Fifty yards, and still no reaction from the Cubans. Had they mined the area? Was he crawling over something that was going to explode and rip him apart just like that grenade had disemboweled his good buddy Santini? Jesus, he told himself, stop thinking about it and get the job done.
Mellor tried to peer through the underbrush without exposing himself and realized that he couldn’t. A lot of it had been shot away, but much remained and it blocked his view. Any number of Cubans could be only a few yards away, laughing like hell at the idiot American who was trying to sneak up on them. Why the hell had he volunteered for this patrol? He could have accepted the offers of those guys who’d volunteered, but no, he had to have a sense of duty. Shut up and keep crawling, he told himself.
Why the hell had he gone Airborne in the first place? Because he was crazy, he answered himself. It was a simple answer. Everybody who went Airborne was automatically deemed loony-tunes and here he was proving them correct by trying to sneak up on an enemy army all by his lonesome. Only Airborne were crazy enough to jump out of perfectly good airplanes, or stupid enough to try and sneak up on the Cuban army.
Eighty yards. He was almost there. He could clearly see the Cuban trenches as raw slits in the ground. If the men back in the perimeter had mortars they could have clobbered the Cubans. Of course, so too could the Cubans.
A big damn spider crawled across his hand. He crawled closer. Anybody home? There was no way he was invisible to the Cubans. Anybody in their trenches could see him plain as day. How many weapons were trained on him by grinning Cubans gently squeezing their triggers? Any second now, they'd all open up and blow his ass back to Florida. Some kind of lizard hopped out of the trench and looked at him. It moved away as if offended by his presence. He moved forward to the lip of a trench. He took a deep breath and looked over.
Empty. Just some junk and debris confronted him. Candy wrappers, cigarette butts, and some papers littered the earth. No dead bodies here. The Cubans had been able to remove their dead from this area at least. The Cubans had also removed themselves.
Mellor slipped into the trench and moved carefully in either direction so he could see quite a ways. Nobody home.
He took another deep breath and slowly stood up. The birds continued chirping and that was all. He stood on a mound of dirt and waved his rifle back at the American lines. A moment later, the handful of men following him, this time not crawling, began to slip in beside him. They fanned out and began to explore further. Mellor moved a little ways deeper into what had been the Cuban rear. There was nothing but more trash. The Cuban militia unit they'd been fighting had gone away.
Two hours later, the first airdrop of supplies landed in the paratrooper's expanded perimeter, bringing ammo and medical supplies. Another hour later, the first of a steady train of small helicopters brought in medical personnel and left with the most badly wounded.
Ten hours later, a column of M48 tanks from the First Armored Division arrived at the perimeter. They'd finally punched their way through from the beachhead.
A tanker, a greasy-faced captain, grinned at Mellor. "Hey, Airborne, Kennedy sent us here to rescue you."
Mellor pretended to look puzzled while Colonel Rutherford glared. "Who the fuck said we needed rescuing? If you haven't noticed, tank jockey, the Airborne has the situation well in hand."
There was chaos as the generals and admirals tried to speak at once. It was the first time Charley Kraeger had been invited to an ExComm meeting and he wasn't impressed. He'd expected a lot more in the way of dignity and decorum and these guys were acting like grade school students.
He stood behind Director McCone who had maintained silence. Elena Sandano stood beside him wearing a navy blue jacket and slacks combination that could almost pass for a uniform. The military leaders had brought their own experts, so they were not the only civilians in the very crowded, steamy, and smoky room.
Finally, the president entered and stilled the din. He looked at the angry faces. "I will presume that there is not a consensus regarding what is happening in Cuba," he said wryly.
"That is a very safe assumption," General Taylor said. His face was drawn and Charley wondered when the old man had last slept. "Nobody knows for certain what the hell is going on."
Kennedy grimaced. "Then let's stick with the facts and leave the speculation for later. First, has there been a breakout from the beachhead?"
The army's General Wheeler responded. "There has been, sir. And elements of the First Armored have linked up with that trapped detachment of the 101st. They are being re-supplied and reinforced as we speak, and some of the more seriously wounded evacuated."
"Excellent," Kennedy said softly. The thought of any wounded saddened him. The responsibility came with the job, but he didn't have to like it.
"A number of the wounded have declined to leave," Wheeler continued. "It's a combination of unit pride — they don't want to leave or abandon their buddies, along with an intense dislike of military hospitals."
Kennedy grinned and the others chuckled, lightening the tension. "Having been a guest in a military hospital on more than once occasion, I can understand their motives. I believe the people at Bethesda would have had me handing out bed pans if they could have. But what about the overall condition at the beachhead?"
Taylor continued. "Sir, the Cubans have taken a serious pounding and it looks like their army is starting to fold. That armored column from the First managed to punch its way through without too much difficulty. We now have three full divisions on the ground, plus most of the two airborne divisions. We are expanding the perimeter and moving south. Resistance, while still present, appears to be crumbling."
Kennedy nodded. "Just how much of that is due to the chaos in Santiago? And, by the way, just what the hell actually happened in Santiago?"
Taylor answered. "We are still trying to sort that out. All we know is that an armed group wearing Cuban uniforms hit the supposedly secret headquarters of General Ortega. We know that Ortega is either dead, or badly wounded, or kidnapped, or who knows? Regardless, he's gone and the others on his staff are either dead or wounded. The Cuban army in the east is headless and that is helping our efforts since there's no way they can really coordinate their defenses. That Ortega and his staff have been wiped out are facts. That’s been confirmed by reports to Havana and by people on the ground."
"Good for us, I think," Kennedy said. He wondered what was meant by people on the ground, but decided to ask for a clarification later. "Now, who did it?"
Kraeger stood up straight as McCone answered. "We aren't certain. We have suspicions and a lot of possibilities, but nothing certain."
Kennedy glared. He wanted answers. "Run them by me."
"Sir, the Cubans are speculating, in private I might add, that it was American Special Forces."
Wheeler shook his head. "And we had none in the vicinity. So, as much as I'd like to claim credit for the army, it had to be someone else."