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The Agent, The Girl, and the Fidelistas

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madiosi said:
Yes. But I wrote self a few words for this.

"This true story explain, what's happen 1960 in the failed Pig-Bay-Invasion."
Click to expand...
To keep closer to 1960 pulp, how bout

The True Story of the Nude Nymphomaniac and the Failed Bay of Pigs Invasion

When in doubt, include a nude nymphomaniac in the blurb!
 
madiosi said:
Honestly, I miss a "Chapter Four"
Click to expand...
I am flabbergasted. I know Chapter Four was posted, but I can't find it????
here it is again

Chapter Four

As we were doing the final loading of perishables into the galley, {Wragg} came by to see us off. He would never let a field agent depart without personally being there and thanking them. He was a good man, who understood that, sometimes, they didn’t come back.

He came from his car carrying a large cardboard box. As he got closer, I saw it was a case of Moet et Chandon 1952 Brut Imperial Champagne! Christ, at $19 a bottle, a case of twelve!

“Don’t worry,” {Wragg} said, I got the older twit from Yale to spring for it as an ‘engagement present’!” He caught sight of Barb, “Sorry about the Yale crack.”

“That’s OK,” she replied. “Most of the “men” at Yale were twits, but Clyde is worse than most.”

{Wragg}relaxed and the three of us sat in the tail and cracked the first bottle of bubbly as a christening for the mission. After a few words of encouragement, he left and Barb and I were “on mission” officially.

While I prepared the last items on deck, Barb said she was going below to change into her sailing clothes. I had a momentary terror that it was going to be a sailor suit from some Hasty Pudding production. Then I remembered that was Harvard and that Barb seemed, even at 20 to have more style that that.

When she returned to deck, Barb showed that she had style and more. Topsiders with no socks, snug cargo shorts with a cloth belt, A summer plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the button tied in front to leave four inches of very tempting midriff. An elastic band with cloth around it (I think its called a scrunchy) held back her brown, silken hair which now showed its red highlights in the sun!

Despite being a highly trained and experienced field agent, I saw that my assessment of Barb’s figure had fallen somewhat short of reality. On long, boring watches, I sometimes picked up that dirty Playboy magazine and did a scholarly assessment of the ladies on display. In Barb’s new outfit, I could do a fair comparison and the kid won, hands down!

The rest of the day was spent casting off, heading down the Potomac and showing Barb around the sloop. While it would be good if she knew her way around and could help a little, her cover didn’t require that she be an expert sailor.

I pushed the lessons late into the evening as we began descending the Atlantic Intercoastal Waterway, which would take us all the way to Miami. Since we were mostly under motor, I let Barb take the helm for an hour at a time to get a feel for it. About midnight, I told her to go to the cabin and get at least four hours of sleep. I didn’t want to have her sail while I slept, and I was afraid to tie up and both go to the cabin. (Yes, I’m a shy wimp!) Also, I didn’t think it was right to make a move on her despite the conversation at the bar, and I was having doubts that I interpreted the signals she had been sending. Heck, she was just a 20 year-old-kid, book-worm and overachiever in school. A girl like that probably only knew about sex from text books!

At 2 bells (5am, landlubbers) Barb emerged from the cabin. Her outfit was fresh but the same as the day before, showing every luscious curve. She hadn’t put her hair up and it hung freely around that pretty face! This was getting harder by the hour. Three weeks to go!?

By dawn we were in a quiet section of the Waterway in Virginia and I let her take the helm while I took a nap, leaving strict orders to be woken with any problem or question, no matter how minor,

When I woke up it was almost 11 (I’ll use readers time). I cleaned up, put on my topsiders, no socks, canvas work pants and a tight armless tee shirt, my usually fair-weather sailing attire. I guess I should describe myself, since you need to picture what happens.

