that turned back. The Americans must be stopped.

  Manuel remembered cheering wildly with his aunt, Marinda, and others when the first attack on the base at Guantanamo Bay began.

  It had been marvelous to see the long lines of dispirited Americans heading off into captivity. He was sorry that so many of them had to die, and had been stunned by the devastation he'd seen, but that was war and that was the price that had to be paid for Cuban freedom. He was a little sorry that the attack had taken place on Christmas Day. He still had feelings for that holy day. The base was now Cuba's and that was all that counted.

  He was also sorry that he’d lost that damned rifle in Santiago.

  He spat on the ground just like he remembered his father did every time he thought of Batista and he was outdoors. Hidalgo forgot once and spat in the house and Marinda had nearly killed him, while his father laughed uproariously. The thought of that made him smile.

  He hoped today would be as good as yesterday. Today they were about a mile south of where they'd ambushed the American column. Manuel had sprayed the lead vehicle, a jeep, with machine gun fire and was fairly certain he'd hit people since it had suddenly careened wildly and then turned over. This day he was in a sandbagged and well hidden bunker and his lieutenant said his machine gun was positioned to enfilade the road. He and others had to ask what enfilade meant and were told that it meant shooting into the flank of the enemy. Miguel wondered why the lieutenant just didn’t say that.

  Other bunkers also flanked the road, and a T54 tank was on each side of the road, dug in and hidden. Any jeep
s or trucks were his to shoot. Tanks and other armored vehicles would be handled by other soldiers with heavy weapons, especially those two magnificent Russian built tanks.

  They'd all been reassured that they were not to stand and die, only fight and kill. And then withdraw so they could fight again. Their job was to bleed the gringo army until the Americans realized that Cuba was too tough a nut to crack and that it would not be worth the blood price to conquer. He was seventeen and proud to be a warrior in the Revolution. He'd been but a boy when Fidel had risen to power, but now he was a man. Long live the Cuban People’s Revolution, he constantly reminded himself whenever he got nervous about the coming fighting.

  The radio crackled and the lieutenant hollered that the Americans were coming. Manuel fought off the urge to piss and steadied himself. The sudden smell of urine told him that not all his comrades had been so successful. There was no shame in being scared. Only a fool wasn't. He gulped and cleaned off his glasses for the hundredth time.

  A few moments later, the head of the enemy column was visible and this time the Americans showed that they had learned something. An M48 tank and not a jeep led the American force. He looked down the American column and smiled. There were a number of trucks in it, although they were at an angle and would be difficult to hit until they got closer.

  "Open fire!" the lieutenant yelled. Manuel thought it was too soon, but he obeyed orders and began to shoot up the few trucks he could see. He and the others howled in triumph. An anti-tank rocket missed the American tank which began to backtrack, along with the rest of the vehicles in the column. The big gun of the tank fired and missed, the shell apparently going over their position.

  The cannon from the T54 tanks boomed and hit near the quickly disappearing American tank enveloping it in dust and debris but causing no apparent damage. The American tank fired again and an explosion followed. Hidalgo wondered if one of the Cuban tanks had just been destroyed. The American tank continued to pull back.

  "Stopped them again," Manuel called to his comrades who cheered wildly. The lieutenant laughed and slapped him on the back. It was time to pack up and move south. He looked through the embrasure of his bunker. A pair of dark and sinister planes was on the horizon and moving towards him with astonishing speed. He watched, slack jawed with horror as the American jets approached at incredible speed. He realized what had happened. Opening fire on the American tank had given away their position and now they were going to pay for it.

  Two bombs dropped from each plane and, with lives of their own, flew towards him.

  One of the bombs exploded a few yards in front of Hidalgo's bunker. Waves of the liquid fire called napalm enveloped the bunker and everything around it. Flames roared through the firing slits and into the bunker, immolating Manuel and his companions with searing, murderous heat. Manuel managed to lurch out the back. He was on fire. His skin was bubbling and peeling and one of his eyes was gone. He rolled on the ground as waves of agony swept over him.

  There was silence for a while, but then he heard a voice directly above him speaking in English. "Jesus Christ, this one's still alive."

  "Can't be," another voice added. "He looks like the time my mother burned the Thanksgiving turkey. There's no way he's gonna live. Hell, even his cock's been burned off."

  "Hey, he's trying to say something."

  "Kill me," seventeen year old Manuel Hidalgo managed to whisper through a destroyed throat.

  "What's he saying?"

  "I don't speak Spanish either, but I think I understand what he wants."

  "What are you doing?" the other American asked.

  Hidalgo felt the other American fumbling with his tortured body. "He's gonna get some morphine to kill the pain. An awful lot of it. Easy, buddy, it'll be all over in a little while."

  After a few seconds, Manuel's agony went away, and then so too did the light.

  The strain was beginning to tell on the president. His back was aching even more than it usually did and he looked like he hadn't slept, which was the truth, and a twitch had developed in his cheek. Not even the First Lady's now more enthusiastic nocturnal assistance could provide JFK with anything more than temporary relief from the stress he felt.

