One missile exploded in the white curtain of fire the decoys made but was still close enough to punch holes in the port wing fuel tank. The other missile flew through the decoys and went off a moment nearer the damaged wing. Great sheets of flame poured from the wing. The lumbering giant leveled off. The blazing aircraft started shedding ejection seats and parachutes.
The order that the MiG pilot received was perfectly clear -- kill everyone aboard the plane. The moment he received those instructions in the pre-flight briefing he just rolled his eyes. Even the Major giving him the order knew it was stupid, even if it did come from Castro himself. The last thing a pilot who expected to be captured would do is to shoot at a parachuting air crew.
The last parachute had popped open when twenty seconds later the wing on the E-8 folded upward and the aircraft spun out of control. It nosed down and the spinning, burning wreckage threw off the injured wing. The MiG pilot was amazed to see the auto pilot fight the spin, right itself and fly a smooth thirty-five degree angle into the ocean on one wing.
The MiG pilot carefully observed the splash downs of the parachuting Americans. He gave some fictitious radio communications to his home base about missiles chasing him then abruptly stopped all communications mid sentence. He was well out of radar range of the island but still within radio range. He lined up his aircraft, slowed to nearly stall speed and ejected directly over the largest group of the floating survivors.
Havana, Cuba
October 4, 2018 “L” Day plus Three
Lazaro walked two blocks where he hoped the car he had stolen was still parked. It took no skill at all to steal this one. A ’55 Cadillac sedan. All he had to do was to connect two bare wires sticking out of the steering column. This was fortunate because Lazaro’s talents did not lie in the delinquent arts. He was a good kid, barely turned fifteen. He was a bit of a loner but liked well enough by his peers. He had decided to do this alone. The hardships of working by himself did not outweigh the benefit of knowing he had no accomplice out there who would shoot off his big mouth and get him caught. He would not risk his mother’s welfare any more than he had to. Not until he at least tried to fight. His mother of all people would understand his motivation. Though she would be sick with fear and worry she would know it was the right thing to do.
His duties as a Young Pioneer volunteer had included parcel delivery to various Governmental agencies, high-ranking officer’s homes and even homes of their mistresses and adult children. During the special period of national mobilization the Government had called upon those who came up through the ranks of the Young Pioneer Organization in all sorts of capacities. Lazaro jumped at the chance to be a courier. Even four months ago he had the burning ambition to assassinate the men who made the machinations of this evil regime possible. Why should he risk his life for the opportunity to kill a lowly foot soldier that was forced into the service of the Communists like he had been. No. He would sell his life dearly. The years he had spent being a good little Communist, the endless hours of indoctrination and all the while he knew deep inside it produced darkness and cruelty. When he opened Don Sam Manuel’s old and tattered bible it was like light from God himself shining down upon him. The people of Cuba must have the choice at least to hear, read and follow the teachings of Jesus Christ and receive its saving ordinances. The Free Cubans at Guantanamo were a gift from God. He would strike while the iron was hot. While it could make a difference.
It was surprising the information that delivery men knew about people, their schedules, where they could be found at certain times of day, where their girlfriends lived, the jobs their adult children held and on and on. There was plenty of gossip around the sorting room that revealed quite a bit about General Ivelice Camejo’s personal habits. He was General of the Western Army and by far the most important man Lazaro had information on.
The main problem was sorting out those who knew what they were talking about and the braggarts who puffed and embellished their stories to gain a little stature in the eyes of their fellow co-workers.
Lazaro had delivered a package to one of the homes of General Camejo. He put up his favorite mistress there. It was said quite often that the General would eat dinner with his family and see his kids at his home till about 9:00 PM. Then he would drive a short distance to another house he owned where his mistress awaited him. For some reason the General kept only two bodyguards with him at this location. Maybe he thought a lower profile would cause less attention and therefore less embarrassment for his family. A month ago when Lazaro delivered the package the two bodyguards were watching TV with the sound turned down low and talked only in whispers when one of them signed for the package. They seemed more like personal servants than military and were completely unconcerned at what went on in the darkness surrounding the house.
Lazaro drove to the Westside location and parked in front of the General’s house. Lazaro was taking a chance but he figured he would find him here. People were creatures of habit. Especially fifty-seven year old men of power. As he drove up he looked carefully around to see who might be looking on. It was a regular, older neighborhood on one side of the street. There was a large city park on the other side. It was deserted because of the approaching curfew. The sixty year old houses were young and fresh when the revolution took place. Now they were drab, weather beaten and termite riddled. They had small front yards and large squeaky wooden porches. The trees were old and pushed up the concrete sidewalk in large humps. The two guards were smoking on the porch and seemed a little wary that a courier would come so late at night.
Lazaro got out of the car and carried the box in an easy, careless manner like a teenager naturally would, careful to keep the hole for his gun hand pointed away from the house. He carried a leather valise in his hand as well hoping the guards would spend time wondering what was in it.
“What ‘cha got?” one of the guards said then blew his cigarette smoke from the corner of his mouth.
