Castro's Bomb (36 page)

Andrew searched his memory for the answer.
 
There had been multiple briefings on Soviet weapons systems and special emphasis had been given to those that the Cubans might possess, or that the Soviets might bring in.
 
The only tracked vehicle that wasn't a tank or armored personnel carrier were anti-aircraft systems and they either fired regular shells or surface to air missiles. The Cubans had SAM2 surface to air missiles mounted either on tracked vehicles or Soviet Zil trucks.
 
These were the same missiles that had shot down the U-2 spy plane piloted by Gary Frances Powers and the American jet that Cullen had seen destroyed.

So what the hell was a Frog 3?
 
He wished he'd paid closer attention, but, hell, he was an accountant and a short-timer.
 
It had to be important or his handlers wouldn't have bothered with the information, so why?

Oh yeah, he thought as he began to remember.
 
It was a short range tactical ballistic missile that had a range of about fifteen miles and was nothing more than a glorified very heavy artillery shell.
 
One of them just wasn't all that important.

Unless it had a nuclear warhead.
 
He paled.
 
Oh shit.

"Lieutenant, what is it?"

"Gunny, we got problems."

Elena Sandano thought the president looked like death warmed over when she entered the Oval Office with Director McCone.
 
Only Bobby Kennedy was there.
 
Lyndon Johnson was conspicuous by his absence.
 
Tough.
 
She didn't like him.
 

She'd gone to the trouble of wearing a skirt and jacket that were far more modest then the outfit she'd worn for the first meeting and now knew she'd wasted her time.
 
The skirt was pleated and hung well below her knees, almost to her ankles, and the blouse was high-necked and full.
 
This time, JFK was far too tired to stare at her legs or breasts.
 
His eyes looked vacant for a moment, like he wished he was elsewhere.
 
He shook off his lack of alertness and managed a politician's warm smile on her behalf.

"Good to see you again, Dr. Sandano.
 
I trust you once again have some blunt advice for me."

"If you'd like some, sir, but I've actually come with some information."

"Really?"

"Yes sir.
 
We have just received confirmation that Castro is going to hold a land lottery in the next week to start giving parcels of land in and around Guantanamo Bay to so-called deserving peasants and other workers.
 
That means that, in a very short time, more than a hundred thousand civilian men, women, and children will be setting up housekeeping in and around what had been our naval base."

Kennedy looked stunned.
 
"Which means that any bombing of that area or invasion will incur enormous civilian casualties, and I'll go down as the butcher who did it."

Elena nodded.
 
"Pretty much, sir."

"Just how good is your information?" Bobby asked.

McCone answered for her.
 
"Extremely high probability factor, sir.
 
At least ninety per cent."
 

"To the best of my knowledge," Kennedy said, "the naval base is, was, built on land that is marginal at best for farming and there are no industries present.
 
Almost a desert is what I've heard.
 
How the devil are those people supposed to support themselves once they've moved in?
 
Without outside help, they'll starve."

"Sir," she said, "Castro will support them, with Russian help, of course.
 
Once the Russians realize they have no choice but to accept Fidel as he is, he assumes they will get over their snit and begin helping him again, and we agree.
 
As to the people who'll move in, they will become a human barrier to counter what Castro refers to as our aggressive tendencies.
 
It won't matter if they're economically productive or not.
 
All they'll have to do is exist and they will deter us from invading."

JFK turned to Bobby with agony on his face.
 
"I've gone out of my way to delay major fighting in the hope that Castro will somehow see reason.
 
Looks like that idea's down the crapper," he said to Bobby.
 
"Why the hell does it seem like Castro is constantly outmaneuvering us all the time."

"Because he is," Bobby replied laconically.
 
"He doesn't have to answer to Congress or the press or his adoring public, and he can be as ruthless as he wants.
 
He's the innocent little guy and we're the big bully in the playground."

McCone interjected.
 
"It gets worse.
 
Once again the exile community in Miami is planning military intervention.
 
They're organizing yet another brigade of soldiers and will shortly insist on accompanying our invasion when it occurs."

Kennedy was perplexed.
 
"Where the hell are they getting the manpower after all they've gone through?"

Elena answered.
 
"Sir, there are fresh refugees arriving almost daily despite the military situation, and, even though some of them might be spies, they are filling the exile ranks.
 
Also, there is a strong likelihood that the exile brigade will include several hundred women and older men who are desperate for justice."

The president felt helpless.
 
The exile community had ignored his pleas to stay out of the way.
 
The Republicans, led by Arizona Senator Barry Goldwater and former Vice President Richard Nixon, were screaming that he was an appeaser and that he was paralyzed by the specter of a war with Communist China over Vietnam that he was disinterested in events in Cuba.
 
Even within his own party, there was anger and disappointment.
 
It was obvious that Lyndon Johnson thought JFK would be a one-term president and had begun to position himself as a hawk regarding Cuba.
 
Eggs and omelets, JFK recalled the tall Texan saying with an unconcealed sneer.
 
You can't make an omelet without breaking some eggs.

The president turned to Elena.
 
"Tell me, what are the people of Cuba and other Latin American countries saying about our efforts to find a peaceful solution to this crisis?"

Elena took a deep breath.
 
"Sir, they are laughing at you.
 
Their governments are polite, but their newspapers say you have no balls."

There was stunned silence.
 
Elena looked around, memorizing the scene.
 
Once again she was confident that her comments meant that this would be the last time she'd ever see the Oval Office, at least during this administration.
 
