Heavy Metal

“Bless us, I hope I’ve found you, you old illusive vein of gold!” he said with determination. Then he cut a short piece of fuse called a spitter, which was used to light all the other “rat tails” protruding from the seven charges. When the spitter burned down short enough to singe his calloused fingers, he knew it was time to depart as quickly as possible back up the shaft. He had laid just enough fuse to escape far enough back not be harmed in the explosion. Jack then touched a spark to the spitter and it flared into life. He picked up his kerosene lamp to see as he began to light the fuses. He had to suppress the urge to shout: “Fire in the Hole!” * * * He felt the stabbing pain in his lower back as soon as he opened his eyes. He threw back the covers, slowly and painfully rose to his feet, and headed for the bathroom. Nothing felt better to him than a hot bath. He began each day up to his chin in hot bath water, soaking his injured back, and reading as many morning papers as he could. The most powerful man in the world called into the next room, “Jackie, you’d think that the President of the United States could get some care and compassion from his wife.” Sleepily, Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy, wife of John Fitzgerald Kennedy, called back simply, “President-elect!” * * * Kennedy rose to his feet; the meeting was over. He extended his hand to Burt. “Colonel Jones, your report will be evaluated and I might add that your courageous service to your country will not be forgotten. I am in your debt.” He shook Burt’s hand again and turned to leave. “Dick, I’ll get with your later on this.” “Yes, sir, at your convenience,” replied Bissell. Kennedy opened the door into the hallway and stepped out. As soon as he was gone, Burt picked up his hat, slipped his dark glasses on and turned to leave. “Jones,” called Bissell, “what will you do now?” “It is obvious he has already made up his mind. He’s going ahead with this. He hates Castro and will jump at any chance to overthrow him. He has been blinded and your help in that matter makes me sick. I’m going to Camp Trax and maybe help save some of those boys’ lives.” He stepped through the door and slammed it shut, leaving Dick Bissell standing alone in the office, deep in thought. * * * Suddenly the metal door burst open and slammed against the opposite wall. The startled guard stopped dead in his tracks and looked down the barrel of a silenced submachine gun, held in the firm hands of a hard Russian soldier. The bolt was drawn back with a menacing click. The trembling guard backed away from the table slowly, his hands raised above his head. The Russian soldier was quickly followed in by two others. They swept their machine guns across the room, covering the Cubans who backed away, cowering in the corners. Then a Russian officer in full dress uniform stepped through the door and quickly glanced at Maria, tears running down her cheek. In one swift motion he struck the fat Cuban flat across the face with his gloved hand. The guard’s head snapped sideways and he stumbled against the wall, falling heavily to the floor. In a voice as cold as ice, the Russian addressed the fallen Cuban. “We were to be informed and invited to these interrogations. I now see why we weren’t. You and your men are relieved of this duty!” * * * Hawkins took the glass and leaned down to the picture that Bissell was indicating with his index finger. It had the date it was taken stamped in the lower right hand corner. It read October 14, 1962; the picture had been taken that morning and flown into Washington. It showed a heavily wooded area with two cleared patches. “We have been interested in this for some time now,” Bissell said. Hawkins didn’t reply yet, but looked closer at the photograph. After a few minutes, he straightened up. Bissell waited patiently for him to reply as to what he had seen. “This area over here,” Hawkins began, pointing to the cleared space to the right of the aerial photograph, “looks to be some kind of construction site.” Bissell simply nodded and waited for Hawkins to continue. “There’s no way of telling yet what it is for.” He paused and looked closer again at the grainy picture. “These could be tents set up for shelter and these…,” pointing off to the side of the cleared area, “could be storage buildings, or crates or equipment; it’s hard to tell.” Bissell nodded again and pointed to the right side of the other clearing. “Look here, there is something strange right by the tree…here. What do you think of that?” Hawkins adjusted the light and leaned closer to the picture, studying the area indicated by Bissell. Again Bissell waited quietly for Hawkins to look and form his own conclusions. Finally, he look up, his face a little paler, and in a voice that was a whisper, replied, “They’re missile trailers!” * * * Bobby Kennedy nodded, squeezed his brother’s arm and left. Kennedy sat down, alone in the room, and thought about this crisis. He sat at the center of the long table, his back to the windows facing the flower gardens. Although he felt the same dread as the others for what might happen, he was exhilarated by the excitement of the moment and he was absolutely calm. He had already made his decision. Should the time come, he would not back down to the Soviet Union, no matter what advantage they possessed. America, if she fell, would do down fighting while on his watch.