Abruptly, Burly called to him and tromped through the foliage. “Tomas, we need to talk.”

  Atcho turned and saw him following hurriedly. “What is it?”

  “You’re sharp, Tomas.” He was either oblivious to Atcho’s discomfiture or ignored it. “Your questions aren’t being asked anywhere else, and as you said, we are often cavalier with your people.”

  “Yes, you are. What’s the point?”

  “Just this, Atcho.” He emphasized the code name.

  Atcho stared, stunned.

  “Yes, Tomas, Eduardo, Atcho. We know your identity and background.”

  Atcho’s expression turned to anger.

  Burly held up two open-faced palms in a beseeching gesture. “Let me explain.

  “Figuring out who you were wasn’t difficult once you began using your contacts to find your daughter. We did some backtracking and found her identity. When Tomas was suddenly taken ill for an extended period, then seen by Clary in a battered condition, we were almost certain Tomas was Atcho. Your reaction to a photograph confirmed the relationship between you and the child.” He lowered his voice. “You can count on my help anytime, Atcho. Remember that. Anytime.”

  Atcho rubbed his eyes and forehead. “I guess I couldn’t keep the secret forever.”

  Juan joined them. Atcho took the letter from him and handed it to the CIA man.

  Burly scanned the note. “This is great.” he said. “Then there’s no reason you can’t do what I just suggested to Juan.”

  Atcho regarded him dubiously.

  “Look,” Burly continued. “There are few men in Cuba with your education and training. The people in this group are brave fighters, but they don’t have the skills for this undertaking.”

  Good choice of words, Atcho thought. Undertaking.

  “We need someone to organize this group—make them effective—someone who can think, ask the right questions, and lead.” Burly’s excitement mounted. “I’ve spoken with the leaders, and we agree. We want you to take charge and lead this local effort.”

  Atcho stared in disbelief. “Are you crazy?”

  Burly drew back at Atcho’s unexpected reaction.

  “Haven’t you paid attention?” Atcho’s voice thundered through the thick underbrush. Juan nudged him to soften his outburst. “Nearly three months ago, my daughter was taken. I had no word of her in all that time. Now I receive a message that she’s safe at home, and you want me to head up a ragtag outfit on a suicide mission? No, amigo. I’m going home.”

  “But you said …” Burly stammered.

  “I said I’d fight. You tell me when and where, and I’ll be there. Personally, I think the effort will fail. I intend to spend as much time as I have left with my daughter.” He stopped and glared at Burly. “Does this operation even have a name?’

  Burly looked startled, then flustered. “Yes,” he said, lowering his voice. “It’s Operation Mongoose.”

  “Operation Mongoose,” Atcho repeated slowly. “I had forgotten.” His voice took on thick sarcasm. “This time the cobra might eat the mongoose.” He turned and left Burly speechless among a small band of men and strode deeper into the marsh.

  “Let me talk to him,” Juan told Burly. When he caught up with Atcho, the two walked in silence. At last Juan spoke. “Are you going straight to your sister’s house?”

  Atcho grunted affirmatively.

  “Do you think it might be a trap?”

  “Of course. I’ll be careful.” More silence.

  “If it’s a trap, Isabel might not be there.”

  Atcho whirled on Juan. “If there’s the slightest chance of saving my daughter, that’s what I’ll do.” His face was distorted in fury. “If you have something to say, say it.”

  “Don’t treat me like this, Atcho,” Juan said steadily. “I don’t deserve it.”

  Atcho sucked in his breath. “You’re right. What’s your point?”

  “You spoke about security. Now you’re running off with no confirmation or support, leaving an organization to flounder when you could help. We can check to see if Isabel is at your sister’s house.” He paused, and then continued. “We might save Cuba or fail, but one thing is certain. We won’t succeed if we don’t fight with all we’ve got.” He placed a strong hand on Atcho’s shoulder. “Go, if you must, my friend. Of all people, I know what you’ve suffered. I’ll never think less of you, whatever you decide.”

  A lump formed in Atcho’s throat. “I need to be alone.”

  Juan nodded and walked back down the path toward the bungalow.

