After a thorough search of building and grounds, the fourth missile and warhead were nowhere to be seen. Nor was its carrier. Too bad, Dragan thought, but three out of four was better than nothing. Pliyev would not be totally pleased, however. Dragan was not thrilled either. He had a good idea just who was going to have to search all of Cuba to find it.
The rockets weighed a ton apiece so the Soviet engineers used winches to raise them and carefully remove the three warheads, which were then put in the lead lined containers they'd brought in the trucks. Dragan's orders were to leave the now useless rockets for Castro to play with. Pliyev's actual words suggested that Fidel and Raul could fire them up their asses and see if the two of them achieved earth orbit.
Dragan checked his watch. Almost time to leave. Real guards would be along in an hour or so. The Cubans weren't terribly precise about these things, but it was highly unlikely they'd be early. He decided to exceed his orders by demolishing the engines of the tank chassis and by smashing anything he could on the rockets. They were solid fuel, so the engineers told him not to be overly concerned that he would cause an explosion.
As an added bonus for Fidel and one he knew Pliyev would appreciate, he beheaded one of the two mechanics. He would let the now hysterical sole survivor try and tell his tale.
Manuel Hidalgo's militia uniform fit poorly, but it was a Cuban military uniform and he was proud of it. It was also the finest piece of clothing he'd ever owned in his seventeen years. Unfortunately, he was sweating profusely and it had nothing to do with the oppressive heat. He had disgraced his proud new uniform and nothing could change that fact. If his Aunt Marinda found out she would beat him.
Captain Salazar looked at him coldly. The captain was in charge of the guard detachment overseeing the activities of the American prisoners. Rumor had it that he had been a mortician in civilian life and his gloomy expression did nothing to dispel the rumor. It was hard to tell if the captain was angry, sad, or all of the above.
"You are an idiot," Salazar finally said, coldly and softly, "a complete and utter fool. How the living hell does a soldier go about losing his rifle? You would have been better off if you'd managed to lose your cock."
Manuel gulped. Unfortunately, he had no idea either. It was an M1 Garand, one of those captured from the Americans when the base had been taken. He'd proudly and lovingly cleaned it and oiled it. He was glad to be a soldier, even if it was only as a militiaman guarding helpless prisoners of war. He'd been given minimal training, which included firing the first couple of rounds in his life, and told to shoot any prisoners who tried to escape. He had serious doubts as to whether he could kill anyone, even despised Americans, but he hoped he could do his duty for Cuba.
As to the prisoners, they all seemed docile enough. Some of them even spoke Spanish, which surprised him. So what the devil happened to his rifle?
"Were you drunk?" Salazar asked.
"No, sir."
The captain nodded thoughtfully. "Had you been drinking the night before?"
Manuel winced at the memory. "Yes, sir."
"Let me guess. Some of your new and older friends decided to take you out and introduce you to some of the finer things in life, such as alcohol, and I'll bet they got you thoroughly, totally drunk, and maybe even got you laid for the first time in your idiotic life, and I'll bet you had a hangover this morning that made you wish you were dead and in hell just so it would feel better."
"Yes, sir," Manuel said miserably.
Some of the others had gotten hold of several bottles of Canadian Whisky, Hiram Walker, and they'd all drunk heavily. He'd had rum before, of course, but never American or Canadian whisky and he vowed he never would again. Worse, he slightly remembered trying to have sex with a whore who was almost as old as his aunt and very fat. He shuddered. Maybe it was better he didn’t remember.
"Let me guess some more," Salazar continued. "You managed to make it through your duty and were so tired that you decided to take a nap under a tree near the prison and, when you woke up, it was dark and your rifle was gone along with the two clips of ammunition you'd been issued."
"Yes sir, but I was not drunk on duty and I did not fall asleep on duty. I just took a nap. I had no idea someone would steal my weapon," he said, almost in tears.
Salazar nodded thoughtfully. This poor child should not have been given a rifle in the first place. He should be home with his aunt who was a heroine of the revolution. Damn. What to do with the incompetent boy. And what had happened to Manuel's weapon? It wasn't the first time that a rifle, or even an AK47, had been spirited away. There were those who insisted it was criminals selling the weapons on the black market, and there were others who felt that the American prisoners were somehow getting out of the camp and taking them. He thought the latter was preposterous; however, Fidel's special agent, Dominico Allessandro would be arriving in a few days for a surprise inspection. A friend in Havana had just alerted him to that unwelcome fact. Allessandro wanted to look over the camp records. If the boy was still here and the rifle not found, Manuel Hidalgo might face the firing squad.
Damn it to hell.
Finally, the solution occurred to Salazar. "Idiot, you can no longer stay here and guard anything, not even the kitchens or the latrine. You would hurt yourself in the kitchen and fall into the latrine where you would drown because no one would want to help you. No, you will go to a new unit that is forming on the coast north of La Lima. This is not a second chance, boy; this is your last chance, your only chance."
The boy gave a salute that was sloppy even by militia standards and ran out, thankful that he wasn’t going to be punished. Salazar sighed and allowed that he had done a good thing. The boy was useless as a soldier and he would be away from both the inspection and the coming fighting. Everyone knew that the American attack would come from the south, by the former base and the prison camp. Therefore, the north would was being guarded at this time by third and fourth rate troops. Hidalgo would fit in just fine.
As Manuel ran by the barb wire that enclosed the camp, a handful of the prisoners looked at him and smiled to each other. One more rifle and two clips of ammunition weren't much, but they would help.
Chapter Thirteen
The American jet dropped its bomb and pulled out of its dive. At that moment, a streak of fire lifted from the ground and sped towards it.
"No!" screamed Ross, but there was nothing he or the others could do. It was like watching a horror movie.
The pilot either saw or sensed it at the last moment and tried to juke away. Like the predator it was, the missile followed. The surface to air missile closed in on the plane and smashed into the tail. The tail exploded into a hundred pieces while a large portion of the front of the plane continued on in an obscene parody of flight until it realized it had been killed and plummeted to the ground. There was another explosion, this one mercifully masked from their view by trees. A plume of dark greasy smoke lifted into the sky.
They all looked at each other. "What chance the pilot survived?" Ross asked.
"Slim and none," Cullen answered, "but we still have to check it out. I didn't see a chute but it could've been masked by the explosions."
Cullen stood and stared at Ross. "I'll go. More than one person might attract attention and, besides, I'm the best here at working the ground."
Ross reluctantly agreed, but with a sense of relief. He knew he was competent, but the gunnery sergeant was far superior as a tracker and a war fighter. It also made sense for Cullen to go alone, but what if the pilot was still alive? How would Cullen resolve that problem?
Cullen smiled. Ross was easy to read. "He's probably either very dead or very unhurt and hiding, lieutenant. I'll solve any problem."