“Got’em,” the gunner enthused. He fired.
The Soviet T-62 started to back up as soon as the sabot round left the barrel. At this head-on angle it did him very little good. The Sabot round sped toward the target at sixteen hundred and seventy meters per second or about Mach 4. A few small pieces of flying debris were the only tale-tale sign the tank was hit. The T- 62 continued to reverse but somehow seemed like a dead man walking. For about one and one half seconds it gave only a hint that something was wrong with it as high-pressure smoky gasses escaped the interior. The top hatch blew open with a blast of fire unlike any fire Segrera ever had seen in person. It was more like a series of explosions mixed with a volcano of jet exhaust in afterburner shooting straight out of the top hatch. The massive turret rattled and jimmied like a thin lid on a boiling tea pot as explosive fire started coming out of the base where it rested on the body of the tank, then it blew. Segrera saw an antitank missile fly toward the stricken tank and explode in its tank treads. “Man those guys are fast,” he thought. He felt a pang of regret that the missile was wasted, but better two hits than none. Each and every one of the FCAF soldiers seemed to have a keen interest in the amount of money they spent in battle. The need for more money usually meant the necessity of selling more shares in the enterprise to free Cuba. Handing out more shares to investors meant less to share among themselves.
The buildings came alive with the enemy’s small arms fire. The WeaponWatch detectors on top of the tanks, APC’s and the amphibious duk’s in the fight identified the small infrared signatures of the individual muzzle blasts. The GPS coordinates of every one of them were recorded. The info was automatically relayed back to the fire-control unit at Gitmo then assigned to the waiting guns. The Free Cubans needed no warning to take cover for the coming barrage. The Free Cuban 105mm rounds started falling in six round groups that took a little more than one second to land. An enemy would be hard pressed to flinch much less than hit the ground before the sixth one hit. The mortars started to rain down on their individually assigned targets. The Communist artillery started again with their rounds falling long, well behind the Free Cubans. Again the forward Fire Finder Radar detected the trajectory of the incoming rounds and sent the info to fire control headquarters This time the Communists had put their guns as far from the action as they could and were thus out of the range of the 105’s back at Gitmo. The Communist spotters radioed their corrections and started to walk the artillery toward the Free Cubans.
The Multiple Launch Rocket System-MLRS gave the Free Cubans the longest artillery reach on the battlefield. Depending upon the missile it fired its range was 10-300 km. Highly mobile, it could keep up with any mechanized unit. Now two kilometers from the front it elevated its 12 tube launch pod and fired 3 of its 13 ft rockets guided by GPS to the spot at the end of the trajectory rainbow. Above the target the warhead separated, spreading the cluster sub munitions in a large oval pattern. Each M26 rocket carried 644 of these M77 sub munitions. They were small but as deadly as a hand grenade on steroids. They could penetrate up to four inches of armor, send out deadly antipersonnel fragments at 7 times the speed of the fastest rifle bullet and ignite anything flammable in its path. The communist gunners froze in terror as they heard the approaching warhead spin and dispense its deadly cargo with a swooshing “chooook” sound followed by the fluttering of hundreds of ribbon tails that oriented the munitions in the right direction and armed them. The Communists had to place the guns close together to enable them to share targeting data and coordinate the firing which was much more effective if fired in unison. It was a critical error. An area of 200 by 300 meters erupted in explosions, dust and secondary explosions of the shells waiting to be put in the guns. Nearly 2,000 munitions landed among the twenty-eight guns and their vehicles. The shrapnel sliced through the thin armor of the vehicles like butter. Gas tanks and ammunition caches exploded, sending burning shells streaking across the sky. The carnage was nearly universal. It would be a long time before these guns could be repaired and made usable again. The U.S. handbook dictated that the minimum number of missiles that should be used in a normal attack was six. While six missiles may be the minimum, the routine number the U.S. used against a target in Gulf I and II was 24 to 36 missiles. The Iraqis called it steel rain. Cluster munitions were the most terrifying weapons used against them. Studying that amount of overkill, the Free Cubans decided to husband their resources for what could prove to be a target rich war.
“Target, one o’clock-sabot, 500 meters, goin’ south on that street there.” The gunner trained right and centered the sight reticle on the fast moving tank. It was traveling parallel to them and the intervening buildings spoiled his shot as they whizzed through his sight picture. Looking for an open spot to shoot, he spotted a large intersection 200 meters ahead of the tank. He traversed back to rest the cross hairs on the traveling tank. His thumbs depressed the laser button. A thin laser beam of light reached out and bounced off the tank. The range display came up in his sight: 798 meters. The fire control computer plotted target distance, elevating the main gun. The computer measured wind speed and direction, air density and humidity, the temperature of the air, and the tank’s own shells, and all the gunner had to do was place the target in his sights. The whole operation took less than second. “Come on baby, come on,” the gunner breathed. As soon as the T-62 entered the intersection the M-1 jumped at the recoil as the spent round cap clanged off the turret’s floor. Already the closed tank hull stank of the ammonia-based propellant. The racing T-62’s turret blew 30 feet into the air in a blinding conflagration.
