Castro's Bomb (47 page)

He was through them and one transport had passed only a few feet from his wingtip.
 
Rojas rolled his plane and turned for another sweep.
 
He was out of rockets and almost out of cannon shells.
 
He'd been excited and had fired too fast.
 
He knew he had hit some of them and caused God only knew what damage to the soft flesh jammed within them.
 
Other transports had banked so steeply that anyone inside must be badly injured.
 

He swept along the top of the planes and raked the flight with his remaining ammunition, again fighting a stall.
 
An angry American fighter swept by.
 
It wanted to kill him, but he was too close to the transports and it was too fast.
 
It hurtled past him.
 
He'd hoped for the obvious signs of a plane going down, but no such luck.
 
It occurred to him that he didn't really have to shoot down a transport to accomplish his goal.
 

Rojas ducked down below the transports and leveled off.
 
His day was done.
 
He put the plane on auto-pilot and ejected.
 
A few seconds later he watched as the MiG exploded from American fire. Some American pilot would claim a kill, but far too late.
 
He landed safely, cut away his parachute and began to walk down the first road he came to.
 
He had no idea where he was going and it didn't matter.
 
His war was over.

Manuel Hidalgo found to his surprise and delight that none of his new comrades had any inkling of his disgrace in Santiago.
 
He was issued a new rifle, this one an incredibly old Mauser, and a few bullets.
 
He considered himself lucky to have that relic.
 
Many of his fellow militiamen had shotguns or rifles even older than his.

Manuel's unit's job was to patrol the beaches in case American saboteurs tried to come ashore, keep an eye out for any American warships, and to dig fortifications.
 
But most of all, they dug.

Manuel and the others spent hours each day excavating trenches, filling sandbags, and otherwise working like mules.
 
At the end of the day, they were too tired to try to find liquor or even the occasional woman.
 
Prostitution had been outlawed and, to everyone's surprise, the law seemed to be working, at least in the area along the northeast coast of Cuba.

He'd received several letters from his Aunt Marinda who told him she was organizing a woman's league to try and interfere with the Americans if they should be so foolish as to attempt a landing on the north coast.
 
Manuel quietly wondered just what a bunch of women could do.
 
He hoped they would not attempt anything that would put them in harm's way.

She also informed him that Miguel's former schoolteacher, Mr. Flores, had disappeared along with his wife and two children. At first she'd thought that they'd all been arrested for their acknowledged criticisms of the revolution, but then she’d picked up on the rumor that they'd taken a small boat to Florida.
 
Good riddance, both he and Marinda thought.
 
Anyone who was not for the revolution should indeed get the hell out of a brand new Cuba that was for all people, not just the elite.
 

But was Flores, a teacher in a one room school, part of the elite?
 
Miguel decided he'd have to think that one over.
 
How did a mousy schoolteacher who always wore shabby clothes become part of anybody's elite?

American fighter planes flew over, making a great noise as their jets screeched, and Miguel and the others jumped for cover. They laughed nervously as the Americans never did anything more than fly low and then continue on their way.
 
Maybe they were intentionally tormenting the men on the beaches?
 
Sometimes they'd see in the distance where bombs had fallen as smoke and flames billowed into the sky, but so far they were safe.

Miguel was also proud of his new body.
 
The hard work was creating muscle where there had once only been skin.
 
Maybe when he got home, some of the local girls would give him a look.
 
Of course it would really help if he could get rid of the glasses he wore.
 
He'd never really had a woman, at least not that he remembered.
 
The closest he'd come was that memorable night before his losing his rifle.
 
He'd been told that he’d lost his virginity to that whore from Santiago who was still working for a living.
 
Apparently things were looser in Santiago.

He'd been told that he'd passed out after he’d gotten laid by the
puta
.
 
He knew he’d passed out, but recalled nothing of any sexual conquest.
 
Even if he had, he thought it might not matter since he wouldn't have recalled a thing.
 
How could you say you lost your virginity if you didn't remember it?
 

At least he was safe where he was.
 
Not even the officers thought the Americans would come to where they were.
 
No, it was still the consensus that the attack would come in the south.
 
The bombs falling inland were either nuisance attacks, distractions, or maybe somebody had gotten foolish and exposed a juicy target to the Americans.
 

He did wonder just why there were no Cuban planes in the air.
 
He'd been told it was because they were being saved for the day of the attack, at which time they'd spring out from hiding and shoot down the Americans.
 
It all sounded so good, but others said that all the Cuban planes had been shot down.
 
He had a nagging feeling that this was closer to the truth.

Miguel Hidalgo awoke with a start.
 
Sirens were wailing and men began to rush here and there in confusion.
 
He rolled out of his cot, grabbed his glasses and clothes and dressed quickly.
 
He did not want to go on alert in his underwear.
 
Weapons, normally under lock, were beginning to be handed out.

"What is happening?" he managed to ask.

Americans, came the answer.
 
Ships had been spotted just over the horizon and heading right towards them.
 
Manuel was about to say that the Americans were going to attack in the south and not the north, when a tremendous explosion shook the area, raining dirt on them.

"Bombs," yelled his sergeant just as a pair of American jets flew over, only this time they did not continue on.
 
Instead, they turned and attacked again.
 
