Castro's Bomb (15 page)

Sporadic reports from Gitmo indicated that the place was being overrun, which made him wonder if they'd have anyplace to jump onto.
 
Their plans called for them to land if possible, but they would parachute directly on or near the airfields if they were under fire.
 
But what if they'd fallen, then what?
 
And how the hell would he know?
 
This had all the earmarks of a hastily thrown together disaster, a FUBAR.
 

There was doubt as to whether they'd be getting fighter cover.
 
The Cubans had Russian MiGs among other types of warplanes and lack of cover could be even more disastrous.
 
Romanski wondered if Bunting had had all the info necessary to make a good command decision.

Master Sergeant Wiley Morton sat beside Romanski.
 
He was a short, barrel-chested black man who stared grimly ahead.
 
He hadn't said much, but it was evident from his few comments that he thought the mission was ridiculous at best.
 
Still, he'd volunteered.
 
He'd served with Romanski in the past and was part of the Airborne Training School cadre that Romanski commanded.
 
Romanski totally respected the master sergeant and it was reciprocated.
 

"We're over Cuba," the pilot's voice announced over Romanski's headset.
 
About time, Romanski thought.
 
It seemed like they'd been flying forever.
 
In a very few minutes they'd be over beleaguered Gitmo.
 
He ordered his men to check their gear for the tenth time.
 
Nobody complained.
 
You didn't jump out of a perfectly good plane without checking your gear as often as you could.
 

He wondered what Midge was doing.
 
They'd planned to go to church early and spend the rest of the day celebrating Christmas with the boys.
 
Some celebration they'd be having.
 
At least they'd be having a better day than he would.
 
He hoped his efforts would serve a purpose and not be wasted.
 
He did not want his epitaph to read, "He died for no good reason."

The plane shuddered.
 
He looked at Morton who shrugged impassively.
 
It was anti-aircraft fire and it was dangerously close.
 
Something rattled against the thin side of the plane.
 
Anti-aircraft shells were exploding very close nearby.
 
The plane rocked again and several men lurched forward, cursing but otherwise unhurt.
 
Romanski forced himself to be calm.
 
It was one more thing he couldn't control.
 
If the plane was hit, so be it.
 
He hoped he would either be able to jump or die quickly.
 
He kind of wished he’d gone to Confession.

The pilot's voice came back on.
 
"Colonel, we've been ordered to abort, repeat abort, and return to base.
 
Gitmo has fallen."

Romanski exhaled deeply.
 
Maybe he would get home in time for a late dinner.
 
He immediately regretted the thought.
 
People had been killed on the ground below him.
 

The plane shook violently.
 
"We're hit," said the pilot after a moment's hesitation.
 
"One engine is out and we're losing power.
 
We are not going to make it.
 
Get ready to jump right now!"

Romanski stood.
 
Through the small window he could see the left wing was burning and pieces were flying off.
 
So much for dinner.
 
"Everybody up," he ordered.
 
"Like the man says, we're gonna jump right now."

The hatch opened.
 
He was the ranking officer and should jump first.
 
He thought for an instant that he should let the others go ahead of him, but no, there wasn't time to change places with anyone.
 
The damn plane was going to crash.
 
He suddenly found himself flailing around in the sky.
 
He thought Morton had pushed him.

After what always seemed an eternity, the parachute opened and he was able to look around.
 
A handful of other men had made it out and were still jumping from the plane when it took a direct hit and exploded in a ball of fire, with bodies thrown from the cockpit.

He swore and tried to find the rest of his column of transports.
 
He saw the other planes peeling away and heading north, back to the United States.
 
Another C47 was hit and lost a wing.
 
It tumbled and cart-wheeled into the earth, where it exploded in a ball of fire.
 
Then a third exploded in the sky.

Romanski wanted to weep.
 
So many good men lost and for what reason?
 
Damn it to hell, someone in the Pentagon had fucked up royally and it had to be General Bunting.
 
Lights twinkled up and he realized that Cubans on the ground were shooting at him and the remnants of his command.
 
It was now daylight and there was no place to hide as they fell from the sky.
 
But the Cubans weren't shooting at him that much.
 
They were aiming for a cluster of parachutes well behind him.
 

The ground was coming up quickly.
 
He braced himself for the landing and wondered again if Midge wasn't right and he wasn't too old for this shit.
 
He hit the ground and began the tumble that would soften the impact when his foot caught in something.
 
A sound like a piece of wood breaking was followed by a wave of agony and he nearly passed out from the pain.
 
He felt strong arms lifting him and half-dragging him off to someplace.
 
He couldn't focus his eyes.
 
Had he banged his head?
 
What the hell was going on?

All the captain and crew of the Coast Guard Cutter Willow needed to do was steer for the column of greasy black smoke that could be seen for scores of miles and was billowing from the stern of the damaged Fletcher-class destroyer, the Wallace.
 
The plan was to get close enough for hoses from the Willow to help put out the fire that was raging through the charred mess that had been the destroyer's stern turret.
 

Lt. Commander Watkins could see the five inch guns on the destroyer pointing aimlessly towards the sky.
 
This, he decided, was a good day to help people.
 
Already he had one pilot from a shot down American fighter in sick bay being tended to by Seaman Vitale.
 
The pilot had a broken hip and a multitude of cuts and bruises but would likely make it.

