Robert Conroy - Castro's bomb

Rusk nodded. "They will. The loss of a couple of men is of no consequence to them if they can get out of this Cuban debacle without any loss of prestige. I am convinced they do not want any more confrontations with us as long as we don't do anything directly against Castro."

Kennedy sighed. He was getting skewered by his political opposition once more who were asking a litany of questions. Where were the American planes needed to support the attack, they asked? Why weren't more marines landing near Havana? Not only were the assaults on him coming from his political enemies, but now they were being aided by former air force chief of staff, Curtis LeMay. His resignation had been offered and immediately accepted, and the man had almost immediately gone on radio and television to proclaim that, in effect, the president of the United States was a gutless fool.

On top of all that and when all of this was done, Kennedy would have to know just how the exiles had formed an army without either the CIA or the FBI knowing about it. J. Edgar Hoover was already likely pissing all over himself trying to come up with excuses or someone else to blame. Of course, each agency had its own jurisdiction and each was filled with petty politics and turf wars. In effect, the CIA and the FBI didn't talk with each other and barely tolerated each other's existence. That too would have to change, he thought.

CIA Director McCone interrupted. "The Soviets have also informed us that all their nuclear warheads are accounted for and that any rumors that they'd lost one were myths or capitalist propaganda, and that they will vehemently deny it if anyone ever brings it up."

Kennedy chuckled. He'd already gotten a preliminary report from Romanski and Ross. The Soviets were lying through their socialist teeth about not losing a nuke, but what else was new? At least they'd recovered the lost weapon and there was no longer a nuclear threat to the marines who, hopefully, were at this moment landing on the southern coast of Cuba.

"And the landings in the south," Kennedy asked.

"Beginning as we speak," Taylor responded.

"And our POWs?"

There was the ongoing fear that the Cubans would try to ship all or some away to Havana and try again to use them as bargaining chips in future negotiations.

Taylor smiled. "Efforts are underway."

The sound of naval gunfire had merged with the thundering crash of bombs exploding in the bay and in the city of Santiago, which had largely been abandoned. The civilian population had prudently headed inland for the hills.

The war was getting closer, much closer. Major Paul Hartford and his command team all wondered the same thing. Was all this fuss about us? And, if so, when the hell would the cavalry arrive? If the bad guys attacked the camp in any force, there could be real problems.

Scouts had reported that so far there seemed to be no massing of Cordero's troops in the area. Perhaps the camp wasn’t that important to them.

Marine Captain Tom Keppel looked toward the night darkened city of Santiago and beyond it with his light sensitive high powered Soviet binoculars that were the envy of his fellow POWs. He'd bought them for twenty dollars from a Cuban soldier who'd happily said he'd stolen them from a Russian. Every so often an explosion blinded him and he cursed.

"Smoke is coming from the west of Santiago, sir. That makes sense if they don't want to attack the city directly, but it does mean that the navy is farther away from us than I would appreciate. I also don't think there'll be Negro cavalry on white horses showing up anytime soon."

Hartford laughed and concurred. The camp was filled with anxiety. In anticipation of being liberated, all of the men had packed whatever worldly goods they'd either brought with them or bought from compliant Cubans. They were ready to move out on a minute's notice, but to where? If Cuban soldiers showed up and tried to move them, should they fight or accept a move to some other place? Hartford and his wife had been to Havana once and had always wanted to see it again, but not under these circumstances. He’d just gotten a letter from her via the Red Cross in which she’d said she was proud of him and hoped they could talk when he was free.

Keppel had laughingly suggested that whether they fought or not it might depend on just how many Cuban soldiers showed up, since, other than their guards, Cuban soldiers seemed in short supply. A handful of guards were in their towers, but the remainder remained in their barracks, sullen, fearful, and angry.

All of the POWs' weapons and ammunition had been distributed. If only a platoon of the enemy, or even a company, came to move them, they'd be able to give a good accounting of themselves, perhaps even drive the Cubans off. Any larger force, however, would soon overwhelm them and inflict great casualties.

Hartford glanced towards Skronski, who nodded. "Enough chatter," Hartford said, "we execute Plan B, as in Bullshit, at two AM, which is forty minutes from now."

Captain Tuttle, chair of the so-called escape committee grinned. His men would execute Plan B as in Bullshit. "Then we have confirmation, sir?"

Hartford refused declined the bait. "Let's just say we're very hopeful."

At two AM precisely, carefully positioned American marines and sailors within the camp opened up with their small arsenal of weapons. Their targets were the watchtowers surrounding the camp. Within seconds, they'd shredded the towers and the men in them. Americans with home-made wire cutters clipped the fence in a number of places and some climbed up the towers in time to turn the machine guns on the guard barracks. The machine guns chattered insanely, ripping the fragile buildings and butchering the Cubans who tried to escape from them, and piling their bodies three and four deep.

Tuttle looked at the carnage. He was pleased. "Oh, they are going to be really pissed. How much time do you think we've bought, sir?"

"Maybe an hour, maybe a little more," Hartford said. All the deaths saddened him, but, as he reminded himself, this was war and war was hell. "Regardless, we get the hell out of here."

"What about our prisoners?" Keppel asked. These were the two gate guards and their lieutenant.

"If they want to come, bring them. Otherwise leave them tied up so Castro's boys can find them and think they didn't cooperate with us. Of course, Ortega goes with us."

Half an hour later, the camp was empty. Two thousand American POWs were winding down a path in the direction of the ocean. If the marines hadn't landed, or if the Cubans decided to follow, or if they were mistaken for Cubans, they would be in deep kim-chee as the old hands from the Korean War liked to say.

As they approached the coast, a handful of heavily armed navy SEALS emerged and guided them. Plan B, as in Bullshit, was operational.

Less than a mile away, General Humberto Cordero watched the exodus through his own binoculars. He couldn't see much, but it was clear that the camp was being evacuated. He had nearly ten thousand men in the area and thought he should send at least a number of them after the prisoners. But his orders were succinct. He was to defend Santiago, and there was no reference to the prisoners; ergo, the prisoners were not part of Havana's plan. He would ignore them.

Besides, he had other issues of a highly personal nature. He turned to his companion. "I sincerely hope this will be remembered."

Charley Kraeger nodded. "You've always been a friend, Umberto."

Cordero chuckled, "Yes, just like you've always been an East German, or a Hollander. I have to admit I was surprised to see you when you showed up here."

Kraeger poured them each another drink. Kraeger wasn't all that fond of vodka, but it was all that Cordero had. To his surprise, Elena hadn't been all that upset when he was tapped to make one more field trip on behalf of the CIA and coordinate with an old contact, Cordero. This, he guaranteed her, was the absolute last time he would leave the United States of America unless he went on vacation. Or a honeymoon, he’d assured her.