He slipped one hand over her breast and she covered it with hers. He removed it and shifted so that his one hand was inside her blouse. She reached behind and unsnapped her bra so he could caress her bare flesh. She groaned in his ear as he touched her nipples. His touch told her that what Gomez had done could never be forgotten, but it could be compartmentalized and she would lead a normal life and, hopefully, with Andrew Ross.
Enough. They had to stop. The rain had practically ended and the others would be back at any moment. Stopping wasn't fair to either of them, and particularly not to Andrew. She could feel him hard against her. It wasn't fair but life wasn't fair. Cathy gently removed his hands from her body and straightened her clothing as he did likewise. Petting like adolescents was inadequate for both of them, but it would have to do for right now.
"We can't do anything more," she said, “at least not here and now."
"I know," he said with such sadness that she almost laughed.
"I've wanted this to happen for a long time," she said.
"Me too."
"Andrew, you know a Cuban soldier hurt me, don't you?"
"I figured as much."
"And it doesn't bother you?"
"Why should it, Cathy? I'm concerned about you, not me. How are you dealing with it?"
She tucked her head on his shoulder. "Better than I ever thought I could. And now it's going to be even better with you knowing, understanding, and being on my side, and yes, touching me."
Andrew kissed her on the forehead. "I'll always be by your side."
"Will you be with me a year from now?"
He was puzzled. "That depends. Where will you be?"
Cathy giggled, "Lying naked on a bed."
He laughed and hugged her tightly. "Then you know I'll be there."
About fifty yards away, Romanski and Morton looked at each other. Morton chuckled. "I never thought you were such a romantic, colonel? Y'know we could've found a place to keep dry within a couple of feet of those two lovebirds."
Romanski laughed. "Not much fun for them if we did that, now is there?"
He remembered one time when he and Midge had gotten soaked in a rainstorm and made love on the grass while waiting for their clothes to dry. God, he missed her.
Romanski stretched and stood up carefully. The wet weather made his leg ache. "Since it's pretty well stopped raining, I suggest we make some unnecessary noise and return to the happy couple. Cullen and the others could return at any minute and we don't want them to see anything shocking. Marines are such innocents when it comes to love and sex, you know."
Major Sam Hartford looked through the barbed wire fence and tried to feign indifference. It was difficult. The three army trucks parked by the guard shack belonged to him, not the Cuban army. The insignias and unit designations were lies. Skronski had told Ruiz and his buddies to steal them and the assignment had been carried out with aplomb. The real Cubans guarding the prisoners were curious, but that was it. If someone in authority wanted to park some trucks by the guard house, so be it.
Now it was time to do something to help both their situation and the United States military. Ruiz had gotten a good look at General Ortega when he'd unexpectedly popped up during the day. The General had actually spoken with Ruiz who said that Ortega seemed like a friendly, decent sort.
Hartford thought that was just too fucking bad. Ortega was the enemy and who cared if he was kind to puppies and bunnies or had a wife and kids. The man headed the Cuban army in the area and had to go. Hartford's only problem was that he couldn't go with Skronski and the two dozen men who would be riding in the trucks. Thanks to his bad feet he just wasn't agile enough to function when the shit hit the fan.
They waited for night to fall. The guard shack was only twenty feet from the main gate and, during their time in the camp, a tunnel had been carefully dug to it from a nearby prisoner tent. The men slithered through and captured the pair of guards and the lieutenant commanding them without a fuss. The Cubans were bound and gagged. The lieutenant glared at them ferociously, but Skronski had the feeling it was all show. When he winked at the man, the lieutenant shrugged.
The drive through Santiago was uneventful. Their main concern was that American planes might find the three truck convoy a juicy target, so they departed at two minute intervals. Maybe an American pilot wouldn't want to waste a bomb on one truck.
Hide in plain sight was the plan. Skronski got his men out of their trucks two blocks from the entrance to the bunker. Ruiz, who looked and sounded Cuban because he was Cuban, was designated to "command" the column of men in Cuban uniforms. When they got to the entry point, a guard inside the bolted door asked what the hell was going on and Ruiz, with total confidence, loudly told him that the detachment was additional security against American Special Forces, and if nobody had told the guard they were coming, well, what else was new?
The guard grunted and opened the door. The Americans raced in, clubbing the Cubans in the room before they could get off any shots. Skronski started to lead down the steps to the tunnel but Ruiz pulled him aside.
"I think you still need my unique skills, sir. Nothing personal, but no fucking way you're gonna pass for Cuban and every second we fool them counts big."
Skronski agreed and settled for fourth spot behind Ruiz and the two other Hispanic Americans who'd also been prowling around Santiago.
"What is this?" someone asked as they entered the room. The question was one of curiosity, not concern. A dozen men sat behind desks or in front of radio sets. Jesus, thought Skronski, and there's Ortega himself, on the telephone and not even looking in his direction.
A young officer finally saw that the "Cuban" soldiers had their weapons pointed at them. "Treason!" he yelled and was cut down by automatic weapons fire that echoed through the room. Other real Cubans grabbed their weapons and all the Americans opened fire. The effect was shattering and deafening in the closed room. Dust and debris flew as bullets chewed up men and equipment. Cuban soldiers fell and screamed. The Americans reloaded and looked around for more targets. Dust and smoke obscured the room and people were groaning in pain and shock.
There were no more targets. All the Cubans were down in tangled, bloody messes. One American was seriously wounded and two slightly. They'd surprised and overwhelmed the Cubans who probably weren't all that great combat soldiers in the first place. Staff and communications pukes, Skronski thought.
Skronski checked the fallen Cubans for signs of life. A couple of them were still breathing, and that included Ortega who'd been shot in the chest and the arm.
"Take him out and load him in the truck," he said of Ortega. "Do first aid on the others and leave them in the tunnel."
With a little luck, Skronski hoped they'd survive and inform others that their attackers had been fellow Cubans. Treason was what one man had cried out and let them believe that, at least for a little while. As this was being done, others of his group were happily smashing the radio equipment and ripping out wires, letting loose a several month's worth of frustration.
Cautiously, they exited through the tunnel and went outside in the night. Skronski couldn't help but grin. The Cuban guards were where they left them and nobody outside the building had heard a thing. The bunker's thick walls had muffled the sounds of the shootings and the killings. Santiago had slept through it all.
"Now what sir?" Ruiz asked. Even though he wasn't the most senior in rank, Skronski thought it was interesting how the others had deferred to the young man. He would talk to Hartford and see if they could do something about that. Ruiz was definitely officer material.
"We load up and go back to Disneyland," he said. "And then we hope we get rescued before too long. The Cubans are likely to get pissed when they finally figure out that it was really us who disabled their headquarters and kidnapped their commanding general. Hey, he is still alive, isn't he?"