I went to Rutgers on a boxing scholarship but dropped out after a year and a half. I wasn’t learning anything that interested me. Later I learned that was because the coaches only signed me up for jock courses that were meant for dummies. In later years I became a voracious reader, with a love of history, science and English Literature. Long stakeouts allowed a lot of study. While I think I became reasonably self-educated, I must confess to binge reading English Country House Murder mysteries, the cheaper the better!

I did try to continue boxing but fortunately learned very quickly that I was helpless against a pro. I was lucky to have an uncle in government work who got me an interview at the Agency. They must have been desperate that day, because they hired me. I was placed under some old experienced agents who were being put out to pasture. Again, it was my luck that those two were the best agents I ever met. It’s because of them that I made a career at the CIA.

Physically I’m told I’m moderately handsome in a Jimmy Stewart kind of way. 6’1”, 180. Ever since my boxing in high school, I’ve worked at being fit. I’m no Charles Atlas, but I’m a lot more muscle that fat and enjoy the outdoor work (as you should know from my crewing Bermuda Cup). Blue-green eyes with medium brown hair (fair blond until I hit adolescence)

I came on deck and Barb, who was sitting calmly at the helm, took one look and gave me a long, loud wolf whistle. Imagine my surprise. I’d never known a woman who could do a good whistle and never had one whistle at me. I guess I must have blushed cause my face got suddenly warm. I quickly turned to the bow to pretend to be checking the gear and hoped she hadn’t seen the blush.

Once I regained my composure, we got down to making some serious headway. Barb was as fast a learner on the boat as she had been in the office. They are not always the same in my experience. We made good time and about 10PM that evening we tied up in a small, almost deserted marina in North Myrtle Beach, SC. I went ashore for supplies and Barb set up a dinner on the foredeck. When I came back, she had laid out a blanket, place setting, a bowl of New England Clam Chowder (my Favorite) and opened another bottle of Champagne. She’d even lit two ships candles for a very nice mood. We toasted our progress and enjoyed the meal. We ate Roman Style (No complaints – I have heard some of the readers have this thing about too much Rome) reclining on the blanket, facing each other.

We finished and each had an After Eight mint chocolate thin Barb had thoughtfully laid out. As I ate the mint and sipped my third glass of Champagne in the soft, romantic candlelight, I thought for about the 1,000th time during the meal how very lovely this girl with me was and how much I had come to care for her. I looked at her, and she at me, and we seemed just naturally to bring our lips together in a very soft, but very warm kiss. In fact, Barb did most of the bringing together!

I’m not going to say the kiss was some fantastic experience beyond the experience of mere mortals. It was very nice. Barb shut her eyes, but I kept mine open. I’ve always enjoyed looking at the eyes and face of the woman I’m kissing. A kiss isn’t just a physical stimulus. It is the first step in exploring the existence of another being.

Our arms stole around each other and we pulled our bodies together as the kiss became more passionate. I stroked her soft brown hair that felt like silk. Barb opened her eyes and seemed slightly surprised to meet my eyes. But then we kissed much harder, our tongues teasing each other and each exploring the warmth of the other mouth, while our eyes were locked on each other; drinking in the soul of the other. I felt as if I was being pulled into her deep brown eyes, risking drowning!
 
Does anyone remember reading Chapter Four or am I having a serious, senior moment?
 
To our readers, you may have noticed a slowing of the frequency and length of postings. Unfortunately a contract dispute with one of the characters (who shall go unnamed) has caused some delay. Despite the fact that she hasn't written a single word, she wants a bigger cut. She even had the nerve to quote Billy Joel:
"'Cause he knows that it's me they've been comin' to see
To forget about life for a while."

We hope to have this resolved in the next couple of days and be back on Schedule soon.

Again, our apologies.
 
Here is Chapter Eleven.
I seem to have skipped posting Chapter Four originally.:oops: Sorry.:doh: It was posted a couple of hours ago #288:)

Chapter Eleven

CIA Censor: All redactions approved. To “give the devil his due”, agent {Apostate} was not regarded as of average bravery. Immediate superior {Wragg} assessed: “Bravest god-damned bastard I’ve ever known,” However, stern disapproval of unsubstantiated but implied accusations against senior Agency officials.

