Miami Massacre

'Yeah, okay amigo. What were you telling me about the money problem?'

'The problem is not that much. As I was saying, we work the jobs, we pool the money, and we do what we can do with what we have. Not all Cubans are with us, naturally . . . or we would no longer be in exile.' His gaze dropped to the floor and his voice took on a sorrowing tone as he added, 'Many Cubans have lost the vision of the free Cuba, you see, and have become as Yanquis. I do not blame them. It is a lonely vigil, senor, this wait to return to the homeland. But . . .' The eyes flashed up, with a return of the old fire. 'To many of us, to lose the vision is to lose the reason for living. We work and we plan and sometimes we strike! And we know, Matador, that one day we shall walk the length and the breadth of our Cuba.'

'Killing snakes,' Bolan put in quietly.

'Si, killing the snakes.'

'Your war is impossible enough, Toro. You should have stayed out of mine.'

Toro laughed scornfully. 'Reverse the situation, Matador. Could you have stayed out?'

'I guess not,' Bolan murmured. He made a quick decision. 'If my vehicle gets here exactly the way I left it, Toro, I'm going to . . .'

'Senor?'

'What do you call a modern weapon?'

Toro intently studied his guest's face for a moment, then replied, 'A gun manufactured since the end of the first World War, this is a modern weapon in this camp.'

Bolan shot back, 'How about a Stoner? — a Honeywell? — have you ever fired an M-16, an M-79, an M- 60?'

An expression of vague frustration swept the Cuban's face. 'This is not modern, Matador. This is ultra modern.'

Bolan sighed. 'That's what I thought. Listen, Toro, when you're going against the odds you've got to take every advantage available. And you start with weapons.'

'Si, comprendo.' He smiled and turned his palms upward. 'So, now you see our nakedness. We are a ragged band, no?'

'No,' Bolan replied. 'You just need some support. And I think I know how to-'

Toro winced and hastened to interrupt the declaration. 'Senor Bolan,' he said quietly, 'Toro must confess the ulterior motive.'

Bolan was getting the prickly feeling again at the nape of his neck. He said, 'Okay, maybe I'm ready for that, too. Go ahead.'

'When I first recognize you, at the Plaza, I am thinking . . . for La Causa de Cuba— here is a big fish, no? Here is the thing for which Toro has prayed and pledged his life and his fortunes, here is . . .' He caught the look in Bolan's eyes and quietly ran out of words.

Bolan said, 'You weren't thinking of collecting on that open contract, amigo? '

Toro's eyes dropped. 'The thought was there, amigo. One hundred thousand Yankee dollars will buy many ultra modern weapons, no?' The eyes lifted again, and this time there were lights twinkling deep within. 'But I could not do a thing like this to El Matador. I realize this while we swim for the boat. No, amigo, this I could not do. But . . .'

'Yeah?' Bolan prompted him, uneasily.

'But I think, maybe this fierce warrior could be persuaded to enter another cause, a finer one.'

Bolan said, 'I feel honored, Toro. But you know better.'

'Si,' the Cuban replied, sighing. 'I respect your war, amigo, as you respect mine. How long will you stay with us, El Matador?'

Bolan hesitated. 'I haven't slept for two days,' he replied. 'If I could get a couple hours sleep— How long before my car gets here?'

'Momentarily, amigo.'

Bolan studied his wristwatch. It was just past seven p.m., far from the end of a most active day. He removed the watch and stripped the leather band between his fingers to remove the Atlantic moisture still clinging to its fibers, then returned it to his wrist. 'I'll wait till the car arrives,' he told Toro. 'Then, if you have some place to bed me down, I'd like to catch a short nap.'

Toro quickly made available upon demand the full hospitable resources of his camp. Then the two men went to the veranda and perched upon the railing and quietly talked 'shop,' discussing weapons, tactics and other aspects of impossible wars. Some minutes later, Bolan's rented Chevy rolled to a halt beside the jeep and the two Cubans alighted from it. They approached the veranda and one of them dropped the keys into Toro's hand, delivering them with a short speech in Spanish. Toro handed the keys over to Bolan and explained, 'They took every precaution. They were not followed. Your luggage is in the rear seat.'

Bolan shook hands with the men and thanked them, then went directly to the rear of the car and opened the trunk. He called to Toro, and his host joined him there. Bolan was leaning into the trunk and wrestling with a bulky package, wrapped in heavy green waxed paper. 'Get the other end,' Bolan instructed. Toro did so, and they carried the heavy object to the veranda. The two men who had delivered the Chevy watched with interested silence, then dropped to their haunches and assisted as Bolan began removing the wrapping paper.

Exclamations of awe accompanied the final unveiling. Bolan grinned at Toro and announced, 'This is a Honeywell, the hottest little number in any arsenal.'

'This is a machine gun?' Toro asked in a hushed voice.

'Sort of. Actually, amigo, it's a rapid firing M-79 grenade launcher. Operated like a gatling gun. Belt fed — see? — there's your firing mechanism. Maximum effective range is about 100 meters, fires a 40 millimeter round of high explosives with an effective kill radius of five feet, also handles a shotgun round of 20 double-ought buck, a tear gas round and a flare round — and you can mix 'em in the belt any way you please.'

Toro was running his hands about the weapon in a reverent inspection. He declared, 'This is most impressive, Matador.'

'It would stomp a lot of snakes,' Bolan replied, grinning. 'It's yours, Toro, and there's a couple of cases of ammo in the car.'

Toro was dumbfounded. He spluttered, 'You are giving this . . . this . . . magnifico . . .'

Bolan explained, 'It's too much for one man to handle, Toro. I added it to my arsenal in a weak moment, I really can't use it. It's a crew-served weapon, takes two men to operate, even better with three.' He spun away suddenly and went back to the Chevy, returning immediately with another object. It was a leather golf bag with a canvas snood. Toro and the other two Cubans were still ardently occupied with the Honeywell. Bolan asked them, 'Can you figure it out?'

'Si, we shall figure it out, amigo,'Toro assured him. 'But are you sure that you do need this magni-'

Bolan cut him off with, 'Look, I don't need it. Here's why.' He was removing the snood from the golf bag and removing another weapon. 'This,' he explained, 'is the best bundle of firepower going for a man alone. It's an over'n under M-16/M-79. Great for firefights. The 16 is our standard infantry weapon now, fires a 5.56 tumbling projectile at 700 rounds per minute, gas operated auto or semi-auto, your option. I carry 30-round magazines. This baby on the underside is the M-79, a pistol-grip for this configuration and a slide action breech, handles the same stuff as your Honeywell there, but just one at a time.'

'Magnifico!'

'Toro. You want M-16's, M-79's, Honeywells, M-60 machine guns, and maybe a few Stoner Weapons Systems. You tell your supplier to dump the other junk in Africa.'

Toro laughed. 'My supplier, amigo, is one of your enemies, of this I am certain.'