Taylor winced. "I wish I could, Mr. President, but I can't. The Cubans have scattered and disbursed their men and equipment with astonishing speed and skill. The only sizeable numbers of Cuban soldiers our pilots can see are those guarding our POWs, and we're certainly not going to fire on them. We have shot down a couple of their MiGs and we think we destroyed a handful of their armored vehicles along with a number of trucks, but certainly nothing like what we'd hoped. We've lost three more planes to ground fire and their SAM-2 surface to air missiles and that has been an unpleasant surprise. Maybe things will be better when we get more planes in the area, as well as when our reconnaissance planes get their photos developed but likely not. This General Ortega of theirs did a helluva job of planning this thing."
Kennedy stood and Taylor started to as well. The president waved him and the others back to their seats. He just wanted to stand, to walk, to think as well as straighten out the kink in his back.
"All right," he said. "How about plans for attacking Cuba? How are they progressing?"
"We will have several options for you tomorrow afternoon and I would suggest we discuss them in light of what our goals might be."
Yes, Kennedy thought, our goals. What the hell are our goals? "Are any of the options, good ones, General Taylor?"
"No sir."
Chapter Eight
It wasn't much, but at least there was a roof over their heads and a wooden floor and nobody cared that there wasn't any furniture. There were holes in the roof but that wouldn't matter until it rained. The roof was aluminum and any rain would sound like horses running through the place, but beggars couldn't be choosers.
The abandoned frame house was in a stand of trees and in a slight depression in the ground, which meant it wasn't visible from the dirt road about a half mile away. It had four small rooms including a kitchen with a wood burning stove. There was no indoor plumbing. Reasonably clean and fresh water came from an old fashioned well that had to be pumped by hand. Under normal circumstances none of them would have given the place a second look, but this night it was an oasis. They could rest and rejuvenate themselves in relative safety and comfort.
Andrew and Gunnery Sergeant Cullen quickly organized the men into various duties that included cooking and sentry duty, along with listening for news on the radio. Andrew was insistent that they listen for the seven pm NBC news only. He said it was a means of preserving their batteries.
He also inventoried their skills. Did anyone know Morse code? Groth said he did, a little. Practice, he was told and Groth began by tapping a small rock against a larger one until the others told him to either stop or go elsewhere, because he was driving them crazy.
Could anyone build a generator to provide them with renewable electricity when the batteries inevitably failed? PFC Anders volunteered and was hired. And how about building a radio that they could use to transmit as well as receive? Anders blanched but said he'd work on it right after building a generator.
When it came to cooking, everyone automatically turned to Cathy. "You're joking, right? Yes I've cooked before and, granted nobody's died, but I might drive you back to liking C-Rations."
Nobody felt that was very likely, so Cathy said she'd give it a try. She knew it would help for her to do something, to be useful. Lance Corporal Williams said he'd help. "So much for a good college education getting me out of the kitchen," Cathy mockingly lamented. The bad news was that they had nothing to cook.
Later, Cathy sat on the floor beside Andrew with their backs against the wall. "Can I ask you what you're thinking, lieutenant?"
Andrew smiled. "First off, you're not in the Corps, so there's no need to call me anything other than Andrew. Second, I'm trying to plan ahead. This is a totally unexpected experience and I want to make sure I don't screw it up. If I make a mistake, people might die," he said, thinking of the men who had already died under his command.
"I don't want that to happen either," she said softly. "Do you think the owners of this high class hacienda will come back anytime soon?"
He laughed. The building was little more than a shed. "I doubt it. They've gone and probably permanently. Either they lost their jobs at Gitmo when the barbed wire went up and left for parts unknown, or they fled to Miami with a lot of their friends and neighbors, or, more likely, they got some of the better land that's been divvied up and given to the poor by Castro. No, I don't think anybody calls this dump home anymore. But we do have to be careful of Cuban patrols and anybody else wandering into the area."
"What will you do if that happens?"
"Not a clue," he answered truthfully. "Running rather than fighting is what I would choose if I have a choice."
Cathy decided to change the subject. "It's funny, but I don't think I recall seeing you on base. I hope you're not insulted."
"Well, unless you were fascinated by supplies and budgets, you would've had no reason to see me at work and I was just one of a whole lot of identical lieutenants. I remember you, though. I saw you running a lot in the mornings while I was working out myself."
He didn't add that he thought she looked great in a pair of shorts and with sweat dampened tee shirt clinging to her body. Fantastic legs highlighted a nice trim body.
"Wait," she said. "Did you work with Rachel Desmond?"
"Yeah," he answered, knowing where this was going.
"Are you the guy she was trying to fix me up with?"
"Guilty."
Cathy looked at him intently. "She has good judgment, I think. I'm pleased to meet you."
"Me too," he said. "Just wish it was better circumstances."
Cathy looked around. A couple of the men were already asleep and snoring noisily. She would sleep on blankets on the floor of the smaller room. "Thanks for the privacy. I really appreciate it."
"I try to be a gentleman," he said with a grin. She found herself returning it. The awful memories were receding, at least for a moment, although she knew they lurked within her and could emerge at any time. She'd known one girl who'd been assaulted on a date and it had taken her a very long time to get over it, if she ever did. Cathy didn't feel she had a choice. If she didn't control herself, she might not survive.
Now if she could only be sure that her health hadn’t compromised by the possibility of venereal disease and that she wasn't pregnant. The more she thought of it, the more she thought she wasn't, but she was far from certain.
"And not only do I have a private suite to sleep in," she added, "but I understand they've dug me my very own latrine trench. Goodness," she said with a mock southern drawl, "y'all surely know how to show a girl a good time. My own latrine. Why just the thought of it makes me want to up and swoon. And these delicious C-rations? Why you're idea of a Caribbean vacation leaves nothing to be desired."
Her voice had begun to rise. Andrew thought he sensed a note of hysteria, even panic. He gently put his hand on hers and held it. She put hers on top and squeezed hard, fighting back sobs.
"Cathy, before this happened I'd been trying to get Rachel Desmond to introduce us. So, when we get back to the States, and we will get back, I'd like to take you to dinner at the nicest place in Miami or Washington or wherever we wind up. Okay?"
She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "I was a little near the edge just then, wasn't I?"
"I don't blame you. All of us are whipped, emotionally and physically. What we need now is a little rest so we can begin to realize that this isn't a bad dream that's going to go away. Let's face it. When we all wake up, we'll still be here."