October 10, 1960 4:52 PM; near Playa Larga. Provincia Santa Clara, República de Cuba.

Something had gone terribly wrong.

As I jogged through the underbrush to the shore, I kept going over and over what I knew. We had been compromised. How? Who?

It had to be outside of the four of us, {Eula}, {Windar}, me, or Barb. All four knew the details of yesterday’s and today’s meetings. If the Fidelistas got information on these meetings, they would have rounded us all up. Or, at the very least, they would have still been there this afternoon, with {Eula} still alive, (although probably just) as a worm baiting a hook, to reel us all in.

What they must have learned was {Eula}’s connection to me. They went first after her as an agent of America. It was also, too much of a coincidence that they would move against her just now, when I arrive in Cuba after four months away. At least I knew they had learned no new information from {Eula}. I knew her; they could have worked the girl over for week and she wouldn’t betray a loved one.

It must be someone else, somewhere else. Jamaica? Everyone there knew we were coming and when. Hell, I practically shouted it to the Cuban agents there. But that would have told them nothing unless they already had broken my cover and knew about {Eula}. {Kathy}? She knew much but I had never told her anything about Cuban contacts. And again, I knew her. I’m not saying she couldn’t have been broken under torture; most can. But she would never have sold me out for money. The girl probably has more money than the whole Cuban Foreign Intelligence Bureau.

I would have to look farther away and further back. DC; Langley; new people you don’t know.

I got this far and stopped the train of thought. If I was right, there wasn’t a rat’s ass I could do about it now. I needed every second of thought to deal with the current crisis.

I got to the dinghy, pushed off and jumped in.

Something had gone terribly wrong.

As I motored back to the boat I had just about 8 minutes to come up with a plan for when I got there. It only took me about a minute.

If Barb was there and alright, we would get the hell out of there. Simple.

If no one was there, I’d have to determine what had happened and come up with a new plan.

If the Fidelistas were there, I was screwed.

Simple man; Simple plan.

The only way to get to the boat was to use the motor on the dinghy, which was noisy, we hadn’t brought oars. On the calm Bay at late twilight, anyone would hear me coming at 75 to 150 yards, if not more. A decent shot with a rifle would kill me with not more than two shots once I was within 75 yards. Evasive action would be a joke. I did have the long barrel Colt 45, but holding the tiller and bouncing in a little dinghy, I would be lucky to hit the boat let alone one of several Fidelistas.

My choice was clear. Motor to the boat as fast and straight as possible and do a lot of praying.

Approaching the boat based on a plan that most likely resulted in my death was not the pleasantest experience of my life. I took a few deep breaths (even the most hardened agent gets nervous facing death) and concentrated on tuning my senses and reasoning to max level.

I was 100 yards out. No shots. The boat was unlit. Not impossible in the early twilight, But unlikely.

75 yards out. No shots. I could see the boat clearly. No movement on the deck. Barb could be on deck but not looking for me. But unlikely. She could be below, dutifully making dinner for me. But more unlikely.

Forty yards out. No shots. No sound. Barb had picked up that damn Itsy-Bitsy song, singing or humming it constantly. Maybe she’d gotten over that stupid habit. But unlikely.

Every tiny bit of evidence and observation screamed ambush. I calmly grasped the Colt in my left hand and the tiller in my right and went ahead. I think of myself as average brave. Mostly because I have no idea how brave I or the next guy really is. It wasn’t bravery that sent me headlong into a likely ambush. It was that there was nothing else to do.

Twenty Yards.
 
As a reminder, hapter Four was not posted in order. It has been posted above in post #288
 
Chapter Twelve

CIA Censor: No redaction issues

October 10, 1960 5:28 PM; near Playa La Cocos. Provincia Santa Clara, República de Cuba.