  Atcho sat under a tree and remained there while shadows lengthened, and the sun slid down the western sky. Though he was outwardly impassive, his mind and emotions wrestled with conflicting desires and responsibilities. Why was Isabel returned now? If she really is safe …

  In late afternoon, he walked into the bungalow. Guerrilla leaders seated in a circle eyed him with awe and encouragement. Realization dawned that by now, every man in the room knew his story. Burly stood to one side, watching him uncertainly. Atcho walked over to him and held out his hand. “I apologize,” he said. “You didn’t deserve that.”

  The men in the room stirred. Burly stared at him without expression. Then he stepped close to Atcho, threw his arm around his neck and drew his head down. “You snot-nosed kid. I said you shouldn’t get too much respect.” He grinned, and as others breathed sighs of relief, he whispered to Atcho, “I told you I would help anytime. Count on it.”

  Atcho gave him a friendly punch in the ribs, and then turned to the group. “I’m here to fight,” he said brusquely. Amid warm greetings and encouraging slaps on the back, he raised his hands for quiet. “I have two stipulations. First, I’ll send two scouts to confirm that my daughter is safe. Second, for two weeks, I’ll oversee the planning and training. At that point, if I receive word that Isabel is safe, Juan will represent me while I visit my child. If the invasion begins while I’m gone, I’ll link up with you on the battlefield. Questions?”

  There were none.

  Atcho threw himself into his duties with an unaccustomed light heart, anticipating the day he would leave for Camaguey. He imagined hugging Isabel, then playfully holding her in the air. That alone was worth the fight.

  Four days later, the scouts returned from Camaguey. For a day and a half, they had sat unobserved on a hill overlooking Raissa’s house. They had observed Isabel play in the yard and saw Raissa and her husband moving about. They had seen no evidence that the couple were being guarded or coerced.

  “Using extreme caution” they told Atcho, “you should be able to visit your daughter at a time of your choosing.”

  5

  Two weeks later, Atcho sat on the hill overlooking Raissa’s house. Five men hid in a nearby stand of trees, armed and ready.

  Isabel played outside dressed in a pink dress and pinafore. As she ran through tall grass after a red ball, her dark hair swirled about her shoulders. Seeing again how much she looked like her mother, Atcho’s joy mixed with anguish.

  A crash of thunder shook him. He restrained the urge to rush down and embrace his daughter. Dusk would be the best time to approach the house.

  His mind wandered. For the past two weeks, he had overseen the resistance organization’s planning and training, yet he worried over its preparedness. He recalled his last conversation with Juan. “They’re not even close to ready.”

  “We knew that when we started,” Juan had replied. “They’ll do what they can and fight bravely. They’ll be more effective because of your help.”

  Atcho had bearhugged his friend. “Thank you for everything. I would not have survived without you.”

  “Take care of yourself and Isabel. I’ll see you in a week.” They had bid each other farewell.

  Now, Atcho scanned the horizon. Dark clouds gathered, gaining size and altitude. A steady breeze blew dust over open fields, and a few scattered showers appeared across the landscape. Moments later, heavy rain hit the ground.

  Isabel ran into the house.

  In his hiding place, Atcho felt for the pistol in his coat pocket. He stepped out where he could see one of his fighters, waved, and received a return signal. His men were ready.

  He looked at the sky again. Lightning shot out of angry clouds. Thunder rumbled as darkness descended.

  Atcho stepped onto the road. His heart beat faster as he came within twenty yards of the house. Through a window, he saw Raissa working over the kitchen sink. She looked tired, with dark circles under her eyes. Atcho remembered the sparkle they had once held.

  She looked up and saw him. A horrified expression crossed her face.

  Alarmed, Atcho increased his speed, but moved into shadows. His men followed.

  Raissa disappeared from the window and reappeared momentarily, carrying Isabel. Her husband joined her. She squinted into the gathering dusk. Behind them a fourth, unfamiliar figure loomed. Catching Atcho’s movement, Raissa pointed him out. Then they left the window.

  Atcho’s senses piqued, he heard a Jeep’s engine. Pulling the pistol from his jacket, he ran for cover, away from the house.

