USA 2002 in 1942 section 3

While ISOT American 2002 (Written by Dave Knudson) is the 2002 US transported to 1942 it can serve as a rough template on how the Infopunk and Dieselpunk Earths interact. The formatting at the source archive has issues and so the piece is provided here. Due to its size it is in sections.
*USA 2002 in 1942 section 1
*USA 2002 in 1942 section 2
*USA 2002 in 1942 section 3
*USA 2002 in 1942 section 4
*USA 2002 in 1942 section 5
*USA 2002 in 1942 section 6
*USA 2002 in 1942 section 7
*USA 2002 in 1942 section 8
==USA 2002 in 1942 Part 7 - "Perspectives"==
Mildred Myers returned home from her vigorous three-mile walk at about 8:00 AM. The air in Los Angeles had not acquired the ferocious heat it would later, and sixty-two year-old Mildred appreciated it. It looked to be another hot one, and Mildred liked to get her daily walk in before it got too hot.
The paper had arrived, and Mildred, almost without breaking stride
scooped it up. The front page was full of news about either the war
or the event, and a full-color picture of Winston Churchill giving his
famous "V" sign from an M1 Abrams tank dominated. Mildred put the
paper on her kitchen table, and checked her ovens. An apple pie, and
two pans of her brownies were almost done cooking, and should be
removed before she showered.
Ever since her beloved husband Wally had died three years ago of
cancer, Mildred had done her best to keep busy. Wally's career as an
aerospace engineer provided enough money, and they'd never had
children. Mildred, after the grief of his death, had devoted herself
to her church; not in any real religious sense - though she dutifully
attended Haverford Methodist every Sunday - but rather through its
community outreach programs, and social events. Mildred liked to keep
busy, and the church provided a way to do that.
Ever since the Event, Mildred had been busier than ever. People had
turned to the church for comfort, even if the Methodist church she
attended was a close to secular as one could get in mainstream
Christian worship, it was still a spiritual place, and people wanted
that. Later, as ships (both civilian and military) from 1942 came
home to an America they couldn't recognize; the church provided a
place of comfort to mariners as well. Comfort, both spiritual and
physical are important to well-being, and since Reverend Phillips had
once before the Event described Mildred's brownies as "sinfully
delicious", she'd been delighted when he'd first asked her to make up
a batch, and drive it down to the navy base at San Diego. That's
where the Navy had the ships returning; so that the year 1942 sailors
could be processed.
This was the third time Mildred had done this. The troops from 1942
appreciated her cooking and good nature, and Mildred, with no family,
delighted in giving them brownies. They were so lost that Mildred's
heart went out to them. Today would be no different. Mildred
retrieved the brownies, and the pie (not her specialty, but Mildred
had been toying with a new recipe, and hey, variety is the spice of
life), and covered them with tin foil before showering.
After she dressed, Mildred glanced through the paper. It always
listed the returning ships and where they'd been based, in case anyone
with a personal connection to the men was available. Mildred ran her
eyes down the list, not really expecting anything. Her eyes stopped
on one ship's name for a moment, and then continued. She'd known this
might happen, but hadn't really expected it.
Mildred stopped off in her bedroom to retrieve something, and the
hauled the pans of brownies (with the apple pie balanced precariously
on top) to her car. She navigated herself through southern
California's tortuous system of interstates to the docks in San Diego.
Some ships had already come in; their crews going through what the government called "orientation", an attempt to drill sixty years of history, cultural change, and technology into befuddled men in a few hours. Mildred thought it a waste of time, but in the face of its utter inability to explain the Event, the government had to be seen as Doing Something, and an "orientation" was the answer.
The docks were a madhouse of returning sailors, reporters, police,
and civilians. Mildred located Reverend Phillips, and he directed her
to a large table, with a cluster of volunteers serving welcoming
sailors home. Leaving her brownies with some friends, Mildred walked
through the crowd, scanning faces. She doubted she'd find what was
looking for, but she tried anyway. Thus she was stunned when she saw
him. He looked vastly different of course, but there was no hiding
those striking blue eyes.
Mildred sighed to herself, and walked right up to him. Might as well get it over with. He wouldn't know of the special history they shared, so it was up to her to let him know. He was looking around, as befuddled as anyone else. He saw her bright smile, and looked with
confusion at her; not recognizing her of course. She was still smiling when she pulled out her deceased husbands' .38, and shot him four times at close range before the gun jammed. He was dead before he hit the ground. Mildred then put the gun down, and stepped away
from it and the corpse.
A moment of stunned silence ensued before pandemonium erupted. 
Later, it was determined that the man Mildred shot was Seaman Morris
Jones. In 1954, when Mildred had been 14, Morris Jones had raped her
so severely that she'd never been able to give her beloved Wally
children. 14-year old Mildred had never had the courage to act
against him, and he'd raped four more teenaged girls before dying of a
drug overdose in 1963. Over the years, Mildred had found a little
more out about him, including the merchant ship he'd served on during
World War II. It had been more morbid curiosity on her part than
anything else at the time; she'd never thought she'd have a practical
application for the knowledge of his life she'd obtained.
The case caused a sensation. Not an OJ-level sensation, but a media event none-the-less. Mildred had never committed a crime in her life, and that a nice, church-going lady could commit murder was bad enough.
Feminist groups supported her; after all, Mildred had stopped a demonstrated serial rapist. On the other hand, Morris's sexual deviancy didn't start until 1954; the man Mildred shot had committed no crimes.
Despite a groundswell of support for Mildred, the courts ruled against her. Individuals "duplicated" by the Event were still separate individuals. Whatever a person's potential crimes in the future, they were innocent until proven guilty. By separating people, legal tangle was avoided. Still, Mildred was not alone. Two more 1942 people were killed by victims of crimes that had not yet committed before the government (getting to Do Something again) set up a screening process to warn "future criminals" of potential assassins.
By and large, it wasn't really necessary; the members of the "Greatest Generation" were not, as a whole, inclined to be criminals. But in some cases they were.
The fishing boat was a medium-sized, not too new, not too old, and
entirely non-descript. It could have been any one of a hundred
Swedish boats plying the Baltic Sea in search of fish. Nets were
deployed from the mast into the water, and the ship trawled slowly to
the north, no different from other fishing ships on the water.
The ship flew the Swedish flag, but had not a single Swede on board. 
Instead, an elite crew of the Kriegsmarine ran the ship, while SS
guards kept careful watch in civilian clothes.
