Castro's Bomb (45 page)

Cathy was about to respond when they saw Andrew and Cullen jogging towards them.

Romanski stood up awkwardly.
 
His leg had stiffened up from the rain.
 
"What is it, lieutenant?"

"Sergeant Cullen's spotted an anti-aircraft battery about a mile away, sir."

Romanski grinned wolfishly.
 
"Well, well, and what do you fine young men propose to do about that?"

Cullen responded.
 
"Sir, the lieutenant and I propose to take it out."

The Cuban anti-aircraft battery consisted of a pair of 24mm Swedish-made Oerlikon cannon mounted on a tracked chassis.
 
Andrew was a little nonplussed that they'd missed the damn thing since it was so close, but Romanski let him down easily.

"Ross, it might have been moved there just recently and, besides, you have barely a handful of men to guard the camp, much less patrol the area.
 
There's no way you could've checked a wide area even if you'd wanted to.
 
Even though he'll never admit it, young Gunnery Sergeant Cullen found it because he was lucky."

Cullen grinned.
 
"With respect, sir, luck had nothing to do with it.
 
It was highly honed Marine Corp skills all the way.
 
Semper Fi!"

Cullen told them he saw no more than four men at the guns, but agreed that others might have been in the area.
 
Still, they decided killing it was worth the try.
 
The weapon was a danger to American planes and should be taken out if they possibly could.
 

"Gentlemen," Romanski said, "we don't do suicides.
 
If it looks too dangerous, pull back.
 
This group is small enough as it is and we still have that Russian missile to deal with, and that is our first priority.
 
Assuming, of course that we find the damn thing."

It was decided that Ross would lead the effort with sergeants Morton and Cullen backing him up.
 
Andrew accepted the obvious.
 
The two NCOs were much more experienced then he and would step in if it looked like he was screwing things up.
 
PFC Ward was included in the group.

Morton glared at the other black man, Ward.
 
"Somebody's gotta carry our luggage, boy."

The only one who didn't laugh was PFC Groth who protested that he should be allowed to go along, too.

"Not a chance," Romanski said.
 
"You're as bad off as I am.
 
Just a little while ago you were complaining of headaches and that you were still sometimes seeing double.
 
No, young marine, you stay here with your gimpy colonel and the beautiful young lady."

Before they left, Cathy got Andrew alone.
 
"Look, this sounds like a cliche from a bad cowboy movie, but please be careful and please come back to me."
 
With that, she hugged him and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek that Romanski and Morton pretended not to see.

Carrying only their weapons, grenades, and extra ammunition, the four men were able to move rapidly and soon came on the vehicle carrying the anti-aircraft guns.
 
It was camouflaged under tree limbs.
 
They counted two men who were eating from a mess kit while they lounged around the vehicle.
 

"Whatcha think, lieutenant?" Morton asked

"We know there are at least two more men because Cullen saw them and because somebody had to make the food they're eating.
 
My guess is there are a lot more than the two others Cullen saw.
 
They don’t appear too concerned about ground security which may give us a good shot at destroying those guns."

Ross was concerned about other Cubans, but decided against investigating farther.
 
He said there was too much risk that the other Cubans might be more alert and discover them if they did.
 
He said they should take quick advantage of the apparent overconfidence of the men at the guns.
 
To his surprise, Morton and Cullen agreed.

"Plans?" Morton asked.

"We keep it simple," Ross answered.
 
"Having only four people does not make for opportunities for grand strategy.
 
And it's going to start raining real soon and that's good.
 
Rain'll make it difficult for them to track us after we hit them."

When the two sergeants again agreed, Ross continued.
 
"I suggest we creep up as closely as possible to those two yo-yos and kill them.
 
Then we dump grenades on the guns and run like hell."

Cullen nodded.
 
"You three do the killing and I'll take care of the grenades.
 
I'm pretty good at blowing things up."

As threatened, it began to rain, although not heavily at first.
 
The two Cubans moved closer to their vehicle and tried to keep dry as the rainfall increased in intensity.
 
They were looking anywhere but where they should have been, enabling the four Americans to slither up to within twenty yards of them.
 
Finally, one of the Cubans looked in disbelief at the apparitions appearing before them.

"Now," Ross yelled.
 
His heart was pounding in his chest and he could barely squeak out the order.
 
No matter, all four men opened fire at point blank range, dropping the two Cubans.
 
Ross, Morton, and Ward formed a short skirmish line.
 
Suddenly, a third Cuban jumped up and only a few feet away.
 
He looked puzzled and they stared at each other for only an instant before they fired into his chest and head.
 
Where the hell had he been? Ross wondered.
 
Probably taking a nap.
 
Cullen jumped into the vehicle with all their grenades.

"Hurry," Ross said.
 
The now heavy rainfall had muffled the sounds of gunfire but not entirely.
 
They could hear sounds of confusion coming farther from their front.
 
The Cubans would be on them in a minute.

Cullen jumped down, a length of cord in his hand.
 
"Run!" he yelled and pulled the cord.

They needed no further urging and sprinted like they were on fire for the bushes they'd just left.
 
Seconds later, the grenades exploded, taking with them the ammunition stored on the gun carrier, which exploded like a giant fireworks display.

More than a dozen Cubans emerged from the brush on the other side of the exploding track.
 
One of them wore a beret and was trying to lead them.
 