“Ozzy, this is DT, coming up on minefield now.” DT was the acronym for the tank named Dragons Teeth. So named for its mine plow mounted on the front of the M1A2. The rest of the platoon knew that crew as the DT’s. Their acronym for Delirium Tremens, the hallucinatory episodes of an alcoholic. Once, in the tank simulators at Ft. Knox Kentucky, its tank commander repeatedly fired upon a distant building that he thought was moving and firing on him. It happened only once but that was enough for the name to stick. And stick it did.
Dragons Teeth peppered the area with fire as a volley of smoke grenades exploded in the air ahead of the tank, masking it to the front. The tank loader, firing the 7.62mm machine gun positioned to the left of the tank commander, sprayed targets to the left. The tank commander knocked down targets to his right with the heavier .55-caliber machine gun. The gunner, hidden inside the tank moved the turret to fire the coaxialxxxix machine gun on targets that popped up to the front. The driver, buttoned up and protected inside his compartment, dropped the mine plow attached to the tank. With all three machine guns blazing, the tank moved forward prepping the area for the mine clearing engineers.
“DT to Peppercorn, if you’re in position you’re clear to proceed.” “Copy” came the response from the combat engineering squad. The M60 armored vehicle lumbered forward towing its two and a half ton trailer. As it came to the forward edge of the hastily placed minefield a mortar like launcher activated, launching a large rocket projectile trailing a five-hundred and forty meter long piece of half-inch rope. As the rope extended its full length the launcher detached itself and the rope sailed through the sky to fall lightly on the ground in a long snake like pattern. The rope was actually a detonator cord filled with explosive. Ten seconds later the cord exploded. The towering fireball from the explosion filled everyones brain with an image that they would remember for the rest of their lives. It was followed by a minihurricane that pounded them like a wave at the beach. Three hundred thousand cubic feet of dirt flew into the sky. The overpressure and shock of the explosion caused every mine within a hundred feet on either side of the detonator cord to explode. The exploding enemy mines caused yet more mines to explode in a domino like reaction.xl
The M1A Dragons Teeth moved forward to plow any skip zones the MICLIC may have missed and cleared a path for follow-on vehicles. xli
Commander in Chief, North-CINC North watched the incoming images
and transmissions from the command vehicle still parked inside Gitmo. “Should we bring up Team Warrior?” He asked the field commander over the radio. The field commander glanced down at his watch. 1:53 PM. “Naw, we’ll leave em alone. We’ll bring em up bout nine o’clock. I’ll keep pushin’ till then.” They have a long night ahead of them, he thought. The battle continued as the Free Cubans leap frogged forward the second the last shells landed. It was full thirty seconds till the communist infantry started popping their heads up to see the Free Cubans moving forward. This time, few of the surviving infantry that were on the receiving end of that last artillery barrage leveled their AK-47’s at the oncoming enemy. Not willing to elicit another brutal response from the sky and too close to flee without being cut down, most at the forward edge of battle stayed put and did nothing. There was plenty of repositioning movement going on further up the Communist streets which invited a ferocious response from Free Cuban small arms fire, heavy machine gun fire and grenade launchers. Six M-1A2 tanks continued to engage the remaining armor while eight of the older M-60 battle tanks fired High Explosive-HE rounds and the fearsome APERS Flechettexlii rounds at the infantry.
B Troop, 1st Squadron, 1st Armored Cavalry Regiment were now fully in the fight. The fourteen tanks spread out behind the advancing infantry laying down machine gun fire, launching grenades and HE rounds. Segrera had his three-tank platoon slightly elevated overlooking the city’s outlying tattered hovels and dirt streets. Open ruts on the side of the roads with what must be sewage and trash in them. “APC, 2 o’clock, 1200 meters, Heat round.” The Armored Personnel Carrier could not be missed. It was elevated on a facing slope and firing its machine gun furiously. As soon as the gunner spotted it, the bullets started whacking the tank. The APC started to accelerate as its front end lifted slightly. “Sabot, fire,” yelled the gunner as the round streaked toward the target. The tracer blew through the APC with no apparent ill effects. The Sabot round had been loaded and ready to fire when they spotted the APC and he was not about to exchange shells. “Heat, reload.” Just then a TOW anti armor missile streaked toward the APC trailing its two thin wires behind it. Segrera knew it would get it and it did. The TOW missile had a range of four kilometers and reached a speed of nearly Mach one. They were a bit dated but they were deadly accurate. He had never even heard of one missing its target. Even though it was a full generation behind the newer anti-armor missiles it could still destroy any armored vehicle in existence. “Hold your fire,” Segrera yelled at the gunner unnecessarily. The gunner saw the APC explode and lurch to a stop against a wall. Segrera saw a white smoke trail whoosh by his turret. It missed by not more than inches. It was followed by a loud metallic WHANG that started their ears ringing. Segrera followed the smoke trail back to find two figures well inside their line, running to their left. “Enemy, 11 o’clock, close in, 50 meters.” He fired the machine gun at the figures as the gunner found them and fired a HEAT round one meter short of their position. The figures disappeared in a thunderous dust cloud. Segrera was surprisingly confident for a tank commander that was just hit twice with the best anti-armor weapons the enemy had. He knew the turrets of his tanks were impenetrable to the enemy’s RPG rounds and their best tank cannons. He knew that his depleted uranium armor could resist 1,300mm of explosive force. A 115mm high explosive round from a T62 provided only 450mm of penetration; a puny RPG provided a mere 325mm.