Exactly on time, a Soviet submarine surfaced next to the ship. The
SS guards tensed, but no treachery was offered. Instead, the Soviet
sub deployed a small raft, and two men rowed a third over to the
Nazi-crewed fishing boat. Upon reaching the boat, two SS crewman
assisted the two NKVD rowers up, and they in turn helped the
middle-aged Soviet diplomat up. The diplomat was led below, while the
NKVD and SS men contemplated each other with varying degrees of sullen
hostility.
Vyacheslav Molotov and Joachim von Ribbentrop eyed each other across
a rough wooden table. The men had met many times before; most
recently in December of 1940, when the "partners" had discussed
dividing up the British Empire. If Molotov felt a personal sense of
betrayal at the very real geopolitical betrayal the USSR had
experienced, his face did not betray it. George Bush would have
recognized the bland sense of polite interest he displayed to
Ribbentrop. Of course, his country was not at war with the United
States from the year 2002, so his position of the rough wooden chair
was considerably more comfortable.
Ribbentrop couldn't keep the contempt from his face, and made no real
effort to do so. Everyone knew (well, everyone of importance anyway)
that the Wehrmacht would've crushed the Soviets in the summer - had
not the Fuhrer assured them of this? And now this - this
incomprehensible event that had put demons of technology and power in
the United States - had forced the Aryan Reich to deal with the Slavs
as something other than a Master to his slaves. The Germans were not
here willingly, and Molotov allowed for a small, inner smile at
Ribbentrop's obvious discomfiture.
Ribbentrop opened the meeting. He began by thanking the Soviet
Foreign minister for coming, and then launched into a carefully
prepared statement. He expressed dismay over the current state of
Soviet-Nazi relations, and related how the war had not been the true
desire of the Fuhrer. Rather, an Anglo-Jewish plot to turn the
friends - the USSR and Germany - against each other had deceived
certain members of the Nazi inner circle, in particular Rudolf Hess. 
Hess's duplicity could not be understated - had not his British
masters called him back home on the eve of the invasion? Indeed,
even more than the Nazi Party, the German Army had been deceived. A
Soviet "attack" on June 20, 1941 on German units pacifying Poland -
which had precipitated the attack of June 22 (ordered by local Army
commanders, of course, not Hitler) - was revealed, through the
brilliance of Adolph Hitler, to have been the work of British and
Jewish agents. The "morally bankrupt capitalists" had been desperate,
and only by turning the visionaries of Hitler and Stalin against each
other could they hope to prolong their own craven lives and societies.
And, of course, once the war had started, the Germans had no choice
but to wage it, lest the British-Jewish conspirators within the German
Army be alerted that the Fuhrer knew of their duplicity. Even now,
Ribbentrop emoted, security elements of the German government were
moving to eliminate the conspiracy.
Molotov sat in silence, and wondered if Ribbentrop actually thought
that any sane human being above the age of four would buy that story. 
Hitler's whole political career had been based on the elimination of
Slavs and Communism, and the fact that the USSR embodied both had made
it the most vilified target of his mind. The German attack (which
surprised Stalin far more than Molotov) had been a deliberate,
predicated, carefully planned affair, and the pack of lies Ribbentrop
spewed was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard - up to and
including Dr. Rice calling Stalin a "lunatic".
Still, he had his orders. Molotov managed (somehow) a smile, and
nodded at Ribbentrop. He acknowledged the German's words, and said
that Comrade Stalin and the Central Committee would be relieved that
the current unpleasantness between Nazi Germany and the Soviet Union
could be resolved. There were a number of issues to be resolved,
however. Not everyone in the peace-loving Soviet Union had access to
the information that was revealed here, nor could they be given it for
"security concerns". Some Soviet citizens might still feel a sense of
distrust of their German neighbours, and, Comrade Stalin, as their
chosen leader, must acknowledge those who did so.
Ribbentrop looked thoughtful (difficult, given that thought was not
something that came often to Herr Ribbentrop) for a moment, and nodded
slowly. Yes, Germany could acknowledge that some Soviet citizens
might have those fears - though they hoped that Stalin and the Soviet
government would act quickly to dispel them.
Molotov nodded. Of course they would. Still, that would take time,
and Comrade Stalin thought that that they way to proceed was carefully
and thoughtfully, lest any undetected elements of the conspiracy
"confuse" things again. Actually, Comrade Stalin and the Central
Committee had already had some thoughts along these lines that Molotov
was prepared to share with Ribbentrop, if he was interested.
Ribbentrop glared at Molotov's bland smile, knowing full well that
the Soviets had the advantage, and knew it. He managed a smile, and
said he'd be simply delighted to see what was prepared. Molotov
withdrew a series of maps from his briefcase, and laid them on the
table. They showed a staged German fall-back to Warsaw, followed by a
Soviet advance to the old pact line of 1939.
The German foreign minister scowled at the maps, and mentioned that
they seemed to call for the retreat of the Germans to Warsaw, while
the Soviets were at Brest-Litovsk. Molotov smiled, and said that
while the territory between Warsaw and Brest-Litovsk was to be German,
Comrade Stalin and the Central Committee felt that a demilitarized
"buffer" zone between the Soviets and Germans might do quite a bit to
allay the (justified) fears of those uninformed Soviet citizens. It
would be only temporary, of course, until the "new situation" in the
west had been addressed. Ribbentrop asked why a buffer zone in the
east wasn't maintained, and Molotov simply smiled and said that until
the situation with the United States was "clarified", it was felt that
it would unduly strain the Germans to maintain a military presence
that far east.
Ribbentrop pointed at Lithuania. It directly abutted East Prussia,
and, lamely, Ribbentrop wanted to know what could be done to allay the
equally justifiable fears of the Prussians. Molotov pretended to go
into deep thought at this, and then mentioned that he might be able to
talk Comrade Stalin into "demilitarizing" Lithuania. If the Germans
could accept "non-military security forces" in Lithuania to suppress
"counter-revolutionary, British-inspired terrorists", then he thought
Comrade Stalin would agree.
Ribbentrop scowled again. He knew Molotov meant NKVD, and he knew
Hitler wouldn't like it. But overall, he was surprised at the
generosity of the Soviet minister - he'd expected worse. He looked
up, and said, that in principle Germany could abide by these terms.
Molotov smiled, and said that another meeting - of lower-level
functionaries should be set up soon to work out the details - perhaps
in Sweden next week? Ribbentrop agreed, and rose from the table with
hand extended to shake Molotov's.
Molotov did not.
Just one more issue, said Molotov. Ribbentrop froze, half out his
seat. Molotov continued that Comrade Stalin was glad the Germans had
detected the conspiracy that led to the tragic conflict between them. 
