As he lay there waiting for the next threat to appear he realized he had still not drawn any fire from the enemy that now surrounded him. They were firing their AK47s so much, his shooting did not gather much notice. The tank engine grew louder every second. More soldiers were coming up the hill following the trio he had just dispatched. He ran to the missile launcher as the tank drove past him up the hill some fifty meters to his left. Elvis jumped into the hole and grabbed the launcher. He felt the front of it and found the protective dust cover in place. The missile was operational. Now if he could just remember how to fire it. He set the clumsy looking missile launcher on the rim of the crater, hit the power button and opened the lens cap. He switched to infrared sights and the tank filled his screen along with dozens of soldiers walking near it. He was not sure if the tank was far enough away for the missile to correct its flight and arm itself. He aimed low on the turret of the tank and fired.
The missile angled into the dark sky before kicking its tail up and diving on the Soviet tank. The last thing Elvis saw was the missile heading for the turret when the tank exploded like a car bomb. The turret flew nearly a hundred feet into the air. It had his complete attention as it tumbled end over end across the sky coming right towards him. He instinctively crawled backward over the bodies that occupied the crater with him as he saw the several tons of flying steel knife itself into the ground. About seven seconds later a grenade dropped into the hole and landed just across from him. He dove for it, grabbed it and with a twist of his body threw it hard out of the hole. For a split second he thought it was a dud. When it did finally go off he ran into the night.
The hill was literally crawling with enemy. Elvis managed to dart from shadow to shadow until he found his hole. He stowed the rifle, grabbed the laptop gun controller and jumped in. He slid the lid, now piled high with the three armored vests, dirt and scraps of brush, back over his head. He dreaded opening the laptop, afraid of the desperate situation it would reveal going on above him and afraid that it would not. He moused over the screen and clicked on the extend button. He could tell the gun responded but a big blurry blob seemed to block the viewfinder. For a second he berated himself for not cleaning the gun scope while he was there when the blob moved out of the sight picture. Elvis hit the mini-joy stick and followed the movement. In a moment he guessed it must be a Communist soldier scrambling away from the mechanical beast that just came to life, probably scared out of his wits for if he had any he would have jumped on the gun rather than run away from it. Elvis fired over and over into the blurry mass until it stopped moving. The targets were everywhere. Luckily, with a small belt of ammo draping out of the gun he could swing the barrel three-hundred and sixty degrees just as long as he moved in the same direction and let the ammo belt drag along with it. He aimed towards the top of the hill above him. Apparently some defense of the aid station was being made because the enemy were taking cover and firing in that general direction. Being behind enemy lines definitely had targeting advantages because the backs of most of the enemy up the hill could be clearly seen by Elvis’ gun. The only question was how long could you survive there. Elvis quickly rotated the gun to find any soldiers nearby he could take out first. The smoldering brush fires still messed up his infrared picture and had to rely on the night vision mode. Three faces could be clearly seen trudging up the hill toward the gun. Pop pop pop Elvis heard the distinct report of his gun as the three went down. Every Communist who heard it would unmistakably know that Free Cubans were still alive and fighting on this hill. He quickly swung the gun three-hundred-sixty-degrees hoping the dragging ammo belt would not catch on anything. One guy running away, pop, one head poking above a clump of brush looking for the source of the new weapon sounds, pop. He could only afford a single round per target. Then he saw a guy duck out of sight pretty near his hide-e-hole as Rodriquez would call it. He heard some crunching footsteps and a guy dive for cover somewhere close by his hole. He just hoped no light was escaping around the edges of his lid. Elvis thought he could hear his heart pounding as he remained absolutely silent. Maybe he could scare him away. He fired the remote gun and put a round over the guys head and could hear the sonic crack of the bullet as it whizzed over the top of his hole. ‘Blank’, he thought, ‘I better not do that again, that would be great if I shot myself’. The Commie made no movement at all that he could tell. He decided to finish scanning the immediate area. Pop, pop pop went his gun and down went some more targets. He pointed the gun back over his hole again and saw nothing of the soldier above him. He