Freedom Fighters

30. Traitor

Even before the rest of the camp had started to stir, Dario sat at a corner of his tent, alone, under the dim lamplight, crunched over his map. On the bedroll beside him lay Oliverio and Camilo, sleeping peacefully. Oliverio was snoring lightly. It sounded like the sound a content child would make after a satisfying day. Somehow, that image made Dario smile. The three of them had been talking and joking over dinner and well into the night, until exhaustion had forced them to fall asleep.

Dario held a steaming tin mug of coffee and took a sip. His lips recoiled in a shudder of distaste. Even after weeks of drinking the same rancid coffee, he still could not get used to the taste. But one had to get used to what one had, he thought, and forced himself to take another sip, allowing the caffeine to sharpen his mind.

Using a pencil, he drew a circle over his small area of influence in the vastness of the Sierra Maestra. Taking into calculation the patrols he had to send everyday, and the lookouts, he barely had any man to spare for any sort of offensive. His platoon's activities the past few weeks had been reduced to ambushing small enemy patrols, not that there were many to begin with. All they ever did was appear at villages to burn them to the ground before disappearing. He tapped his pencil against his temple, thinking of a viable strategy. This distasteful situation was what drove him to wake up earlier than normal and to brainstorm. He hoped that he could contribute a few ideas at the meeting with Fidel and the other commanders later on. 

"Ugh." Camilo stirred from his sleep. His eyes opened slowly, like a gangling flower blooming. 

"Morning," Dario greeted, eyes still on his map. 

Camilo, noticing that Oliverio was sleeping soundly beside him, gingerly got up to his feet. Yawning, he reached for the nearest water canteen and took a swig from it, gurgling his mouth.

"That's mine," Dario stated in a factual tone, eyebrows knitting together in disapproval.

Camilo grinned back in an utterly insincere but friendly manner. "Ah, sorry, brother."

Dario rolled his eyes and handed his best friend an empty tin mug. "Help yourself to some coffee. I made some. It's still warm."

"Thanks," Camilo muttered, before adding, "though the mention of that coffee already made me lose my appetite."

"Just drink the coffee, damn it. It's all we have. I don't like it either."

Camilo shook his head, and poured the light brown liquid from the kettle into his mug. "Those coffee beans are some really low end stuff. Can't Huber get better beans? He probably had some, but kept them all for himself, that little weasel."

Dario ignored Camilo's complaints, and focused his attention on his map planning. He realised that it was getting brighter. Dawn had come. He turned his gaze out, and saw that the first rays of sunlight had started to shine through the canopy into the camp. All around, people were starting to wake up and get ready for the day ahead.

He blew out the flickering flame in the lamp.

That was when he heard a curious whirring sound. 

Dario put his map back down onto the table. "Camilo. Did you hear that?"

Camilo stayed still and silent.

The whirring became louder and louder-

Dario did not wait. He knew what the sound was. Damned planes. He rushed out of the tent and shouted, "Planes! Planes! Take cover! Take cover!"

A wave of panic infected the camp as the message spread. Revolutionaries and refugees scrambled, terror-stricken, for any form of cover, be it a crate, table or just lying flat down on the ground, minimising exposure.