General Zip Petra sent a messenger into the city of Camaguey under a flag of truce with the hope of averting any more bloodshed and delays. All roads seemed to lead to Camaguey and bypassing it would be problematic. The messenger had trouble convincing the Commander of the Central Army headquarted in the city that FCAF troops were indeed at the gates of the City and in force. General Petra told the messenger to hand the portable radio to the commanding Communist General and began a long discussion.
Three hours later FCAF troops assaulted the first line of resistance the communists put up. The assault followed the familiar pattern of artillery barrages and movement. After his rather amiable discussion with his counterpart Zip Petra had the impression that the Communists would put up a nominal defense for the purpose of saving face. In the end he hoped it would prove to be far less costly than the battle for Guantanamo City. It had to be. The headlong drive depleted every resource the Free Cubans had -- ammunition, fuel, vehicle maintenance, and the energy of the fighting men. They had at least two-hundred-thousand gallons of fuel they could use waiting for them in Ciego de Avila safely in the hands of friendlies, but only if the friendly forces could hold the City. They would have to go through Camaguey to get there.
It seemed that that fire control was putting on their own ‘shock and awe’ show on for the benefit of the enemy troops holding Camaguey. The profligate expenditure of shells, rockets and ammo the Free Cubans were using put a pit in Zip Petra’s stomach. He gave the assault another hour before he would have reassess the situation. Maybe he would have to reign in the artillery and go a little slower. Now that he was committed to the fight bypassing the city was no longer an option. There was no turning back. The unofficial motto of FCAF would continue to be “We are impossible to resist and impossible to dislodge.”
In the end he did not have to reassess anything. The Free Cubans pierced the front line and ravaged the soft underbelly of the Communist forces in Camaguey. The front line proved to be no more than fifty to one hundred meters in depth with no reserves to throw at the Free Cuban Forces. The rear areas were manned by disorganized units of the Territorial Militia, one of Cuba’s paramilitary organizations.
The resistance was a bit stiffer than he had hoped but by 6 PM the road was clear to Ciego de Avila. General Petra put his team warrior units in the middle of Camaguey with the orders to hit any organized enemy units in the city. It would be the bloodiest night yet. The regular Communist forces knew better than to challenge the Free Cubans at night. FCAF owned the night and it seemed everyone but the Territorial Militia knew it. Their political officers forced the Militia to do the stupidest things imaginable. Things they themselves would never do if so ordered, unless their families were threatened with retaliation for their disobedience. They mounted blind assaults against the FCAF troops who had the most sophisticated night vision equipment in the world. Buses filled with Militia driving too close to the front lines, mostly because they did not know where their enemy was, exploded in the most gruesome displays of the war yet. The Team Warrior units were sickened by the horrendous bloodletting. No one kept count of their kills anymore. There was no way they could keep track of it. Ammunition flowed to the Free Cuban units all night. Before long the major concern was to keep the guns from overheating. The only way Ozzy could keep his men motivated was to keep repeating that “every Communist fighter left alive tonight, the regular FCAF troops would have to fight tomorrow.”
Thirty-nine kilometers out of Camaguay the leading FCAF elements came across a heavily manned road block guarding the bridges just beyond the town of La Vallita. Hundreds of men swarmed the area, most with RPGs slung over their shoulders. Many more were streaming in from the west. Two well camouflaged Soviet-made T-62 tanks were visible through the Abrams infrared scope. What was not visible through the scope was the blue cloth tied to the barrels of the enemy tanks that identified them as Free Cuban Rebels. The unfortunate Rebel tanks came within seconds of being destroyed by an M1A2 tank when yelling came across on all radio channels.
“They’re ours, they have the blue arm bands. Hold your fire, hold your fire.”
The Rebels had streamed in from Ciego de Avila, the town of Florida and the surrounding countryside. The defensive positions were complete with two of the tanks captured by Corporal Garcia, now raised in rank by his newfound friend Jose, to General of the militia, Ciego de Avila Province.
Instead of the joyous greeting they expected, the FCAF troops were greeted courteously but with a touch of disappointment. During the half-hour it took for the Rebels to remove the anti tank mines from in front of the bridge General Petra found out the reason for their mixed emotions. One of the Rebel leaders named Ivan informed the General that they were forming up to take Camaguey. If they had another day they would have.