scanned the rounded ridge above him where some sixty or so enemy soldier’s backs were exposed to his gun while they were busy fighting an enemy on the other side of the hill. The range was an easy hundred-twenty meters shot. He shot the soldiers fighting closest to the top of the hill and any soldier who fired his gun. He sent twelve rounds down range and would have been surprised if he did not get twelve hits. He could see confusion set in as their attack started to break up. Some retreating, some carrying wounded comrades then he saw what was unmistakably a officer pointing toward the Free Cuban aid station yelling at his men, gripping a handgun. Elvis placed the cross-hairs on the officer’s helmet and fired. In a millisecond the officer’s body went inert, his voice was cut off in mid-sentence and he dropped in a heap. He could see a wide-eyed panicked face of a soldier in the corner of his screen turn toward the gun in realization. The scramble was on now as some of the communists ran in every direction, some still puzzled with the situation. Elvis kept firing, knowing he would be out soon. The round counter on the laptop read 2,864 rounds fired but was never meant to be exact. He knew had forty rounds left, tops. Then Elvis heard something right above his head that sent a new shock of panic through his gut. It sounded like someone was dismantling the top of his lid. He could hear one of the armored vests being pulled off and the dirt falling and shifting above him. Elvis swung the TRAP gun toward his hole to try to see what was going on. Through some brush he could see two bobbing helmets hovering near his hole. Now he heard all the vests being pulled off and a hand brushing dirt off the top of the lid. Elvis’ TRAP gun did not have a clear shot but he fired anyway. Six shots in rapid succession and he knew he got at least one of the soldiers. He heard a clang of a helmet being hit and the unmistakable dull thwacks of bullets hitting flesh and bone. The lid concaved a bit when the wounded soldier must have fallen on top of the lid. He heard some hoarse whispering then the enemy body started to be dragged off the top of his lid. He scanned the area with the gun but could see nothing. He fired a few more rounds but it did not stop the dragging sound. Whoever was out there must be laying flat on the ground in defilade.
Elvis heard a grenade explosion from the direction of his gun and the image on his screen was jolted from the explosion and it was enveloped in a dust cloud. Elvis figured he was about to lose the gun so he toggled through the screen menu and set the gun to automatic syncopated fire at about one minute intervals. The intervals were not exactly one minute but directed by a complex logarithm that made it sound like someone was firing the gun periodically. Four or five more grenades hit in and around the gun and his picture went blank. It was gone.
Ciego de Avila. Ministry of the Interior armory
October 1, 2018 L Day 11:37 AM
Cunagua, Cuba. Ministry of the Interior armory October 1, 2018 11:38 PM
“Let me at him,” screamed Edwardo’s friend, trying to get through the men crowded around the young wounded communist. Tears of pure fury were engraved in dirt upon his face. “I’m gonna kill him,” he continued, his face contorted with grief. Jose met him chest to chest and hooking his arms under the yelling man’s, drove him back. Taking this queue, others joined Jose in restraining the young man. “Easy now Meeho, easy. We’ve got him. We’ll take care of him,” Jose said in consoling tone. The others escorted the protesting soldier out of the building. As Jose returned to the wounded communist the others looked at him in silence as Jose studied the moaning form on the floor. One of the men took
Jose’s silence and his words ‘We’ll take care of him’ to mean that the wounded Communist should be dispatched. He drew his knife and went down on one knee. He grasped the hair of the stricken young man and brought the knife forward as if to cut his throat. Jose stood silent for a split second. He felt like just another spectator in the room wondering if someone in charge was going to stop this guy.
“Wha… W.. What are you doing?” said Jose in a barely audible tone. The would-be executioner looked up with a puzzled look.
Jose continued “This man is our prisoner. You will treat his wounds and get him to the hospital.”
The knife wielding man’s face turned from confusion to determined anger. He said “no blanking way. This blank killed that Edwardo guy. You kill one of us, you go home in a box.” He looked around the men surrounding him for support. Nearly all were nodding their heads in agreement. Miguel’s eyes narrowed at this comment. It sounded a lot like insubordination.
Miguel stepped in and pointing to the knife wielder said “Carlos, you and Pedro take this guy out of here till he knows who the blank he is talking to.”
Jose started in, “We will follow the letter and spirit of the flier. Every prisoner will be treated according to the instructions we have received.”
