Read Online Cuba by Stephen Coonts - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Stephen Coonts
Tags: Fiction, Thrillers, Action & Adventure, Espionage, Political, Grafton; Jake (Fictitious character), Cuba
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healthy and strong and
happy. Oh, yes,
when we were young
…
As he tossed and turned, fighting the pain,
snatches of scenes ran through his mind; student
politics at the University of Havana, the
assault on the Moncada Barracks in
Santiago, guns banging and bullets spanging
off steel, off masonry, singing as they whirled
away…. He remembered the firelights on the
roads, riding the trucks through the countryside,
evenings making plans with Che and the others, how Jhey
would set things right, kick out the capitalists who had
enslaved Cuba for centuries.
Che, he had been a true believer.
And there were plenty more. True believers all.
Ignorant as virgins, penniless and hungry, they
thought they could fix the world.
In his semiconscious state he could hear his own
voice making speeches, explaining, promising
to fix things,” to heal the people, put them to work, give
them jobs and houses and medical care and a future for
their children.
Words. All words.
Wind.
He coughed, and the coughing brought him fully awake.
The nurse was there in the chair watching him.
“Leave me, woman.”
She left the room.
He pulled himself higher in the bed, used a corner
of the sheet to wipe the sweat from his face.
The sheets were thin, worn out. Even
el presidents”?,
sheets were worn out!
A sick joke, that.
Everything in the whole damned country was broken or
worn out, including Castro’s sheets. You didn’t
have to be a high government official to be aware of that
hard fact.
On the dresser just out of reach was a box of cigars.
He hitched himself around in bed, reached for one, then
leaned far over and got his hand on the lighter.
The pain made him gasp.
Madre mia!
When the pain subsided somewhat he lay back in the
bed, wiped his face again on the sheet.
He fumbled with the cigar, bit off the end and spat it
on the floor. Got the lighter going, sucked on the
cigar… the raw smoke was like a knife in his
throat. He hacked and hacked.
The doctors made him give up cigars ten years
ago. He demanded this box two days ago,
when they told him he was dying. “If I am dying,
I can smoke. The cancer will kill me before the
cigars, so why not?”
When the coughing subsided, he took a tiny puff
on the cigar, careful not to inhale.
God, the smoke was delicious.
Another puff.
He lay back on the pillow, sniffed the aroma of the
smoke wafting through the air, inhaled the tobacco
essence and let it out slowly as the cigar smoldered in
his hand.
The truth was that he had made a hash of it.
Cuba’s
problems had defeated him. Oh, he had done the
best he could, but by any measure, his best hadn’t
been good enough. The average Cuban was worse off
today than he had been those last few years under
Batista. Food was in short supply, the
economy was in tatters, the bureaucrats were openly
corrupt, the social welfare system was falling
apart, and the nation reeled under massive short-term
foreign debt, for it had defaulted on its
long-term international debt in the late 1980’s.
The short-term debt could not be repudiated, not if
the nation ever expecte’d to borrow another
peso abroad.
He puffed on the cigar, savoring the smoke. Then
he shifted, trying to make the ache in his bowels
ease up.
Of course he knew what had gone wrong. When he
took over the nation he had played the cards he had
… evicted the hated Yanqui
imperialistas
and seized their property, and accepted the cheers and
adulation of the people for delivering them from the oppressor.
Unfortunately Cuba was a tiny, poor country,
so he had had to replace the evicted
patrdn
with another, and the only one in sight had been the
Soviet Union. He embraced communism, got
down on his knees and swore fealty to the Soviet
state. With that act he earned the undying hatred of the
politicians who ruled the United Statesafter
several assassination attempts and the ill-fated
Bay of Pigs invasion debacle, they
happy. Oh, yes,
when we were young
…
As he tossed and turned, fighting the pain,
snatches of scenes ran through his mind; student
politics at the University of Havana, the
assault on the Moncada Barracks in
Santiago, guns banging and bullets spanging
off steel, off masonry, singing as they whirled
away…. He remembered the firelights on the
roads, riding the trucks through the countryside,
evenings making plans with Che and the others, how Jhey
would set things right, kick out the capitalists who had
enslaved Cuba for centuries.
Che, he had been a true believer.
And there were plenty more. True believers all.
Ignorant as virgins, penniless and hungry, they
thought they could fix the world.
In his semiconscious state he could hear his own
voice making speeches, explaining, promising
to fix things,” to heal the people, put them to work, give
them jobs and houses and medical care and a future for
their children.
Words. All words.
Wind.
He coughed, and the coughing brought him fully awake.
The nurse was there in the chair watching him.
“Leave me, woman.”
She left the room.
He pulled himself higher in the bed, used a corner
of the sheet to wipe the sweat from his face.
The sheets were thin, worn out. Even
el presidents”?,
sheets were worn out!
A sick joke, that.
Everything in the whole damned country was broken or
worn out, including Castro’s sheets. You didn’t
have to be a high government official to be aware of that
hard fact.
On the dresser just out of reach was a box of cigars.
He hitched himself around in bed, reached for one, then
leaned far over and got his hand on the lighter.
The pain made him gasp.
Madre mia!
When the pain subsided somewhat he lay back in the
bed, wiped his face again on the sheet.
He fumbled with the cigar, bit off the end and spat it
on the floor. Got the lighter going, sucked on the
cigar… the raw smoke was like a knife in his
throat. He hacked and hacked.
The doctors made him give up cigars ten years
ago. He demanded this box two days ago,
when they told him he was dying. “If I am dying,
I can smoke. The cancer will kill me before the
cigars, so why not?”
When the coughing subsided, he took a tiny puff
on the cigar, careful not to inhale.
God, the smoke was delicious.
Another puff.
He lay back on the pillow, sniffed the aroma of the
smoke wafting through the air, inhaled the tobacco
essence and let it out slowly as the cigar smoldered in
his hand.
The truth was that he had made a hash of it.
Cuba’s
problems had defeated him. Oh, he had done the
best he could, but by any measure, his best hadn’t
been good enough. The average Cuban was worse off
today than he had been those last few years under
Batista. Food was in short supply, the
economy was in tatters, the bureaucrats were openly
corrupt, the social welfare system was falling
apart, and the nation reeled under massive short-term
foreign debt, for it had defaulted on its
long-term international debt in the late 1980’s.
The short-term debt could not be repudiated, not if
the nation ever expecte’d to borrow another
peso abroad.
He puffed on the cigar, savoring the smoke. Then
he shifted, trying to make the ache in his bowels
ease up.
Of course he knew what had gone wrong. When he
took over the nation he had played the cards he had
… evicted the hated Yanqui
imperialistas
and seized their property, and accepted the cheers and
adulation of the people for delivering them from the oppressor.
Unfortunately Cuba was a tiny, poor country,
so he had had to replace the evicted
patrdn
with another, and the only one in sight had been the
Soviet Union. He embraced communism, got
down on his knees and swore fealty to the Soviet
state. With that act he earned the undying hatred of the
politicians who ruled the United Statesafter
several assassination attempts and the ill-fated
Bay of Pigs invasion debacle, they
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