Ribbentrop, still crouched, looked confused for a moment, and then
remembered the story he'd spun. Molotov said that elements of that
conspiracy had been tracked by Soviet security to another place. 
Ribbentrop stared. It turns out that the duplicitous Finns were
involved, Molotov said. Seeking to overturn the glorious victory of
the workers and peasants of the Soviet Union in 1940, the Finns had
aided and abetted the conspiracy.
Ribbentrop sat back down, but even he knew what was coming. Molotov
pressed on. The NKVD had recovered proof - which the Soviet Union
would be happy to share with the Germans - that Helsinki had provided
funding and logistical support for the British-Jewish conspiracy. 
Molotov said that the Soviets could hardly blame the Germans for being
duped, but that no excuse could exist for the Finns. With this new
information, Molotov and Comrade Stalin were sure that the Germans
would understand that the legitimate rage of the Soviet people could
not be forestalled, and the situation in Finland must be addressed.
The hate coming from Ribbentrop was a visceral thing. Molotov could almost see it, and a small part of him delighted in it. With a visible effort, Ribbentrop controlled himself, and surrendered Finland to the USSR.
As Molotov left the smouldering Ribbentrop on the boat, he smiled at the NKVD men. As he recalled, both had been assigned to the new NKVD armored divisions, marked for special deployment to Lithuania.
The early Norwegian morning was broken by the scream of jet engines. 
Four F/A-18s from the IKE screamed up the fjord at near supersonic speeds. Each Hornet carried four AGM-84 Harpoon missiles, and the
target had no way of jammed their electronic brains.
The flight screamed over the target, which had been located and
identified from satellite photos. The TIRPITZ - though to be secure -
came to life as the American jets flew overhead. The crew rushed out,
and while some rushed to their duty stations, some simply stared at
the planes. They'd all heard stories of the new US Navy - now they
got to see it.
The lead jet broke off, and then swooped down to just above the
water. The convoluted topology of the fjord meant that a close and
low attack was necessary, but the pilot wasn't worried. Neither the
TIRPITZ of the land-bases AA crews were reacting, and no German pilot
still alive was dumb enough to face F/A-18s.
The HUD displayed lock-on, and the flight leader pressed a button. 
Two AGM-84's detached, and raced at the TIRPITZ. Both hit just above
the waterline, and the whole ship bucked. The blasts rocked the
German battleship, but didn't sink it, as was expected. Much slower
than they needed to, the next Hornets lined up. The German crew was
scrambling off the ship, as had been hoped.
The plans were dashed when some idiot on the ground started shooting
at the US planes. There wasn't much hope of actually hitting one, but
no chances were taken. In quick succession, 6 more harpoons hit the
TIRPITZ. The fifth one penetrated to an ammo bunker on the ship, and
the resulting explosion lifted the ship clear of the water, and
flipped it over, breaking the keel.
All caught on the lead plane's gun camera for broadcast on CNN.
A similar mission was undertaken in Italy. Several squadrons of US
jets overflew the Italian base at Taranto. The AA of the base was
suppressed, and then the Italian Navy was, for all intents and
purposes, destroyed. The pilots did manage to minimize damage to the
city itself, and most of the Italian crews got off their ships before
they were destroyed.
All in all, a pretty good day for the US Navy.
==USA 2002 in 1942 Part 8 "Deployments"==
It has been said that the best alliances are those of convenience. 
When all parties concerned understand that their affiliation is based
not on insubstantial concepts like friendship, common viewpoint, or
mutual respect, but on the fact that both need something only the
others can provide, an alliance can work. All others, it is said, are
doomed to failure.
Whether or not that saying was true, it most certainly described the
situation between the two men sitting on the deck of the on the yacht.
Florida's Biscayne Bay spread in sun-dappled glory before them, and
the water seemed almost covered with boats. Yachts, pleasure-craft,
small trawlers, fishing boats and even large sailboats moved in loose
formation. They were there - could be there - because of the two men
on the yacht. One of them gloried in the sight that a conquistador
from fourteenth or fifteenth century Spain would have recognized - a
people going to reclaim their homeland. The other looked merely in
the satisfaction of a job well done. His shot at his own homeland
would come later - though this was an important first step.
One of the men on the boat was Julio Merrenda, and his heart was
ready to burst with joy. Over two hundred boats - full of the elite
of Miami's Cuban-American community (and their "guests") - were making
the journey they'd dreamed of since 1961. They were going back to
Cuba. For many, it would be their first time in the almost legendary
homeland - forty years had seen the passing of generations - and they
came more out a spirit of adventure (and potential profit) then
nostalgia.
Marrenda was a leader of the Cuban-American expatriate community,
though few people even in that community would have recognized him as
such. He was quietly in charge of one of the largest political action
committees in Washington. His PAC was one reason the US government
had maintained its strangling embargo on Cuba for so long. 
Congressional members from Florida, in both the Senate and the House,
knew that a word from Marrenda could make or break their long-term
prospects in Floridian politics. As for those members not from
Florida, well, Marrenda was dedicated, personally and professionally,
to a free Cuba, and he wouldn't let little things like blackmail and
bribery stop him.
As the flotilla had gathered in Biscayne Bay from Miami and its
suburbs, the stunned Coast Guard had reacted with two cutters and the
Dade County Sheriffs Department had added a helicopter, but the US
authorities couldn't really interfere with the Cuban-Americans. After
all, they weren't really breaking any laws. If they approached Cuba,
they would be breaking the official US embargo on the island-nation
(though it could be argued that in court that the embargo wasn't "yet"
in force). But that was the domain of the US Navy. Apart from some
anti-sub planes in Key West, and two destroyers escorting small oil
tankers to Venezuela, the navy had few local assets - and fewer
reasons - to interfere with the Cuban-Americans. The U-boats had been
cleared from the Caribbean, and Cuba just didn't rate next to either
the Nazis or the Imperial Japanese Navy.
The questions that baffled the few state and federal officials
concerned with the flotilla were fuel and weapons. It was clear
enough what the Cubans were doing - going to Cuba. However, ever
since the Event, fuel had been tightly rationed. There was no way
(theoretically) that over 200 non-essential pleasure craft could have
purchased fuel under the new regulations - let alone enough gas to get
them all to Cuba. Cuban-Americans had the highest per-capita income
of any immigrant group in the United States, and a fair degree of
political clout as well, but even that shouldn't have been enough.
Regardless of the fuel, there remained the question of just what they
planned to do when they got to Cuba. Fulgencio Batista was a ruthless
man, and whatever their political and technological skills, the Cubans
possessed neither the trained men nor the weapons to displace him. 