“We were told you wouldn’t be here for a (expletive) week.” Ivan swore rather brusquely. “We were promised all the territory we could capture and hold till you got here. Ahh…” He looked down at his dusty sandals. “And now you are here early. Well, Sticks of a fir tree! That’s what I say.”
Zip Petra smiled at the problems of success. He put his arm around the shoulder of the Rebel.
“You have done very well indeed my friend,” replied the general in a soothing voice. “They were a tough lot in Camaguey. It would have been a bloody affair. No… you have done as well as you could have under the circumstances.”
Ivan plaintively reasoned “You could have entered the city from the east and we could have come in from the West… with some more time.”
Nothing could perturb Zip now. He was in good spirits. He tried to placate the man.
“I understand that your Rebel forces control the territory from the western border of Ciego de Avila Province all the way to here?”
“I have no idea. I am a simple soldier. What do I know?” said Ivan.
“Well, that’s my information,” Zip said. “That’s got to be close to ten-thousand square kilometers of the best agricultural land in the world. It’s worth billions. Divide that amongst you guys and I’m sure that’s worth at least several hundreds of thousands dollars for each one of you. How many are you?”
“I don’t know, maybe six or seven thousand, that’s if Jose, he’s the leader, didn’t let everyone and their dog join.”
“Bob,” the General inquired of one of his staff at a laptop, “how many acres are in a square kilometer?”
Bob –not his real name, it was because he constantly bobbled a cigarette in his mouth when he spoke -- responded “Well, sir, I don’t know but I know someone that does.” With that Bob brought up his Google page and typed in the inquiry, “How many acres in a square kilometer?” badly misspelled. Within a second the answer popped on the screen “1 kilometer = 247.105 acres.”
“General, that’s two-hundred-forty-seven acres, Sir,” Bob reported proudly.
“Well,” said the General turning to the dusty Ivan, “divide about two-and-a-half million acres of prime cropland by six or seven thousand Rebels. That’s about, uhh… uhh,” he calculated in his head.
Bob piped up. “That’s three-hundred-fifty-seven acres each sir, if it’s seven-thousand Rebels.”
“Wow,” said the General, “and that’s just the land. Not counting the buildings, mineral rights and everything else. I’d say you’ve done very well for yourselves.”
The General left Ivan standing there with his eyes darting around as if watching the thoughts bouncing around in his head.
The FCAF units charged ahead to Ciego de Avila while the Rebels continued on their way to Camaguey. They were to occupy and hold the city and recruit for the coming battle for Havana.
44 Km West of Ciego de Avila. Majagua, Cuba
October 2, 2018 L Day plus One
The exploding mine cut through the cane field like an invisible hand ripping the spirits out of the Communist soldiers bodies, leaving the empty shells to fall where they stood. Jesús and the four others jumped up and ran to the sound of the
BMP. Jesús soon found himself alone running headlong into the fight. The two other teams had run to the right and left of the Armored Personnel Carrier. He ran straight into the Communists who must have been shooting at him. One lay injured with the other kneeling above him. He would have been happy to run right past them but apparently that’s not how they saw it. The kneeling one had reached for his gun that was propped on the wounded man’s leg. He grabbed the rifle and swung it up to firing position when Jesús’ rifle fired over and over into the man. The barrel of his rifle nearly touched the soldier. Jesús did not even make a conscious decision to take this man’s life. He was instinctively firing. It was as if he were watching someone else do it. The third shot found the Communist, a very young man Jesús was able to see now, raising his arm to ward off the onslaught of bullets. Obviously the gunfight was over for him but it registered too late in Jesús’ panicked mind. He shot again as the boy folded. The image sickened Jesús and he knew it would horrify him the rest of his life. The man who was lying on the ground had rolled to his side and reached for his rifle. Jesús screamed, “No!, Wait!, Stop!” He waited a dangerously long time to defend himself then fired once into the man.
“I wasn’t going to shoot you!” he screamed. “Why’d you make me shoot you! Stupid idiots!”
Jesús crumpled to the ground bowing his head in grief and breathing hard.
