Castro's Bomb (46 page)

He turned and walked away as waves of cheers and applause washed over him.
 
Rutherford didn't want anyone to see the tears forming.

In the back of the hangar, Second Lieutenant Chris Mellor turned to his buddy, Second Lieutenant Tom Santini.
 
"Tom, we are totally fucked, aren't we?"

"Looks like it, Chris.
 
I just hope I can handle it."

Mellor nodded.
 
Fresh out of officer candidate school, the platoon he now led was his first command and he was appalled at the thought that they were all looking up to him for leadership when what he really wanted to do was throw up at the thought of going into combat.
 
Part of his mind said that every sane man felt that way, but that didn't help very much.

Each had enlisted at eighteen, in part to avoid the specter of the draft which would screw up their lives until their early twenties, and in part because they really wanted to be soldiers.
 
After basic, they'd applied for and passed airborne training and then they'd applied for OCS and aced the training.
 
They were thinking they might make the army a career, although both of them were scared at the thought of making a combat jump.
 
Each wanted to throw up at the thought, but neither would admit it, of course.

The two men stepped outside.
 
Night was beginning to fall. Civilian houses and stores surrounded the temporary base, just outside the wire fence that was patrolled by armed guards.
 
Their lights were reminders of their homes, places where people didn't carry weapons, jump out of airplanes, or try to kill people who were trying to kill them.

"Just curious," Mellor said.
 
"What were you doing when you got the word the Cubans had attacked Gitmo.
 
I was home with my family and planning to go over to my girlfriend's place about lunch time.

Santini said he'd been at his girlfriend's and had been there all night.
 
He grinned wickedly.
 
"I'd already opened my Christmas present at least a couple of times."

Rutherford said they'd all be in Cuba this time tomorrow.
 
What the hell had he gotten himself into, Mellor wondered?
 
Santini grabbed his arm.
 
"C'mon.
 
There's something you've gotta see."

They climbed a fire escape on a building that stood four stories above the ground.
 
It never occurred to them that they might fall.
 
If you're willing to jump out of an airplane, little things like fire escapes are no concern.
 

"My God," Mellor said as they finally made the rooftop.
 
Laid out in front of them were hundreds, maybe thousands, of two-man pup tents.
 
Most had a small Sterno fire going and glowing in the night.
 
The field of tents extended towards the horizon.

"It's like the Civil War," Santini said.
 
"Like maybe the Union Army encamped the night before Gettysburg."

Mellor reluctantly agreed.
 
He couldn't help but think how many good men had died at Gettysburg.

The C54 rocked as winds and Cuban anti-aircraft fire buffeted it. Mellor tried hard to hold onto his lunch.
 
It kept wanting to come back up.
 
He didn't want to puke in front of his men.
 
Many others had failed and the combined odors in the plane from nearly fifty men sweating, farting, and vomiting was nearly overwhelming.
 
He concluded that a jump over hostile Cuba would be a relief, if only to get out of the stench filled plane.

Mellor ruefully concluded that Colonel Rutherford had been correct.
 
The Cubans weren't taking all of this lying down, and they sure as hell had been prepared and waiting.

They were one plane in a flight of twenty-five C54s carrying the battalion and some other people, probably Special Forces or CIA types.
 
Their destination was an airfield outside the city of La Lima in the Oriente Province.
 
It was about twenty miles inland from the north coast of Cuba.
 
Once the airfield was taken, additional planes carrying the rest of the 101st Airborne Division would land and spread out.
 
The 82nd Airborne had a similar task.
 
The army's infantry and armor would land on the north coast and push south through areas taken by the airborne divisions, effectively cutting the eastern portion of Cuba off from the rest of Castro-land.
 
Although not much had been said, it was assumed that the marines would land on the south coast as the army approached the twin targets of Santiago and Guantanamo.
 

Being Airborne and elite, the paratroopers wondered why it was going to take the rest of the American military so long to get to them.

Santini said it was a good plan, but so too was Custer's.
 
"You remember Custer's last words, don't you?"

Mellor snorted, "Yeah.
 
He said don't worry men, there aren't any fucking Indians out here."

They'd been flying for what seemed like forever and evading ground based gunfire for even longer.
 
Mellor's overheard comments from the flight crew said that at least one plane had been hit and had either crashed or been forced to abort.
 
They'd all looked at each other.
 
Was that information they really wanted to know?
 
Those were their buddies on that downed plane.
 

The signal to finally get ready came as a shock and a relief.
 
Pebbles rattled off the plane, echoing inside.
 
The men looked at each other.
 
Flak.
 
The colonel had been right.
 
The Cubans were going to put up a fight for their country.

They stood and faced the now opened hatch.
 
Each man checked the man in front of him.
 
Finally, the order came and they jumped.
 
Mellor had no idea if he’d yelled "Geronimo" or not.
 
It was all a blur of wind and noise.

His chute opened and he saw he was surrounded by many other billowing parachutes in the early morning sky.
 
Good.
 
He would not be alone.
 
Tracers lifted off from the ground, glowing little fireflies looking for soft flesh to rip and tear.
 

A C54 was hit.
 
It lost a wing and began to cartwheel down to the ground.
 
In a horrifyingly short time, it crashed and exploded.
 
He wondered if it had been full or empty.
 
He hoped Santini hadn't been on it, and then realize he was hoping some other poor schmuck had gotten killed instead of him or his buddy and wasn't that greedy of him.
 
Tough shit, he thought.

Mellor hit the ground, tucked and rolled over.
 