She didn't care.
 
She had told him the truth, and any president should hear that as often as possible.
 
Charley Kraeger, she knew, would think it hilarious.

Kennedy stood, his expression grim.
 
"We will now re-convene ExComm.
 
They want my permission to attack?
 
They're going to get my permission."

Commander Sam Watkins could handle the physical pain.
 
Very quickly after surgery, he'd demanded a drastic reduction in the amount of drugs he was being given.
 
He didn't want to become addicted like so many other guys he'd seen.
 
Something to help him sleep was okay, at least for a while, but not for normal living.
 
Life with pain was something he would have to endure, at least until he healed. He would not take the easy way out.

Hell, he thought, just what was normal?
 
He cranked the bed so he was sitting up enough to see where his left leg had been.
 
He still had most of it, but not the part that rested on the ground.
 
As his friends told him, now he would never wear out a pair of socks because he could use both of them.
 
Of course, he would always be stuck with a left shoe in virginal condition.
 
With friends like those, who needed enemies?

No, what upset him was the emotional and mental anguish.
 
He kept seeing Lieutenant Harkins's destroyed body lying beside him. Harkins had been married and had two small children.
 
How would they make out?
 
They'd get a pension, of course, but it wouldn't be much.
 
His widow was attractive and might just re-marry, but how would the kids handle the loss of their dad?
 
And how much of it was his fault?

He'd seen the list of dead and wounded and grieved for each one of them.
 
The Willow had been small as warships go and Watkins had known all of his crew, his Coast Guard family.
 
And now so many of them were gone, either dead or with their lives destroyed or forever altered.

Like his.
 
He would get a pension and a wooden leg.
 
Hell, how about a patch over an eye so people would think he was a pirate?
 
Maybe he could get a job with Ringling Brothers, or at Disneyland.
 
Yo, ho, ho and a bucket of shit.

"Feeling sorry for yourself again?"

It was one of the nurses.
 
He was being treated at the Bethesda Naval Hospital in Maryland.
 
She was a first lieutenant. Her name was Mary Ann Ackerman and she was in her late thirties, a little plumpish, but pleasant enough.

"A little bit," he admitted, "but I'm feeling sorrier for the men I lost.
 
Sorry too for the guys who got mangled more than I did."

"Do you blame yourself?"

"Of course.
 
I am – excuse me, was – the captain of the Willow.
 
Whatever happens, from a sailor farting to the ship sinking, is my responsibility."

She sat on the chair by the side of his bed.
 
He was supposed to be sharing the room but the second bed was empty.
 
He wondered if that had been intentionally?
 
Was he a pariah?
 
Who the hell wanted to be near someone who'd lost his ship?
 
Maybe they thought that bad luck was contagious or would rub off.
 
He wondered if JFK had been shunned after losing PT109?
 
Not likely, he concluded.
 
Kennedy's family came from enormous wealth and that can always buy absolution.
 
Regardless, he liked the privacy and hoped it stayed that way for a long while.

"Don't you think the Cubans had something to do with what happened?" Nurse Ackerman asked.
 
"And how about the admirals who ordered you out there?"

"Them too, but I was the man on the scene."

"I hear you're getting a medal."

"Fuck the medal."

"Don't talk like that in front of me."

"Sorry.
 
Screw the medal."

She smiled sweetly.
 
"That's better.
 
And like it or not you are getting better.
 
I understand they're going to fit you with an artificial leg pretty soon, and you know you can go out and about in a wheel chair anytime you wish."

"How jolly fucking wonderful.
 
Sorry."

"You know, it could've been much worse."

Watkins looked away. "Sure, and now you're going to tell me about the beggar who was sorry for himself because he had no shoes until he met another beggar who had no feet.
 
Hey, holy shit.
 
I only have one foot, so I guess I should only feel half sorry for myself."

Nurse Ackerman scowled.
 
"You are disgusting, Commander Watkins.
 
Some of your officers and crew are anxious to see you. When would you like to schedule it?"

Watkins turned to the window.
 
He had a great view of a half empty parking lot.
 
"Right after the world ends."

"Too bad.
 
The medal ceremony will be in a few days.
 
I don't know which one you're getting, but if I have a vote, it's likely going to be the Order of the Royal Pain in the Ass with Oak Leaf Clusters."

Despite himself, Watkins laughed.
 
"Good one."

"Actually, I understand it'll be either the Silver Star or the Coast Guard Distinguished Service Medal."

"
Semper paratus
," Watkins said, quoting the Coast Guard motto, "Always Prepared."
 
Well, hell, he hadn't been prepared.
 
If he had been prepared, his ship would have fought back more effectively, and he couldn't claim crummy radar as an excuse since it was his responsibility to ensure that everything on the Willow was in working condition no matter what. "Seaman Vitale will be getting one, too," Ackerman continued, "because of how he worked and saved so many lives, maybe including your own annoying butt.
 
Yours will be for your lifesaving efforts in rescuing the crew of that destroyer and for doing everything you could to put out the fire at great risk to you and your ship before and after the destroyer sank.
 
Lord, I sound like I'm reading the commendation.
 
Also, the ship is getting some unit citation."

She stood and straightened her uniform.
 
He noticed that she had nice full breasts.
 
"Commander, I will not let you feel sorry for yourself.
 
I will not let any of my patients feel sorry for themselves.
 
I know what they're going through and I know that you and they can get through it."