No, the defense of Guantanamo and Cuba would depend on guile and skill. He grinned. Like his using several of the half dozen ambulances to carry him and his headquarters staff to the battle. The American planes would never attack clearly marked ambulances, which meant he was safe unless he did something stupid, and he was not stupid. He'd even stopped to pick up two wounded Americans assuming that other Marines were watching and that any false move would have resulted in a fire-fight that could have cost him his life. Had he not stopped, observers would have guessed that the ambulances were not real and might have opened fire.
Those two wounded men were with Major Hartford and the others where they would all be treated in accordance with the Geneva Convention. He ducked instinctively as yet another American fighter flew low over the base. The pilot looked down on them, but did not fire. Ortega had won. Guantanamo Bay was once again part of Cuba and Cuban was once again whole.
And he would never permit it to be called Gitmo.
The fifteen old C47 transports carried a total of three hundred well armed and veteran American paratroopers and flew southward in a long, single line. Lt. Col. Ted Romanski tried to relax, but that, of course was impossible. He was going to war.
Along with finding pilots and crew for the transports, it had taken him precious time to get the small number of men available for the interdiction mission organized and on board the transports. Instead of the thousand plus paratroopers he'd hoped for, he'd rounded up only a little more than three hundred. Still, he had his orders. General Bunting had been specific. President Kennedy had given the order for the jump onto Guantanamo and they would do their best to relieve the beleaguered forces at Guantanamo. He was very uncomfortable, but he would do his duty. He always did.
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.