I got to the boat without dying, which I felt was one for me. I tied up the dinghy, and with my trusty PPK in hand I climbed aboard.
It was well onto dark so it was hard to see anything. I figured if the Fidelistas were waiting for me, I had nothing to lose by working my cover.
“Barb, I’m back. Have you got my dinner ready?”

Not a sound.

This was bad. Not the worst possible. That would be a bullet between my eyes. But this was bad. I figured that the silent treatment from the earlier fight was over; if it wasn’t, the dinner question was sure to draw a sharp response.

I took the emergency light off its rack by the wheel and searched the entire boat methodically. When most people are under stress, they move fast and wildly. In my experience it takes them twice as long to find what they’re looking for and they may miss something important. My training again said to not miss a thing from stem to stern.

Fifteen minutes later, I knew all that I needed about what had happened. Fidelistas had come aboard. There were signs of something like a patrol boat tied to the port side. Muddy foot print on the deck. No sign of struggle. No surprise; if there were a half dozen Fidelistas, Barb would know physical resistance was useless and would just try to retain her cover. None of Barb’s things were gone. Her make-up and toiletries items were spread, as usual, all over the head and bedroom and even the kitchen!. The boat had been thoroughly searched, but not professionally. They had missed the weapons locker. And they hadn’t even taken the ship’s log (that’s first day training for any coast guard or customs personnel.) Barb’s Beretta was in the weapons locker. This means she probably saw them coming and had the sense to hide a weapon that would be suspicious. On the other hand, this meant that she was not gone on her own, but had been taken by the Fidelistas.

Of course, I knew what Barb might not have known when she left; our cover was blown and they were on to us!

Another plan gone. I jumped into the dinghy and set off, hoping the next plan might work!

October 10, 1960 6:19 PM; North of Playa Larga. Provincia Santa Clara, República de Cuba.

An hour later, I rendezvoused as arranged with {Windar} just north of Playa Larga. According to {Eula}, the Fidelista camp was about a quarter mile from there. {Windar}’s familiarity with the area and his well-developed bush-whacking skills got us quickly to exactly where we needed to be. We were on a hill looking down on the new camp for Che Guerra’s scum to use as a base for spreading their terror in the region. (Did you know Che once said he modeled the organization of Castro’s secret police on Hitler’s Geheime Staatspolizei?) Timing was good, full night and the Fidelistas hadn’t lit their compound very well: no perimeter lights and substantial interior areas un-lit or poor-lit. Near the oval, chain link fence surrounding the camp, ground had been cleared for about thirty yards out. Beyond that, undergrowth and jungle were undisturbed. It was clear that they were more concerned with prisoners escaping than the peasants assaulting.

The front gate was well guarded and we had no plans to storm it. (We weren’t the dirty dozen, we were more like the terrible twos.) We began to work our way around to the left, just beyond the cleared area.

We had made it about two thirds way to the rear, when we saw the building. It looked like a very large storage shed and was well separated from the rest of the compound. Most of the ground around it was long grass or underbrush. There was bright lighting inside and the two big front swinging doors were propped open. Also, unlike most of the buildings in the camp, it was well guarded: three men in front and at least two more inside.

Soundlessly, I signaled to {Windar} that we would move to get a better view. Three yards to the right, {Barbara Moore} came into view. She was seated in a straight-back chair and appeared to be bound hand and foot as well as some rag tied around her head as a gag. At once we knew that this was not the Canadian Consulate, and Barb was not a guest!

{Windar} and I retreated 20 feet back in the underbrush. I told him my plan and he set off to get the additional equipment. I went back and surveyed the lay of the land. Grasping the PPK in my left, Colt in my right, I dashed, bent over, up to the chain link fence. I was hoping {Eula} knew what she was talking about. Otherwise, all three of us were in very hot water.
 
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