Everyone knew that the result of this insanity was beyond question: a small crater in Florida-and all of Cuba an inferno.
No one doubted the rationale for this. Socialism was failing. Cuba was crumbling. Castro would fall one day. He was not a man to fall gracefully. Not with his monumental ego.
The Maximum Leader would rather see armageddon, the utter destruction of Cuba, than accept the humiliation of political defeat.
So when the barges began to appear in the dancing red reflections on the Caribbean, Faustino threw sand on his roasting fire to quench it and gathered up his Dragunov sniper's rifle. If these were the Americans, it could only mean that Fidel had succeeded-and Cuba was as good as toast. He wept silently.
The barges grew in number, until they were strung out along the Bay like dark bars of soap.
From low superstructures, dishlike shapes revolved. Their designs were familiar, yet not. As he watched, Faustino came to recognize the odd configuration of three joined discs.
He blinked. "Mongo?"
Then the uniformed figures seated low in their seats stood up in unison. In perfect synchronization, they turned as one.
Rifles snapped to bulky shoulders. It was perfect. Not a man was out of order.
And as if a single button had been pressed, the murderous automatic weapons fire began to rake Zapata Swamp.
Faustino flung himself into the mangroves. He had no choice now but to return fire. He was a sharpshooter. And he was good.
With his eye to the scope, he selected a soldier. The cross hairs lined up with the silhouette of his head, and Faustino squeezed the trigger.
The dark head exploded on its shoulders.
Faustino grinned through his sweat and fear. He had scored a direct hit with his first shot!
Then he laid his eyes against his scope again . . . and saw that the man he had shot, the headless man, was still firing. Firing without a head!
Faustino was so shocked by this sight that, unnerved, he jumped to his feet, the better to see this incredible thing.
A stitchery of bullets violently sewed his tunic to his chest and Faustino Barranca was flung into the mangrove tangle where the alligators would later find in him a tasty snack.
Mouse-eared radar dishes whirling, the amphibious barges came on. Firing relentlessly. Without mercy. Without surcease.
Not even when the rumbling T-64 Cuban Revolutionary Armed Forces tanks came, and began to return the withering fire.
"What manner of soldados are these?!" the tank commander cried. For he saw through his binoculars men without arms, without heads, shattered and broken, yet still firing. Some wildly, others with unerring aim. "They are like machines, not hombres!"
Chapter 26
The Maximum Leader of Cuba was beside himself. The first reports from Zapata Swamp were incredible. A sea armada. Soldiers who continued to fire even as they were being blown to pieces.
He would have ordered the man who brought him the message shot for intoxication on duty, but the only alcohol on the entire island was safely housed in his private wine cellar.
"Our forces are being decimated, El Jefe!" The man was a major, so he was allowed to call him that. "Only your heroic presence will rally them!"
"Good thinking. Order my private helicopter to be readied. The one with the custom bar."
"But El Jefe, there is no petrol! It has been siphoned into a MIG, as per your instructions!"
Maximum Leader glowered. "Then summon the MIG back. We can bomb the nuclear plant later."
"It is too late, El Jefe! The MIG has been destroyed! Shot down!"
"Then we will drive to Zapata Swamp!" he bellowed. "Make it so!" he added, borrowing a line from his favorite American TV show.
"At once, El Jefe!"
Then another flunky came running in, with the news that the Beasley Adventure had been forcibly docked at the rusting oil terminal in the harbor.
"Has it been boarded yet?" he demanded.
"No, El Presidente."
Fidel struck a pose. "Good. Good. For I must be the one to board it personally."
"But El Jefe," the first man asked worriedly, "what of the Zapata incursion?"
"Order all forces mobilized to repel that cowardly assault. Hurl the Yanquis back into the bay. I have more important things to do."
"But ... but-"
"Go, do it!"
To the hovering orderly, he hissed, "Is Mongo on board?"
The orderly shrugged. "I did not see him, El Presidente."
"He will be aboard. For he is ever-present. I look forward to meeting him." The President drew on his campaign cap. "Let us go."
His personal customized Gazik whisked the Maximum Leader of Cuba from the Presidential Palace to the oil terminal. Traffic, normally light in these petroleum-starved times, was extraordinarily heavy. All of it consisted of military vehicles mobilized for the drive to Zapata Swamp. And all flowing in the opposite direction-gut of Havana.
Cuba's leader was oblivious to the massive response to his all-powerful orders. A beaming grin struggled past his dark profusion of beard. He was looking forward to this rendezvous very much.
After all, he was Mongo Mouse's biggest fan.
Chapter 27
Remo Williams had been supplied a detailed map of Cuba by Harold W. Smith. It showed all highways, significant roads and military installations, and mileage distance between. A big red circle indicated Guantanamo Naval Air Base and another highlighted Zapata Swamp, with a fat red line connecting the two.
Smith, after he had drawn the red parts, had pronounced the map foolproof.
Unfortunately, he had overlooked the fact that the map was a product of the nation's brief flirtation with the metric system. Mileage was given in kilometers.
"We're lost," grumbled Remo, who didn't know a kilometer from a kiloton. It was a balmy night in Cuba. The royal palms swayed in the breeze, like hula dancers with shaggy heads, as he tried to read the tiny mileage numbers by moonlight.