  Once more into the breach, he thought as he waited for the military leaders to make their reports. Admiral Anderson said that the Russian navy's three cruiser squadron and the multiple boat submarine flotilla was maintaining itself several hundred miles north and east of Cuba. At least a half-dozen Foxtrot submarines had been sighted and were driving American reconnaissance efforts nuts by constantly submerging and then popping up a few miles away from where they'd originally been. The Soviet presence necessitated the movement of an American carrier group, along with U.S. submarines, to counter the potential threat. So far, the Soviets hadn't come close to the American fleet, but who knew what the future might bring.

  General Wheeler reported that three army divisions, the First Infantry, Second Infantry, and First Armored, had landed and were consolidating their beachhead, and expanding slowly into the interior. Supplies were piling up preparatory to a planned massive breakout. There was concern that the main Cuban army had not been encountered. General LeMay was of the opinion that it had been so badly damaged by air strikes that the Cuban army was no longer a factor, and that the average Cuban soldier was either in hiding or on his way home. Wheeler and Maxwell Taylor were not so confident, feeling instead that the Cubans had pulled away from the beaches where they would be vulnerable and would be found in prepared positions inland. But both generals felt that the U.S. would come out ahead in any confrontation with the main Cuban forces. Marine commandant, General Shoup, concurred and complained that his marines had not been committed, angrily reiterating that his marines should not be used as decoys.

  There were serious concerns. First, the survivors of the two disastrous airborne drops were confronting very major problems. They were outnumbered, outgunned, and running out of supplies of all kinds. Airdrops of supplies had been ineffective and the use of the army’s few helicopters for more accurate support had resulted in the destruction of two choppers and severe damage to a half dozen others. The more northern perimeter, the one belonging to elements of the 82nd Airborne would likely be relieved fairly soon, but the southern and more distant one belonging to a detachment of the 101st might soon be overwhelmed, and that would be both a military and a political catastrophe.

  The vision of long lines of more Americans shuffling off to a prison camp would be intolerable to the American public. The public accepted the fact that the Cuban sneak attack on Gitmo had resulted in American POWs, but the air drop was an American attack and American attacks should succeed. Especially against the damned Cubans. Failure would be blamed on JFK and he knew it. The generals might consider it a relatively minor setback and part of the blood price to be paid, but for Kennedy the wound might prove politically fatal.

  Taylor reported that Lt. Col. Romanski thought he might have found the location of the missing Soviet nuke. "Destroy it," Kennedy said emphatically.

  "As always, there are problems, sir," Taylor said. "First, he cannot confirm that it actually is the nuke. Romanski reports that whatever it is it's heavily guarded and his small group has no way of getting a better look. He's asked for bombs and we're more than willing, but we can't bomb since we can't accurately locate the site. Apparently, at the moment it's in a barn or shed of some sort and we can't find it and Romanski can't quite pinpoint it for us. We've got it down to a few square miles, but that's the size of a small city. Romanski says they Cubans are moving their group of vehicles at night and hiding them during the day, which means we can't get a good fix on it. It also means that Romanski and Ross have to track it and find it each day."

  LeMay interrupted. "And since the Air Force and Navy have many other targets, there's reluctance to divert large numbers of planes to carpet bomb the area until we know exactly what it is and where it is. If we attack and miss, they'll know we're on to them and simply mo
ve it and we're back to square one."

  Kennedy seethed. And in the meantime, he thought, the Cubans might throw a nuclear rocket at our soldiers and marines, killing and wounding hundreds, if not thousands. The military might find these casualties acceptable and he might even agree with them if the cause wouldn't be nuclear. But an atomic bomb exploding on Americans? Never.

  "I disagree," JFK said. "I want that damn missile found and destroyed. Look, we have more than enough planes out there. We can assign a number of them to be a hunter force to find and kill that nuke." He turned to LeMay. "Why the hell don't you designate a squadron of B52s to saturate an area with bombs, and I don't care if it's overkill or if innocent people get killed?"

  "Does that include Romanski, Ross, Cathy Malone and the others?" Taylor asked icily, “Especially when it’s highly probable that we’d miss and their deaths would be for naught?”

  Kennedy sagged and agreed that it didn't. Saturation bombing was not an option. Still, he wanted a hunter-killer squadron. Le May then reminded him that he agreed with Taylor and that they could saturate all they wanted and still not hit what amounted to a very small target.

  "All they have to do is dig it in and we might as well throw rocks at it," LeMay said. "As much as I hate to admit it, but precision target bombing is more wishful thinking than it is reality. At this point, the Cubans have not launched it, which means they are either waiting for orders or a good target. As we've discussed, if we bomb too close to it, that might spook them into launching. Right now, we have a slim chance of finding it before they launch which is better than nothing. Every minute they haven’t fired the damn thing is another minute to find it."