CURSE THE MOON (4 page)

“You mean Atcho?”

“Sí. Only a few people have heard it here in Cuba. It’s a perfect code name. How did he come by the name, anyway?”

Atcho thought a moment. “When he went into the U.S. Army during WW II, a lot of his officer friends had trouble pronouncing Arturo, his first name – so they shortened it to Atcho.”

“Well, it works.”

At dawn, the little bread truck groaned over a rise, veered to the right, and halted. The two men sat up stiffly. Atcho turned the door handle, swung the gate open, and stepped into the morning. His spirits buoyed with the sight that greeted him.

The vista dropped gently across lush, green fields into wide, thick marshland. Atcho moved away from the van to better observe his surroundings. The area was ringed on three sides with thick stands of wild pinones, a rapidly growing tree often used for fences. Vegetation was sparser to the west, breaking into another field encircled by more trees. A cacophony of songbirds, screeching parrots, and loud crickets filled the air. Through the mist, a lone dog sounded his morning warning, and was answered by other dogs nearby. The land sparkled with dew, and a breeze carried the rich scent of wildflowers mixed with dank smell of swamp.

The nearest stand of trees continued into thicker growth. A guide waited for them; the sound of the van driving away nearly drowned his quiet greeting. Without ceremony or delay, he led them down a path that trailed through dense brush. A few minutes later, they arrived at a large bungalow in the center of a clearing.

Inside, a group of around twenty men clustered about the single room. Some, known to Atcho and Juan, greeted them. At one end of the room, several guerrillas grouped respectfully around a burly man in swamp fatigues. The man answered in fluent Spanish with a distinctly American accent. “He’s the CIA man honchoing this meeting,” Juan whispered.

After several minutes, “Burly” called the meeting to order and opened his remarks with normal pleasantries. He assured the counter-revolutionaries of U.S. government support and recalled the close histories of their two countries. “We helped achieve your independence from Spain. What happens to you directly affects us.”

Atcho’s skepticism grew. The atmosphere seemed almost festive. But after reminding himself that Burly’s life was at risk just for being on the island, he listened attentively.

For the next two hours, Burly outlined the general concept, which called for a force of Cuban exiles to execute amphibious landings at locations still to be announced. They would be supported by U.S. naval gunfire and air forces. After a beachhead had been established, a government in exile would be transported to shore, declare itself to the citizens of Cuba, and call for popular support to depose Castro. Then, the new government would request military assistance from the United States, which would deploy Marines to reinforce the invasion. From that point, it would be a cakewalk to Havana.

By the time Burly reached this juncture, the gathering had taken on a carnival air, with shouts of “Cuba Libre!” punctuating his proclamations. Atcho looked around with growing amazement, particularly on seeing Juan swept up in the atmosphere.

“Wait!” Burly shouted over the growing buzz of voices. “Let’s not get carried away! There is still a lot of work to do. We can’t succeed without coordinated effort.”

He outlined assignments for setting up clandestine radio transmitters, seizing existing communications facilities, and clearing brush from potential landing sites. “Many more tons of weapons and ammunition will be air-delivered,” he said, “and teams are needed to guide pilots into drop zones using ground signals.” Others were required to retrieve, transport, and distribute equipment. Medical squads would have to organize, train, and assemble to care for casualties in the field. “And everyone,” Burly stressed, “should help mobilize the population to join the battle! If we fight hard, we’ll win this thing, and Cuba will again be a free country!”

Inside the bungalow, the mood reached fever pitch. Men of all ages shouted, arms piercing the air in wild anticipation of heroic deeds soon to be accomplished. “Before we close,” Burly beamed, “are there any questions?”

Atcho looked around. A few others looked concerned, but they seemed unsure or too nervous to ask. Most already celebrated victory.

Atcho stood. “I have a few questions.” The challenge in his voice surprised even himself. Juan looked up sharply. A hush settled over the room.

Startled, Burly turned to regard the person behind the voice. He saw a tall young man with broad shoulders, and rippling muscles barely disguised under loose clothing. His face and bearing were proud, eyes serious and street-smart.

“What would you like to know?” Burly composed himself.

“Where and when will the invasion take place?” Atcho asked.