Only dimly visible in the half light before dawn, they shrieked low over head, their machine guns and rockets blazing.

Instead of running for their shelters, the Cuban militia headed for the bunkers and trenches they'd worked so hard to build.
 
They poured in and took up station.
 
Miguel squinted out into the vast ocean.
 
It didn't matter.
 
Even with his glasses, which were now very dirty, he couldn't see very much at all.

No, now he could.
 
Dim shapes were appearing on the horizon.
 
Ships, many ships, more ships than he’d ever thought existed.
 
As he watched in disbelief, lights flickered on the horizon.
 
A moment later, shells impacted in the area, destroying the fortifications they'd so recently built.

An officer ran by.
 
"Pull back.
 
Everyone out, we're withdrawing to the second line."

What second line, Miguel thought, and then asked why don't they stay and fight?

His sergeant laughed at him, "Because the fools that put us out here forgot to give us any cannon.
 
All we have to shoot at the Yankee warships are old rifles like yours and old men like me shooting them.
 
Now start running before you get your young ass killed."

Marinda Alvarez waited for the Americans to show their ugly white faces.
 
It didn’t matter to her that many Cubans had white faces and many Americans had black ones.
 
She associated Americans with people with white skin.
 

She and hundreds of women, along with numerous small children, many of whom were screaming in fear, awaited the opportunity to prove what they could do for Cuba and Castro's Revolution.
 
Similar dedicated groups awaited the invaders at a score of other places near the northern shore.
 
Some of the women had even brought their dogs whose yipping added to the din of yelling women and crying children.
 
Fortunately, they were a few miles away from the battle raging in front of her, although that could change very shortly.The women had been thunderstruck by the intensity of the bombardment around the shore only a couple of miles away from them.
 
The noise was unimaginable and a number of her female companions had run off in terror, especially those who’d brought their children.
 
She was unable to blame them.
 
She herself had seen the American warships off the coast and had watched them firing at unseen targets until deciding she was taking a foolish chance.
 
Even though the Americans didn't intentionally target civilians, which was the purpose of her being where she currently was, who knew what accidents and mistakes might occur.

She'd waited until she'd seen the small boats jammed with soldiers heading toward the shore before leaving for the interior where they would put hers and Fidel's plan into effect.

Marinda and the others stood in the open in a field and carried white flags, which they hoped would be interpreted by the Americans as their intent to surrender.
 
She laughed.
 
They were in for a surprise.

Cuban soldiers who'd been manning the meager coastal defenses moved past them.
 
Many looked disheartened and some were wounded.
 
She wanted to treat them, but she had her orders.
 
She and her sisters in arms would await the arrival of the hated Americans.
 
She looked to see her nephew, but he wasn't among them.
 
She prayed for his safety.

An American plane flew low over the field where they waited. Marinda knew very little about warplanes, but even she recognized that it wasn't a fighter or a bomber, just one of the little scout planes.
 
It wasn’t much bigger than a crop-duster that the rich farmers used, sometimes carelessly dumping pesticide on the workers and making them violently ill.
 
What the American pilot would see was a crowd of several hundred women, and even some children, in plain sight in a field and waving white flags.
 
He would draw the conclusion that they were harmless and radio that information on.

Finally, a scout vehicle, a jeep, appeared.
 
Infantry and a handful of tanks followed slowly, warily moving down the road.
 
The Americans were expanding their beachhead.
 
Marinda signaled her companions and they rose almost as one and moved on to the road.

The jeep stopped a few feet in front of them.
 
A young gringo yelled at them in bad Spanish to get out of the road.
 
They didn't move.
 
He nudged his jeep closer until he was almost touching the lead women.
 
He gunned the motor to scare them, but they didn't scare.
 
He leaned on the horn and that didn't work either.
 
Instead, the women moved forward, surrounding the lead vehicles and lying down in front of them.

"You people better get off the road," the American yelled.
 
His face was getting red with anger.
 
The whole American army was slowing up behind him.

The women booed and yelled back.
 
A couple of the Americans flushed and grinned as they recognized the obscenities being hurled in their direction.
 

While the Americans looked on, baffled, more Cuban women lay down in front of the jeep, the tanks, and the armored personnel carriers.
 
Some of the soldiers made to push them away, but the women went limp or resisted, whichever worked.
 
Some women climbed into the jeeps or onto the tanks, while others grabbed onto the arms and legs of bewildered Americans.

The American column was stopped cold.
 
Marinda allowed herself a smile.
 
The scene was repeating itself all over the invasion area.
 
The bravery of Cuban women was stopping the invasion.
 

"Viva Fidel!" they all yelled and Marinda yelled the loudest.
 
The women of Cuba had stopped the Americans.

Chapter Eighteen

President Kennedy took his customary seat in his rocking chair.
 
"Well, gentlemen, how are we doing?
 
Can anyone finally tell me anything definitive?
 
I understand all about that fog of battle crap, but somebody must know something definitive!"
 

Frustration was evident in his voice.
 
The airborne attack on Cuba had begun during the night.
 
Reports had been fragmentary and inconclusive.
 
In frustration he'd gone back to his private quarters and attempted to get some sleep, or at least relax.
 
Making love to a sleepy and unenthusiastic Jackie had provided some relief, but not much and not for long.