He gathered his legs and released the chute which billowed away.
 
There was small arms fire all around him.
 
They had landed in among some Cubans.
 
A shape appeared before him.
 
A Cuban.
 
Mellor pulled the trigger on his carbine.
 
Nothing.
 
He'd forgotten to release the safety.
 
The Cuban fired and missed.
 
Mellor got the safety off, fired several times.
 
The man squealed and flopped to the ground.
 
The poor sap must've been even more scared than me to miss at such close range, Mellor decided.
 
He realized he'd just killed a man, began shaking and threw up.

Gradually, the firefights subsided.
 
Mellor had gotten control and found himself surrounded by a score of men, some of whom were actually from his platoon.
 
The airfield was supposed to be to the east.
 
He checked his compass and led his flock in that direction.
 
Other small groups were doing much the same thing.
 
Everybody knew that a drop would lead to chaos, but it was the job of everyone, especially the junior officers and NCOs, to bring order out of that chaos and accomplish their assigned task.
 
The airfield had to be taken; otherwise there was no reason for the jump.
 
Worse, if they didn't take the field and hold it for reinforcements, it was likely they'd all be killed or captured by thoroughly pissed off Cubans.

As they went, a few more of his men found him and increased his little army.
 
Suddenly, the ground erupted with a series of explosions from about a mile in front of him.
 
Seconds later even more explosions sent shock waves over them.

To his astonishment, the artificial light from the explosions showed that Santini was just a little ways away.
 
"If the Cubans did what I think they did, we are in deep shit," Mellor's friend said.

"And what might that be?" Mellor asked.

"I'll bet they've blown up the runways at the airfield.
 
Yeah, they can be fixed and filled in, but that'll take us a long time, especially since the Commies will be hitting us fast and hard."

"So what do we do next?"

"Assuming Colonel Rutherford survived," Santini said, "I think he'll have us take the field, start filling in the craters as best we can, and be prepared to hold on for as long as we have to.
 
Only thing that's certain is there'll be no reinforcements for us this fine day."

Cuban fighter pilot Captain Miguel Rojas considered it possible that his was the only MiG left in the entire Cuban air force.
 
During the attack on Guantanamo on Christmas day, he'd managed to shoot up some targets on the ground, and, after leading the magnificent attack on Miami, he'd been presented with a medal by Fidel himself, even though his plane had been destroyed shortly after he'd landed.
 
He'd been issued an older model MiG as a replacement, and looked forward to again fighting the Americans.
 
But, when enemy planes finally appeared overhead in great numbers, the orders had been for all pilots to keep any remaining planes on the ground.
 
He'd protested, but been told that it was important to preserve him and his plane for future works.
 

Rojas hadn't been surprised when his plane had been moved to a temporary runway that was little more than a straight dirt road that had been leveled and then covered with phony debris to make it look useless.
 
Every other military base had been hammered by the Americans.
 
He and he others, if there were any others, would stay hidden.

After a few days, his fears of being alone had been allayed. He'd managed to make contact with several of his fellow pilots and concluded that maybe a dozen planes had survived.
 
It might have helped if they'd had the more modern MiG-21s, but those state of the art fighters were reserved for Soviet pilots who weren't taking them anywhere.
 
He grudgingly accepted the fact that he and the others weren't nearly as good as the American pilots and would be overwhelmed and destroyed regardless of what they flew if they had to take on the Americans in combat.
 
Thus, the remaining Cubans flew older model MiG 17s and 19s.
 
Rojas was now assigned an even older MiG 15, a single seater from the Korean War era.
 
He was told that it was all the Cuban air force had left, which was also quite depressing.
 
It carried two 37mm cannon and two 23mm cannon, along with a number of rockets.
 
He sorely missed the more modern MiG 17 he'd flown over Miami.

Rojas understood his assignment.
 
He was not to attack American fighters no matter how much a duel in the sky tempted him.
 
No, he was to attack the transports that carried paratroopers.
 
He accepted this.
 
Rojas was as brave as the next man but to live to a ripe old age.
 
The American pilots and their planes were vastly superior to him.
 
He would do what he could and flee.

Finally, the weeks of waiting were over.
 
Tonight was the night.
 
Excited radio reports told of long lines of American transport planes approaching the coast of Cuba.
 
Fat, slow, and juicy, they were filled with elite American paratroopers.
 
Rojas sat in the cockpit of his plane and nervously fingered the rosary beads his new government said were useless, because there was no such thing as God.
 
He admitted that they might not save him, but caressing them like he had done for the first twenty-five years of his life was comforting.

The order came.
 
His plane raced down the improvised runway, hoping that it was long enough, hoping there were no potholes to hit and knock him sideways, thus ending his life in a fiery ball of jet fuel.

There weren't.
 
Suddenly, he was airborne.
 
The radio guided him to where a flight of American transports was approaching.
 
His orders were to stay very low, get under the planes and erupt among them.
 
It all sounded so simple when it had been explained to him by people who would never have to leave the safety of the ground.

When he judged he was beneath the American planes, he angled upwards sharply.
 
The big fat American planes were flying in columns of three and were silhouetted against the night sky.
 
He reduced his rate of ascent to extend the amount of time he would be under them and slowed his speed to near stall, because they were flying so slowly.
 
If he had to, his MiG could fly twice the speed of the C54.
 
As soon as they were within range, he fired his rockets and then his cannon at the slow-moving targets.
 
The Americans began to juke and try to evade.
 
He laughed.
 
The fox was in the henhouse.