Nor was Emilio's goal the re-establishment of the corrupt Batista Regime. No, Batista and his goons were gone along with the casinos and brothels and good riddance. His hope was to establish a democracy in Cuba along with the return of the property taken by Castro's government. He understood that much of it had been given over to Cuban peasants, but that was just too bad. They had received stolen property and would have to return it. Even in America, no one could legally profit from receiving stolen goods. Emilio planned to play a significant role in the future Cuban government and vowed to solve the problem of property rights as equitably as possible.
And if anyone resisted, then they were communists and would get what they deserved.
Stuffed with men and equipment, the Marti left the small port of Aquin on the southern coast of Haiti. There were parts of Haiti that were very close to Guantanamo and he'd thought of launching his attack in that direction, but American naval presence was too strong, and the political impact would not be the same as landing near Havana. No, they would steam south and towards the western tip of Cuba. They would stay on the edge of the American exclusion zone, which had been moved closer to the Cuban shore as a result of protests from other nations who felt that their trade routes to Mexico other Central American nations were being impeded by a war that wasn’t theirs.
The cruise of the Marti was largely unnoticed. An American destroyer hailed them and asked them their destination. Vera Cruz, Mexico, they'd responded. The Marti was registered under her real name and was shown as Panamanian. After a brief delay, she was allowed to proceed.
As they came close to the western tip of Cuba, they turned sharply north. Their radar showed no American ships within fifty miles, although there might be a submarine lurking beneath the waves. Emilio thought it was highly unlikely that the American navy would attack a rust bucket like the Marti.
It was time to make their move. The ship speeded up as best it could and headed to their target, the sleepy port of Playa Malana, about fifty miles from Havana and on the southern coast.
At first, all they saw as they approached the shore were fishing boats and a small number of people staring at the approaching freighter. Emilio laughed. They probably thought the Marti was either lost or having engine problems.
He got as close to shore as he could and lowered the boats and rafts. They were filled with armed men who quickly made it to shore, jumped out of their small craft, and spread out, shouting that the good people of Playa Malana had been liberated from the clutches of the communists and Fidel Castro. Emilio was in the first boat.
"Who the hell are they?" one of his aides asked. Emilio turned to where the aide was pointing. Men in strange uniforms were piling into vehicles and driving away.
"Shoot them," Emilio hollered without thinking, and his men happily complied with a barrage of bullets, but apparently hitting nothing.
Then, one of the vehicles slowed and stopped. The passenger door opened and a man fell out. He tried to crawl away but gave up the effort and collapsed.
Emilio rushed to the vehicle. The driver was dead, but the passenger who’d fallen onto the ground was still alive, although barely. He gave orders for the man to be given medical help. A medic checked quickly and shook his head. The second man was dead as well.
He checked the man's uniform and papers. A chill went up and down his spine when he realized the significance of what he'd done.
He'd just shot and killed two Russian soldiers.
Shit, he thought. He hadn't planned to involve the Soviets. Now what? He heard screaming from behind him. The town's people were yelling and gesticulating at his men who were yelling back. Damn. Along with killing a pair of Russians, it looked like he'd landed his troops at a place that didn't particularly want to be liberated.
No matter. His radio was set up and it was time to broadcast to the world that liberation was at hand and that Castro’s days were numbered.
Sergeant Carlos Gomez lay on his substantial belly while the bullets whipped about him. Someone screamed in agony. That was enough, he swore. That idiot Guevara was going to get him killed.
Only a handful of Americans were advancing and firing, but that was enough since there was less than a handful of Cubans left to fight them. The war had become very small. Che Guevara was with the rocket launcher along with a couple of men who said they knew how to operate it, and that left Gomez and three others to fight off the approaching Americans.
A few days ago, he'd had twenty men, but desertions and the American bombs had whittled that number down to the few who remained. Guevara had grabbed a mobile anti-aircraft battery to help defend his nuke, and that was now a pile of burning scrap along with its crew. Gomez knew it was time to go. The enemy, the damned gringos, was coming in overwhelming strength. It was time for Gomez to leave Guevara to whatever insane plans he had and dig up the money and other valuables he had squirreled away. Gomez smiled. With all his men getting shot, there might not be anyone else to share it with.
The Americans were drawing even closer. One of his remaining men lurched forward, the top of his head blown off. Gore spattered all over Gomez, covering him in blood. Thank you, he said to his dead companion as he threw his own weapon a few feet away. Being unarmed was a chance he would have to take if he wanted to get out of this mess, Guevara's mess. He spread more blood on himself and lay face down, beside and half under his comrade's mangled body.
The Americans were close enough to hear them talk and he watched them through squinted eyes. They saw the bodies and he could hear their comments. One of them, apparently a young officer, ordered them to continue forward. Gomez closed his eyes and held his breath. They were after the launcher and any dead or wounded Cubans were of no concern to them. In a way, Gomez hoped they got to the launcher before Guevara had a chance to light up Guantanamo, but he also admitted to himself that it would be equally pleasant if a number of Americans were consumed in a nuclear fire.
What would be, would be, he decided as he lay, feigning death.
The Americans passed by without giving him a second look. He waited a few moments to give them a chance to get far enough away that they wouldn't see him. Enough, he thought. It was time to leave. He stood and grabbed his rifle. He heard a noise. He was staring right at Cathy Malone.
Cathy saw the man arise from the ground looking like an apparition from hell. He was covered with blood and looked like he should be dead. Instead, he smiled and took a couple of steps toward her. He looked somehow familiar. Then she recalled and it felt like someone had punched her in the gut.
Gomez, Gomez the bastard who had raped her. Gomez was the man who had stripped her like meat and laughed while he violated her in her own apartment and in front of other human filth like him. And now he was standing just a few feet in front of her and laughing, a gun in his hands.
"Pussy," Gomez said laughing. "Now you will come with me and we will finish what we started before I leave this damned island. One more time I will show you how a Cuban man really fucks a woman."
He pointed his automatic rifle in her direction. She was carrying one of her own, but it was pointed downward. She couldn't move. She was paralyzed with shock and growing fear. A part of her said she had to try and kill him, but her body wouldn't obey. Where were the others? Where was her help? She was as alone as the day Gomez had violated her.