“Jesús!” A distant cry lifted his head. He silently listened. “Jesús!” he heard it again and located the direction. He told himself he wasn’t sure if they were swearing, calling upon their Savior or yelling for him. He did not want to believe the latter. His courage completely spent, he got up and ran away before he heard it again. Behind him he heard the BMP firing wildly into the cane followed sometime later by an explosion. He glanced over his shoulder and saw a black plume roiling into a clear blue sky. He kept running and never saw the other four men again.
Jesús ran right through the hastily forming rebel line fifty meters east of the anti-tank minefield and just kept on running. He didn’t break his stride even after the puzzled Rebels yelled after him, “why are you still running?” Over his shoulder he yelled back, “’Cause I don’t have a car!”lxxxv
Guantanamo Free Cuban Sector, Cuba
October 3, 2018 “L” Day plus Two
The Communists were growing in strength in the air. The U.S had tracked an additional thirteen Mig-29’s flown in from Venezuela. They were also tracking a total of thirty-two Chinese J-9 fighter aircraft supported by two refueling tankerslxxxvi on a course to Caracas. Their ultimate destination was assumed to be Cuba.
The ground war was progressing very well for the Free Cubans. The Communist defenses were crumbling as fast as the Iraqi defenses had for the Americans. All that would change however if they could not control the air.
For the next eighteen hours the air war see-sawed back and forth. The Free Cubans were reluctant to risk their last two F-15’s in a foolhardy effort to knock out the last Communist Air Base. The Communists seemed satisfied with just keeping the base intact and probing the Free Cuban air defenses until their reinforcements arrived from Caracas. In Venezuela U.S. intel could plainly see that the Chinese fighters had their markings removed or hastily painted over with Cuban aircraft insigniaslxxxvii. They were heavily laden with weapons and external fuel tanks and now they were in the air and on a course for Baracoa Cuba.
In war it seems you can always count on the side of evil doing the worst possible thing for its best interest. They are bad. They can’t resist doing bad things. The temptation to kill Americans had become too hard to resist. The Communist Cubans had planned an aggressive war of annihilation against its fledgling offspring. It was a natural response, a common sense conclusion as second nature to the Communists as swatting a buzzing mosquito. If it bugs you, kill it. The Americans had become a large mosquito and the Cubans were going to swat it.
The U.S F-18 fighters were getting a little sloppy in their escort duties for the AWACS and other intelligence gathering aircraft. The gas-guzzling fighters had to be relieved often. When they did so sometimes their relief would be five-hundred miles away. Three times the Communists had their best Mig-29 in the air ready to take advantage of an opportunity. Three times there was no opportunity to bring down one of the big, defenseless and expensive aircraft. The fourth time was a charm. One-hundred miles off the Cuban coast an American E-8 Joint STARS(surveillance and Targeting Radar System) ground-reconnaissance aircraft surveyed the battlefield. Cuban radar stations situated along its southern coast tracked its two F-18 escorts that were now two hundred miles away and heading for Homestead Air Force Base in Florida. The Cubans did not detect any replacements yet so it was a good bet the surveillance aircraft was flying solo. The Mig kept its heading for Guantanamo and closed the distance with the E-8 STARS to within two hundred miles. When the American aircraft changed course and headed out to sea the Mig went supersonic and gave chase. On its radar the Mig pilot could not see any other fighter in the air but that did not mean much with the advanced fighters the Imperialists could put up. He was closing the distance nicely. He had passed Mach two and was gaining at a rate of about one-thousand miles per hour. He would be within missile range in about ten minutes. The Mig was chasing the E-8 away from its fighter cover coming in from the States. Unless the American plane was running to some carrier based fighters he couldn’t see yet, he would bag it. The Mig pilot knew this was a one way trip. If the FCAF didn’t get him on the way back the Americans would. He just wanted a nice safe place to ditch the plane after he had won this most important victory for the people of Cuba and the Revolution.
Havana, Cuba
October 4, 2018 “L” Day plus Three
The waterfront was calm as the ocean surge slowly raised and lowered the floating debris against the harbor rocks. A cooling breeze swept up the ancient dilapidated streets of Havana to prepare the torpid afternoon for evening. It blew past the two mulatto girls who always wore short shorts, thin cotton halter tops, platform shoes and big smiles.