  Moments later, from his vantage point behind low bushes, Atcho watched in dismay as a Jeep sped from around the house and down the road. A cold wind struck him. Ominous, rolling thunder echoed across open fields.

  One of Atcho’s men crept up beside him. “What happened?”

  Atcho shook his head. “I don’t know. Raissa saw me, and then someone I don’t know appeared. Did you see who was in the Jeep?”

  “No, it was too dark. They must have been milicianos. I’ll take a couple of guys and check out the house. We’ll signal when it’s safe.”

  A few minutes later, the man signaled an all-clear. Atcho left his position and walked around the house, up the front steps, and into the sitting room. The place was empty.

  An envelope lay on the kitchen table, one single word scrawled on its surface in an unfamiliar hand: “Atcho.” He tore it open.

  The invasion will fail. Planning and coordination are incredibly poor, and the United States does not have the political will to win. This island belongs to the Soviet Union. And you, Atcho, belong to me.

  Captain Govorov

  6

  With a roar, Atcho splintered a wooden chair across the kitchen table. Watching from the dining room, his men exchanged nervous glances. They had never seen their leader like this. He stood in the middle of the room, head and shoulders drooping, arms and hands limp at his side. Finally, he leaned against the window, motionless.

  Outside, claps of thunder echoed across the turbulent sky. Atcho’s men kept watchful eyes. The wind moaned against the house, howling through crevices. Still, Atcho made no move. Two hours passed, then he strode across the room, neither looking nor speaking to anyone. Flinging the door open, he walked into the stormy night. Two men started after him but were restrained by another with a shake of his head.

  At the other end of the yard, Atcho leaned with his back against a wind-lashed oak. Gusts whipped his hair across his face. Rain fell in driven sheets, pouring cold water down his collar onto his back.

  Lightning stabbed through roiling thunderclouds, hurling a shaft of flame, striking the top of the tree and into the depths of Atcho’s soul. A large branch fell, landing next to him in a mass of drenched leaves. He took no notice.

  His mind turned to cold calculation. Govorov. The words of the Russian’s note were engraved on his mind. And you, Atcho, belong to me.

  Atcho’s mind kicked into gear and he reviewed the events of the last few hours. His sister and her husband had been threatened, or they would not have acted as they did. Whoever had guarded his family had rushed away, with no attempt to trade Atcho’s freedom for Isabel’s.

  No gunfire had been exchanged. As in the first encounter, there had been no attempt to pursue. Disrupting my group could be done without a Soviet captain or kidnapping a child. Something Govorov said the night of the firefight tugged at Atcho’s mind. What you look like is what we wanted to know.

  “Govorov,” he cried aloud. “What do you want from me?”

  Finally, the storm passed and with it, most of the clouds. Lifting his head, Atcho saw stars glimmering in the rain-washed night. He peered through the darkness. No light glowed from the house, but he knew that his men kept watch over him.

  He walked to a high knoll not far from where he had stood under the oak tree. When he reached the top, starlight revealed the blackened ruins of his boyhood home. The mansion lay in desolation, scorched bricks and timber scattered in ghostly piles.

  He looked beyond the house to the ruins of a long, low building that had once housed his father’s prize horses. Then he gazed over the weed-infested sugarcane fields where laborers had toiled, and he had raced with his father on horseback.

  He remembered pride on his parents’ faces the day he had left for West Point and the day four years later when he brought his future bride to this very house. Breathtakingly beautiful, Isabel Arteaga had bewitched him and enchanted his family. It was here that she had died giving birth to their daughter, Isabelita. He dropped his head. Life without my wife, my family, is no life at all.

  Slowly, reluctantly, he walked back down the hill to his sister’s house. As he passed the oak tree, a low voice called to him. He recognized Miguel, one of his men. “Atcho, the invasion has begun.”

  “What?” Foreboding gripped Atcho. “Where are the others?”

  “On the hill. They moved away from the house in case the milicianos came back. I stayed here to wait for you.”

  “How do you know about the invasion?”

  “We heard it on the radio in your sister’s house. The Americans bombed the air base outside Havana, Camp Columbia. Castro ordered the army to set up checkpoints on the major highways. We have to go.”

