Short Story - Final Draft

April 10, 2012
By , Eugene, OR
A man by the name of Roberto Leer, one of the rebels brought from Mexico to aid in the attack on Mount Santiago de Cuba, had been secretly planning alongside Fidel Castro an appropriate battle strategy on how they would infiltrate the facility and make sure that the invasion was completed successfully... However, armed guards atop the fort-like structure were almost an impenetrable force; One to be reckoned with.

The night was pitch black on the last day of planning attacks. Fidel, Che Guevara, and everyone that was assigned to the role of making sure revolts happened accordingly and without error, had to come up with the best offensive tactics after the first attempt had gone terribly wrong. The only way to redeem what had happened during the last attack was to be sure that nothing from before would re-appear for a second time.

The group sat in a small, weather-beaten hut near the shore of the Gulf of Mexico. The only way they had to Cuba was by using the gulf to travel to Cuba’s shore-line, and the only transit they could use to reach it was a creaky, old wooden boat. Fidel and his henchmen talked with rebellious attitudes, relaying intel on the operations while laughing maniacally at the thought of bringing communism to Cuba.

Roberto was in thought, and before he had stopped himself, he asked one of the most consequential questions about the plans. “Are you sure that we can successfully conquer the Cuban government with this plan?” Roberto asked uneasily. He had frequent trembles and occasional convulsions that made his arms and legs reflex unexpectedly at the worst times during civilized conversations.

“We’ll be able to evade any defenses that these non-communistic fools are willing to put forth in an attempt to stop us.” Fidel said confidently, with a fiery passion about him that had not been seen since the planning had begun a few years ago. “This plan is so destruction-proof, not even a clown could mess this up.” Che Guevara had walked in from the balcony where he was smoking a large tobacco pipe, and had overheard the questioning of the plans that took years in the making to come up with. Anger surged him. Suddenly, with a deep harshness, he sprung at Roberto and smashed him against the back wall, holding his neck in a vise grip, while staring at him with an anger that had never been seen from him before. “You listen and you listen good, rookie.” Che uttered in a voice shrouded by anger and hatred. “If you ask another question that does not show determination in bringing down this government, I will kill you right here on the spot!”.

Fidel had a wiley expression on his face at seeing the reaction from Che, and had begun to laugh at the sight of seeing one of the rookies in the team being physically manhandled by him; He was usually peaceful and to himself most of the time. “Let him go Che, he’s still new to this sort of thing.” He sniffed irritatingly, the cold he had was severe from being in freezing weather for weeks on end. “After all, what rookie hasn’t questioned our plan? They’re not one-hundred percent sure of success like you and I are. Just remember that before you attack one next time.” Che had begun to calm down at hearing these words, he had also begun to realize how brutally he had acted towards Roberto after the tussle, and began to chirp with laughter.

“My mistake,” Che grinned with such a passion that you could forget anything had ever happened. “I had forgotten that most of you are not quite used to the setting of rebelling against a greater power, one such as the current Cuban government, and most of you are being trained still.” Roberto had been shaking a bit, sort of traumatized after the incident. Roberto whispered “It’s fine...” in a shaky voice, feeling lower than a snail and as depressed as an orphaned child. He felt badly asking questions like that, and swore never to do it again when Che was around.

The wind had started up outside. The time was eleven at night, and the boat that would bring them to the shores of Cuba was bumbling up and down in the medium-sized waves, the wind manipulating them so much that some of the fish had trouble coming up for air.

Everyone knew it was close to being time for sleep, time soon for being able to strike a second time. When they’d wake the next morning, they would set sail for Santiago de Cuba. “We’ll be out of this tiny god-forsaken hut soon men, and we will show these cowardly “officials” what true power and equality is.” Fidel said to the group of followers that shook and stuttered freezingly in steel chairs covered in thick green moss. No one knew that their rebellious leader’s change in attitude would soon come, and with it, the entire operation would have all gone to hell when they reached the shores of Cuba...

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