Cuba Read Free

in the guidance module were 1950’s
    technology, and Soviet to boot, with the usual
    large, forgiving military tolerances. No one ever
    claimed the guidance system in a Scud I was a
    precision instrument, but it was adequate. The
    guidance system would get the missile into the proper
    neighborhood, more or less, then the warhead
    would do the rest.
    The old warhead had an explosive force equal
    to one hundred thousand tons” equivalent of
    TNT. It wouldn’t flatten all of
    AtlantaAtlanta was a mighty big place and
    getting biggerbut it would make a hell of a dent in
    Georgia. Somewhere in Georgia. With luck, the
    chances were pretty good that the missile would hit
    Georgia.
    The new warhead… well, he knew nothing about it.
    It was a completely different design than the old
    one, although it weighed exactly the same and also
    seemed to be rigged for an airburst, but of course
    there was no way for him to determine the altitude.
    Not that it mattered. The missile had never been
    fired and probably never would be. Its
    capabilities were mere speculation.
    The old man took a last look at the interior
    of the control module, replaced the inspection plate
    and inserted the screws, then carefully tightened each
    one. Then he inspected the cables that led to the
    missile and their connectors. From the platform he could
    also see the hydraulic pistons and arms that would
    lift the cap on the silo, if and when. No leaks
    today.
    Carefully, holding on with both hands, he climbed
    down the ladder to the floor of the silo, which was just a
    grate over a large hole, the fire tube,
    designed so the fiery rocket exhaust would not cook
    the missile before it rose from the silo.
    The rats may have got into the silo when he had the
    cap open, he thought. Yes, that was probably it.
    They got in-
    side, found nothing to eat, began chewing on wire
    insulation to stay alive.
    But the rats were dead.
    His woman was dead, and he soon would be.
    The missile…
    He patted the side of the missile, then began
    climbing the stairs to the control room to do his
    electrical checks.
    Nobody gave a damn about the missile, except
    him and maybe the major. The major didn’t really
    care all that muchthe missile was just a job for him.
    The missile had been the old man’s life. He
    had traded life in Russia as a slave in the
    Strategic Rocket Forces for a life in
    paradise as a slave to a missile that would never be
    fired.
    He thought about Russia as he climbed the
    stairs.
    You make your choices going through life,
    he told himself,
    or the state makes the choices for you. Or God
    does. Whichever, a man must accept life as it
    conies.
    He sat down at the console in the control room,
    ran his fingers over the buttons and switches.
    At least he had never had to fire the missile.
    After all these years taking care of it, that would be
    somewhat like committing suicide.
    Could he do it? Could he fire the missile if
    ordered to do so?
    When he first came to Cuba he had thought deeply
    about that question. Of course he had taken an oath
    to obey disand all that, but he never knew if he really
    could.
    Still didn’t.
    And was going to die not knowing.
    The old man laughed aloud. He liked the sound so
    much he laughed again, louder.
    After all, the joke was really on the communists, who
    sent him here. Amazingly, after all the pain and
    suffering they caused tens of millions of people all
    over the planet, they had given him a good
    life.
    He laughed again because the joke was a good one.
    Guantanamo Bay, on the southeast coast of the
    island of Cuba, is the prettiest spot on the
    planet, thought Rear Admiral Jake
    Grafton, USN.
    He was leaning on the railing on top of the carrier
    United States’s
    superstructure, her island, a place the sailors
    called Steel Beach. Here off-duty crew
    members gathered to soak up some rays and do a few
    calisthenics. Jake Grafton was not normally a
    sun worshiper; at sea he rarely visited
    Steel Beach, preferring to arrange