The Cuban Liberation Handbook

by Joshua Hatuey Marti

  At the aid station Elvis laid there as the Medic examined him. The guy had a camera mounted on his head gear and an earpiece in his ear. He could hear a doctor’s voice on a speaker who was obviously observing the camera image asking questions and giving orders. Elvis knew that the Free Cuban medical field units were second to none in the world. The way the medical team was hovering over him and working in urgent seriousness he knew he was in trouble and he was thankful for them.

  The United States had no problem at all rendering medical care to the Free Cubans. In other aspects of support, especially aggressive attacks on the Communist nation, Americans seemed hesitant and unsure. There was no ambiguity at all when it came to the task of saving lives medically. Money seemed to flow like a river when the Americans committed to a job. If money could do it, it was going to be done.

  Bags of fluid hung above him flowing into his arm. He could tell they were getting ready to medivac him out. The crushing pain made him want to curl up on the bloody cot while the medics tried to hold him down. Elvis thought it was over for him. He was not going to make it. ‘Damn Castro, damn the Communists,’ he thought. ‘All I wanted was to be left alone, left in peace.’

  “Hey, take care of the Commie tank gunner.” Elvis said in groaning breathlessness. “He’s on our side. He knocked out three BMP’s and saved our bacon,” he lied. “Make sure he’s registered as a free Cuban and put that in his notes will ya?”

  “Sure Elvis, no problem. We’ll take care of him,” responded the Medic.

  The pain meds took effect and soon Elvis seemed to float pleasantly on marshmallow clouds. He had no recollection of the medivac helicopter ride to Gitmo. He arrived at the Air Force Theater Hospital set up at Guantanamo. As in the Theater Hospitals in Iraq, it had the most sophisticated state of the art medical equipment ever assembled in the history of military medicine. It had a full pharmacy, three cat-scans, x-rays, sonograms, a blood lab, three surgical suites, four intensive care units and surgeons covering twenty different surgical specialties. The surgeons could consult with a specialist back in the states in real time through an audio/visual link. Except for the Kevlar body armor the staff wore and the occasional mortar explosion, it had all the trappings of a real hospital, although cramped. The place was bustling with activity. The cots were full, mostly of Communist troops.

  All this was lost on Elvis however. He would not remember the pre-op, post-op or the Lockheed Martin C-5B galaxy Strategic Transport lxxviii ride to Walter Reed Medical Center in Washington D.C. For the three hour flight he and forty-one other wounded, mostly communist soldiers, were in the care of the Air Transport Medical Team from Ramstein, Germany and the Critical Care Team from Guantanamo. In the airborne ICU the patients were given medications, oxygen and IV fluids. Once a soldier made it on the transport they knew they would survive. Although many critical cases had been transported from Iraq over the years and now from Cuba, there had never been a death associated with a flight.

  Elvis finally became lucid twenty-six hours after having been wounded, waking up in clean sheets and feeling like a gutted fish.

  “Elvis” the voice sounded familiar though muffled through his blown out eardrums. “Elvis.” Elvis rolled his head toward the voice. There in the bed next to him was the Commie gunner smiling from ear to ear with a pile of empty plastic pudding containers strewn about his hospital table and his leg in an elevated cast. Elvis just groaned and closed his eyes.

  End of Chapter 3

  Cuba Chapter 4

  Ciego de Avila. Ministry of the Interior Headquarters

  October 2, 2018 L Day plus One

  Ciego de Avila fell with riotous celebrations. The airport however, saw fierce fighting. An unorganized mob of armed men crashed against the disciplined guards holding the colonnaded terminal building like waves on a beach. The tide of humanity slowly rose and eventually engulfed the defenses. Night fell on a city free at last from the smothering hand of oppression.

  Throughout the city thin streams of black smoke now struggled into the calm morning sky. The celebrations of the night before evolved into the grim industry of a determined people. Those still loyal to the Communists kept to themselves and were strictly left alone.