The four Americans opened fire, scattering the Cubans, who were already disconcerted by the explosion.
 
On cue, the leaden sky fully opened up and torrents of rain drenched them.
 
Andrew grinned.
 
Their footprints would be wiped out.
 
Still, they would not take the direct route to the camp.
 
They'd head north, then east, before heading back to Romanski and the others.

After they'd gone a while, Cullen grabbed Andrew's arm.
 
"Lieutenant, you see the guy with the beret?"

"Yeah."

"Look familiar?"

Ross had to think.
 
There had been something vaguely familiar about the man, but then, he'd only seen him for an instant.
 

Then it dawned on him, "Oh Jesus.
 
Che Guevara."

And the only reason Che Guevara would be hanging around would be that the nuke was nearby, really nearby.

A thousand paratroopers were crowded into the massive and otherwise empty hangar.
 
The C54s that mechanics had been working on inside the structure were now neatly aligned with others on the runway outside and awaited their passengers.
 
Each plane could carry as many as fifty men and, in one configuration or another, the venerable and reliable aircraft had been around since World War II.
 

They snapped to attention when Colonel Rutherford took the podium from the previous speaker who'd been discussing the deteriorating weather conditions over Eastern Cuba and what they could expect to find when they hit the ground.
 
They immediately relaxed on Rutherford's order to carry on and be seated.

Rutherford looked over the congregation.
 
Young men all and they stared up at him, hoping he had all the answers to questions they hadn't even thought of yet.

Rutherford took a second to stare back at them.
 
There were so many familiar faces.
 
His heart ached.
 
He'd been through what they were about to experience in World War II and he wanted to keep them from it.
 
He couldn't.
 
They were paratroopers, men of the 101st Airborne Division and they were going to jump into what might become a living and dying hell.

"Men, before you got the latest weather report, you heard another nice major from division intelligence tell you about what the Cubans might do to stop us.
 
He said that just about all Cuban planes have been shot down or destroyed and every defensive site the Cubans have has been bombed to smithereens.
 
He said that resistance will be light because the Cubans are thoroughly demoralized and really want Uncle Sam to come in and settle all their problems, just like we've done in the past."

Rutherford swaggered across the small stage, a conscious imitation of what he'd seen General George Patton do during World War II.
 
"Well, men, what do you think of the nice intelligence major's assessment of the Cuban military?"

A thousand faces split in grins.
 
"Bullshit, sir!" they chorused.
 
The intelligence officer tried to pretend he was shocked, simply shocked, at the outburst, but couldn't keep a straight face.
 
He'd said what the Pentagon said to say and he knew it was bullshit, too.

Rutherford smiled back.
 
He knew his men.
 
He'd trained them well.
 
Prepare for the worst, he'd always said, and the best will take care of itself.
 
The weatherman from division really looked shocked.
 
Rutherford smiled at him and thought, well fuck him.

"Men, do you think the Cubans love us?"

"No, sir!"

"Do you think they'll fight like hell to protect their shitty little country from us?"

"Yes, sir!"

"You believe a bunch of flyboys twenty thousand feet in the air with at least one hand on their cocks at all time got each and every Cuban plane, tank, gun, and soldier."

The men were laughing even though the joke was at their expense.
 
"No sir!"

"Well I don't either.
 
I think division has done a fine job but their so-called intelligence estimates are way too optimistic. Any of you ever jump into combat before?"
 
A couple of hands were raised.
 
Rutherford knew who they belonged to.
 
"Yeah, just a couple of old farts like me did it and that was in World War II at Normandy.
 
I was twenty, even younger than some of you men.
 
What happened there was simple.
 
Everything got fucked up.
 
We got shot at, shot down, and pissed on and when we finally landed, and we were miles away from our drop zones.
 
We were scattered, lost, and scared and we had to find our buddies in the night while the god-damned Nazis were trying to kill us.
 
We lost a lot of good men that night, but we finally made it out and kicked their asses, and we will do that tomorrow no matter what happens. Who knows, maybe the intelligence will be right this time, but we ain't gonna count on it are we?"

"No sir!" they roared.

"Good.
 
‘Cause this time tomorrow we are all gonna be in Cuba one way or the other.
 
Our job is to take that little air field so the rest of the 101st Airborne Division can land behind in nice comfortable airplanes and not have to jump out of otherwise perfectly good ones.
 
And don't be afraid to be afraid.
 
Anybody who isn't afraid is either totally unaware of his world or totally insane.
 
Don't worry about pissing yourself or crapping your pants if you're shot at, because you won't be alone and that'll be the least of your problems.
 
I'll be there with you and I fervently expect to be scared, although I sure as hell hope I don't piss or shit myself.
 
But, scared or not, we are all going to do our jobs."

He paused for effect.
 
"This is going to be a night drop and some of you are thinking about what happened to Roman Force on Christmas.
 
Well, put that out of your minds.
 
Roman Force went in without any real plans and absolutely no cover.
 
No escorts and no preparation was a recipe for a total fuck up.
 
We'll be guided in by scores of air force and navy planes.
 
For once I agree with the intel major.
 
The Cuban air force shows up and it's lights out for them.
 
No, our problems will occur on the ground.

"Men, we are going first.
 
We are the pick of the litter.
 
Everyone here expects to do his best and he expects everyone else to do his best.
 
When that happens, the Cubans will get the message and pull out, at least those who are still alive.
 
God bless you all."