Lazaro felt numb. He felt like a scared rabbit. He just wanted to turn back and say he had the wrong house or made a mistake or something but he knew it wouldn’t work. He would be caught and his mother would go to prison. The thought of his mother flashing across his mind emboldened him. It was do or die time.
“Something for the General. Is he in?” It was a common enough question. If he wasn’t there or was not going to be there the delivery would have to go some place else.
“Yeah, you got a pen?”
Lazaro had forgotten a pen. The men looked to each other as Lazaro reached his hand inside the hole and gripped the gun inside the box. The man looked puzzled when this delivery boy raised the box in an odd sort of way. His eyes widened and he recoiled slightly when he saw the position of Lazaro’s shoulder and his head cocking to the side. He new instinctively that the very young man was pointing a gun. There was a muffled metallic “Thuunk” sound that sent a bullet through the head of the startled guard. He went straight down in a thumping heap. Lazaro turned the box toward the other guard and whispered
“You do as I say or you’ll die. Say ‘Idiot, your gonna wake some one up’. You make them believe it!”
The guard could see the desperate fear in the delivery boy’s eyes and knew he would indeed die if he didn’t do it. As Lazaro pulled the guard’s handgun from its holster the guard pointed his head to the screen door and toward the staircase inside the house.
“Idiot,” he said in a said in a rather rehearsed, mechanical way, “your gonna wake someone up.”
Lazaro stopped and listened. There was no sound from the house.
“Open the door. Go in.”
The body was in the way but they both sidled through the doorway.
“Turn the porch light off.” The guard did so.
“Take me to the General’s room.”
The two walked slowly through a modest but larger than usual front room with Lazaro following the guard keeping the gun at the man’s back. Lazaro knew this guy was buying time so he could find a wa
y to stop him. The guard had to know he would face a firing squad if he survived the General. He did not want to kill this guard if he could help it but knew the guy was going to charge him any second. Lazaro lowered the box, pointed it at the guy’s leg and whispered, “don’t make a noise or you die. I’m saving your life.”
There was another muffled pop and the bullet tore through the meaty part of the guard’s thigh. The guard gasped and nearly fell. Lazaro caught him under his arm and ushered him into the kitchen. The guard, a somewhat effeminate thin man, understood the plan to keep him alive and played his part. This delivery boy would not have risked a shot to his leg if he was going to kill him in the end anyways. His eyes looked toward the staircase and said, “Keep it down Martin.”
He looked into the eyes of the young courier and nodded. He laid face down on the kitchen linoleum. Lazaro pulled some kitchen towels out of a drawer and bandaged the leg. He then pulled some heavy-duty plastic cable tiesxcii out of his pocket and handcuffed the guard’s hands behind his back. He did the same to his feet then hogtied them together.
“Can you breathe through your nose well?” Lazaro taped the man’s mouth and put another towel between the floor and the leg wound. “Keep your weight on the wound to keep it from bleeding. It’s not bleeding badly,”
He felt stupid playing nursemaid to a guy he planned on killing. He pulled his neckerchief up to hide his face, grabbed his fake delivery box and headed up the stairs. The old wooden stairs creaked unbelievably loud. He decided to keep a normal, regular pace to make it sound as though it was one of the guards coming upstairs. The ruse was over, Lazaro decided. He made a small tear in the box and pulled out the gun with the silencer still attached. He went to the end of the upstairs hallway. He put the makeshift silencer of the gun against the door lock and tried the handle. It was locked. With no hesitation he fired twice into the door jam surrounding the lock. He pushed it open with his shoulder and found himself standing at the foot of a bed in a dark room. He pointed his gun at the shapes in the bed and waited for any threatening movement.
“Don’t shoot. I am not armed.” The voice was definitely that of the General. Lazaro’s eyes were becoming accustomed to the darkness and saw the General’s belt and holster just out of reach on the nightstand. The woman was absolutely frozen and quiet.
“Stand up, keep your hands up. Get over by the wall. Hands behind your head, down on your knees, cross your ankles.”
The woman began to cry quietly. “If you are quiet and do as I say you will live. Do you understand?” The woman nodded silently.
He quickly fit the zip ties over the General’s hands, cinched them about his wrists and cuffed his hands behind his back with another plastic tie. Then he taped the General’s mouth. He sat him in a chair next to the telephone.
Lazaro quickly hogtied the woman with the plastic straps and taped her mouth as well.
“You are going to stay right here and make some calls,” Lazaro said to the General. “The first person you are going to talk to is Fernandez.” Nikita Fernandez was the General’s Chief of Staff and right hand man. “You will tell him to come over with the personnel lists for The Army of the West. Home addresses, phone numbers, everything he’s got but he must come over alone, right now. You want to discuss some security risks or something. If he sounds the least bit suspicious you will die. Do you understand?”
The General seemed rather cool considering the circumstances. He nodded.
Lazaro loosened the tape. And asked, “What is the number I dial?”
“Young man…,” the General said in a patronizing way.
“General, if you say one word that does not help me accomplish this mission I will put two bullets into your head and be happy to be on my way. Is it a fifty-three number?” Lazaro inquired about the area code.
“Yes, three-three-four-zero-eight-one,” responded the General.