  Atcho grimaced. I don’t even believe the invasion will succeed. “Let’s go. They need us in Jaguey Grande.”

  “Not Jaguey Grande,” Miguel interrupted. “Pinar del Rio and Oriente. Reports said Brigade 2506 landed there. I spoke on the phone to our contact in Jaguey Grande before the lines shut down. Juan left a message. He thinks action in Pinar del Rio is a feint and the main landing will occur in Oriente. He wants you there.

  “Also, there’s activity at the Bay of Pigs, but he doesn’t think it’s major. Most resistance leaders are shifting to Oriente, others to Pinar del Rio. Juan will stay in Jaguey Grande to handle anything that happens there, unless you say otherwise.”

  Atcho listened, amazed. Juan’s decisions dispersed fighting assets all over the eight-hundred-mile-long island based on “… believing that … not expecting that …”

  Why weren’t we told? He shook his head. The US didn’t trust us.

  Oblivious to Atcho’s reticence, Miguel prodded him. “We have to go. In a few days, Cuba will be free. The Russian will be forced to release your daughter.”

  Atcho nodded somberly. “Let’s go. To Oriente.”

  7

  The reported landings had occurred at Baracoa, a village near the northern tip of the southeastern coast of the island. A large flotilla of ships had been spotted off the coast of the same town. Further inland, at a village called Jamaico, the loose confederation of resistance organizations had designated its headquarters.

  Atcho and his small contingent hiked for miles to avoid major intersections where checkpoints were most likely. Then, disassembling their weapons and carrying them with loose clothing in bags slung over their shoulders, they split up and hitched rides with members of Cuba’s population.

  “Ask people how near we are to an uprising,” Atcho instructed his men. “Even with US help, unless the people overthrow Castro, we don’t have a chance.”

  While riding with villagers, Atcho learned with sinking spirits that he seemed to be proven correct. “Have you heard about the US invasion?” he would ask.

  “Yes,” came the typical response. “And our leader, Fidel, will throw the imperial Yankees out.”

  A day later, Atcho arrived, regrouped with his men in Jamaico. To his dismay, he learned that two landings had been attempted at Baracoa, but for inexplicable reasons, they were abandoned. Meanwhile, a battle raged at the Bay of Pigs, more than halfway up the island on the southern coast, where a brigade of Cuban exiles had seized a beachhead. Castro’s forces were moving en masse to counterattack in Zapata Swamp, but were bogged down by narrow roads just south of Jaguey Grande. The action at Pinar del Rio had been a feint.

  Atcho listened to the news, consumed with anger. After some thought, he instructed Miguel and the others, “Follow as best you can. If we’re going to arrive in time to help, we need to move quickly, which means separately.” Then, grimly, he set out alone, bound for Cienfuegos, a large town several miles from where Castro’s forces massed east of the Bay of Pigs.

  8

  Two days later, Atcho entered Cienfuegos. Nervous townspeople had heard about the battle raging to their northwest but had only spotty information about its progress. The most useful knowledge he picked up was that the landing force seemed firmly entrenched in Playa Giron, a village seventy miles away on the coast.

  At dusk, Atcho set out in a “borrowed” pick-up truck and drove northeast as fast as he dared. Traffic faded as he neared the battle zone. He hoped to get close enough to continue on foot before reaching a checkpoint.

  Cresting a small rise, he stopped. Far out on the horizon, tracers streaked the sky. Muffled explosions broke the incessant drone of insects in the surrounding swamps. At an intersection, a squad of soldiers watched the tracers from a barricade. Preoccupied with the sights and sounds of distant battle, the guards did not see Atcho, and he was far enough away that they did not hear him.

  Cautiously, he backed the truck down the rise, and hid it in thick foliage. Then he began a stealthy approach to the intersection.

  Dusk settled. He lay still, allowing his eyes to grow accustomed to encroaching darkness, and his other senses to acclimate to the screech and stench of surrounding wetlands. Slowly, he crept to the crest of the hill, where he observed the soldiers clustered at the barrier in the middle of the road, oblivious to him.

 

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