Moonlight Montecristo

March, 2000 Falling and rolling on to the hot wet pavement, Jack Bennett's head barely missed the sharp edge of a jagged piece of concrete that served as a section of curb stone. Victor Mendoza lay beside Jack on his back, with the handle of a jagged edged Bowie knife sticking in his chest and penetrating his heart. The midnight air was humid, and thick with the pungent smell of urine that permeated the filthy Cuban streets. The street lamps lit surroundings well enough for Jack to see the last bit of life leave Mendoza's body. Jack's eyes gazed over towards Mendoza's chest and he was transfixed on the blood rushing through Mendoza's blue and white Caribbean shirt. Blood flowed over the edges of the brass knife guard, forming a crimson pool beside him. Mendoza's dark Cuban completion contrasted his white three day old whiskered face, which grew pale as his life was escaping his body. His thick purpling lips opened and were lined with dark red bubbles popping and oozing in his mouth as his hands slowly stroked the elk horn handle, now firmly affixed into his heaving chest. The breathing chest wound gave a low gurgling and then ticking sound, as if someone were letting air out of a tire in short bursts...then nothing. Jack felt the overwhelming sensation of nausea come over him as he leaned against a rusting fifties era Ford pickup truck painted in faded sea foam green. In the bed of the truck empty chicken coops were stacked high, providing a moment of camouflage from what had just occurred. Jack stood there shaking while trying to catch his breath, picking and brushing out small pebbles that imbedded their way into his knee caps. Jack felt bleeding scrapes dripping droplets of blood from his elbows and face. While gathered his thoughts and thanked God that he had granted him safety from Mendoza's blade. Jack would have to find his way back to the yacht, make his way to the quiet seaport and remain undetected. Not knowing if his friends would still be there, if his friend's son made it on board, or if they were captured. Not to mention how would he ever explain this to his wife? Filled with new life and desperation Jack staggered his way through the shadows of the night and dodged the light of street lamps. Relieved that his fight to the death with Mendoza hadn't drawn a crowd, not even the slightest bit of curiosity from an unknown passerby, on a muggy March night in the city of Baracoa, Cuba. * * * The Bay of Pigs Invasion - The beach was bloody as smoke rose in the distance. Hiding along the beach head in the woods was not a strategy for survival, but it was the strategy of the moment. Three days of absolute horror. Mishaps turned into disaster and then promises of an airstrike faded as did the hope of escape. Invasión de Bahía de Cochinos, The Bay of Pigs Invasion was a colossal failure. Brigade 2506 was either killed or in the process of being captured with fleeting hope that any kind of support at all would be coming to turn this loss into a salvage operation. CIA Black Operations Officer Oscar Johnson hid in the shadows as he watched the entire operation and his tireless years of work end in failure. It was agonizing to watch. The pressure that he was always able to block out was building in his mind and affecting his ability to compartmentalize the chaos around him. Escape or suicide were the only options creeping into Johnson's mind as he looked at his side arm with glowing, calming comfort. His handgun was the one thing that could provide the form of escape he currently desired. So many unanswered questions ran through Johnson's mind as he was watching members of the Brigade 2506 dragged to capture or being executed at close range. Johnson laid helpless as the firm steel of his side arm started feeling more and more comfortable. The end of his pistol tasted bitter in his mouth from three days of use. The smell of gun powder and burning flesh filled the air, but never the less he bit down on the barrel as his finger massaged the trigger. A wash of anger flowed into his mind, unanswered questions of why they didn't receive any support. How could they be left stranded? This invasion was the work of two United States Presidential Administrations. One failed attempt for democracy and another to end a communist threat just ninety miles from US shores. The steel of the pistol started to rattle against Johnson's teeth as nerves and rage circulated through his body and mind. Johnson's finger slowly pressed against the trigger as his eyes scanned across the beach. Something was coming into view. José Alfredo Pérez San Román, commander of the Brigade 2506 ground troops and one of his field commanders, suddenly came running into sight. Both running to escape with their lives as they were being chased by several of Castro's revolutionary soldiers. Johnson pulled the pistol out of his mouth and began shooting to provide cover for their escape. As one of Castro's soldier's approached, Johnson fired his pistol. The head of the unknown revolutionary soldier exploded into a cherry red blood spray, and then suddenly the other soldiers ended their chase and dove for cover. It was April 20, 1961 as the lone three US invaders ran deep into the jungle and swamps with nothing but deepening mental scars and the fleeting hope that the US Government would come to save their hides.