A shame, Hartford thought. That was exactly what he'd wanted to do. He thought they could compromise on sending and getting postcards, and decided to suggest that to Cordero.
He rose and walked from his tent and intentionally took a roundabout path to his destination, the small tent he would use for the conference with his “administration committee.” He hoped that any observers from the guard towers would find it virtually impossible to track the seemingly random movements of the committee members, and if they were being watched, attribute wanderings to boredom. The simple precaution of changing shirts and hats would confuse the guards watching from a distance. Having several hundreds of men milling around would further confuse any observers.
This meeting had been called by Navy Lieutenant William Skronski, who was head of Hartford's intelligence committee. Skronski had volunteered for the position even though he, like everybody else had no experience in being prisoners and gathering intelligence. The young man had seemed bright enough and certainly eager. Hartford had gratefully accepted his offer and wondered how it would turn out.
As Hartford turned a corner, Skronski reached out from a tent and grabbed his arm. "In here quick, sir."
Hartford complied and found him staring at three dark-skinned uniformed Cuban soldiers who were pointing AK47s right at his gut. "What the fuck?"
One of them laughed cruelly and stuck his weapon under Hartford's shin while the other two held guns to the side of his head. The Cuban with the gun under his chin spoke in heavily accented English. "You are under arrest for being a capitalist war monger and for committing crimes against the people of Cuba. You will be tried and then you will be executed."
Hartford turned to Skronski, a difficult task with three guns at his skull. "What have you done to me, you fucking bastard?"
Skronski raised his hand and the three Cubans lowered their weapons. Hartford realized to his chagrin that there were no clips in the guns. They were unloaded.
Skronski was grinning impishly. "Impressive, wasn't it, sir?"
The three "Cubans" were also grinning hugely. Hartford tried to will his heart to slow down and his stomach to stop churning. He had been conned and most effectively. "That was not nice, lieutenant. Well done, but not nice. Now, who the hell are these three guys?"
Skronski signaled and the three men moved to the other side of the tent and stripped off their Cuban uniforms, replacing them with marine and navy gear. "First, sir, I don't think it's a good idea to give you or anyone else their names. What nobody knows they can't tell."
"Good."
"Two of these fine young men are navy and one is a marine. All of them were born in Cuba and emigrated to the U.S. in the last several years. All of them obviously speak fluent Cuban accented Spanish and one of them even grew up here in the Santiago area. And did I mention they hate Castro?"
Hartford felt that his body had returned to normal. "Fantastic."
"We thought you'd like it, major."
"Now where the hell'd you get the uniforms and the guns?"
Skronski laughed. "We simply bought the uniforms from Cuban guards using the money and cigarettes we'd hoarded. Some of the militia are so greedy and crooked they'd sell their mothers if only they knew who they were. All we had to do was set out some feelers and hints and they came sniffing like dogs smelling bitches in heat. As to the guns, we suited up the guys and they went out with other guards and into Santiago itself where about a division of militia is hiding in buildings. Simply put, they stole the AKs, along with a couple of extra clips of ammunition."
"Jesus, Skronski, you have done good."
Skronski grinned happily. The three "Cubans" had disappeared out the tent and into the prison population where they were just three more black guys.
Skronski continued. "There's an armory in town and, since everything is chaotic, we may be able to break in and steal some more guns, although not likely AK47s. There won't be enough to arm everyone, but maybe enough to cause the Cubans some grief when the time comes."
It sounded like thunder but there were no clouds in the sky. Bombs or artillery, they wondered. Bombs, they decided. They were even too far inshore for it to be a naval bombardment.
"Up there," said Williams, pointing to the sky. A flash of light, a reflection as a plane was momentarily visible in the misty clouds.
They spotted another plane, and the pair of them began to swoop down like eagles or hawks dropping on a mouse. They never saw the bombs drop, but they did see a flash of light and then another and then the smoke. A moment later, they felt the explosions.
Cathy had mixed emotions. She wanted to exult that American warplanes were pounding a Cuban target, but she realized that the explosions likely meant that some people had died or been terribly maimed. She thought about praying for them. But they were the people who had killed her friends, destroyed her property and been among the enemy who'd raped her. Perhaps her rapist, this Sergeant Gomez, had just been obliterated by one of the bombs. Would that be a good thing or a bad thing? There were no easy answers in life.
They started to move back to the house when Sergeant Cullen held up a hand. They halted, froze, just like he'd trained them. He turned and said, "Fire drill!"
They moved quickly to the house where they gathered up everything they had. It was like a fire drill they'd practiced repeatedly. Their house was a temporary refuge and now it was time to depart. Run. Nobody asked why, they just ran. The lowest ranking marine among them could have given the command and it would have been obeyed instantly.
They'd gone maybe a quarter mile when Ross called a halt. "What'd you see, sergeant."
Cullen wasn't winded although he was sweating. "Maybe a dozen Cuban troopers moving through the bushes towards us. They were just walking along, not like they were looking for anything. Maybe one of them knew the place was there and thought it would be better than sleeping on the ground."
Why not, Andrew thought. The Cubans had just seen one of their units pasted by American planes and had to be thinking that it might have been them, which made it time to hide and wait until cover of night. It meant that he and the others would be sleeping outdoors tonight unless they could find something they could use for shelter. He thought it would be unlikely they'd find anything as nice as the farm house.
Cathy touched his arm. "Andrew, do you think they'll suspect we were there?"
"I don't think so," he answered. "I'm sure they'll know that other people have occupied the place, but these guys are just militia infantry and it doesn't look like they are looking for us or anybody like us. They'll think it was militia like them just using the place." I hope, he thought.
Gunnery sergeant Cullen plopped down beside them. "That went pretty well. The training paid off and we didn't have to fight our way out of the situation. But I do have some bad news. With all these Cubans moving down the roads at night, we will have to tap into the phones during the day and that means someone might see us."
"I don't like that," Ross said. They had reconstructed at least one phone that should work. But someone working on a line during the day would stand out like a sore thumb, and attention was the last thing they needed. "Do we have enough cord to run into a safe place and bury? Or is there a place the where the phone lines run that isn't close to the road?"