Ruiz assured him Ortega was still breathing and that his bleeding had been stabilized by one of the medics who'd accompanied them. With a little decent medical care, the Cuban general should survive, and wouldn't that be interesting.
When they returned to their compound, Major Hartford was more than pleased. Their prisoners from the guard shack were safely inside the camp as was General Ortega who’d begun getting medical help. The medics agreed that he would live, but wouldn't be commanding an army for a long while.
Hartford hoped that, along with decapitating the Cuban command and communications structure, they'd sown enough confusion so that the remaining Cubans wouldn't know exactly where the attack had originated. The Cubans had initially cried “treason,” and he hoped that possibility would confuse them. He also hoped the missing guards from the guard shack would be considered deserters. There had been a lot of desertions lately thanks to the bombings and the threat of an American invasion.
It occurred to him that he was hoping an awful lot.
Now, he thought, it was time to let the Pentagon know what had just gone down and he still didn't have a code to use. He would assume that the Cubans were listening to everything he said and would have to watch his words very, very carefully. He didn't want Cubans trying to liberate Ortega or wreaking vengeance on his largely unarmed command. Damn, he would have to be clever.
General Humberto Cordero thought the bunker was a charnel house. Blood in blackening pools congealed on the floor and the wall, and mangled bodies lay everywhere, stiffening as rigor mortis set in. The handful of survivors, the guards topside and two men in the tunnel, were adamant that the attackers had all been Cubans. They'd worn Cuban uniforms and had spoken Spanish, ergo, they were Cubans.
But why would other Cubans have shot and taken General Ortega? The two wounded men in the tunnel thought he'd been carried out by the attackers, which made no sense. If the idea was to wipe out Ortega's command structure, then why take him along when a bullet in the head would be more efficient.
This had all the earmarks of something Che Guevara would do, but Guevara was out in the countryside with his beloved Russian rocket. Cordero shuddered. That was something he wished his cousin, General Ortega, had never confided in him about. The idea of that maniacal asshole Guevara with his hands on a nuke was frightening.
They had already contacted Havana via short wave and Cordero had even spoken to Fidel himself. Cordero had told Fidel that the attackers had worn Cuban uniforms but he didn't think they were Cubans. Either American Special Forces in disguise or, God help them all, some of the lunatic exiles from Miami. Even Fidel had gone thoughtfully quiet on hearing that opinion.
But who was to command the army? It was locked in mortal combat with the Americans a little more than a score of miles to the north and chaos would ensue if no one was in charge. There were generals more senior and far more experienced in military matters than Cordero out in the field, but they were in no position to coordinate and command. Fidel gave the order to Cordero. First, he was to re-establish communications and then attempt to coordinate their efforts until a new general could be sent from Havana,
Cordero almost snorted on hearing Fidel say that. It would take days, if not longer, for a new general to arrive thanks to American control of the air, and even he, with his limited military experience, knew the crisis point of the battle would have long passed.
He gave the orders to clean up the mess in the bunker and replace what they could of the equipment. A new security detachment was on duty, even though he thought that a repeat of the attack was highly unlikely. The survivors of the old security detachment were sent to the front lines for their collective stupidity. They were told they could either be shot by the Cuban police or take their chances against the Americans. They chose the Americans. Cordero thought they'd take maybe thirty seconds before attempting to surrender.
Without any way to communicate with units in the field, there was little Cordero could do to affect the fighting at the moment. He walked and found himself a little ways from the POW camp. He stared at the rows of tents as a thought grew. He'd been told that yesterday there had been three trucks by the guard shack. No one had thought to ask why the trucks had been parked there. Today, though, the trucks were gone and so were the two men on night duty in the shack and the lieutenant who'd been officer of the guard. Cordero had no idea who the enlisted men were, but the officer had been a young lieutenant who'd talked about his unproven bravery and seemed terrified at the thought of actually going into combat, which had made him a good choice to guard over the prisoners.
The two enlisted men might have deserted, but he had doubts about the lieutenant. The young man had too much to lose, like his life, if he was caught. As an officer he'd be shot and not sent to the front lines to take his chances.
Cordero stared at the sprawling POW camp. The multitude of tents said nothing. A few men were wandering around, but nothing out of the ordinary. The Americans were always wandering around.
Cordero pulled out an old cigar and lit it. He had the nagging feeling that the Americans in the camp were a lot less innocent than they appeared in this matter.
Should he confront Hartford? About what? Had the POWs attacked the bunker? How the hell would they have accomplished that? Had they hidden Special Forces in the camp? A thought, but did he want to use scarce men to scour the camp? Maybe Hartford and the others did know where Ortega was. Would that matter? Everyone said he was badly wounded, if not dead. He would not be commanding the Cuban army for a very long time.
Cordero decided that he would wait. His job was to re-establish communications with Ortega's forces and that would take time. A lot of time.
The silence was deafening. It was a trite phrase that Lieutenant Chris Mellor always thought was oxymoronic and amusing. Today, however, it took on a very real meaning. Where was the intermittent sniper fire? What happened to the shouted obscenities? There was nothing but silence from the close by Cuban lines and that was even more frightening then the hostile sounds that had been replaced by the humming of bugs and the chirping of birds trying to eat the bugs. Cuba's wildlife was trying to return to normal. Why?
Mellor looked at his companions. "Well, I volunteered for this, didn't I?"
They said nothing. A couple looked away. There was only one way to find out why the Cubans were so silent and that was to go out and ask them. Well, not actually ask them, but to crawl out and see what they were up to. A couple of enlisted men had volunteered, but he would go. He was the officer and he would lead. Damn it, why hadn’t he stayed as a civilian until he’d been drafted into the army? With any luck, he’d be a PFC in a supply center in New Jersey counting down the days until he got discharged. No, he had to go and enlist in the Airborne.
Mellor slithered over the dirt embankment, trying to make himself as small as possible. It was only small comfort that a dozen rifles, BARs, and machine guns would open up and provide cover if he needed it. He clearly understood that he'd probably be dead by the time they began laying down covering fire if he truly needed it. Still, it was the thought that counted. That a handful of other men would be following him was also not very helpful. He was the lead dog and he had only one clip of ammunition.
He crawled forward, his carbine tucked in his elbows, and tried very hard to keep his ass down. He felt that his butt was sticking up as a big juicy target. He felt thoroughly exposed and vulnerable and he'd barely begun his journey. They’d guessed that the Cuban lines were only a hundred yards away. He thought he’d gone ten yards. Then twenty. He passed several dead bodies. Some had been dead for a while and stank terribly and had swollen in the heat. Most had been badly mangled and were scarcely recognizable as human. Parts of bodies lay everywhere and a pair of severed heads seemed to be in conversation with each other. The stench was becoming overwhelming and he tried not to vomit lest the noise give him away. The smell had been bad enough back in his shallow trench and while he was crawling, but this was right up close and personal. Obviously, the Cubans thought it was too dangerous to retrieve their dead. He thought Colonel Rutherford would have agreed to a truce to do it if they'd asked.