Batista wasn't the official President of Cuba, but he was the real
power there. Some officials wondered what they would do; the
Cuban-American "fleet" had no military vessels, and no evident
weapons. It was though they would offer some kind of deal - but
Batista was not a man that one could deal with from a position of
anything other than power.
Marrenda knew this better then the confused officials, of course. At
the age of seven, he'd fled Cuba on a rickety boat in 1962, and knew
the realities of politics there. After the stunned confusion of the
Event, he and his PAC had argued long and hard in Washington for a
small force of marines or soldiers to take the island. The US
military had no time for him, though. With Adolph Hitler, Joseph
Stalin, and their ilk to deal with, one more minor dictator just
didn't matter.
Then, a little more than two weeks ago, Marrenda had met the other
man who was on the deck of the yacht with him. The man's name was
Joshua Isaacs, and he was officially an assistant counsel at the
Israeli Embassy in Washington. Marrenda had been having dinner in a
small Washington bistro when Isaacs had approached his table, and sat
down uninvited. Marrenda had a career where such things happened, so,
even though he didn't recognize Issacs, he'd merely put down his fork
and waited for the man to speak.
Isaacs smiled, and introduced himself. He did not offer to shake
hands. He'd been listening to Marrenda in various Congressional
meetings over the last few days, and believed he could help the
Cuban-Americans with their problems.
Marrenda had stared. As toughened by Washington politics as
he was, Marrenda had to wonder for a moment why the Israeli gave a
damn about Cuba one way or the other. Then he noted two younger men
enter the bistro and sit at a table close to Marrenda's. Neither
looked at all interested in food, and both had a tough, observant, and
angry look about them. Marrenda had been around for far too long to
not to recognize bodyguards when he saw them, and he doubted an
"assistant counsel" rated such protection. From that, he concluded
(correctly) that Isaacs was Mossad, and that confused Marrenda even
more - why would the Mossad care about Cuba - as did why Mossad
bodyguards would be angry with him.
Isaacs pressed on. The Cubans had a problem. They wanted to go to
Cuba and replace Batista. To do that they needed fuel for their
boats, and, most importantly, an armed force to back up whatever they
did. Marrenda stared. He considered denying that he wanted Batista
deposed, but doubted the Mossad man would believe him - after all, he
did want to depose the Cuban dictator. Marrenda managed a small
smile, and asked why the Israeli Embassy was interested in this issue.
Joshua Isaacs looked grim. He said that the Event had thrown
everything off - and he didn't even have a country any more. 
Furthermore, there were - things - happening in Europe that he was
sure Mr. Marrenda could understand that the Israelis - what was left
of them - were very concerned about. Marrenda had never devoted much
thought to the Holocaust, but he nodded in understanding. That
explained why the bodyguards were so angry - not at him, but at the
Germans. He said, quite honestly, that he sympathized with the Israeli
problem, but he didn't know what he could do about it.
The Israeli smiled, and pulled a folder out of his attaché case. In
it was a series of aerial photographs. Marrenda recognized Havana
harbor, and noted two freighters had been circled in red. Isaacs
spoke. In June of 1940, Mussolini had surprised the world by
declaring war on the Allies, just as Germany was crushing France. In
addition to taking the Allies by surprise, he had surprised the
Italian merchant marine, much of which was seized in Allied or neutral
ports. Batista had leaped at the chance to acquire a little wealth,
and, under questionable legal circumstances, seized two Italian
freighters in Havana, the FANO and the TIBER, which had been loading
sugar and bananas in June of 1940.
Marrenda stared at the pictures, then at Isaacs, more confused then
ever. He apologized, and said he didn't understand what the Israeli
was driving at. Isaacs then dropped the bombshell. In addition to
the Embassy staff and other Israeli citizens in the United States
during the event were two battalions of the Israeli Army training with
the Americans at the NTC in California. These Israelis wanted to
fight the Nazis now, and they didn't want to wait. Despite the
entreaties of a political lobby far more powerful than Marrenda's, the
US government had not leased shipping to the Israelis to get to
Europe.
That's where the FANO and TIBER came in. Isaacs offered Marrenda a
deal. The Israelis would provide fuel for Cuban boats, and an armed
strike force of 1500 Israeli troops to address the Batista issue. 
Once that happened, and assuming the US Government either noticed or
cared, the Israeli lobby in Washington would thro support behind
whatever government Marrenda put into place in Havana. In return,
once the new Cuban government was in place, Marrenda would release
both ships to the Israelis, stuffed with as many supplies as they
could carry. They would do this provided they could leave within two
weeks.
Marrenda was shocked. In one fell swoop, he'd been offered everything he'd wanted - in return for a relative pittance. And so quickly - that was just scary. Things like this never moved fast -
and then he remembered the Holocaust, and realized why the Israelis
felt the need to move so quickly. He was a canny political operator
though - he'd learned long ago that when it seemed too good to be
true, it probably was, and this was no exception.
His mind awhirl, he temporized to buy time to think. Why go through
Cuba? Surely if the US government denies them shipping, the Israelis
can find ships in either Canada and Mexico to use, and without the
need to fight a battle against someone they don't care that much
about. True, Isaacs said, but the ships and supplies aren't all that
we want.
The Israeli went on. In addition to the ships, the Cubans would
provide five hundred million dollars' worth of gold, jewels, silver,
and other precious metals - seed money for future "operations" in
Europe, and to contribute to the foundation of a new Israeli currency.
Additionally, once the situation in Europe was settled, the new Cuban
government would provide extremely preferential trading rights to
State of Israel, once it was reconstituted. Finally, a small group of
Israelis would stay behind in Cuba to "coordinate" things outside of
the reach of US laws - and the Cubans would protect them. Marrenda
stared again. He tried to wrap his mind around the idea. He could
imagine why the Israelis would want portable wealth. The trade rights
were ludicrous - he doubted Cuba could provide anything the US
couldn't. Finally, the idea of an Israeli presence in Cuba concerned
him - even if it was small.
He started to ask Isaacs another question, but the man rose from the
table. Isaacs said that he hoped the Cuban could keep this discussion
discrete, and that they would speak again tomorrow. Then he and the
two bodyguards left the stunned Cuban in the bistro.
Marrenda had spent the night and the next day closeted with his
closest - and most discrete - advisors. They agreed that the Israeli
offer was bizarre; clearly the Cubans stood to gain much more than
Isaacs did from the deal. The Holocaust was a horror to the Israelis
though; perhaps that was impacting their thinking. All suspected the
Israelis were hiding something, but none could imagine what. They
agreed that the "coordination" group was more than it seemed, but a
small group of Israelis now was far better then a large group of
Americans later.
