The Cuban Liberation Handbook

by Joshua Hatuey Marti

  The weapon had a microscopic structure like fish scales. Imbedded under the ridges of these scales was the highly concentrated blood thinner Coumadin. Even if, and especially if the dagger was withdrawn, enough of the drug would remain in the body to ensure that the bleeding would not stop. The spike would now do the work of killing him quickly.

  Alex’s momentum carried him forward, bowling over the mortally stricken leader. He put his hands up in the sign of surrender before the bodyguards had drawn their side arms.

  The attack had been a blur of violence and no one saw the weapon in use. The bodyguard leaned down to the unconscious Castro. Only then did he see the pool of blood forming under his head. The other guards were puzzled as to why the General’s aide would punch the Commandante. The bodyguard kneeling over the prostrate body yelled, “He stabbed the President!”

  Four handguns waved back and forth covering the assassin, the General and his other big burly assistant.

  “What are you doing?” barked the General at the Presidential security detail. “Don’t point that gun at me! Arrest this piece of (blank). Do not kill him. We need to question him.”

  The General waited with stern furrowed brows and pursed lips for the guards to comply.

  “That is an order Sergeant.” The General glowered at the head of the detail.

  There was universal confusion on the faces of the bodyguards as they glanced at each other for some kind of resolution as what to do.

  The aide that had provided the distraction stood paralyzed with fear, still gripping the white sheet of paper tightly in his hand. He was the only one on the staff who knew that an armored regiment was on its way to the palace under the command of the General now standing before them. Shortly after receiving the communiqué the phone lines went dead. The radios had been hopelessly jammed for the last fifteen minutes by powerful anti-aircraft radar jamming units. The jamming in and of itself was not unusual. Twice in last few days AA guns and missiles lit the night sky over Havana while its powerful radar jamming units had been initiated. That jamming halted all wireless communications. Now the aide could see that the jamming was just another piece of the trap. How much of the army was behind the General? What would they do with the executive personnel once they took over the Palace? They surely could not afford to have witnesses to the coup running around telling the tale. The oldest ruse known to men grasping for power was to falsely accuse and execute those closest to the leader for his death.

  The aide could see that the best chance to save his life, at least for another day, would be to side with the General.

  With mock indignation he railed at the bodyguards, “General Camejo is now the ranking officer here. You heard him. Lower your weapons and arrest this man.”

  The sergeant seemed to come to a similar conclusion. His jaw tightened then he finally said, “Yes, sir.”

  The men viciously grabbed the assassin and threw him face first up against the concrete wall.

  The world was shocked when the Free Cubans landed unopposed at the decrepit town of Surgidero de Batabanoxcv just forty kilometers from heart of the Communist government. Once again every military organization in the world awaited in fascination to study yet another example of a small force of computer literate soldiers using advanced technology to overwhelm a competent and larger, but technologically backward opponent.

  The great final clash that was expected never materialized. Castro had not been seen or heard from in quite a while. The shadowy Communist government wore only the familiar face of General Camejo. A ceasefire was called to discuss a possible compromise. When the opposing troops did meet there were mostly cautious handshakes at first, then as the rum flowed animated greetings, laughter and bear hugs were the norm.

  That amiable theme increased as the Free Cubans entered Havana. Only sporadic sniper fire or rouge mortars nipped the heels of the Free Cubans. Those in whose heart festered a murderous hatred decades old could not let their moment pass without trying to kill their lifetime nemesis. The fighting was of short duration however, for the Communist troops still actively patrolling the city would pursue and arrest them for violating the ceasefire. They had no desire to be on the receiving end of another Guantanamo City or Camaguey.

  There was no question that the war was nearly in the pocket of the Free Cubans. The Communist forces in the east were either crushed or reeling backwards. The ceasefire was holding in Havana and the west. Negotiations with General Camejo consisted mainly of how best to transition to the Free Cubans.

  The final roadblock to complete victory was a man by the name of General Luis Figueroa who had under his control the Central army and elements of the battered and retreating eastern army. The entire Cuban Air Force was now under his control as well. General Camejo convinced him to put a hold on offensive action while the ceasefire negotiations were underway. The Central army commander assumed Camejo had a plan to wipe out the Free Cubans as they landed near Havana or shortly thereafter. When it did not materialize he was enraged at being such a fool as to let the opportunity to hit the transports pass him by. By now he correctly concluded that Camejo had successfully pulled off a coup and was far too friendly with Joshua Marti.