A voice from the other side of the room said, “Aw come on, that flier was talking about dealing with a group of prisoners not one wounded blanker whose probably gonna die anyway.”
Jose replied “Every body is a ‘one.’ Everybody is going to see how we treat the ‘one.’ You think we are going to prevail in this conflict if eleven million Cubans think they will not be treated well by us? Jose pointed to two freedom fighters “you and you, get this guy to the hospital. Have him sign a note saying he agrees to parole.” Then looking down said to the young communist whose labored breathing he now heard for the first time, “You break your parole, you will be shot, that much I promise you.”
The preprinted agreement stated that: “In return for my freedom, I _____________ agree to not resist the revolution in any way. I will not serve nor support the communist forces arrayed against the revolution. I will not work for, pay taxes, fees or any benefits whatever to the current government of Cuba. I will not support any person or persons who do. I agree to receive an identifying tattoo mark on my left buttocks to identify me as a parolee. I agree to this upon pain of death. Signed _____________________
Fingerprints________ ________ ________ ________ ________ ________
The group of men carefully waded through the front offices of the armory building and into the warehouse itself.
The weapons cache was staggering. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of combat rifles were boxed and stored from floor to ceiling. RPG rockets, mines, mortars, they even had two artillery pieces. Sixteen trucks, eight BMP’s (armored personnel carriers) and two old T-55 tanks. The motley band of fighters wandered off in all directions, each one in awe of mountains of weapons now under their control. Jose’s first impulse was to grab them all up in his own hands and go fight the hated government. He needed more hands. Luckily nearly every adult in Cuba had some military or weapons experience. They were all trained with the goal in mind to kill invading U.S. Imperialists. The brave Communist workers would fight the Americans to the very last, or so Castro envisioned.
‘Yes,’ thought Jose, ‘we will fight to the very last, Raul, but not the enemy you hoped.’
“Miguel, Gather up the guys,’ barked Jose, his echoes filling the dusty warehouse. “We’ll meet here in this room. We need to get organized.”
As the men and boys were assembling, Jose started in. “Firstly, look around at the guys here. We are the core. We will rely on each other. We can trust each man here. Be careful of anyone else until they prove themselves in battle. Write your full names and addresses here on this paper.”
Everyone knew what signing the paper meant. It meant they were the founding group of the insurrection in this area with all the risks and rewards attached thereto. If successful they would own a percentage of all the government property in the areas they controlled. It would be hard to imagine the Council refusing the requests of motivated units that took the initiative and acted. But first they needed recognition from the Council, a charter.
“This is what I propose,” said Jose.
“We need access to city hall. They are the only ones who have an internet connection. We need to get recognition from the Free Cuban Council and establish our authority in this area. We will apply to them for reinforcements to be sent to us but I don’t think they can help us for a while.”
A voice piped up. “Let’s hope not for a while. I bet we can get at least four or five towns before they get here. We could go east and liberate Gaspar, Priedrecitas, Florida, maybe even Camagueylxx.”
Jose cut him short. “First things first. We need to make sure the road and rail lines are cut here in Ciego de Avila.”
“Why? They can just go around us at Moron,” said another.
Jose’s patience was wearing thin. With his exasperation well concealed he said “We need to get a group up to Moron before they get a chance to put up a defense. But we need more men. First we take the trucks and go around to different neighborhoods. You’re going to knock politely on the door and ask to see the men living there. You ask them politely if they want to join us. If they say yes and you think you can trust them have them tie some blue fabric on their upper arm, here,” he grabbed his bicep, “give them a weapon and put them to work recruiting. If they say no, we arm them, form them up into a platoon and put them under the command of a trusted Freedom Fighter. We only need them to fill out our ranks initially. Once we have enough real volunteers we send them home. This revolution is about free choice. I really do not like the idea of compelling anyone into our ranks that does not want to be there.”
Jose continued, “We need to get to the MINIT offices on Jardines del Rey Street. They are going to be ready for us I think. We need eighty guys or more. Once in, that will be our headquarters. We can communicate with the outside world. We secure Ciego de Avila, then we head straight for Moron. We will cut this island in two. Then we will push to other towns, head east, maybe even take Camaguey. The goal will be to link up with the Free Cuban forces in the east. We will create a protected corridor through which they can move west toward Havana.”