The United States was at war and he wondered if it had anything to do with the CIA agent he'd picked up.
 
He'd probably never know for certain, but he'd bet money that it did.

When the Willow was about two hundred yards from the destroyer, the stern of the Wallace simply exploded.
 
Flames and debris were hurled high into the sky as ammunition in the turret and rear magazine cooked off.
 
Pieces fell on the cutter like shrapnel and Watkins thanked God everyone was wearing helmets and life jackets.
 
Someone screamed when he realized that body parts were part of the debris descending on them.

"That's ugly," he said to his XO, thankful that the explosion hadn't occurred when they were closer.
 
"Lower boats.
 
People must've been blown off into the water.
 
And get the hoses going as quickly as possible."

Harkins relayed the orders.
 
He would control fighting the fire on what remained of the Wallace.
 
Soon they were close enough and hoses sent streams of water onto the destroyer, but without apparent effect on the raging inferno.
 
Explosions still ripped through the ship, sending more debris onto the cutter.
 
Even though all his men were protected by their helmets, they ducked nonetheless.
 
A number were struck and badly bruised.

All too soon the Willow's boats returned with their awful cargo.
 
Many of the wounded had been horribly mangled and burned, while the dead were almost unrecognizable as having once been human beings. The Wallace was badly hurt but not about to sink, at least not yet.
 
The destroyer was a tough bird and her crew had been trained to a high peak of efficiency after patrolling off Cuba during the earlier crisis that could have exploded at any time.
 
The only thing they'd been unprepared for was a Christmas day bombing attack while at anchor in the U.S. Naval Base at Guantanamo Bay.
 
The hull of the Wallace had been opened like a tin can, which, Watkins thought wryly, was what a destroyer was called.

The fire was still dramatic but the destroyer’s skipper radioed that he thought it was coming under control.
 
Watkins hoped so, but had serious doubts.
 
A tug was coming to take the Wallace in tow and would arrive in a couple of hours.
 
A dozen wounded sailors from her were now in the Willow's small sick bay and an equal number of corpses were stored in the freezer.
 
Vitale would need a lot of help with the wounded.

As he said that, another violent explosion suddenly shook the destroyer and lifted her from the water.
 
Broken in half, she sank within a few minutes.
 
Her captain had been terribly wrong.
 
Scores of heads bobbed in the water along with limp and broken bodies.
 
Weeping openly, Watkins ordered his ship to proceed and pick up all they could find.
 
He felt a tug at his sleeve.

"We got orders, sir," said Harkins.
 
"We're to head for Miami with the wounded."

Watkins wiped his tears away and nodded sadly.
 
"Good."

"One last thing, Skipper."

"What?"

"Uh, congratulations.
 
You've been promoted to commander."
   

Chapter Seven

It had suddenly ceased to be a normal Christmas morning.
 
All across the United States, people who were happily opening Christmas presents or making phone calls to relatives began to realize something was terribly wrong.
 
They turned on their televisions and radios and got the message that Cuba had attacked the American base in Cuba.
 
Worse, the military had apparently suffered heavy casualties.
 
War on Christmas Day?
 
It was inconceivable except, of course, for the fact that it was happening.

Frantic phone calls were made to friends and relatives: Did you hear?
 
The Russians just attacked us!
 
People began to pack up and head for the perceived safety of the country.
 
It took a few minutes for many Americans to comprehend that the attack was localized to the eastern end of Cuba.
 
With that, the incipient panic subsided.
 
Still, there was anguish and confusion.
 
What did it mean?

Many didn't even know where Guantanamo Bay was and others wondered why we were fighting.
 
If it was on Cuba, what were we doing there in the first place?
 
Still, nothing changed the basic facts: just like Pearl Harbor, an American base had been the victim of a surprise attack and hundreds, if not thousands of American servicemen and civilians, were dead, wounded, or captured.
 
It was not lost on most people that the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor had also occurred on a Sunday in December and it had been only twenty-one years ago.
 
Someone born that month in 1941 was just now reaching legal adulthood, and could vote and drink.

Children continued to open presents with wide-eyed innocence while older family members wondered just what the impact would be.
 
Would the fighting spread to other places, like Korea or Berlin, where American and Communist forces also confronted each other?
 
Was this part of a greater plot that could result in a nuclear holocaust?
 
What had happened to the peace brokered between Russia and the United States?
 
Every young man wondered about his status in the draft and whether he'd be called up to fight a war in a place he'd likely never heard of – Guantanamo.

Large numbers of people who hadn't planned on going to church this Christmas suddenly changed their minds and all denominations of houses of worship were jammed.
 
Priests and ministers who'd heard about the new war, adjusted their sermons, while those men of God who hadn't heard wondered where all the new people had come from.
 
The crowd was larger than the usual extended Christmas congregation, what was laughingly referred to as the 'pines and palms' Christians, those who came to church only on Christmas and Easter.
 

Those people with fallout shelters decided to see if they were stocked with food and water, while others determined to check on how much they cost to build.
 
Families who had them made plans to move into them very quickly.
 
Perhaps right after Christmas dinner was over and the dishes were cleaned.

Events were particularly traumatic in military households.
 
Phone calls had gone out cancelling leaves and ordering reservists to report for duty.
 
Most were told off the record to finish their Christmas and then get to their stations.
 
The world was not going to end in the next twelve or twenty-four hours.