  The rebels had a great many advantages at their disposal. One was the tremendous quantity of weapons stored at various locations throughout the city and its environs. The other advantage was the many experienced volunteers who were well acquainted with the weapons and how to use them. All of them, including many women, had served in the Armed Forces proper or in one of Cuba’s paramilitary units. By the afternoon scouts sent out from Ciego de Avila linked up with Corporal Garcia Lopez . The Railroad tracks were repaired and the entire train load of equipment and captured troops proudly roared into Ciego de Avila before night fall.

  Corporal Garcia Lopez walked up the steps of the MINIT headquarters to find Jose standing at the top of them wearing a broad smile. The tanks sitting on the rail cars were the most beautiful thing Jose had ever seen. They were badly needed to the north if they were going to hold the gains they made over the last twenty-four hours. Corporal Garcia Lopez let it be known that he was not about to turn over his command to anyone, especially a punk kid. Jose simply led him into the map room and gave him all the information he had. While they spoke, careful note was taken of the number of captured enemy troops, equipment and armaments that were on the train. The time of its arrival was noted and all the incidental information necessary to file an action report was gleaned from Lopez and his subordinates. When the FCAF committee, at sometime in the future, convened to divvy out shares they would be asking for these reports. Every action, place, time and the names people involved needed to be carefully written down. These reports would be the main tool the FCAF committee would use to determine who would get what reward.

  “The Free Cubans have taken Guantanamo City and are pushing west. They say they plan on being here within a week.” Jose reported to Corporal Lopez.

  “What?” responded Lopez, “what is that, four-hundred, five-hundred kilometers? How is that possible! They are dreaming.”

  Jose scanned his notes hanging from a chalkboard. “Yes, four hundred-eighty-eight kilometers. They said any ground we hold till they get here is one-hundred percent ours. It will belong to us.”

  Corporal Lopez was fatigued by thirty six sleepless hours. He looked over his shoulder at Jose with contempt. “I’m not doing this for the money, are you?”

  Jose was taken aback. “Well, I dunno, it’s not the main reason I’m doing this but it nice to know they appreciate what we are doing and sacrificing.” Jose smiled suddenly realizing for the first time how exhausted this Corporal really was. “I’m just giving you the information I have, my brother.”

  Turning to the map again Jose continued, “They asked us to try to hold some bridges and keep them intact if we can for their push to the Capital. We’ve sent out teams to hold the bridges and prepare them for demolition if we have to blow them. The bridge just out of town here,” he said pointing to a spot on the map” “the bridges near Ciro Redondo and the bridges just west of Moron. Gitmo thinks the rail junction and highway at Marti is in our hands, or at least some rebel force is blocking them.”

  Corporal Lopez looked at the map and said, “Yes, the terrain is much better for defense there at Marti. Only one rail line to block. Most of the heavy stuff must come in by rail. Castro just does not have the gas and trucks to transport by road. What about to the west of us? Any bad guys coming our way?”

  Jose came in close and spoke in hushed tones. “The main government forces are centered in Santa Clara, one-hundred-sixty kilometers west of us. There is a convoy heading this way.” Jose picked up a piece of paper covered in scribbling and read “One-hundred-seventy-eight vehicles. They should be around Cabaiguan right now. That’s about eighty kilometers out.” Jose paused and seemed to be done talking.

  Corporal Lopez cocked his head to one side “And?”

  Jose seemed to be d
istracted looking at the map. He looked at Corporal Lopez as though he forgot Lopez was in the room. He spoke rapidly now. “We are sending a group out with mines and whatever, to slow them down. We need some of your tanks there.”

  The Corporal had dozens of questions streaming though mind, like how on earth Jose knew how many vehicles there were in the convoy and its location but first they needed to get a defense plan together. “What’s the situation up in Moron and to the east of us?”

  “There is fighting in Moron but I think we have the upper hand there. The mascot of the city is a chicken you know,” the corner of Lopez’ mouth widened slightly in a grim smile.

