Chapter 3
Maria kicked the sand beneath her feet, sending a blast of grainy spray against the side of the beached boat. Her long black hair swirled in a luxuriant ebony cascade that coursed down over her shoulders and over her amply developed breasts, barely confined in the khaki of her man's shirt. The fabric pulled apart between the buttons, occasioning a glimpse of the fully ripe melons of soft flesh jiggling, braless, inside her garments.
She hated this place, being here on this God-forsaken little nothing of an island, alone with these dogs that Miguel Carveas would never have allowed to serve him or even to clean his boots! She cursed these men, cursed Miguel for ordering her to go ahead with the mission without him, leaving him behind in the little military prison at Los Pinos. It should have all been called off, she knew it. But Miguel, in his characteristic stubbornness, had refused to listen. How could he be so pig-headed!
But that was always Miguel's way. It was his stubborn insistence on continued terrorism and infiltration missions that led to his well-publicized break with the Castro government. Miguel had argued fervently — too fervently, perhaps — that his course of action was the only one to preserve socialism in Cuba, and that anything else was nothing but bone-headed foolishness. Hah, he should talk of bone-headedness!
It was rumored that Castro himself gave the order to relieve him of his position in the Defense Ministry, but Miguel was not one to give in and surrender so easily. He took his public disgrace nobly enough, at least on the outside, but all the while he was organizing the C.A.I., Commandoes against Imperialism, far-rightists like himself who desired a policy of continued hostility against the U.S.
Maria had never possessed the mandatory revolutionary zeal Miguel wanted of her, but had obediently followed her lover's orders as one of his Commandoes, first in practice missions, then in training sessions designed to implement them for this ultimate task — the infiltration and destruction of the anti-Castro movement in the southern Florida Cuban refugee colony.
Only for Miguel, it hadn't gone so smoothly. Somehow, despite his seemingly impenetrable security, a leak had developed, and the Cuban police took him into custody just hours before he was to join Maria and the three men at their coastal rendezvous point. She had been for immediate cancellation of the whole affair when word reached them of his capture, but Miguel, in his classic devotion to the cause of anti-imperialism, had sent a message through a friendly guard at the prison that everything was to proceed as planned, including Maria's essential role as head of communications for the operation. She had known better than to protest — a prime condition of the C.A.I, membership was adherence to a code of devotion that included death for those who disobeyed any order. And she knew Miguel, despite their love, would make no exceptions, not even for her.
That was the kind of fanatic he had always been, at least since they met at the Reform University where she was a student and Miguel was a part-time instructor. To him, the issue of socialism versus capitalism was black-and-white, with no grey areas of agreement. It was simple to him — those who believed in the virtues of a capitalistic society were imperialist swine, and those who followed the dictates of socialism were enlightened revolutionaries. But to Maria, as well as to countless others at the university, the definition had never been so acute. She, as well as many others, questioned the success of socialism in practice, such as the notable failure of some Latin American countries to manage properly the U.S. owned companies they nationalized, even with all the nation's resources and know-how thrown into the struggle. Often she argued into the early hours of the morning, between their love-making sessions, that perhaps capitalism was no better or worse than socialism, that maybe it was, in each case, a question of the leadership that determined the ultimate good or evil of any governmental system. But Miguel could never see it her way, and though she stuck by him through all his seemingly endless involvements with the Castro government, both good and bad, she knew it was out of love and not from devotion to the cause of socialism as he saw it.
She would never have agreed to this whole mission if he had not persuaded her, arguing that the plan needed a woman to assure any degree of reliability, as only a woman could handle the job their Miami operative had arranged with the Cuban refugee organization there, a secretarial job with one of the organization's leaders as boss.
That all seemed okay when Miguel was going along, when she knew that once in the United States they would still be together, living there as man and wife on forged Mexican passports Miguel had secured.
But now ... now she cursed the saints for her fate. Alone with these drunken pigs, these three dogs who called themselves revolutionaries, look at them! Wrapped around their wine bottled like the drunkards from the gutters of Havana that they are!
Rafael, the newly-designated leader of the mission, had been nothing more than a garage man's assistant before the revolution, barely literate. And even now she doubted that he could do much more than write his name on a piece of paper. And she was to take orders from this! And big Juan, the one Miguel admittedly brought into the organization for his brute strength, what of that idiot!? Rafael was an intellectual giant beside that stupid oaf!
But worst of all, was Antonio. His whole assigned task in this mission of infiltration was to operate the boat and secure the automobiles they had previously arranged for in South Miami. All of the key roles, all of the data-gathering, was to be handled by herself and Miguel. These others were just along for the ride. And now she was alone on this empty little speck of coral with them, and all the while, Miguel lay alone in a military prison cell, maybe on his way to the firing squad for his disobedience. Oh God, why couldn't it have been me that was caught? Why Miguel, why? Maria lay quietly on her flannel blanket, out of the night chill in the lee of their small boat. On the other side, she could hear the men still drinking and shouting among themselves. She tried to tell herself it was all right, that the mission would succeed anyway, even without Miguel to lead them. Somewhere she had read that even brave soldiers sometimes get roaring drunk before facing a battle. But it was no use ... these were no hardened, loyal troops letting off steam before a fight. These were animals, just gutter-rats better left in the alleys of Cuba where they had been before Miguel raised them up.
There was only one consolation, such as it was — tomorrow they would be on their way into the United States, complete with the new boat that awaited them shortly after they cast off at dawn, an American-registered sports craft with untraceable numbers on her bow. At least then, despite the dangers of her assigned role, she would be free of these swine.
She pulled half of the blanket over her body, chilled now as the sand lost its heat. She loosened the buttons of her shirt to allow sleep to ease her worries and fears. Her large, softly fleshed breasts fell free now as she lay on her side, and she decided to remove her American-made jeans as long as she was covered by the blanket.
In another few moments, she lay beneath the thick blanket in only her panties and unbuttoned shirt, comfortable now at least, as her thoughts finally left her head and sleep began to ease up on her.
Suddenly, there was a cold gush of air over her near-nakedness, followed by a chorus of drunken, vicious laughter. She looked up ...
"No! Get away from me, all of you, get away!"