Elena was a desk person and Charley swore he was too, for now and maybe forever. "No more floating away from foreign countries while some idiot tries to fill my little boat and my delicate body full of bullet holes."
More pragmatically, his identity was now blown. "Every commie embassy in the world probably has my passport photo on its wall, if not at the center of their dart board."
"You're inflating your importance," Elena said. "The wall I'll give you, but the dart board belongs to Kennedy. They hate him with a passion."
"How about pictures of me naked as the centerfold of Pravda, or my photo in the bottom of urinals in the Kremlin?"
Elena nearly choked on her soup. They were again in the CIA cafeteria. She was working with McCone on likely Cuban civilian responses, while Charley was babysitting a telephone.
"Any word on the so-called Canadian missionaries?" she asked after recovering her equilibrium.
Charley laughed. "Only from the Canadian Embassy who wondered just who the hell these people were and, oh yes, could they assist in helping the poor demented souls get out or find sanctuary in the Canadian Embassy in Havana? At some point we might have to let the Canadians in on the secret, which would be a shame since most Canadians don't have much of a sense of humor."
"Why did you choose Canada as these so-called missionaries' country of origin, and how come you're doing this and not the Marines?"
"First, Canada is not a military threat to anyone and it's one of those do-good things that you'd expect from Canadian missionaries. As to why us and not the Marines, it's simple. We are good at the clandestine stuff, while the Marines are great at storming beaches and killing the enemy. And yes, there was some grumbling, especially from the Navy, but JFK apparently said they would do it his way, and that meant the CIA. At any rate, thank God for the Canadians. If they didn't exist, we'd have to invent them."
"I know. They're too busy playing hockey to really understand what's going on in the big ugly world. Do you think there are any other American soldiers wandering around Cuba?"
"Elena, I think it's a helluva lot more than likely, which makes it so important that we get in contact with this Ross guy. If we find him and get to communicate with him, we might get a lead on others. In the meantime, we're all in the dark."
Lt. Col. Ted Romanski's busted ankle was improving, but only slightly. He still needed a crutch to walk. He was totally dependent on Sergeant Morton for everything he ate or drank. Fortunately, Sergeant Morton was up to the task. He'd taken all the army’s survival courses and knew what fruits and vegetables were edible and how to track, catch, and cook small animals.
A tree-climbing rodent Morton identified as a ‘jutia’ was caught and cooked by Morton and eaten with gusto. "Does it taste like chicken, colonel?"
"It tastes like rodent, sergeant."
There were mangoes, avocado, papaya, banana, orange, and grapefruit trees in the area. All they had to do was find them.
Romanski couldn't believe how damned depressing he found his situation. And what the devil was Midge doing? How was she making out? Had the mindless boobs at the Pentagon told her he was missing and presumed dead, or just plain missing? Christ, he hoped they hadn't had a funeral for him. Then he wondered if he'd gotten a posthumous promotion and would he have to give it back if he got rescued?
"What are you thinking of, colonel?"
"Just wondering if they held a memorial service for me and who came and what they said."
Morton grinned. "Good question. I'd like to know the same thing. I've got a wife and her relatives are probably trying to get her the money from my life insurance policy. I wonder if people will be glad or embarrassed when we get back. I hope somebody recorded all the nice things people said about me so I can hit them for loans. Ever notice how every dead person is a saint? How come nobody stands up and says that late Uncle Freddie was a drunken shit who beat his wife and molested his children and should've died a lot sooner."
Romanski laughed and stretched his bad leg. It hurt but seemed to help. He'd also like to know more about the half-assed plan to send his several hundred men on a fool's errand. They'd been lucky, after a fashion, that only three planes full of fine young men had been destroyed. He was going to have some frank words with General Josiah Bunting and the hell with the difference in rank. Someone had screwed up royally and dozens of good people had died. And here he was, limping along in the eastern end of Cuba surrounded by tens of thousands of enemy soldiers and eating rodents.
"So let's make it a point to get back home and raise holy hell. Any thoughts, sergeant major?"
"I still think we should head south, toward Gitmo, sir. If anything's going to happen, like a landing or an attack by our guys, it's likely gonna be there or near there."
"I agree."
They understood that getting closer to a likely American landing site would also place them in the heart of Cuban defenses.
"You still don't speak Spanish, do you sergeant?"
"Just fluent Korean, colonel." It was a standing joke. Morton had even facetiously suggested he might try to pass as a North Korean officer.
Morton took out a map of Cuba. They had been moving parallel to a narrow dirt road and it seemed to be leading them to a town called Arroyo Honda, and to their north was a town called Jamaica. At least they hoped it was a town. If it meant the island of Jamaica, they were well and truly lost.
Avoiding towns was a very good idea. Towns meant police and soldiers and nosy people wondering about the two gringos who couldn't speak Spanish. This also meant that traveling was even more arduous then it would normally be and, in Romanski's case, sometimes downright painful. They generally stayed within sight of the road, but out of the view of anyone on it. At least that was their plan and so far it had worked. When they saw traffic or people they scooted down and hid, which further slowed their progress considerably.
Fortunately, there was very little traffic on the road during the day. The fear of American fighter-bombers, which they could see and hear in the sky above them, told even the bravest Cuban to stay out of sight. Romanski and Morton were deeply concerned that they would be spotted and killed by friendly fire. It seemed illogical that a plane would attack two people, but one never knew when a bored pilot might decide to have some fun, and it was far better to be safe than sorry.
During the night, the road was a more active. Columns of infantry, spread out very widely, moved down the road in the direction of Guantanamo. Trucks and what looked like camouflaged armor moved one at a time, and again very widely spaced. It was only a trickle, but a steady trickle.
It meant that they had to be careful where they walked during the day. They might just stumble on to where the Cubans were bivouacking during the day while waiting for the relative safety of night.
"How many miles to go?" Morton asked.
"Too damn many," Romanski said and wondered again just what Midge was doing. He hoped to hell that she wasn't planning a memorial service.
Major Sam Hartford was reasonably pleased at the way his new command was shaping up. Everyone had personal space in a tent, a bunk with a blanket, was protected from the elements, and the food, while bland, was in sufficient quantity and better tasting than they expected. Just as well it was bland, he thought. His stomach rebelled at anything too spicy, which meant that he’d always avoided Cuban food. He knew some of his younger men called him an old fart behind his back, but he didn't have to prove them right.
Colonel Cordero was proving himself to be a reasonably decent person. He'd arranged for clothing to be provided for those who had lost much of their gear in the fighting and had told Hartford that Red Cross packages would be allowed, and that Red Cross representatives would be visiting. The issue of sending and receiving personal mail was still up for debate. Hartford could understand that Cordero didn't want packages or secret information coming and going.