Despite their concerns, the Cubans recognized that the
Israelis offered the best chance that existed to take advantage of the
Event before the war ended. The fear was that once the war was over,
the Americans would then be able to focus on other areas - like Cuba. 
That would be bad - there were fortunes to be made, and even though
the Cubans looked forward to friendly relations with their adopted
home, they didn't want to become an adjunct to it like Canada or
Mexico. The Cuban-Americans had the were the best-organized and
wealthiest political group from Latin America in the United States. 
In addition to the chance to reclaim their homeland, if they could get
there soon enough, they would be able to reorganize Cuba to make it a
dominant player in Latin politics. And make themselves rich, as well.
It was too good to pass up. The deal was a go.
The Israeli hadn't specified a time to meet, but Marrenda
wasn't surprised when Isaacs arrived at the PAC's business
headquarters. Marrenda still had questions - like weapons and
ammunition for the Israelis, which the Cubans couldn't provide. 
Isaacs waved a hand - that was no problem. Marrenda wanted to know
where the fuel was coming from. Isaacs arched an eyebrow -
Spock-like, and asked if Marrenda really wanted know that. Marrenda
quickly demurred, and the men shook hands.
Now they were sitting together on Marrenda's yacht. As
promised, the fuel had arrived. As had the Israeli soldiers, fully
armed with the latest in US infantry weapons, body armor, and with
plenty of ammunition. The small craft, in addition to the
Cuban-Americans, held the Israelis, and their guns and ammunition.
Marrenda really wished he'd asked about where the Israelis got
the fuel and weapons. Despite the sense of joy at the sight of the
fleet, Marrenda's political instincts told him he might be unhappy if
he knew where Isaacs had gotten everything.
Marrenda's political instincts were right, though the reason wouldn't
be apparent for awhile.
And even though Marrenda couldn't fathom how, and wouldn't know for a
while, the Israelis had gotten, by far, the better deal.
The smoke had finally stopped rising. It had taken months, but the
last of the oil fires from that horrible day in December had burned
themselves out, and a sense of calm had returned to Pearl Harbor. The
activity in the harbor was still frantic, of course, as recovery
operations continued. Two battleships had already been raised, and
industrious crews worked to clear debris, both in the harbor and on
land.
From his current vantage point on board a Sea Stallion helicopter
loaned from the STENNIS, Chester Nimitz had a clear view of the whole
harbor. Crews from the mainland had brought seemingly magical
equipment with them, and that equipment had speeded up the clean up
considerably. They had experience from someplace called the "World
Trade Center" in New York, and seemed to have a grimness about them
that Nimitz recognized all to well from his time in Pearl right after
December 7. The survivors of battleship row had the same look, and a
small part of Nimitz (not completely overwhelmed by the fantastic
events of late) despaired that humanity hadn't gotten any saner, even
60 years into the future.
Few operational ships dotted the harbor - most were off on Operation
Damocles, the relief mission to the Philippines. At Hickam, Nimitz
knew were some long-range bombers. Nimitz had once thought that the
B-17 was a triumph of American engineering and ingenuity. At it was -
apparently, in the old history, it had proved quite an effective
weapon. Nimitz had heard that aviation enthusiasts from the mainland
were offering extravagant sums of money for them - evidently
collecting obsolete military aircraft was a hobby in 2002. No B-17s
had been sold - they were still military aircraft, and despite their
technology the people from 2002 had uses for them.
At Hickam, though, were planes that seemed almost - well, alien, to
Nimitz. The B-52s were understandable enough. They were just bigger,
better B-17s. It was the B-2s that frightened Nimitz. Sleek, black,
featureless, and with the range to hit Manila from Pearl. A few weeks
ago, the US had sent in "Green Berets" to join with Wainwright's
beleaguered troops. Their purpose, in conjunction with a "satellite"
was to direct the bombers to their targets. From what Nimitz had
gleaned, they were doing so very well; the troops on Bataan had
actually stabilized the line due to air support.
But airpower couldn't fully address the situation on the ground, nor
provide food or ammunition to the troops already there. Hence,
Operation Damocles, the military relief of the Bataan garrison. A
force built around the STENNIS battle group, and including the 1942
carriers ENTERPRISE and SARATOGA, and the 1942 Army's 25th Infantry
Divisions was to relieve the garrison. Additionally, the assault ship
TARAWA and its support ships carried a regiment of US Marines from
2002. Nimitz had had concerns - one carrier against the Imperial
Japanese Navy? After his tour of the STENNIS, and having watched the
footage from Norway and Taranto, he had no worries about the naval
capability of the force going to the Philippines.
He did have other concerns, though. The force was nominally
commanded by Admiral Michael Herzog, from 2002, who seemed capable
enough. However, as Herzog had no experience withy 1942 technology,
an admiral from 1942 served as his second-in-command. William "Bull"
Halsey had plenty of experience, and had the respect of the navy from
2002 as well. Of course, as Halsey had pointed out to Nimitz, however
much they respected him in the future, it wasn't Halsey who got a
whole class of super carriers named after him. Nimitz had to chuckle
internally at that. Nimitz's concern was the spilt command. However
great the new technological advances of the United States, the
fundamental military maxims remained as true in 2002 as in 1942, or,
for that matter, 1002. One of these was that a split command was a
recipe for disaster.
As for the "Nimitz class", well, Nimitz still didn't know what to
think of that. He'd read the history, and knew he'd done well in the
original war. But the STENNIS had been - well, awe-inspiring, and
he'd have been more than human not to feel some kind of pride. He
imagined Dwight Eisenhower felt the same way - he'd been (or was? Or
would be? It was so hard to tell with this crazy time-travel stuff)
President. Nimitz also faced a morale nightmare. The men in Hawaii
from 1942 were almost entirely from the mainland - and despite the
frantic work of recovery and war - most now knew they'd never see
their families again - at least not in a form they'd recognize. So
far, the situation had been crazy and remote enough to be kept under
control. But that wouldn't last for long.
And Nimitz wasn't sure what to do about that.
As Operation Damocles proceeded, and the build-up of US forces
in Britain continued, the CIA and NSA started an operation of their own. The US intended to use every tool it had that wasn't a weapon of
mass destruction to win this war, and psychological warfare had come a
long way in sixty years.