Past the chatting women in housedresses, the dangerously decayed balconies holding men stripped to their underwear and holding unlit cigars between their fingers, the boys in the street playing baseball hemmed in by walls of once brightly colored but now faded disintegrating plaster and rotting wood.
It blew past the dozens of people still waiting in the bread line even though they knew they would never get in before the doors closed for the day. Each one of their faces were uniquely expressive in various levels of dissatisfaction. Music flowed from open windows in low, sharp and scratchy tones.
The fresh breath of the ocean wafted up one of the salt-eaten staircases and found its way into the room of Lazaro Bonito. The feeling it created across his bare and sweaty back reminded him it was time to get moving.
He cradled the Makarov handgun between his knees with sweaty hands and forced himself to remember why he was doing this. Two years ago a neighborhood friend whom he always called Mr. Sammy was arrested and sent to the large prison system on the Isla de la Juventud or Isle of youth. Lazaro had no father. He had Don Sam Manuel, or Mr. Sammy. He was an elderly man, gentle, kind and wise. From the first days of Lazero’s life he would reach for Mr. Sammy. Whenever the older man was around, the baby demanded that Mr. Sammy carry him about. Lazaro’s mother worked long and hard hours. Thousands of days passed as Mr. Sammy watched over the growing boy from the steps of this very building. Mr. Sammy was better than any father Lazaro knew of. After he was arrested he told Lazaro through a mutual friend to never visit him and to openly denounce him as an enemy of the State. Lazaro knew the game and he played along. He seethed inside knowing how brutally political prisoners were treated. Beaten, starved, tortured, prodded with bayonets. They lived worse than any stray dog on the streets of Havana. Under the Batista regime eleven prisons dotted the island. Castro had over three-hundredlxxxviii. The Communists had murdered as many as 115,000 and incarcerated well over six-hundred-thousand Cubans at a rate
higher than Stalin ever did, given the populationlxxxix.
Lazaro got down on his knees, opened a cupboard and reached into his secret hiding place in the wall. He pulled out an oil filter for a car that had been modified to screw on to the barrel of the handgun. He retrieved a loop of foam rubber that he had fashioned to fit over the homemade silencer. It was big and bulky … and quiet. He had tested it a few times in this room shooting into blocks of wood. A simple cough was enough to mask the sound of the shot. He screwed the silencer on the end of the gun and placed it in a box he had found in the trash outside the Banco Nacional de Cuba building. It was very official looking. The box was lined with foam rubber to silence the weapon further. He taped it shut. On one side of the box was a hole large enough for his hand to fit through and operate the gun inside the box. He washed himself from a basin of water and got into his freshly cleaned Young Pioneer Organization uniform with his badges proudly displayed. The neckerchief was tied loosely about his neck as some boys would do in his unit.
With everything prepared he scribbled a quick note to his mother and placed it on her pillow. He lay on his bed wide awake listening to the neighbors talking through the thin walls, calling after their children, and the everyday sounds of living winding down for the night. His mother would not be home from work till midnight.
He got down on his knees and prayed. He crossed himself though he had long forgotten why it was part of the ritual of prayer. He saw Don Sam Manuel do it all of his life and never questioned the practice. Lazaro just liked the ceremony of it. He got up off his knees and left the room, box in hand.
Two-Hundred Kilometers off the Southern Cuban Coast
October 6, 2018 “L” Day + 5
The Mig dropped its external fuel tanks and went supersonic traveling at 1,500 miles per hour. Even though the American aircraft was fleeing at nearly six hundred miles per hour the Communist fighter was still closing at eight-hundred. The Mig-29 ran down the American E-8 surveillance plane when it came within thirty kilometers. Two AA-11 Archerxc missiles shot from their rails ducking sharply down as not to stall the engine with its exhaust. The missiles pushed ahead of the fighter only going three hundred miles per hour faster than the plane that fired them. The MiG pulled back on its speed. The Surveillance plane with thirty crew members aboard nosed into a steep dive that was nearly as dangerous as the missiles chasing it. White hot magnesium flaresxci giving off many times the heat signature of its engines created a blinding pattern of protective angles wings behind the giant aircraft.
The Cuban Liberation Handbook Page 20