Freedom Fighters

33. Demons

May 1957
El Uvero, Sierra Maestra, Cuba

General Ortega cut a forlorn figure at his desk, eyebrows knitted in worry. His sandwich, made of buttered bread, yellow mustard and sliced roast pork, lay cold on a plate at the edge of his desk, untouched. He sighed, and his fleshy cheeks shuddered. The call from Batista came earlier, commanding him to wipe the rebels off, or else there would be consequences.

Consequences. Whenever the President said that word, it usually meant the ending of a career and public disgrace. The General slumped further down his chair, and his corpulent waist sagged heavily down on his extra-sized military dress pants.

He heard a knock on his door and sat up, not without a monumental effort from his arms to push his body up. He leaned on the backrest of his armchair and tried to assume a dignified expression, though the copious amounts of sweat on his forehead would immediately ruin the impression of any semblance of calmness and poise.

"Come in," he called out.

The door opened and his personal aide plodded in, a dull youth named Arturo Arias. He had a perpetually shrunken neck, dim milky eyes and sloppy creases on his brown uniform. Ortega wanted to snigger at the sight of the unsightly young man but suppressed it. The only reason he was his aide was because of his father, an influential politican in Batista's inner circle. Arturo had to complete his military tour before returning to Havana and embarking on a political career. But, by the looks of it, Ortega doubted that he would amount to anything even remotely significant.

"General," the aide said, in the tone of a rat's squeak. "Here are the documents you wanted the town's officer to give you."

He handed over a folder, bowing his head. Ortega took it and plopped it on his desk. He pointed to his cold untouched sandwich "Take it out and throw it away."

"You are not hungry, General?" Arturo asked, trying to be casual with his superior, but he was not able to hide a look of surprise that suggested that he was shocked by the General's lack of appetite.

Naturally, Ortega was offended. "No, I am not," he answered irritably.

"You seem to be in a bad mood," Arturo commented tactlessly.

The general looked at Arturo's dull expression and his grouchy mood took another downwards turn. He felt an urgent need to vent out all of his frustration at his aide.

"Why would I be in a good mood?!" he snapped, and Arturo flinched in sudden shock.

"The President just phoned me and told me to eliminate the rebels as soon as possible, or else! Do you comprehend what that means, you dim-witted child?" The fats around his neck trembled with every word.

"No, General," Arturo replied in a meek voice. His shoulders were clamped in, making his already shrunken neck seem non-existent, like a tortoise retreating its neck into its shell.

General Ortega took a sadistic delight in seeing his aide cower before the might of his temper. He maintained his stern expression and continued in a fractious tone.

"It means that I must destroy those damned rebels before they cause our President any more trouble, or else my career is over!"

He stood up, and stormed towards the map of the Sierra Maestra pasted on the wall of the office. His fleshy fingers traced the vast green expanse of the mountain range. "Look at this!" he shouted. "How am I going to find those guerillas in this?! In this?! I can't find them, but they know where to attack! Those demons are like shadows, Arturo! You catch them and they disappear, only to bite you in the ass again. Do you know how to fight shadows, Arturo?"