To start off with, President Bush addressed the populations of
Germany and Italy. US engineers in Britain had set up powerful
transmitters that could overwhelm German jamming. He introduced himself, and then the year 2002 ambassadors from the formerly Axis powers. He made it clear; America had no quarrel with the people of the Axis countries, only their governments. In the future, Germany
and Italy were partners with the United States. They were in a Europe
that was peaceful, prosperous, and free. They'd lost the war in
history, and with sixty years of technology on America's side, they
had no hope at all.
Additionally, Bush spoke directly against "atrocities". He
talked bluntly of the holocaust, naming places where Jews and others
were being, or would be, exterminated. He spoke of the Wanasee
Conference, and the "Final Solution". The United States, he said,
viewed this policy as a crime against humanity, and anyone who
participated in it, no matter how low their rank, or whose orders
they'd followed, would be held accountable.
Finally, Bush talked about Hitler. He asked the German people
how they, a great, civilized nation, had allowed this bitter, failed
little man to lead them to war against the whole world. He asked if
their lives, and the lives of their relatives and friends fighting all
over the world, had been made better by him. All the pain of war
could be avoided simply by replacing him and his thugs.
The German ambassador spoke up at this time. He talked of the
pain of growing up in a world that looked upon Germans as brutal Nazi
killers. He spoke of the injustices perpetrated on the Jews and
others by the Nazis - there was no "Master Race" - only the human
race, and all Germans, in their hearts, knew this. Finally, he spoke
of shame. The shame that the children and grandchildren of the adults
in Germany today would bear in the future for the crimes of Nazis. If
not for themselves, then for succeeding generations of Germans must
that monster in Berlin be killed.
The next part started the next day. British Lancaster and
Manchester bombers, along with a smattering of B-17s, and escorted by
F-18 from the IKE, and F-16s and F-15s finally operating from Britain,
dropped leaflets over cities in Germany. Some had the famous picture
of the Soviet soldier raising the hammer-and-sickle over the shattered
Reichstag with caption "Would you rather they win?" Others showed
scenes from the Nuremberg trials, others pictures of US military
equipment. Still others showed pictures of the Berlin Wall.
For help in coming up with convincing leaflets, the NSA had the
help of the German Embassy. It wasn't about treason, the ambassador
told his staff, it was about saving German lives for the future.
==USA 2002 in 1942 ISOT Part 9 - "First Battles"==
In normal times, it never would've come to this - especially at the
level at which it was happening. Organizations of the power and
experience of the ones involved here simply didn't confront each as
blatantly and openly as they were. If there was a problem between
them, they talked, or they negotiated, or they dealt. If none of
these solutions resolved the problem, then yes, the fought. It was a
quiet kind of fighting though - not battles in the street. 
Assassination, kidnapping, that sort of thing. What was happening now
was ridiculous. It was destructive, wasteful, bad for business, and
most of all, it attracted attention from the wrong kind of people.
However, these were not normal times. These were most definitely
abnormal times, with completely unimaginable circumstances. These
thoughts occurred to Michael "Mikey Cool" Santarino as he tried to
make himself as small as possible behind the packing crate in the
warehouse. Gunfire from automatic weapons hammered the area around
him, and the screams of wounded men assailed his ears. Santarino was
a senior lieutenant in North New Jersey's Cavallero crime family. And
he wasn't happy at all.
The problem was that in all the hubbub about being back in 1942, no
one had considered the plight of the drug users. Not the small stuff
- marijuana was still easy to get. But very little cocoa was produced
in the United States. Furthermore, the overseas contacts that were
used to get drugs into the country were gone. Even if people could go
down to where cocoa was grown, there was no one to talk to. In 1942,
cocaine was an exotic drug. Customers - drug users - were growing
desperate. The supply was drying up, and there was no immediate
solution to the problem.
Both organized crime and the federal agencies responsible for
combating them had been slow to realize this - the crime families
because they were focused on day-to-day business, the feds because of
the Nazis. The raw material for drugs came from South and Central
America; the users of that supply were in the United States. The
time-travel event had not slaked the demand of the hard-core users,
but it had eliminated - not constricted or tightened - but eliminated
the supply of cocaine.
In a free market (and the trade in illegal narcotics was capitalism
in its purest form), when demand exceeded supply, increased cost to
the consumer was the result. Whatever medium-term pain awaited the
Cavalleros until they could re-establish their South American
networks, in the short term, the rapidly dwindling supply of cocaine
(and its by-products) promised astronomical profits - profits needed
to tide them over until the supply was re-established. The price of
straight cocaine had gone up by over 1000%, and was still rising.
All of which added up to why Mikey Cool was crouched behind a packing
crate in a warehouse in Newark. The warehouse was managed jointly by
an alphabet-soup of government agencies - FBI, DEA, NYPD, the Port
Authority - to name a few. It was were drugs seized in raids were
held until processing, and it represented the largest untapped supply
of illegal narcotics on the East Coast.
It had taken a ton of cash to bribe their way in here, only to find
that the Russian mob was also interested in the drugs. Someone had
snitched - there was no way that the Russians were just coincidentally
here at the same time Mikey Cool's boys were - and the Russians
clearly hoped to make off with the stash, and leave a couple of dead
wise guys to throw the Feds off in the inevitable pursuit. Mikey Cool
had foiled that though - he'd smelled an ambush and been right.
The Russians had the edge in training and equipment - Mikey Cool had
more guys, and Newark was their turf. Two calls had gone out - one
for more guys, and one to delay the local law (trickier with the Feds
involved). As Mikey watched, two of his guys with AK-47s hosed down
the catwalk the Russians' covering fire was coming from as two more
guys moved forward. Mikey could only shake his head. This business
was getting more dangerous all the time.
Admiral Isoruku Yamamoto was brooding. He was not a man given to
such moods - indeed, someone who didn't know him would have called his
mood contemplative, but it wasn't. He was brooding, and had been
since last December. He hadn't wanted war with the United States, but
war had come, and he'd no choice but to wage as best he knew how. 
Even before this - this incomprehensible event - he'd been worried. Now he was heartsick.
It was after midnight local time in the Eastern Pacific. The deck
outside the bridge of the IJN YAMATO was vibrating with the power of
great battleships engines. Yamamoto was alone on the deck, staring at
the black ocean. Not even the stars kept him company; clouds obscured
them. Whatever rivalries existed between the IJN and the Japanese
Army, Yamamoto trusted General Yamashita, the commander of the
Japanese 14th Army on the Philippines. The stubborn American
defenders - who eaten up much more of the Japanese timetable than they
should have - were at the point of defeat when these miracle planes
showed up. There hadn't been many of them, but they had struck with
devastating power and precision, and no plane in the Japanese
inventory could touch them.
