"What about using special forces to help locate it?" Kennedy asked.
"Already being done," Taylor answered. "We've got people on the ground trying to locate both Romanski and any possible bomb site."
JFK left and went to the Oval Office where his brother, the attorney general, awaited. "Please tell me you have good news," he asked of Bobby after updating him on the military situation.
"Of course not," Bobby said with a wry smile. "The word that we are not going to force Castro out of Cuba has leaked and is gaining momentum. You can either confirm it by saying something or confirm it by saying nothing. If you say we are going to dump Castro, then the Soviets are going to be pissed off and might use their forces in Cuba to keep him in place."
"Another Hobson's choice,” JFK said and laughed bitterly. “And how did your meetings go?"
"Miserably," Bobby said. "First I met with representatives of the Cuban exiles who are passionately outraged that you are not letting them take over their lost homes and property immediately and that you might let Castro stay in power, which would lock them out forever. To say they are angry is a gross understatement. Their fury is white hot and some of them aren't totally rational. They want a statement of your intent immediately or they will riot again."
JFK glared at his brother. "Let them try. I've had it with their attempts to force my hand. They riot and I'll federalize enough Florida National Guard troops to go in and squash them. Tell them that."
"I did, and they seemed to calm down, at least a little bit. Some of the younger ones want to go in with guns blazing, but the older exiles feel they can keep them in check. The second meeting was with representatives of the, ah, various business groups who've been expelled from Cuba by Castro. I mean, of course, the sugar industry and the gambling people. The sugar barons want their lands and plants back, which will not occur. As we've already discussed, other people are now on those lands and running those plants and factories that are still operational. Trying to take them back would result in either a bloody civil war, or us keeping a huge occupation force in Cuba, which would then become a target of a new crop of revolutionaries."
"Shit," said the president.
"My thoughts exactly, Jack. The gambling entities, and that, of course, means organized crime and the Mafia, want unfettered access to Cuba and they want the good old days back where Cuba was not much more than one great big whorehouse. Again, we all know is not going to happen. Unfortunately, if you do anything less than topple Castro and bring back the old regime and the old whorehouses, you will be persona non grata by them with whatever implications that brings."
Kennedy thought, and that means the Mafia will be angry and nobody in their right mind wants organized crime on their case. "I can do very little for the sugar people, but perhaps we can creatively look the other way when it comes to gambling. Perhaps some more freedom in Nevada might be negotiated."
"A good thought. But J. Edgar Hoover might not like it."
JFK sighed, thinking of all the dirt Hoover had on him and everyone else in Washington. Perhaps it was time for it all to come out. "Fuck Hoover. Anything else?
"Yes, the United Nations General Assembly has condemned us for naked aggression, for using unjustified and extreme military force, and for picking on a tiny communist nation that wants to become a nuclear power and threaten its neighbors," he said sarcastically. "Adlai Stevenson says it's sound and fury and we should ignore it."
JFK concurred. "Fuck the UN," he smiled.
The Cubans were only a hundred yards away. They had already launched one night time attack that the paratroopers from the 101st Airborne Division had beaten off. There had been a lot of the enemy and a number of them had made it to the American lines, resulting in hand to hand fighting, but they hadn't been well led and the attacks had not been well coordinated. As a result the Cubans had taken heavy casualties. Militia and not regulars was the assessment. Like it really mattered, thought Lieutenant Mellor. His unit had suffered heavy casualties as well and they were running out of ammunition.
Colonel Rutherford had gone around their shrinking perimeter and made sure everybody had at least some ammo. Half their number were either dead or wounded or missing from the jump. Along with a shortage of ammo, they lacked medical supplies and food. Food they could do without for a while and there was enough water, but it was demoralizing to be unable to help the wounded. Most of them tried to be stoic despite some terrible wounds, but many were unable to hold back their cries of pain.
Airdrops and re-supply by helicopter had not worked out very well. They'd gotten some of the packages but most of them had fallen outside the perimeter and been gathered up by the Cubans who'd hollered in English, thanking Uncle Sam for his generosity. The helicopter efforts had been even less successful. They'd watched in horror as one was shot down while attempting to get close enough to dump supplies out a hatch. Two badly burned crewmen had been rescued and were in the perimeter with the other wounded.
"Marine, you're gonna die!" came the yell from the disturbingly close by Cuban positions.
"We're airborne, you asshole," an American yelled back.
"Doesn't matter, asshole. Airborne asshole or marine asshole, you're all going to die!"
Mellor shifted over as Rutherford scrunched in beside him. "Speaks really good English, doesn't he, lieutenant?"
"Here they come again!"
A horde of Cuban soldiers emerged from their shallow holes and ran towards the Americans, firing wildly from the hip. Bullets whizzed by, most going wildly into the sky but some smacking into the earth and shrubs that were the paratrooper's cover. The Americans fired back, more slowly and deliberately then the Cubans and with deadly effect. Screams of pain and fear came from all around.
"Grenade!"
Mellor saw the grenade land on the ground by a group of Americans who stared in horrified disbelief. A soldier jumped on it and it went off. His body lifted slightly and then settled limply on the ground.
The Cubans were dying in droves but still came on. Now only yards away, Mellor and the others could hardly miss. Someone hit him and he tumbled back. A Cuban soldier was on top of him, yelling something, and trying to gouge Mellor's eyes out.
Mellor punched the man in the face, but he wouldn't get off. Mellor kneed the man in the genitals, grabbed them, and squeezed with all his strength. The Cuban writhed and fell aside. Mellor grabbed his bayonet and jammed it into the man's chest. The Cuban's body spasmed and then lay limp.
Mellor grabbed his carbine. The Cubans were retreating. Colonel Rutherford was yelling for people to stop firing and conserve their ammo. The cries of ‘medic’ filled the air. More of their small force had fallen. The Cubans were gone, but only for the moment.
A group of soldiers stood over the one who'd sacrificed himself by falling on the grenade. Mellor pushed his way through them and stared at the terrible thing on the ground.
"Aw, Christ," he said. It was his buddy, Santini. The exploding grenade had scooped out his chest and intestines like a giant spoon had worked on him. He must have died instantly. At least they all hoped he had.
Somebody said he'd get a medal, maybe even the big one, the Medal of Honor. Of course they had to get out of their current fix for that to happen. Dead men couldn't write up citations for other dead men. Mellor wondered how many true heroes had died in wars and battles past, and nobody knew about them?
He stripped some ammo from a wounded man. Now he had two clips for his carbine and one for his.45 automatic. With a little luck he had enough firepower to fight maybe a minute. He checked with the rest of his men and found them all in the same situation.