First Lieutenant Andrew Ross froze, painfully aware that the only thing even remotely resembling weapon was in his hand and relatively harmless. It's been said that a man was never more vulnerable than when he was relieving himself and now he understood. He was standing over a small slit trench and totally helpless as he peed into it.
But then, the unknown voice had identified himself as an American, hadn't he? "Can I finish before I have to turn around?"
"Please."
Andrew thought he heard the hint of laughter in the tone of voice. He completed his task and faced his accuser, a smallish black man in filthy remnants of an American uniform. The man was holding a Thompson and, while he looked serious, his eyes looked like he was more amused than anything else.
"Who are you?" Andrew asked.
"Master Sergeant Wiley Morton, and the man coming up slowly behind me is Lieutenant Colonel Ted Romanski. He is, was, the commander of Roman Force which was supposed to have parachuted down and helped save you marines the day Gitmo was attacked, so you know just how successful we were. Now, who are you?"
Andrew identified himself and Morton relaxed. "Thought you were an American, lieutenant, but I had to make sure."
"You said you're with a colonel? Does that mean there are more of you?"
"I wish, lieutenant, but something got lost in the translation. Most of the planes aborted but a few, like ours, managed to get shot down. To the best of my knowledge, me and the colonel are the only ones left. You got any food?"
Shit, Andrew thought, just my luck. Two more mouths to feed. The only remotely good thing about losing two more of his guys was that his already stretched rations would last a little bit longer, and now that dubious advantage was gone.
An older white man came out of the shrub. He was limping and using a branch for a cane. "Don't salute, lieutenant."
"No sir."
"As you can tell, I'm in disguise as a crippled bum so nobody will think I'm an officer and a gentleman. Now please don't tell me you're alone. We know better. We followed the trail you left after leaving the place where you were bombed. By the way, the trail looked like a herd of elephants had gone through a cornfield. Didn't anybody teach you anything about covering your tracks?"
Andrew flushed. "We'd just been bombed, colonel, and we were all concussed and shaken and two of my men were killed. We were lucky to get as far as we did."
Romanski softened. "Well, we cleaned up your tracks as best we could, but you might think of hiding a little better. Now, take me to the rest of your group."
A few minutes later and Romanski and Morton had been fed, albeit with C-rations, and given as much information as Ross and his group had.
Romanski looked dolefully at the remnants of his meal. "Never thought I'd actually say I enjoyed this, but I was getting tired of the lizards and snakes Morton was catching."
Morton grinned. "Lizards and snakes are protein, and eating the local grasses will keep you regular, even good for you. I kept you healthy, sir."
"I'm proud of every one of you," Romanski said, turning to the group. "You've had a rough time of it and it would have been so much easier to just give up and surrender." He fixed on Cathy Malone. "And you, young lady, would have been home by now."
"Maybe not, colonel,” she said coldly, "at least not after what I've seen. It's just as likely that I'd be rotting in a ditch somewhere."
Romanski pondered that comment. What had she seen? "Regardless, we're all in it together."
He gestured for Ross to come with him and the two men walked a few yards from the others, just enough to be out of hearing.
"Now what else do you know about the whereabouts of this Russian rocket, the Frog 3?" Ross had given him a quick update before they reached the others.
"Colonel, all I know is that it's supposed to be around here, but that term covers a lot of ground. Literally. We haven't seen anything resembling it."
"And exactly where are we now?"
"About five miles north and east of the base and about the same amount from the ocean. So, if the Cubans plan on using it, I figure it'll be launched from a point near the coast so they can hit our troops massed on the beach."
Romanski nodded and they returned to the group who pretended they hadn't walked off to talk privately. "Ross, you said you have a radio?"
"Had, sir. It got knocked around pretty badly and Ward hasn't been able to make it work."
Ward looked up sadly. "I guess I'm not that smart, colonel."
Romanski laughed. "I'll be the judge of that. Master Sergeant Morton, while you weren't our eating snakes while you were in the Special Forces, didn't they make you learn something about radios?"
"They did, sir. May I assume you want me to work with PFC Ward and see if we can make the thing work?"
"That would be a marvelous idea, and, in your spare time, why don't you kill us some more protein. I've changed my mind; these C-rations really are for shit."
The prison camp was closed up for the day. At sunset, everyone was supposed to be back in their tents. There the Americans could sleep, read, play cards, or anything they wished so long as they were out of sight. The Cubans knew this also meant plotting and scheming, but considered them harmless activities. After all, where could the prisoners go and what could they do?
Searchlights swept the compound looking for curfew violators. The lights were a nuisance to anyone trying to sleep, but that was it, and the Americans adapted to them and their predictable pattern in very short order. When the guards did spot someone skulking around they yelled in Spanish for the man to go back to his quarters. The men quietly disappeared and nobody got hurt. The guards weren't Nazi-like monsters and wanted nothing to do with gunning down helpless prisoners. It was live and let live.
What the guards didn't realize was that the shadows cast by the searchlights striking the tents in such a predictable manner made it fairly easy for prisoners to duck and dodge their way anywhere they wanted to go.
It also applied to a pair of Cuban intruders who attracted no attention from the guards. Even if the intruders had been seen, the guards had been told to make no notice and draw not attention to them. The two men wore American uniforms and had slipped in during the period when the gates were open to permit food to be delivered. They were armed with AK47s, dynamite and timers, and had been sent to find the clandestine radio that Havana said was broadcasting from the camp. Their job was to destroy it and kill the operators if they could be found.
But first they had to locate it among the hundreds of tents in the camp. Look for the antenna, they'd been told and their eyes had scanned the camp from the guard towers during the daylight. They'd spotted a likely target, a tent with a pole that seemed far too high for its needs.
Even though they'd marked the spot, finding it in the dark had proven difficult. They were about ready to give up and try again tomorrow when they spotted it. They grinned at each other and approached carefully. They moved the last few yards on their hands and knees.
There was no guard. They slipped the specially made silencers over the muzzles of their weapons. Their trip was not suicidal. They were to destroy the radio, kill the operators if they could, and get the hell out. A hero's welcome awaited them in Havana.
They opened the flap of the tent and stepped in. What looked like a radio was on a table. They'd barely taken a step towards the bulky item they presumed was the radio when bullets slammed into their chests, hurling them backward, killing them almost instantly.
Major Sam Hartford looked down on the two dead men. His own AK47 had also been silenced, as had the guns held by the others in the tent.