Now the Americans were coming. If their own news reports were to be
believed, a "super carrier" from 2002 along with two other American
carriers from 1942 headed for Bataan. Yamamoto had gathered the
Combined Fleet. Most of it was here with him. His staff was
confident - "victory disease" was rampant in the IJN. Yamamoto
outwardly projected that confidence, but inwardly, he wasn't so sure. 
Yamamoto drew comfort form the solid bulk of the YAMATO beneath him. 
At 72,800 tons, and with nine 18.1 inch guns in its main battery,
YAMATO was the mightiest battleship ever built. If anything could
handle the Americans, this ship could.
His broodings were broken by a young staff member who nervously
interrupted his thoughts. A radio message had been received. 
Yamamoto scowled. Strict radio silence was to be observed - he didn't
need Tokyo breathing down his neck - second-guessing every decision he
made. But the radio message wasn't from Tokyo. It was from the
Americans, and they were asking to speak to him.
Yamamoto was shocked. If the Americans could radio him, then knew not only the IJN frequencies, but also their location. With some haste, he made his way to the radio booth. Several frightened-looking Japanese ensigns were there. One of them bowed, and handed Yamamoto a radio headset, which the Admiral put on.
A man introduced himself, through a translator, as Admiral Herzog of
the United States Navy. In one hour, the IJN would be attacked, he
said matter-of-factly. Using weapons from 60 years in the future,
every aircraft carrier, battleship, and heavy cruiser in the Japanese
task force would be sunk. However, he was giving them a chance to
live. If they abandoned ship, then the light cruisers of destroyers
of the task force would be spared, and allowed to return to Japan. He
beseeched Admiral Yamamoto to think of the lives of the men entrusted
to his care, and allow them to save themselves. There was no shame in
it - how could even the greatest warrior fight an enemy from the
future?
Yamamoto clenched his fists. He was shocked to his core - and didn't have a reply. The radio went dead, and Yamamoto thought for a moment.
The brazenness of the American was unbelievable - but what if he was
right? Yamamoto thought of the thousands of men under his command,
and the soul of the nation he was sworn to protect - and ordered all
ships to go to battle stations.
Bushido demanded that all men do their duty, and Yamamoto had never shirked his.
Satellite imagery showed the Japanese fleet change formation. They
turned into the wind, and the carriers started launching planes. The Americans watching this winced; in 1942 night operations were not something that was commonly done. Still, the Japanese were impressive; they launched a CAP of over a hundred planes, without a mishap.
For all the good it would do them.
Captain Hiro Fujimoro of the destroyer AKASHI paced on his bridge. 
The battle-stations order from the YAMATO had come an hour ago. The
crew of the AKASHI had done Fujimoro proud, and beat to quarters in
under 10 minutes. But what for? No threat had been identified. The
Japanese Navy prided itself on its night-fighting capabilities. The
AKASHI was ready - but for what?
The dark mass of the AKAGI was on the AKASHI's port side. Fujimoro
watched more planes - zeros - take off from it. Most of the carriers
of the Imperial Navy were here, and the battleline as well, and
Fujimora was confident they could deal with whatever came their way.
Suddenly, streaks of fire lit the sky. Before Fujimoro's stunned
eyes, the streaks impacted the side of the AKAGI, which was wracked by
a succession of explosions. The great carrier seemed to buck, and a
string of secondary explosions went off. Fujimoro groaned as he
thought of the fuel the great carrier had onboard, and before the
thought could finish, a massive explosion ripped through the AKAGI. 
The carrier seemed to lift into the air, and then sag back down.
The AKAGI wasn't alone. The night was lit by fire and explosions. 
Off in the distance, Fujimoro could see the HIYO burning. The roar of
alien planes filled the sky, and the AA guns of the AKASHI started
flashing. Every ship that could opened up on the unseen attackers,
while the airborne zeros flashed overhead. More explosions occurred,
and, for all the good it would do, Fujimoro ordered his ship into a
wild evasive pattern.
The CIC on the STENNIS recorded it all. The first pass of F-18s had
savaged the Japanese fleet - and only one had been slightly damaged by
a golden BB. Every carrier had been hit, and the F-14s were still
lining up for their pass. Halsey was whooping - most of the 1942
people were. The 2002 people running the show were more sombre. The
Pacific was cold, and thousands of people would die in it tonight.
The F-18s would return, re-arm, and go out again. The Japanese
planes launched by the carriers didn't know where to go, but there was
always the chance they could stumble onto the right (or wrong,
depending on how you looked at it) heading, and find the STENNIS. 
Kamikazes were unknown to the IJN of 1942 - they'd come later - but
there was no guarantee the idea wouldn't occur to a Japanese pilot
anyway. Some F-18s would be kept on CAP - the rest would return to
finish what they started.
Isoruku Yamamoto lay on the bridge, a steel splinter in his belly. 
He was bleeding to death, and most of the people who could help him had been killed when the demon rocket had hit the YAMATO's bridge. He gasped in pain, and tried to make himself heard to the badly wounded helmsman who was still steering the great battleship. He smiled grimly in pride; the great battleship had taken four hits, and was still fighting.
He could only hope his ace in the hole would work. The entire
Japanese Navy wasn't dying here tonight. Japan's two fastest fleet
carriers - SHOKAKU and ZUIKAKU - with some fast escorts were off on
another mission - hopefully, they could succeed. Meanwhile, perhaps
things were not so bad. No new explosions had occurred; maybe the
worst was over.
Those were Admiral Yamamoto's last thoughts before the torpedoes from the USS PORTLAND - a LOS ANGELES-class nuclear attack submarine - ripped the bottom out of IJN YAMATO. The resulting explosion blew the
battleship in two, and killed everyone still one board. The great battleship rolled over, and sank.
After two more strikes from the F-18s and F-14s, CIC called it a day.
The toll was staggering - 6 Japanese Fleet carriers (AKAGI, KAGA,
HIRYU, SORYU, HIYO and JUNYO), 8 Battleships, 12 Heavy Cruisers, 6
light carriers and twenty smaller ships all sunk. The remaining were
gathering survivors and heading away. Admiral Herzog (over Halsey's
objections) elected to let them go. Sinking them served no purpose.
It was, by any measure, the most lop-sided victory in naval history. No American had been killed or injured, and only one plane had been slightly damaged. For all intents and purposes, the IJN had been destroyed.
The absence of the ZUIKAKU and SHOKAKU were noted, and a search for them was begun.
The AKASHI was loaded down with survivors. The destroyer had fished
hundreds from the sea, and was almost groaning under the weight of
them. In one day, the IJN had been crushed, and Captain Fujimoro
despaired. The few ships that remained headed for Truk. They left
the flower of Japan behind them.