As Lazaro dialed the number on the old rotary dial phone the General added, “I will do whatever you want me to do”
Lazaro responded suspiciously, “Thank you.”
Both heads pressed together as the young man listened in. The dialed number rang once.
“Western Army headquarters,” a voice answered.
“This is General Camejo. Is Lieutenant Fernandez available?”
“Yes sir. I’ll ring him,” There was a wait of ten seconds that seemed interminable to Lazaro.
“Yes General,” it was Nikita’s voice.
“Nikita, I think we may have some disloyalty problems. Could you bring over some lists of West Army personnel?”
“Now sir? You want them tonight?”
“Yes. When can you be here?”
“Where is here, General?”
“Oh, sorry, I’m at my home on Mazon. You know the one?”
“Yes sir. I will get that stuff together. It’s kind of crazy around here sir. Are you sure you need them right now?”
“I’m afraid so, Nikita. I know it’s a problem but it’s important.”
“Yes sir. I will have them delivered to you by…uh…zero-one-twenty hours.”
“I said I want you to bring them over. I need to go over them with you tonight. Come alone. I don’t want anyone to know about this. And hurry it up. Put Rivero or Puentes in charge, just while you’re gone. It will only take an hour. They can reach you here. The number here is three-seven-zero-two-five-eight.”
“Yes Sir,” came the response in an exaggerated sigh. “We have room on the rail cars for an armored battalion give or take. You want artillery or armored vehicles to fill out the…”
“Yes,” the General interrupted “make it Artillery. Now anything else we can discuss when you get here.”
“Yes sir.”
Lazaro took the phone from his ear and hung it up.
“How was that,” the General said in a flat condescending tone, more as a statement than a question. It was evident that the General held his young captor in contempt.
Lazaro carefully weighed his response. He put the tape over the General’s mouth then explained “General, I am ordered (he wasn’t ordered by anyone) to either kill you or enlist your help with the revolution. Whether you’re willing or not. You will call and order the troops under your command into the service of the Free Cubans.”
To dramatize the point that there was no going back for himself Lazaro pulled the neckerchief down off of his face to give the General the ability to identify him. That said it all about the young man’s determination. He would succeed or he could never let the General live.
“If you simply cooperate I guarantee that you will be given all the things the flyers have promised someone of your standing. Amnesty, immigration to the U.S. for you and your family if you want, I guarantee at least one million U.S. dollars and a percentage of the entire area your troops control. That’s worth many more millions, your own security detail paid for by the State, you keep everything that is currently yours.”
The General hummed through his nose, “uh huh, uh huh,” as though saying “yes, yes.”
“If you take control of Havana and clear the way for the Free Cubans I guarantee you no less than one billion U.S. dollars.”
There was still no real reaction from the man.
Lazaro continued. “The Free Cubans will be here soon. They have the full backing of the Americans. The Communists will not win this one. Many of your men will die needlessly. It is not necessary.” His voice was becoming higher in pitch and faster in delivery. He was not aware that he started to sound like a cartoon chipmunk. “They can share in the same rewards. You need to do what is best for your men, not to mention Cuba. You know what a latrine pit this country has become. We must have a change. If the Free Cubans take over, money from free countries will sweep over this island like a tidal wave. A good tidal wave. Instead of leaving destruction in its path it will leave beautiful cities and highways and farmlands where there were none before. It will leave smiling, happy children and families.” That was the end of his prep
ared speech.
Lazaro spent all the time he could afford trying to convince this man. It was impossible to read the General’s stoic response to what he was saying.
He walked downstairs keeping an even, businesslike gait. If neighbors happened to peek in he did not want them to see frenzied activity.
The front porch was a mess. Lazaro laid his gun on a chair next to the front door and covered it with one of the towels. He dragged the body down the steps and around the side of the house. The side of the old wooden porch had rotted away giving access to the cavernous darkness inside. He pushed the body underneath the porch. He went back up the steps. It seemed like a gallon of blood had pooled beneath the body. He went back into the house and into the laundry room just behind the kitchen. He walked by the second guard who looked up at him fearfully.
“Everything is going well, don’t worry my friend. You’re going to be fine.” Lazaro said reassuringly. He gathered every terri-cloth towel he could see, which was an armful, and headed to the porch. Nothing but frogs and crickets filled the night as he soaked up the blood in the darkness. He dumped the bloody towels inside the house behind the front door then switched on the porch light. Red smears were streaked across the worn wood and the old white paint that covered most of the porch. He went to the hose, turned it on and started to spray down the porch. He rubbed the stubborn stains with the sole of his shoe but it was tough going. Blood was a nasty thing. A car drove up and parked right behind Lazaro’s car. Lazaro froze in fright. He could not move. The water ran from the hose and splattered on the steps. A lone figure got out of the car carrying a valise. It was too late to do anything but put down the hose, open the screen door and salute. It was Lieutenant Nikita Fernandez. Only a First Lieutenant in rank but because of his close position to General Camejo he held more sway than any Major, Captain or even some of the Generals under Western Army command.
The Cuban Liberation Handbook Page 21