Burly coughed nervously. “For security reasons, we can’t yet divulge specifics.”

“Then try this,” Atcho pursued, his tone rising. “When will the next weapons drops take place? Where? What are the signals, and how will you make sure they won’t be lost in the swamp one more time?”

Burly coughed again. “That information is only for those who need to know. I’m sure you understand?” Several in the room voiced nervous agreement.

Juan tugged at Atcho’s sleeve. “What are you doing, Atcho? These people are friends! They want to help!”

Ignoring Juan, Atcho pulled away. “Let’s see. So the people who will do the fighting don’t have a need to know?” He let the question hang. “Bueno!” he continued. “Maybe you can make a valid argument. Let’s try another angle. Who makes up this government in exile?”

Burly stared at him blankly. “You want to know that?” he asked in amazement. “I don’t know that I could tell you, even if I knew!” He paced the room in deep thought. He had not expected an interrogation such as this. Then he relaxed, and a smile returned to his face. “Young man,” he began paternally, “we’re here to help. But surely you understand that we have to be conscious of security at all times.”

“You’re here,” Atcho cut in, “because America fears that Khrushchev will establish a military base right here in your own back yard.” Atcho warmed to his argument. “As for security, where is it around here?”

Men exchanged worried glances and whispered comments. Atcho continued. “When I arrived, I wasn’t challenged. I saw no more than four guards, armed with light weapons, and no one checked my identification. If we are raided while plotting strategy, what is the escape plan?”

Burly peered at him. “Young man, what is your name?”

“I am Tomas.”

Burly peered closely at him. “I have heard of you, Señor Tomas. You must believe in our sincere effort to help your country.”

“I know you’re at risk here, but I don’t fool myself about U.S. motives.”

Burly frowned. “What else bothers you?”

Atcho studied Burly for a moment. He was tall, nearing forty, with cropped steel gray hair wrapped around a balding head. “Mr … uh, Burly. Do you mind if I call you Burly?” He smiled. “It fits. You won’t tell me your real name anyway.” Burly glared at him.

There was no sound in the room. Then Burly relaxed, laughing. “All right, Tomas, but I’m going to stop calling you ‘Señor.’ A snot-nosed kid like you doesn’t deserve respect.” Tension broke. Men breathed easier and even laughed for a moment, but then the room fell silent again.

“Look, Burly. The way I see things, your government asks us to risk our lives supporting an invasion by people we don’t know, for leaders we didn’t choose. Furthermore, we are to do this crazy thing at undesignated places, on a schedule that hasn’t been established. We’ll accomplish this with weapons still to be delivered by unknown procedures at sites not yet chosen.” Noting Burly’s respectful attention and thoughtful expression, he paused for breath. “And I have other major concerns.”

“Let me address those first,” Burly interrupted. “The answers might not be satisfactory, but your points are valid. First, your Cuban exiles of all ages and classes make up the invasion force. They are mostly in Miami, and live for the day to come back home to Cuba. I can’t give evidence. Time is too short.” He strode across the room, rubbing his chin. “I won’t deny, the U.S. sometimes has selfish motives, but credit some humanitarian feeling to those of us who risk our lives by coming here.” A warm chorus of agreement supported him. “As for the government in exile, representatives were elected in Miami by the exiles themselves.” He raised his eyebrows. “But until my government delivered an ultimatum to choose leaders by a given deadline or lose U.S. support, no representatives were chosen.”

A few men groaned. “You’ve convinced me,” one called. “Such absurdity sounds like a Cuban government.” Laughter rippled through the room.

Burly went on. “As for operations, training, and logistics, your questions are good, but without good answers. We’ll coordinate as closely as we can. But to be effective,” he paused, and enunciated deliberately, “you must take initiative here. And let me say one more thing to allay fears. We have successfully done this in Guatemala.”

As soon as he made the statement, Burly’s expression showed he wished he could take it back. Then, bracing himself, he continued. “The exile army is very well-trained. They include soldiers who defected from Cuba’s national army, and are led and staffed by Cuban officers. They call themselves the 2506 Brigade. I can’t tell you where they are being trained. But, if you walked through the swamps in the country I just mentioned, you might see strange things happening.” Laughter rippled again. “Now, Tomas, you have other concerns.”

