It was doomed from the start. We were fucked. Fucked by a cocky new civilian president and his naive cabinet, fucked by the lack of resolve, and fucked by bad weather. You would have thought that someone would have taken lashing rain into account when putting this stupid invasion plan together.

I was barely into the tree line up from the Bay of Pigs, not seventy-five miles from Havana. It's almost as if they knew we were coming. They were picking our small squads of Cuban exiles off even before most of them reached the beach. We'd trained them hard, but what good is expertise in hand-to-hand combat if you're shot before even reaching the beach, for fuck's sake? And where in the fuck was the air support? We'd just been abandoned here. A doomed operation from the beginning.

But I couldn't think that way. It was one thing for these Cuban exiles to be wrapped up here in the underbelly of Cuba in a failed attempt to depose the Castro regime. It was quite another for me, an American commando, to be caught here.

I'd told them I didn't think any of the American advisers should be in the actual operation, and they'd just brushed that away. They said the operation would be a cake walk. That all our Cuban exiles needed to do was to show up on the beach in force and the Cuban people would rise up and overthrow Castro. Just an afternoon's jaunt, and the threat of the Russians getting a toe into the Western Hemisphere waters would evaporate. Yeah, fat chance of that. That Kennedy bunch should be here with me now.

But I was a trooper and did what I was told to do; and now, for the good of my country, I needed it get back out to sea. I couldn't be caught here on Cuban soil. The shit would really hit the fan for an American combatant's sorry ass to be captured in this circle jerk.

I heard a metallic click that made the hair stand up at the back of my head. I instinctively dropped while turning to the sound and bringing my pistol up. My training had been true, because the bullet passed by me rather than catching me full force in the chest.

Close onto the tail end of the report from the rifle high up in the branch of the tree came the sound from my answering pistol shot.

I had been luckier and a truer shot than my assailant had been. There was great agitation of leaves and branches above and in front of me, and a body dropped to the ground at the base of the tree.

Either the young man's clothes had been ripped almost to shreds as he fell, or he had been dressed in shredded rags to begin with, because his shirt and trousers were largely torn away from him as he hit the ground.

He was bleeding from the head and his eyes were closed, but I didn't think he was dead. I moved quickly over to him and tore his shirt the rest of the way off and felt his chest. Still breathing. I looked down at him. He was an unearthly handsome young man. He couldn't be more than nineteen or twenty. He was small of stature but very well formed, with the fine facial structure of Spanish stock, just barely mixed with the Mestizo genes, which gave him a milk-chocolate skin coloring that only enhanced his beauty. My bullet had grazed his temple, which, in combination with the fall, had knocked him unconscious. For how long, though, I didn't know. And unconscious wasn't dead. He may have seen me well enough to know that I wasn't a Cuban exile, that I was an honest-to-god American. And having no one who was left here knowing that an American was here was only second in importance to getting back off the island and not being captured here.

Still holding one hand on his chest, I instinctively looked around to ensure he was the only shooter I needed to worry about, and then I holstered the pistol and reached for the knife strapped to my calf. I couldn't chance another gunshot, even though there was shooting aplenty going on down near the waterline. I needed to finish this more quietly and get the hell out of here and try to find a dingy with enough inflation left in it to get me out to the submarine. Who knows whether the submarine would stay around - and for how long? There was supposed to be air support. Where in the crap was the air support?

The young man's eyes slitted open and then opened even wider when he saw me crouched over him. I raised the knife, but he came to life and knocked my arm away, sending the knife flying into the dense growth at the base of the tree.

I stood and stepped several paces away and pulled out my pistol and raised it, aiming for a heart shot.

And then we both froze. He was lying there, staring at me pleadingly, with big, brown eyes, and I couldn't take my eyes off him. He was so young. And I wasn't really at war. And he was unarmed and vulnerable now. This had been a fucked up idea from the beginning. I was only here because I was a 'yes, sir' trooper. I wasn't at war with the Cuban people. There wasn't anything about this protected by the Geneva Convention or any other creed of military honor.

I let the arm holding the pistol slowly drop to my side, and we were frozen there for what seemed to be another eternity.

I don't know what would have happened then, if the other soldier hadn't appeared. He moved through the underbrush with a great deal of noise, giving me time enough to crouch behind a nearby tree but not time enough to melt into the surrounding brush.

The soldier wasn't Cuban. I could tell from his fatigues that he was Eastern European or Russian. Probably Russian. So, it was true, I thought. The whole reason we had entered this operation was because of the presence of the Russians, not knowing just how deeply embedded in the Cuban structure they were.

What then transpired showed me in very graphic terms how deeply imbedded they were.

The Russian came over the Cuban youth and spoke roughly to him in a smattering of Spanish. The youth answered him, haltingly. And although the youth was taking occasional glances over to where he knew I was trying to hide, he must not have been giving my location away, because all of the Russian's attention was focused on him. Perhaps the young man thought I would and could shoot them both before the Russian could turn and shoot me - and, in that, he was right. But any shooting was a big risk now that the firing was dying down at the waterline.

The Russian's voice turned to something more guttural and hoarse, and the Cuban youth's voice was more pleading now. And I didn't have to wait very long to find out why. The Cuban was still sprawled at the base of the tree, and the Russian was standing over him, big military boots straddling the young man's thighs. The Russian was unbuttoning his fly with one hand and had taken a fistful of the youth's curly black hair and then forced the youth's face toward an extended cock.

The youth grimaced at the pulling of his scalp away from his temple wound, but he was too dazed at that point to struggle.

After a short period of giving the Russian noisy suck punctuated with grunts and groans from them both, the Cuban youth was stripped of what was left of his trousers, and the Russian had come down on his knees between the youth's spread thighs.

I heard the youth cry out in pain and then start moaning and giving little yipping sounds as the Russian soldier skewered his channel roughly and began a staccato rhythm with his pelvis, while pulling the youth's hips back and forth on his engorged cock with strong, calloused hands.

At first when the fucking started the youth tried to struggle against him and attempted to rise, but the Russian just laughed and backhanded him across the mouth and continued to thrust at him.

As dire as my own plight was, I couldn't help myself. I had my fatigues unbuttoned and stroked myself off as the Russian was completing his conquest - or so I thought.

All of the time the Cuban youth was unable to look at the Russian. He was looking off in the brush toward where he knew I was in hiding, his eyes glazed, knowing that there was nothing he could do to save himself from the Russian.

Except, maybe, try to whisper to the Russian of my presence and chance that the Russian would plug me before I could shoot him. And if the Russian was successful, what were the probabilities that the Russian would then leave off his assault? But the youth didn't give me away. Whether it was from fear, or shock, or making a choice between me and the invading Russian, I'll never know. And it doesn't matter.

Whatever it was, it made me pause with the thought of somehow trying to save him.

I had thought the Russian was finished, but he proved me wrong. He barked an order at the youth and pulled him up and pushed him over onto his knees and hands. And then, with one forearm wrapped around the young man's belly, the Russian thrust his cock home again and began to doggyfuck his Cuban 'comrade' in long, hard strokes.

I could see that the Russian was lost in the fuck, and I decided to take the risk of trying to escape. His face was turned away from me. If I was going to have any chance of getting the hell off this island without being captured on Cuban soil, this was my opportunity - maybe my only chance.

As I melted into the brush, I briefly regretted leaving the Cuban to his fate, but what the Russian was doing to him was more survivable than what I had almost done to him - or that he had tried to do to me, for that matter. The Cuban was going to be fucked one way or the other - by the Americans, or the Russians, or by his own government. Probably by all three before this story truly was over.

 

Habu

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