  Jose’s hand swept broadly across the map. “Out east of us I have no idea. Some fires were reported in Camaguey. That’s all I know about that. I expect the government to hold Camaguey until we push them out.”

  Lopez looked at Jose quizzically and started to laugh sardonically “Push them out?”

  Jose’s brow furrowed “Yes.” He responded with an edge of anger. “Push them out! We will attack and keep attacking. God will provide the way to victory my friend. All we have to do is to trust him. Joshua Marti told me that himself.”

  The Corporal raised his hand and Jose quieted. “First things first. We need to defend ourselves against that convoy. I will lead a platoon of tanks out to greet them, I’m going to take….”

  Jose slowly shook his head and smiled “You cannot. You are now in charge of the entire military operations here in Ciego de Avila. I have no military leadership experience. You do. You need to head it up. Will you do it?”

  Corporal Lopez responded with a smile of surprise and a nod of his head “Well, yes”. He then started giving nonstop orders to the make-shift staff surrounding them.

  F-15 Fighter Aircraft, Freedom One

  Guantanamo Free Cuban Sector, Cuba

  October 2, 2018 “L” Day plus One

  “Freedom One and Freedom Two, we’ve got thirteen bogies leaving their coverage. You’re cleared for takeoff.”

  The two aircraft had been waiting for ten minutes to meet the new threat forming up over Santa Clara. Cuco would have preferred to hit them ASAP, even if that meant going inside their protective umbrella of Anti-Aircraft and SAM batteries, rather than wait for them to gather strength.

  The top brass were skittish since losing both of their Phantom F-4 aircraft. Both shot down by enemy fighters. The game would be over if they lost their two remaining F-15’s.

  The Air war proved to be a much messier affair than the Free Cubans had hoped.

  The initial bombing raids had not won them supremacy of the air. Close, but no cigar.

  Since that first attack the Free Cubans had harried the last remaining base of Santa Clara but could not stop its operations.

  Both aircraft rolled down the runway wingtip to wingtip and rocketed into the sky heavily laden with three external fuel tanks, a conformal fuel tank and all the Air-to-Air missiles they could hang on the planes.

  They turned to the west when the dump from the AWACS radar aircraft popped up on their screens.

  “(Expletive), they’re going supersonic,” said Cuco.

  “Yeah, and they’re jamming heavily,” added Izzy.

  Cuco turned toward the signal’s bearing.

  On the interplane frequency Cuco ordered “Lets light ‘em up gentlemen,” at the same time using hand signals, ordered his wingman to assume a combat spread formation, slightly high, slightly behind and to the leader’s right.

  Cuco pulled his nose to the sky and jammed his throttle to zone-five afterburner. Both aviators were pushed back into their seats as eight gallons of fuel a second were dumped into the burner cans creating a flame a hundred feet long behind the Eagle.lxxix Even in a steep climb it wasn’t long before the two F-15’s approached their self imposed speed limit of Mach 1.1 for the external fuel tanks.

  In truth, they did not expect the Communists to mount such a big raid from the crippled airbase. Had the base not been hit by Freedom One on that first night, the Free Cubans would have been in real trouble.

  At the first indication that Santa Clara was mounting a big raid Freedom One’s ground crew unloaded the JSOW bombs destined for the enemy base and loaded six Phoenixlxxx long range air-to-air missiles and two AMRAAMS. The FCAF got a great deal on the Phoenix missiles because the U.S. forces had retired them. The $477,000 missiles were just sitting in storage waiting for the propellants to go bad. With a few modifications they fit nicely on the pylons that usually carried the radar guided Sparrow or AMRAAM missiles.

  The ground crew moved like a pit crew at the Indianapolis speedway. They trained hard to be able to rearm and refuel the fighters even faster than the Israeli crews, who were the fastest in the world.

  At forty-thousand feet and the extreme range of 115 miles from the main enemy formation the F-15’s fired off a total of ten Phoenix missiles nearly simultaneously. Each one independently targeted.

