finish this." He zipped his fly and grabbed his weapon. The two men helped their wounded comrade out the front.
Cathy was naked and covered with dust. She tried to control her breathing, her fear, and the pain. Had he ejaculated inside her as well as on her leg? She didn't know and right now it didn't matter. Wait for them to come back? Not a chance, she thought. She grabbed her clothing and overnight bag and, still wearing only her tennis shoes ran out the back door of the apartment. There was smoke everywhere and it was hard to see, even though it was daylight. She stumbled over something and stared in horror. It was Alice. No, it was half of Alice. She was lying on her back and her eyes were glassy and dead. Her legs had been blown off at the hip.
Cathy screamed and ran. One part of her mind said she could not head towards the Bay because that's where Gomez and people like him would be. She ran as fast and as hard as she could, anywhere, but away from Gitmo.
"They're coming again!" someone yelled.
Cuban infantry in company strength and one T34 tank had been sitting in front of the back-up command bunker for several minutes. Major Sam Hartford moved to the firing slit as fast as his sore feet would let him. He estimated nearly a hundred Cuban soldiers running towards his bunker and the trenches that his men had hurriedly dug in front of it. The T34's engine roared to life and the tank moved with the infantry.
"Fire, damn it. What the hell are you waiting for? An invitation?" Sam yelled furiously.
The fifty or so rifles and BARs that covered that area of the front opened up. Cubans were hit and fell, but others still kept coming. One man waved a pistol and urged his men onward. He was obviously their leader
"Get the guy with the pistol," he urged, and a score of weapons converged on the man. The Cuban shuddered, convulsed and dropped to the ground as bullets ripped him apart. The remainder of the attackers faltered on seeing their leader drop, but the tank kept on coming.
"Keep shooting!" Hartford yelled and his men complied, dropping another half dozen before the survivors decided they'd had enough and pulled back.
"Where's my bazooka?" Hartford hollered.
Two men with a bazooka ran from the relative safety of the bunker and managed to get almost alongside the tank. They aimed and fired quickly, striking it in its more vulnerable flank. The tank shuddered and stopped. The hatches opened and smoke billowed out as the crew jumped down. One Cuban was one fire. He rolled on the ground and lay still. The other Cubans ignored him and ran back to their lines. The two Marines with the bazooka started to run back to the bunker, but machine gun fire chopped them down. Heroes, Hartford thought, almost in tears, but dead heroes. He had to get their names. He was reasonably certain that one of them was his fat little prick of a clerk, Fleming. Jesus, how could he have misjudged the kid?
He pounded the bunker's wall in frustration. Why the hell didn't they have some of the new TOW missiles that were wire guided and could be fired from the relative safety of the bunker? No, the best they could do was bazookas that had been old during the Korean War and had to be fired against the side or rear of a Russian made tank in order to be effective, which meant that anyone who took on a tank with a bazooka had to be either very brave or very foolish.
He quickly counted at least twenty-five Cubans dead and wounded on the ground before him. A check of his men revealed one dead and six wounded, along with the two men who'd killed the tank. A white flag showed from the Cuban lines and a voice yelled out in English that they wanted a truce to pick up their wounded. Hartford agreed and a handful of medics from both sides ran out nervously and gathered their dead and wounded onto stretchers.
Cathy was naked and covered with dust. She tried to control her breathing, her fear, and the pain. Had he ejaculated inside her as well as on her leg? She didn't know and right now it didn't matter. Wait for them to come back? Not a chance, she thought. She grabbed her clothing and overnight bag and, still wearing only her tennis shoes ran out the back door of the apartment. There was smoke everywhere and it was hard to see, even though it was daylight. She stumbled over something and stared in horror. It was Alice. No, it was half of Alice. She was lying on her back and her eyes were glassy and dead. Her legs had been blown off at the hip.
Cathy screamed and ran. One part of her mind said she could not head towards the Bay because that's where Gomez and people like him would be. She ran as fast and as hard as she could, anywhere, but away from Gitmo.
"They're coming again!" someone yelled.
Cuban infantry in company strength and one T34 tank had been sitting in front of the back-up command bunker for several minutes. Major Sam Hartford moved to the firing slit as fast as his sore feet would let him. He estimated nearly a hundred Cuban soldiers running towards his bunker and the trenches that his men had hurriedly dug in front of it. The T34's engine roared to life and the tank moved with the infantry.
"Fire, damn it. What the hell are you waiting for? An invitation?" Sam yelled furiously.
The fifty or so rifles and BARs that covered that area of the front opened up. Cubans were hit and fell, but others still kept coming. One man waved a pistol and urged his men onward. He was obviously their leader
"Get the guy with the pistol," he urged, and a score of weapons converged on the man. The Cuban shuddered, convulsed and dropped to the ground as bullets ripped him apart. The remainder of the attackers faltered on seeing their leader drop, but the tank kept on coming.
"Keep shooting!" Hartford yelled and his men complied, dropping another half dozen before the survivors decided they'd had enough and pulled back.
"Where's my bazooka?" Hartford hollered.
Two men with a bazooka ran from the relative safety of the bunker and managed to get almost alongside the tank. They aimed and fired quickly, striking it in its more vulnerable flank. The tank shuddered and stopped. The hatches opened and smoke billowed out as the crew jumped down. One Cuban was one fire. He rolled on the ground and lay still. The other Cubans ignored him and ran back to their lines. The two Marines with the bazooka started to run back to the bunker, but machine gun fire chopped them down. Heroes, Hartford thought, almost in tears, but dead heroes. He had to get their names. He was reasonably certain that one of them was his fat little prick of a clerk, Fleming. Jesus, how could he have misjudged the kid?
He pounded the bunker's wall in frustration. Why the hell didn't they have some of the new TOW missiles that were wire guided and could be fired from the relative safety of the bunker? No, the best they could do was bazookas that had been old during the Korean War and had to be fired against the side or rear of a Russian made tank in order to be effective, which meant that anyone who took on a tank with a bazooka had to be either very brave or very foolish.
He quickly counted at least twenty-five Cubans dead and wounded on the ground before him. A check of his men revealed one dead and six wounded, along with the two men who'd killed the tank. A white flag showed from the Cuban lines and a voice yelled out in English that they wanted a truce to pick up their wounded. Hartford agreed and a handful of medics from both sides ran out nervously and gathered their dead and wounded onto stretchers.
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