Ortega was stunned. "I'm honored."
Fidel slapped him on the back and handed him a cigar. "Just as we are honored to have you on our side. Now, you and Raul must plan to defend what we have gained."
When Fidel had left, Raul Castro, younger than Fidel by five years, stared hard at Ortega. Raul had the reputation of a man who was far more severe than his older brother when it came to transforming the corrupt and capitalist former Cuba into a socialist economy where there would be neither wealth nor poverty. Many felt that Raul's hard line approach to seizing land and wealth from the rich had resulted in so many tens of thousands fleeing to Florida.
"Comrade General," Raul said, "What do you think the Americans will do now?"
Ortega didn't hesitate. "They will attack us. We have something that they want back very much. The little pinprick air attacks of theirs are of no consequence yet. They lack targets and direction."
Raul smiled grimly. "You are to be congratulated not only on the way you took the base, but how you've managed to keep the Americans from detecting our tanks and soldiers."
Ortega shrugged. "I have good people."
"Where will the yanquis attack? Here or Guantanamo?"
"Like you, I have given it much thought and I feel they will try to retake Guantanamo and the area around it, including Santiago. At least that will be their initial objective."
"Why?"
"Because it is the sore point. We took it from them and they want it back. Like a petulant child wanting his toy returned, the Americans are predictable and that can be to our advantage. Oh, they want Fidel out as president and all their corrupt businesses and gangster cohorts back in charge, but first things first and that means Guantanamo and, very importantly, the liberation of their prisoners at Santiago."
Raul nodded which further encouraged Ortega. "Also, they are afraid of the Russians. And by the way, Comrade Raul, how are our comrades in Moscow taking the little surprise we sprung on them."
Raul smiled. "They are hugely pissed. They are trying to make a brave face, but they have to know now that they cannot shove Cuba around and force an agreement we don't want down our throats. They are coming around, however, and will work with us. They have to. They will not abandon Cuba to be a third rate power. With the Russians, we will dominate the Caribbean and Central America."
"So do you agree with me that Guantanamo will be the American's target?"
"Yes."
"Then how much of the military can I use for defense?"
Raul paused thoughtfully. "Fidel will wish to keep a strong force here in Havana in case we are wrong and in case some fools attempt either a coup or an invasion from Miami. We have roughly four hundred thousand men under arms and more joining every day, thanks to your victory. You had twenty thousand men to attack the base. You will have at least a hundred thousand to defend it, including many of the best, along with approximately two thirds of our armor, artillery, and anti-aircraft guns and missiles."
Ortega beamed. "Excellent. We will make them pay in blood for any attempt to land."
Raul nodded knowingly. "And, comrade general, there are many other things occurring that will make an American landing even bloodier than you can imagine."
Ortega left. The driver and pilot awaited him. He would have to endure another gut-churning flight back to his headquarters in Santiago. But he wondered just what the hell Raul was talking about when he said "other things?"
Major Andrei Sokolov couldn't stand the sight of blood and what he saw before him was nauseating. Sokolov was an engineer, a slightly built technician in his mid-thirties who looked more like a librarian than a soldier. Like a much older man, he needed glasses to read with, but generally kept them in his pocket out of vanity. His field of expertise was rocketry, not infantry, and the sight of the three mangled corpses lying face up on the ground before him made him ill. Six dead eyes were wide open in apparent disbelief, and their throats had been sliced from ear to ear.
Sokolov turned from the slaughter and to the great hole in the barbed wire fence. The muddy trail made by the missing tracked vehicles led through it and down to the road below. The vehicle park was located outside the city of Mariel, in western Cuba and very near Havana. Thousands of Russian soldiers were billeted in the area, but no one had seen or heard a thing. They were probably all drunk, he thought bitterly. If there was one thing the Russian soldier had mastered, it was the art of getting drunk every time he could. Sokolov was not a prude, but he disliked the thought of being out of control and that's what drunkenness meant. Of course, now these three men were out of control forever.
He turned to the very uncomfortable Russian sergeant who had survived the attack. Doubtless the fool had been asleep and as drunk as the other in his guard house, while his three subordinates wandered about the vehicle park and been slaughtered. Perhaps the dead Russian soldiers had been drunk as well. He wondered if that had that made their passage from the land of the living less painful. Sokolov doubted that.
The sergeant was lucky. He would survive with only the loss of his stripes and maybe a few years in a gulag if negligence could be proven or if someone needed to be blamed for the debacle.
"When did this happen?" Sokolov asked.
"I last saw them alive about two in the morning. Everything was fine, comrade major." The sergeant was sweating profusely and had begun to shake as fear began to take over. He'd survived murder, but could he survive the next few weeks?
Of course everything was fine, Sokolov thought. You were probably so drunk you could hardly walk and your men were thrilled to be rid of you so they could get drunk, or even take some of the narcotics that were still so easy to obtain in Comrade Fidel's Socialist Workers Paradise. Like most Russians, Sokolov had utter contempt for the Cubans.
Sokolov glared at the sergeant. Could he be complicit in the thefts? Probably not. He looked terrified, not greedy, but he would leave that up to the subtle interrogation skills of the GRU, the Soviet Army's agency for discipline and spying. If the GRU, or its civilian counterpart and rival, the KGB, even sensed a hint of something treasonous or criminal, they would begin by pulling out the sergeants finger and toe nails, and then get serious with his teeth and testicles. Or at least that was the rumor.
An army staff car pulled up. "Get out of here," he told the sergeant who scurried away like a bug. The sergeant's trousers were wet. He'd pissed himself.
Sokolov saluted General Issa Pliyev, commander of all the Russian forces in Cuba. The general had been briefed on the situation. Pliyev's second in command, Lieutenant General Dankevich emerged from a second car and began to take charge.
"This is awful," Pliyev said and he was not referring to the three dead men. "Although," he sighed, "it could have been worse, a lot worse, although I wonder how."
"They only got two of the vehicles," Sokolov said hopefully.
Pliyev glared at him. "Yes, two P76 tracked launchers that can go anywhere, and four short range Luna nuclear battlefield missiles. What the god damned hell were our fucking fraternal socialist comrades thinking, major? I hope someone fires one of those missiles right up Castro's ass!"
Sokolov was surprised by the tirade. He thought that Pliyev had supported the attack on Guantanamo, which Sokolov had thought was both foolish and dangerous. That danger had led Sokolov to contact the Dutch or American spy, Ulrich Fullmer, or whatever his real name was, and tell him of the threat. Sokolov lived with the gut-churning fear that he'd be discovered. Perhaps this new crime would deflect attention from him, although, in truth, he'd noticed no additional interest in him or his actions. Every Russian in Cuba was being watched by someone, but that was to be expected in a communist state. Perhaps he was paranoid, which wasn't a bad thing to be in a post-Stalin Soviet Union.