Jose had all the authority he needed from the Free Cuban Council and more.
His group, being the first to act in the insurrection, gave him complete control of all subsequent volunteers in the area. The flyers made it clear that action was the qualifier that earned rewards. They could easily surpass the earnings of the FCAF units by controlling Ciego de Avila and the rewards for controlling the whole province would be beyond comprehension.
‘It was too good to be true,’ thought Jose. ‘Liberating our beloved Cuba from a despotic regime, bringing the murderers to justice, installing a free democracy and becoming fabulously wealthy all at the same time was just too good to be true.’
The MINIT offices evacuated at the first sign of an armed force taking positions across the street. Soon the streets were full of people. First with curious onlookers, then it evolved into a celebratory block party, and within an hour it was pandemonium. Sweaty men with serious eyes and distended veins in their necks were suddenly desperate to join the Free Cubans. They were willing to give anything they had, which was not much, to get a gun.
The MINIT offices held fewer phones and computers than Jose had hoped but it was enough. Luckily a few staffers stayed to throw in their lot with the rebels. They logged on to the Free Cuban website and were soon communicating with them through email. Then the Free Cubans responded with a telephone number for Jose to call. Jose was soon handed a phone. “It’s for you,” said a young MINIT officer whom he had never met.
Jose was wary at first but within minutes the Free Cuban on the other end of the line had him feeling more at ease. Jose was surprised to find out that the Free Cuban was really located in Miami, F
lorida. The calls had been overwhelming and were being forwarded from Gitmo to other locations around the world.
“Jose,” said the voice on the other end of the line “I have President Joshua Marti on the other line. I’m connecting you now.”
“Hello son,” came an elderly voice, “I hear you are in Ciego de Avila. Good work my boy. God will bless you for your efforts. Be bold, have courage. The Cuban people will help you do the impossible. Have faith in them. Keep order. Be Christlike. Listen to the leadership we have here at Guantanamo. You are under our wing now.” There was a pause.
“Yes sir, thank you sir,” Jose said with solemnity.
“Here is Major Juan Verdecia. He will be your commanding officer.”
“Yes sir, thank you sir.”
The Major was an affable sort and after a flurry of activity every phone in the MINIT offices was occupied receiving instructions from Gitmo. Every computer and printer was busily involved with the task of running a war. Organizational charts and instructions were being downloaded, copied and distributed. It was a race against time. The goal was to give enough instruction before the phone lines were cut. They informed Jose that uprisings were happening all around Cuba. If Jose’s forces could establish a beach head some Free Cuban Forces could possibly be landed with the limited amphibious assets at their disposal.
Free Cuban Armed Forces -
North invasion force, 23 km west of Guantanamo City, Cuba October 2, 2018.
“L” Day or Liberation Day plus one. 12:05 AM
Elvis quietly shifted in his fox hole and placed the AK47 rifle between his knees pointing at the lid above his head and the sounds just beyond. His trembling hands gripped the trigger. ‘Maybe they don’t even see the lid. Maybe if I just stay quiet…’ his thought was shattered when several bullets smashed through the lid. At least one of the bullets hit his already battered helmet. Elvis fired back shooting through the lid as more enemy bullets impacted his chest, blew off half of his ear and grazed his neck. Elvis stood up in his hole knocking the lid off while firing at a soldier who was on his knees not four feet away. The short, ugly, desperate firefight ended when the Communist’s shoulder was blown apart and his gun fell to his side. Elvis kept firing until the soldier fell. Elvis looked around and saw nothing but had the distinct impression there were others about. He heard some rustling in the brush uphill and a grenade, the old fused top glowing in his night vision, came arching over the brush, bounced and tumbled past the bodies and landed near his foxhole. He ducked back in the hole and pulled his helmet down tight and waited for the explosion. It seemed to take a very long time for that stupid grenade to go off. He had to fight the impulse to stand up and run away till finally it exploded in a thunderous black pall. In a second Elvis jumped out of his hole and ran off into the night just before a new flurry of bullets were sent screaming through the dust cloud after him.
The Cuban Liberation Handbook Page 15