Every one of the crew was thinking of a well-known story that was part of every tanker’s training. During Desert Storm an American tank got stuck in a mud pit near the Euphrates River. The weather was awful during the ground offensive, and it had been raining heavily. Another tank tried to pull out the mired tank, but with no luck. Since the platoon had to continue its mission, the platoon leader told the crew to sit tight and wait a couple of hours for a tank retriever to pull them out.
While the crew waited, three Iraqi T72 tanks came over the hill. The T72 was the best tank the enemy had and far superior to the Communist Cuban T62’s. Deploying on line, the Iraqi tanks attacked the stuck M1A1. The lead T72 fired a 125mm high-explosive anti-tank shell at the front of the M1’s turret. The round exploded against the frontal armor, with no effect on the tank or crew. The crew was surprised but did not panic. Alone, outnumbered, and immobilized, the men immediately made a courageous decision- they decided to fight.
The gunner fired his cannon at the lead Iraqi tank and, in the blink of an eye, blew off the T72’s turret. The second T72 fired a shell that also hit the M1’s frontal armor but did no damage. The American tank commander laid the gun on the second target and fired. He hit the tank and transformed it into a burning inferno.
The last Iraqi tank fired an armor-piercing round that smashed against the M1’s turret but bounced off. The tank raced behind a sand dune about five hundred meters away and hid. Through his thermal sights the American gunner identified the hot exhaust gas coming from the Iraqi tank. He aimed where he thought the enemy was and fired a sabot round into the berm. The depleted uranium dart traveling at more than a mile per second went through the sand berm, hit the T72 tank, and sent its turret fifty feet into the air. xliii
F.C.N. Martinez
October 1, 2018. 5:35 AM
For two hours the Martinez had been adrift. Mattresses and cushions had been doused with fuel and were safely burning all along the deck. Dawn came to find a beautiful calm Caribbean sea. Gentle swells rolled along pushed by a gentle breeze. Also pushed along by the breeze was a malevolent black plume of smoke that had been rising from the Martinez for over an hour leaving a giant smudge of inky smoke high in the sky. The Communist missile boat came over the horizon. The moment it noticed the missing white surrender flag that should have been flying over the stricken cargo vessel it started to pound the behemoth with thirty millimeter shells. The Martinez was anchored facing its bow toward the oncoming enemy.
Thomas ordered the men below to man the efforts to stop the anticipated flooding the artillery would inevitably cause. For twenty long minutes the lifeless Martinez was pounded mercilessly as the missile boat and its strange escort slowly closed the distance. The pumps and the men fought a losing battle to keep out the water. She was sinking. The forward bulkhead compartments were completely flooded and the engine room was experiencing uncontrollable flooding. The engines would be underwater in no more than a half hour.
The twelve sailors who survived the initial missile attack suffered further thinning of their ranks. All the survivors were wounded to some extent or another but six were still ambulatory. The men took up their positions along the bow. She would not go down without a fight and the time to fight was now.
“Gomez to engine room, fire it up. Full speed ahead, Steer one-one-five.”
“It’s about blanking time,” came the gruff response.
The anchor line was cut. The cargo vessel was ridiculously lethargic. It moved like an iceberg. Thomas Gomes’ heart sank when he saw six of his buddies try to mount the fifty caliber machine guns on the bow. A hail of thirty millimeter rounds from the communist ship met them. A round struck one of the men exploding him in a whitish reddish mist. Luckily the body did not have enough density to set off the armor piercing round as it sailed on through. Three of the fifty caliber machine guns opened up on the communist duo. At a distance of three thousand meters there was no telling if they hit anything. Thomas knew it would be all over for the gunners on the bow in just a few minutes.
At that moment a strange thing happened. The two Communist vessels turned away from the Martinez. The missile boat was now completely shielded by its larger companion. The fifty cals could not hit the vulnerable missiles stored on its deck but neither could the missile boat bring its guns to bear on the Free Cubans.
Thomas was puzzled at the behavior of his enemy. He had absolutely no idea what could make them behave this way. He did, however, had an abiding faith that his adversary was not stupid. They probably had a good reason for doing what they were doing.
Five fifty cali
ber machine guns were peppering the Communist cargo ship with no discernable effect. The Martinez had increased its speed to six knots and could probably do ten given enough time. But that was a commodity that would soon run out for the aging ship. With every kilometer it rode heavier in the water.
“Gomez to engine room, come to three-five-two.”
“Rodger. You ain’t gonna ferget me down here are ya Thomas?”
“No Chief. I won’t forget you,” he said fatalistically.
Thomas had moved forward to mount another machine gun but found a better use for himself by gathering ammo boxes strewn about the debris covered deck.
Not a shot had been fired from either Communist ship now angling away from them.
The Cuban Liberation Handbook Page 6