6) Burn aircraft on airbase (sabotage).
7) Lob mortar shells from outside of base into base.
8) Capture assault teams approaching from the sea.
9) Capture militia group which storms the base.
10) Sabotage ship in harbour; large fires – naphthalene.
11) Sink ship in harbour entrance. Conduct funerals for mock-victims.
b. United States would respond by executing offensive operations to secure water and power supplies, destroying artillery and mortar emplacements which threaten the base.
c. Commence large scale United States military operations.
3 A. “Remember the Maine” incident could be arranged in several forms:
a. We could blow up a US ship in Guantanamo Bay and blame Cuba.
b. We could blow up a drone (unmanned) vessel anywhere in the Cuban waters… the US could follow up with an air/sea rescue operation covered by US fighters to “evacuate” remaining members of the non-existent crew. Casualty lists in US newspapers would cause a helpful wave of national indignation.
4. We could develop a Communist Cuban terror campaign in the Miami area, in other Florida cities and even in Washington. The terror campaign could be pointed at refugees seeking haven in the United States. We could sink a boatload of Cubans enroute to Florida (real or simulated). We could foster attempts on lives of Cuban refugees in the United States even to the extent of wounding in instances to be widely publicized. Exploding a few plastic bombs in carefully chosen spots, the arrest of Cuban agents and the release of prepared documents substantiating Cuban involvement, also would be helpful.
Osamaverse
——
Joe didn’t know what would be helpful or not. There were other people in the hotel dining room and most of them also had Osama Bin Laden paperbacks next to them, and many of them seemed to know each other and were talking, like friends who haven’t seen each other in a while and were busy resuming an interrupted conversation. Joe sipped at his coffee, lit a cigarette, people-watched. The room felt more crowded than it was. He tried to ignore that, tried to ignore the suddenly stifling air, the pressure in his chest that made it difficult to breathe. Voices came at him as if through water:
‘… represents the renewing vitality of the barbarian horde as it storms the walls of Rome –’
‘Sure, it’s the reinvigoration of society – destruction before rebirth –’
‘A reaction to Anglo-Saxon dominant philosophy – the failure of neo-imperialism –’
‘… but is it crime or an act of war?’
‘Depends on who’s telling the story –’ laughter, a waitress carrying glasses of beer to a table, name tag different to the conventioneers, Hi, I’m June.
‘Thank you, um, June,’ two men with beards and hunting vests, clinking glasses – the waitress shrugged, put down their glasses on the table, departed for the bar.
Shadows in the corners of the room, shifting. Voices:
‘They say he lives in an airplane hangar and has food delivered to him, the whole place is empty but for a desk and a typewriter right in the middle of all that space –’
‘Writes like Hemingway, standing up –’
‘I heard from Carl – do you remember Carl – that he was in Oregon at a bookshop and he found some of the Vigilante paperbacks and they were signed –’
‘Bullshit.’
‘Signed, and he spoke to the man in the bookshop and he told him, he told him there was a man who came in once a month, never bought anything, but after he left all the Osama books were signed. He was dressed like a hunter and drove a pickup truck and he had a cabin in the woods, and –’
‘I heard –’ a new voice, a tall thin man with a stoop leaning into the conversation, mug of coffee unsteady in one hand – ‘I heard he was living in the Far East, in Siam somewhere, in an old Buddhist temple in the jungle, all alone but for an old monk who taught him kung-fu, and when he isn’t writing he meditates –’
A man at a nearby table, twisting his torso, putting thick arms on the table, saying: ‘I heard he lives on a yacht that never comes to land, and he has an army of girls on board who follow his every command –’
‘That’s ridiculous –’ from the thin man stooping –
‘One girl follows him around with an ashtray and every time he ashes his cigarette she catches it before it can touch the floor –’
‘Did you read what Bolan wrote in the Osama Gazette last month?’
The four men laughing. ‘A woman!’
‘Well, Mike Longshott is obviously a pseudonym –’
‘It can’t be a woman! The writing is clearly masculine –’
A red-faced man at the other end of the room, standing up abruptly. ‘Hey! For your information –’
‘Oh, hi, Bolan, didn’t see you there –’
‘I said Longshott is a woman, and I stand by that,‘ the red-faced man said.
‘It’s a long shot, Bolan…‘
More laughter. Joe, thinking: The Osama Gazette?
He pushed his chair back, stood up. ‘Excuse me,’ he said. Four male faces turned towards him – reluctantly, it seemed to Joe. ‘What’s this Osama Gazette?’
The men exchanged glances. Clearly, their looks said, this was a stranger, an outsider in their midst. ‘It’s a fanzine,’ one of the men in the hunting vests said.
‘A what?’
‘It’s a small publication dedicated to a scholarly discourse of the Osamaverse.’
‘The w–?’ he decided not to ask.
The man sighed. ‘You can find copies in the dealers’ room,’ he said. ‘It’s already open.’
‘Where’s the dealers’ room?’
‘Out of here, go down the corridor past the elevator and it’s the second door on your left.’ He squinted myopically at Joe’s name badge. ‘Joe. Not seen you around before.’
Joe stared at him, and the bearded man stared back.
‘Oh, I’m just a fan,’ Joe said.
I heart Osama
——
He walked down the corridor and the floor echoed underneath his feet. He tried to ignore the silent figures that stood against the walls, watching him with empty eyes. They were just light falling on dust, conjured by tiredness and caffeine, phantoms that should have been laid to rest in the light of day.
A notice on the door said, in large, spiky, hand-written letters, Dealers’ Room. He opened the door and stepped in.
Tables were arranged with their sides touching each other. There were two rows. The room had the half-festive, half-consecrated feel of a Sunday jumble sale. Joe passed a row of dangling T-shirts. One showed two towers and a flying plane; another had the by-now-familiar face of Osama Bin Laden, staring out of 100% cotton. One said I, was followed by a heart, then Osama. I heart Osama. ‘They’re available in black, blue, red and white,’ a woman told him as he passed. ‘Medium, large and extra-large.’
Then next table had buttons. They repeated the same motifs. The next one had dolls. Numerous Bin Ladens stared at Joe with black button eyes, their soft plush-toy hands limpid at their sides. The next one, books: Medusa Press titles. He picked up one of Countess Szu Szu’s books, leafed through it idly, put it down.
On the next table, Osama pillows. A sign said, Go to bed with the man from your dreams. But Joe never dreamed any more.
He found what he was looking for at the end of the row. A solitary man with the same unkempt look as the others he’d seen at the bar was sitting behind a nearly-empty table, making a meal of his nails. He looked up when Joe approached. His name-tag said Hi! I’m Theo.
‘Hi,’ he said. Then he went back to what remained of his nails.
Joe picked up a publication.
The Osama Poems.
By Theodore Moon.