A thousand faces split in grins. "Bullshit, sir!" they chorused. The intelligence officer tried to pretend he was shocked, simply shocked, at the outburst, but couldn't keep a straight face. He'd said what the Pentagon said to say and he knew it was bullshit, too.
Rutherford smiled back. He knew his men. He'd trained them well. Prepare for the worst, he'd always said, and the best will take care of itself. The weatherman from division really looked shocked. Rutherford smiled at him and thought, well fuck him.
"Men, do you think the Cubans love us?"
"No, sir!"
"Do you think they'll fight like hell to protect their shitty little country from us?"
"Yes, sir!"
"You believe a bunch of flyboys twenty thousand feet in the air with at least one hand on their cocks at all time got each and every Cuban plane, tank, gun, and soldier."
The men were laughing even though the joke was at their expense. "No sir!"
"Well I don't either. I think division has done a fine job but their so-called intelligence estimates are way too optimistic. Any of you ever jump into combat before?" A couple of hands were raised. Rutherford knew who they belonged to. "Yeah, just a couple of old farts like me did it and that was in World War II at Normandy. I was twenty, even younger than some of you men. What happened there was simple. Everything got fucked up. We got shot at, shot down, and pissed on and when we finally landed, and we were miles away from our drop zones. We were scattered, lost, and scared and we had to find our buddies in the night while the god-damned Nazis were trying to kill us. We lost a lot of good men that night, but we finally made it out and kicked their asses, and we will do that tomorrow no matter what happens. Who knows, maybe the intelligence will be right this time, but we ain't gonna count on it are we?"
"No sir!" they roared.
"Good. ‘Cause this time tomorrow we are all gonna be in Cuba one way or the other. Our job is to take that little air field so the rest of the 101st Airborne Division can land behind in nice comfortable airplanes and not have to jump out of otherwise perfectly good ones. And don't be afraid to be afraid. Anybody who isn't afraid is either totally unaware of his world or totally insane. Don't worry about pissing yourself or crapping your pants if you're shot at, because you won't be alone and that'll be the least of your problems. I'll be there with you and I fervently expect to be scared, although I sure as hell hope I don't piss or shit myself. But, scared or not, we are all going to do our jobs."
He paused for effect. "This is going to be a night drop and some of you are thinking about what happened to Roman Force on Christmas. Well, put that out of your minds. Roman Force went in without any real plans and absolutely no cover. No escorts and no preparation was a recipe for a total fuck up. We'll be guided in by scores of air force and navy planes. For once I agree with the intel major. The Cuban air force shows up and it's lights out for them. No, our problems will occur on the ground.
"Men, we are going first. We are the pick of the litter. Everyone here expects to do his best and he expects everyone else to do his best. When that happens, the Cubans will get the message and pull out, at least those who are still alive. God bless you all."
He turned and walked away as waves of cheers and applause washed over him. Rutherford didn't want anyone to see the tears forming.
In the back of the hangar, Second Lieutenant Chris Mellor turned to his buddy, Second Lieutenant Tom Santini. "Tom, we are totally fucked, aren't we?"
"Looks like it, Chris. I just hope I can handle it."
Mellor nodded. Fresh out of officer candidate school, the platoon he now led was his first command and he was appalled at the thought that they were all looking up to him for leadership when what he really wanted to do was throw up at the thought of going into combat. Part of his mind said that every sane man felt that way, but that didn't help very much.
Each had enlisted at eighteen, in part to avoid the specter of the draft which would screw up their lives until their early twenties, and in part because they really wanted to be soldiers. After basic, they'd applied for and passed airborne training and then they'd applied for OCS and aced the training. They were thinking they might make the army a career, although both of them were scared at the thought of making a combat jump. Each wanted to throw up at the thought, but neither would admit it, of course.
The two men stepped outside. Night was beginning to fall. Civilian houses and stores surrounded the temporary base, just outside the wire fence that was patrolled by armed guards. Their lights were reminders of their homes, places where people didn't carry weapons, jump out of airplanes, or try to kill people who were trying to kill them.
"Just curious," Mellor said. "What were you doing when you got the word the Cubans had attacked Gitmo. I was home with my family and planning to go over to my girlfriend's place about lunch time.
Santini said he'd been at his girlfriend's and had been there all night. He grinned wickedly. "I'd already opened my Christmas present at least a couple of times."
Rutherford said they'd all be in Cuba this time tomorrow. What the hell had he gotten himself into, Mellor wondered? Santini grabbed his arm. "C'mon. There's something you've gotta see."
They climbed a fire escape on a building that stood four stories above the ground. It never occurred to them that they might fall. If you're willing to jump out of an airplane, little things like fire escapes are no concern.
"My God," Mellor said as they finally made the rooftop. Laid out in front of them were hundreds, maybe thousands, of two-man pup tents. Most had a small Sterno fire going and glowing in the night. The field of tents extended towards the horizon.
"It's like the Civil War," Santini said. "Like maybe the Union Army encamped the night before Gettysburg."
Mellor reluctantly agreed. He couldn't help but think how many good men had died at Gettysburg.
The C54 rocked as winds and Cuban anti-aircraft fire buffeted it. Mellor tried hard to hold onto his lunch. It kept wanting to come back up. He didn't want to puke in front of his men. Many others had failed and the combined odors in the plane from nearly fifty men sweating, farting, and vomiting was nearly overwhelming. He concluded that a jump over hostile Cuba would be a relief, if only to get out of the stench filled plane.
Mellor ruefully concluded that Colonel Rutherford had been correct. The Cubans weren't taking all of this lying down, and they sure as hell had been prepared and waiting.
They were one plane in a flight of twenty-five C54s carrying the battalion and some other people, probably Special Forces or CIA types. Their destination was an airfield outside the city of La Lima in the Oriente Province. It was about twenty miles inland from the north coast of Cuba. Once the airfield was taken, additional planes carrying the rest of the 101st Airborne Division would land and spread out. The 82nd Airborne had a similar task. The army's infantry and armor would land on the north coast and push south through areas taken by the airborne divisions, effectively cutting the eastern portion of Cuba off from the rest of Castro-land. Although not much had been said, it was assumed that the marines would land on the south coast as the army approached the twin targets of Santiago and Guantanamo.
Being Airborne and elite, the paratroopers wondered why it was going to take the rest of the American military so long to get to them.
Santini said it was a good plan, but so too was Custer's. "You remember Custer's last words, don't you?"
Mellor snorted, "Yeah. He said don't worry men, there aren't any fucking Indians out here."
They'd been flying for what seemed like forever and evading ground based gunfire for even longer. Mellor's overheard comments from the flight crew said that at least one plane had been hit and had either crashed or been forced to abort. They'd all looked at each other. Was that information they really wanted to know? Those were their buddies on that downed plane.