“Sí. And thank you for being candid.” Atcho suddenly felt a growing respect for the CIA man. He picked his words carefully. “I appreciate that the overthrow of a government was recently accomplished by your organization. But, several factors are different.

“In this case, an amphibious landing is required. Also, you rely on an uprising by the Cuban people. What will cause that uprising?” He paused. “I lost everything to this regime. I hate Castro and all he stands for. Given the opportunity, I would kill him with my bare hands.” He lowered his voice. “But I don’t see strong opposition from the population. People who had no land now have what Castro took from others and let them live on. No one feels the U.S. trade embargo yet, so goods are still plentiful. At this moment, things are better for many in Cuba. And when the embargo is in full effect, they won’t blame Castro. They’ll blame the U.S., and us!”

An outcry erupted. Burly contemplated awhile, and when he spoke again his voice was grave. “You might be right about Cuba’s population,” he said, “and if that’s the case, we’ll have made one hell of a miscalculation.” He paused. “As for the amphibious landing, you know that your guys will be trained and supported by the most successful, experienced landing force in history.” He noted approving reactions. “You had another question?”

“Just one.” Atcho weighed his words. “This situation developed under President Eisenhower. Generally, he was believed to support the effort, but I have doubts about his enthusiasm. For two months now, Kennedy has been the president. What assurance do we have that he supports this operation?”

“My presence here,” Burly answered.

Just then, another voice cut in. “I’d like to answer that.” A distinguished, elderly gentleman in a business suit stood on the opposite side of the room. “My name is Enrique. I was in Key Biscayne in Florida last October.” All heads turned in his direction. “The occasion was a fundraiser held at a friend’s house for Kennedy’s election campaign.” The old man reached for the back of a chair. “Mr. Kennedy himself was in attendance.”

All ears strained to hear. “This fundraiser was mainly sponsored by wealthy Cubans, so naturally, we were interested in Mr. Kennedy’s position regarding Cuba. We asked him the same question about supporting the resistance. Mr. Kennedy replied that he had lost a brother in World War II. He asked how he could do anything else but lend assistance to those struggling for liberty.” The old man’s voice shook. “He said that if we are willing to pay the same price, that is, risk our lives, then he would move heaven and earth to help us.”

“Enrique,” a man called from a far corner. “Do you think Mr. Kennedy is a man of his word, or just a clever politician? Can we trust him?”

“Si,” Enrique said firmly. “I think we can trust President Kennedy.”

Applause erupted, accompanied by loud cheering. Only Atcho and a few others seemed unmoved by the old man’s words. When the noise died, Burly called for quiet. “Tomas, you look doubtful. Do you have more questions?”

Atcho sighed. “No,” he said slowly. “Not more questions, just the same ones. I believe, Burly, that you have done your best to be honest. Thank you. But with so many issues left unclear, I see the probability of success being very small. Meaning no disrespect, I just do not believe Mr. Kennedy will risk all-out war with the Soviets to save this island.”

Gloom replaced momentary elation as Atcho’s rationale sank in. Finally, Burly spoke. “Then Tomas, what will you do?”

Atcho thought deeply in silence for a moment. He straightened to full height. “I will fight,” he said gravely. “It is our only chance to save Cuba.”

The room erupted in cheers, with men hugging and clapping each other on their backs. Suddenly needing fresh air, Atcho turned and strode through the door. Juan followed, watching his young leader with the light of fresh respect in his eyes. “You were brilliant,” he said.

“Juan, that was bullshit in there, and you know it.”

Before Juan could speak, Burly appeared before them, having exited through another door. He extended his hand to Atcho. “I want to shake your hand.”

Atcho gripped it firmly, but stood with feet planted firmly apart, his face expressing respectful skepticism. “I know you want to help,” he said. “I’m just doubtful that you can deliver.”

“Got it,” Burly replied. He started to say something else, but just then other men grouped around Atcho. Several clapped him on the shoulder; others reached in trying to shake his hand. One pushed through and handed Atcho an envelope. It was a letter from Raissa. Atcho took it excitedly, but forced his composure. He excused himself, stepped a few feet away, tore it open, read the first line, and blanched.