"Thank you, Reverend," Cathy said and hung up. The others were gathered around and staring at her. Andrew had managed to hear the conversation and was breathing heavily in relief. He gave a thumbs-up to the others who all grinned foolishly.
Cathy was crying. She — they — no longer felt so alone and lost. She felt her abdomen cramp. She felt it again and started to laugh. Her period was starting. How hilarious. She'd hated having her period since she'd had her first at age thirteen, and now she was thrilled because it meant she wasn't pregnant by that pig of a Cuban soldier. She wasn't pregnant and they'd contacted the United States. She started to laugh and cry at the same time. Life was good and going to get better. She hoped.
General Juan Ortega munched on a piece of fruit and looked across the table at Colonel, now General, Humberto Cordero, commandant of the prison camp housing the American POWs. "Humberto, if I didn't need you and if you weren't related to my wife I would have you executed, just like I almost did to that maniacal pilot who flew me to Havana and back."
Cordero laughed. "If you did that, my general, you would have no one to trust and no one to make you look good by displaying my own inadequacies."
Ortega sighed. "True enough."
"And if I was so bad, then why would you have promoted me and given me control of all Santiago?"
"I promoted you because you are an honest man in your own way and, despite the fact that you have planned the prison so insanely that the inmates now run it. You have done a reasonably good job considering the human waste matter I gave you as guards."
Cordero smiled. "And now you have blessed me with a militia division of eight thousand untrained and poorly armed men with which I am to defend Santiago from the American hordes. How can I possibly thank you, dear cousin?"
"By delaying them for at least a couple of minutes when they arrive, my equally dear cousin. No, I have no illusions. The Americans can sweep in and retake Guantanamo if they are willing to pay the price. Their planes fly overhead unopposed and attack anything they think is military. If it weren't for the fact that our forces have been disbursed so widely, our losses would already be unacceptable. You have done well by scattering your division throughout the civilian areas of Santiago."
Cordero shrugged. "Which is against the Geneva Convention, but who cares? I didn't sign the damn thing."
"Nor did I and neither did Comrade Fidel, although I have been told to try and adhere to its terms as much as possible. Tell me, what are your thoughts on the American prisoners in your control?"
"They are quiet," Cordero said, "which is worrying. Their senior officer, Major Hartford, is very smart and very clever. I think they are playing a waiting game because they know that escape is virtually impossible. Even if they were to breach the wires, where would they go? This is an island and a host of gringos would stick out like a nun in a whorehouse."
"I am well aware that Cuba is an island," Ortega said. "But are they getting their hands on weapons? Are they in radio contact with the United States? What?"
Cordero sighed. "A few of the uniformed rabble now under my command have managed to lose some weapons and have been severely punished, but I have no idea if they were lost, stolen by Americans for use against us, or stolen by thieves wanting to make some money. As to the yanquis having a radio in camp, we have not picked up any transmissions coming from the camp. We assume they have transistor radio receivers and are following news broadcasts and may well be receiving coded messages."
"Of course."
"And even if we do detect a broadcast, what should we do? I'm certain that any short-wave radio will be small and easy to hide on almost an instant's notice. Just like transistor radios, we would never find them."
"Have you any spies in their camp?" Ortega asked and immediately realized how foolish the question was. American marines and sailors were running the camp under their own officers. They knew each other, which meant spies were out of the question, and the Americans hadn't been in prison long enough to seduce any of them as traitors.
"Forget I asked." Ortega sighed. "Continue to do the best you can. Now, what about those men you found?"
Cordero felt good about this. His patrols had found two seriously wounded sailors hiding just outside the base and had also located a number of bodies in the rubble, largely from the stench.
"The two sailors are recovering and will be sent to Havana so the Swiss can send them to Miami. We have notified the Swiss of the identities of the bodies and they will forward the information to the Americans. We have also located places where the Americans may have buried their dead. We are in no hurry to disinter them, although I will if you so desire it."
Ortega nodded. "I do, but send some prisoners from the camp to do it. They will treat their own dead with more respect. Such considerations will play well with other Latin nations and at the United Nations. Now, what have you heard about those Canadian missionaries? Fidel is concerned that they haven't been located, despite the fact that they managed to telephone their office in Toronto."
Cordero looked at him in disbelief. "Beloved cousin and general, do you and Comrade Fidel truly believe that they are missionaries? Or that they phoned Toronto? I got a report on the names used and compared them with the American roster and they are all on it. Missionaries my ass, my dear cousin, they are Americans marines calling for help, and the woman who made the call is a civilian employee who was among the missing."
Ortega flushed angrily. How could he and his superiors in Havana have been so stupid? Because they were busy gloating over their success and preparing for the American response, that's how.
"You will try to find them, won't you?" Ortega said sweetly.
"Of course. But not to the extent that it detracts from my main goals, which are the control of the prisoners and the defense of Santiago. A half a dozen lost and lonely marines are not a threat to Cuba. By the way, Comrade Fidel's latest speech alluded to secret weapons that will drive away the Americans. What can you say about that?"
Ortega forced himself to smile. "If I told you, it wouldn't be a secret would it? What is the saying — three can keep a secret if two are dead?"
But Ortega had heard the speech and picked up other thinly veiled references from Raul and Che, in addition to what was mentioned in Fidel's speech. What the devil were those people in Havana up to this time?
Andrei Sokolov, once honored to be a major in the rocket forces of the army of the Soviet Union, and an officer in the proud Rocket Regiment stationed near Havana, paced and waited for his contact to show himself.
He had flown from Havana to Mexico City in a plane filled with American wounded. He had been horrified by the extent of the damage to their bodies. Some were blind and others were amputees. The ones who were conscious had stared at him curiously but made no attempt at conversation. Why should they? He was dressed as a civilian. Sokolov had been impressed by their inner strength and stoicism.
Once in Mexico, he had changed into a different set of civilian clothes, bought a cheap old car and driven north. At the border between Mexico and Brownsville, Texas, he'd seen the increased surveillance brought about by the conflict between the U.S. and Cuba and been momentarily stalled. He couldn't pass himself as an American and didn't want to tell everything to an American border guard who might, after all, be as corrupt and inept as they were in the Soviet empire. He heard the Americans weren't corrupt, but who knew for certain?
But that was the bad news. He drove a few dozen miles west, parked the car, which was rattling and dying, and simply walked across the Rio Grande with his shoes tied together and looped over his neck. He barely got his feet wet. Americans derisively called Mexicans who crossed illegally “wetbacks,” but no one was getting his back wet that day.