The news of the victory was received with shock throughout the world.
The silence from Tokyo was damning, and the Americans' news services
were full of the story. Despite all that had happened - mainly in
isolation - this was the first real proof of the power of the United
States. Everything else had been impressive - from the FW-190s to the
TIRPITZ. This was more than impressive. This was unbelievable. One
US CVN had destroyed the Japanese Navy, and the trembles were felt in
Rome, Berlin and Tokyo.
Trembles in Moscow, as well. It had been hoped that the Axis powers
would buy time in their demise to learn about and prepare to face this
new United States. Now, one of those powers had been defeated. Not
totally, but the destruction of the navy limited the Japanese to
defending what they had - and it seemed they had not enough.
Still, the Soviets knew the Germans were tough. The pull-back from
the soil of the Rodina was proceeding, and the Red Army was
scrupulously allowing them to leave unmolested. Every German that
lived to face the Americans was one that could die for the Soviet
Union.
The operation was supposed to have been simple. In - out, no
problems, no interaction with anyone. Murphy had made an unwelcome
appearance, though, and thrown a monkey wrench into the works. Jakob
Weinstein crouched behind the corner of the building, and watched the
golf cart approach. The Los Angeles night was hot and
uncharacteristically muggy, and sweat soaked the shirt he wore.
Weinstein was Isaac Jacobs' chief operator in the United States, and
whatever else happened, he was glad he wasn't in Cuba - it was even
hotter and muggier there. He'd been assigned to the United States in
1999, and expected a nice, quiet time overseeing Mossad field
operations for Isaacs in the Western Hemisphere until his retirement
in a few years. He'd done enough scrambling for Israel in the Sinai
in 1973, and then in Lebanon in 1982. He'd also been to almost every
Arab capital in the world, and done things in them he still shuddered
to think about.
And now, here he was, couched in the night, watching a rent-a-cop
security guard checking his rounds. In all of Los Angeles, Weinstein
had found the one conscientious security guard still doing his rounds.
It was ridiculous. The main security had been bought off for almost
no money, and wasn't even aware Weinstein was there. The cops never
came here. But one lousy guy hadn't gotten the message. So Weinstein
had to deal with it. The golf cart approached - it was electric, not
gas - and Weinstein tensed. He body had slowed a bit with age, but
his instincts and timing were honed by years of operational
experience.
He moved at the right time. The guard had stopped when he'd seen the
pickup truck Weinstein had left parked in the road. He walked over to
it, and was shining his flashlight into the truck's cab when Weinstein
snuck up behind him, and clamped the chloroform-soaked cloth over his
nose and mouth. The guard's struggles had been brief, and he'd
succumbed to unconsciousness quickly. Weinstein lowered the guard to
ground - he sleep for at least six hours - more than enough time for Weinstein.
With the guard disabled, the loading could continue. The pickup
truck was joined by two eighteen wheelers, and some local labor began
loading them. Weinstein grimaced when he thought of what was being
loaded, but it was necessary for Isaacs to continue the plan.
The pullback of the German Army from the USSR was noted by the NSA. 
It had not been entirely unexpected - Stalin was nothing if not
practical. More ominously, a build-up of Soviet power near the Finish
front was noted. The NSA passed the information along.
With the Germans openly pulling back from Russia, it was decided to
give them a taste of what was coming. 200 cruise missiles were
launched from the IKE task force. Bridges, rail yards, and even the
Wolf's Lair in East Prussia were hit. One group plastered Peenemunde,
and killed Werner Von Braun.
Meanwhile, the US Air Force hit the German 4th Panzer Division as it
deployed against Normandy in France. Cluster munitions from F-16s
ravaged the formation, and streaked off to provide CAP for the A-10s
that followed. The Warthogs dissolved panzers with their 30mm
autocannons. Finally, in a kind of coup-de-grace, AC-130 gunships
showed up, and savaged the survivors. Of 4th Panzer's 151 operation
tanks, 119 were destroyed, and over four thousand men killed or
injured - all for no loss to the US.
There was not enough US military power in place to do much more -
yet. It was coming, though.
Zossen noted the action with as much detachment as they could. The
Americans' own broadcasts had revealed that in the original history,
the D-Day landings had taken place at Normandy. The attack on the 4th
Panzer indicated an attack could come there. However, it struck the
Germans as foolish that the Americans would hit the same place they
did originally.
Still, every possibility had to be accounted for. Two more infantry
corps, backed up by more mobile forces were sent to northern France. 
They were told to disperse to avoid damage from air attacks.
It hadn't been much of a fight. The Cuban Army - such as it was -
had been taken totally by surprise, and most of it hadn't been in
Havana anyway. Batista hadn't even been contacted - the Israelis had
convinced Marrenda that it would serve no purpose other than just
warning the dictator. The assault on the Presidential Palace had come
at dawn, and the Cubans were no match for the Israelis.
The assault had been over in less than an hour, and only one Israeli
had been killed and two wounded. Only 40 Cubans died - including
Batista. By Latin American standards, it was a fairly bloodless
affair. The arrival of the rest of the flotilla, and the evident
wealth they had had quelled any nascent dissent from the remaining
Cuban power groups. With much celebration, one of the most prominent
members of the Cuban Miami community was declared interim leader. 
Until new elections could be held, of course. Marrenda intended to
see those elections take place. Time in the United States had taught
the Cubans the value of strong, Republican government, and for Cuba to
be the power Marrenda wanted it to be, such a government was
necessary.
As for the Israelis, they were overseeing the loading of the two
Italian freighters. Their weapons were already stowed, and cranes
were loading food - if things continued, bananas would be the new
nation food of Israel. A small group of Israelis had set up a
communication center in a large hotel in Havana. Marrenda was having
them watched, of course, and was distressed to hear that some of the
"Israelis" that were arriving were considerably less "Israeli" than
American. He knew there was a large Jewish population in the United
States, but he was concerned anyway. Meanwhile, the Israelis were
waiting for a shipment of some kind - from Los Angeles of all places -
and then they would depart.
There was a wild celebration going on, but Marrenda took no part in
it. He was always uncomfortable with celebrations, and had one more
task to accomplish anyway. He and several of his men walked to a
small Cuban police station. It was empty of all except Marrenda's
men, and one prisoner.
The prisoner was held in a cell, and, when Marrenda arrived, he went and studied him through the bars. He'd never met the man, of course, and didn't know what he expected. He felt nothing, even as he gazed into the eyes of a 16-year old Fidel Castro.
Category:ISOT American 2002
Category:Timelines