  Two Mig-23’s were high and accelerating past Mach 2, well ahead of the other planes. They were playing the role of interceptor. Cuco chose to fire the missiles at this extreme distance because he did not want get within the interceptor’s missile range. The Pheonix missiles accelerated to over forty-eight-hundred kilometers per hour. With a closing speed of over two kilometers per second the interceptors were in a hard place. They would have to slow considerably if they wanted to maneuver and try to counter the missile but they would not have the time. One kept up his speed and climbed while the other did the equivalent of slamming on the brakes and punching out as soon as his speed fell below five-hundred knots. The climber would die. The bailer would survive. One hundred feet in front of the leading Mig, at a mind boggling closure of a little over two-thousand meters per second the missile exploded. The explosive accelerated outward at eight-thousand four hundred meters per second. This in turn propelled the shrapnel toward the aircraft at 75% of the explosive speed for a total closure of eight-thousand three hundred meters per second or 9,077 miles per hour. At this speed a fleck of paint from the missile would be sufficient to pierce and ignite the aircrafts fuel tanks. The blast wave hit and destroyed the Mig the smallest of moments before the fiery particles did.

  The other Migs scattered like sheep with their tails on fire -- chased by wolves. Only two more aircraft were brought down from the eight remaining missiles mostly because the extreme range from which they were fired and the heavy electronic jamming. Most of the Migs banked hard one-hundred-eighty-degrees and lit their afterburners. AWACS could see some of the planes jettison bombs or external fuel tanks in their headlong dash for life. The missiles were in their coasting phase and were slowing considerably by the time they got anywhere near the speeding aircraft. The raid was disrupted. Most would have to refuel before continuing whatever sortie they had planned.

  When the last of the missile flight timers ran out Cuco radioed, “Target down radar, target down radar.”

  The ground controller at Guantanamo, through redundant uplinks, replied, “Range is clear. Freedom One and Freedom Three you are clear to engage at your discretion.”

  “Acknowledged, Control. Freedom Three, you have me in sight?”

  “Rodger lead.”

  Izzy scanned the area with LADAR and detected two leakers streaking toward them very fast and very low. They must have been very low indeed because on his regular radar they were nearly invisible and could have easily been missed.

  “Control, Freedom One has bandit…”

  “Acknowledged, Freedom One,” the ground radar controller interrupted. “We are getting only weak returns. Stand by.” Gitmo was sifting through the information passed on by the U.S. Radar plane. The AWACS radar operators were frantically switching radar modes trying to refine the intruder’s radar information when one of the aircraft disappeared completely. The other Mig popped up and locked up the F-15’s and fired two missiles.

  With the enemy plane’s radar active Izzy could now see it was a Mig-23 and was capable of firing any
of the newest and deadliest missiles. The Mig was holding a steady course keeping his radar on the target as his missile ran it down. Izzy instantly released one of his two remaining Pheonix missiles. In the missile’s nose it carried its own radar and was now completely independent which left the F-15 free to evade. The burly one thousand pound missile went after the Mig like a bulldog after a pussycat. The F-15 released countermeasures and bugged out like a bat out of …

  “He broke (radar) lock, he’s running,” Cuco reported to Izzy who was busily countering the missile.

  “Vampires (enemy missiles) are veering off,” Izzy responded.

  The Mig pilot had the tough choice of maintaining his course and going head to head with the Pheonix missile or breaking off and trying to survive. His wingman had just plowed into the ground moments before which induced him into attacking at this extreme range. He had had enough. He checked his altimeter to make sure he was underneath the Communist ground based radar and would not be seen by any other Mig. There was no sense bailing out only to be shot by a firing squad. He throttled back and banked hard to bleed off airspeed then ejected. His chute was still in the process of opening completely when the Mig-23 exploded mid-air like a bomb. He had made it. He survived. The MiG pilot landed and headed for the Central Highway A1 and the approaching FCAF units.