  General Figueroa had done a brilliant job of turning Santa Clara into a nearly unassailable stronghold. Anti-aircraft missile batteries numbered in the hundreds. AA guns and shoulder-fired missiles combined numbered more than a thousand. He had husbanded his resources gathering strength as the replacement aircraft flew in from Venezuela. Except for the terrible spanking his forces took in skies above Camaguey he had achieved a standoff. If he had known how low on missiles the Free Cuban fighters had been, he would have bitten the bullet, taken the losses and overwhelmed the two beleaguered F-15’s.

  Forty Kilometers off the Southern Cuban Coast

  October 8, 2018 “L” Day + 7

  “Freedom One, we have a six hostiles forming up at pivot one.” Guantanamo sounded as perfectly clear as a phone call.

  “Aw man, I’ve got to hit the head. This is not fair,” Izzy whined. The F-15 was into its second hour of combat air patrol and Izzy’s almost fanatical addiction to coffee was catching up to him. “OK potty pal, time to make a deposit,” he said as he ripped at the Velcro strap holding the urine receptacle.

  “Freedom One is on the hose, ten-point-one!” Cuco shouted as he rushed toward the drogue trailed by an accommodating U.S. KC-130 refueling tanker forty kilometers off the southern coast of Granma.

  “You got that right Kook; tell ‘em I’m on the hose too. Bet’cha I’ll hit my drogue before you do, you slack jawed glassy-eyed rum pot,” Izzy said in a gravelly low voice imitating a character in an old black and white TV western they had seen months ago. He went on to bawdily expand upon his vulgar analogy.

  Cuco was great at everything in a plane except refueling. It was obvious that Gitmo was anxious to put the F-15 between them and the bad guys. Freedom Four was still five minutes from barreling down the runway. That put pressure on him and of course it didn’t help that Izzy found the temptation to antagonize his pilot at times like this just too much fun to resist. The harder Cuco tried to plug the drogue the worse he did. He ranked refueling right up there with carrier landing in the anxiety department. Trying to stick a three-inch nozzle inside tiny four-foot-diameter basket by maneuvering an eighty-thousand pound aircraft around it was difficult under the best of circumstances. Unfortunately the air was pretty rough today. The tanker flew a lazy figure eight pattern to stay on station which made it even harder. Finally the tanker flew straight and level long enough for Kook to plug the drogue. He should have taken only five-thousand-pounds of fuel and cycled off as fast as possible to head off the new threat till Freedom Four could get up to speed but he did not want to face another refueling again in twenty minutes. Fifteen-thousand-pounds of fuel later Cuco cycled off, banked sharply to the vector heading, and pushed the throttles up to full military powerxcvi.

  “Freedom One is clear.”

  Under the
F-15 the stately Sierra Maestra Mountains formed beautiful green ramparts that seemed to stand guard of the very old island. The rounded peak of Pico la Bayamesa loomed seventeen-hundred meters into the sky rising above the low clouds. Freedom One was in full afterburner as it rapidly ate up the distance to the enemy. The AWACS that was providing air coverage was Air Force. Cuco and Izzy were Navy pukes and didn’t care much for the Air Force operators who used unfamiliar terminology and seemed determined to read off every number on their radar screens. Even with the belabored and nearly unintelligible reports it didn’t take long to form a mental picture of the battle space. The Commies were going to throw everything they had into this one. They both had a bad feeling about the upcoming battle. The ground offensive had gone extremely well but the air offensive was on its last legs. Gitmo now knew that the Communists had two fighters for every Free Cuban air-to-air missile in stock. Izzy had the same sick feeling in his stomach he had when he listened to Roman and Pepe fight it out to the last.

  The flight of eight MiG fighters split into two formations. One group of four made a B line to the AWACS radar plane directing the air battle. The other flight of four headed for Gitmo. The Americans had been wary since losing their E-8 reconnaissance aircraft and had been flying as far away from the island they could and still provide coverage. The AWACS ran away as fast as it could as its two F-18 escorts turned to face the oncoming enemy fighters. The coverage of Santa Clara had been lost but not before it was evident that a major attack was on the way. The second flight of MiG’s turned from their course and headed for the E-8 that replaced the one the Communist forces had destroyed a few days before.

  It took a full five minutes before satellite images slowly reported the whereabouts of the main force of MiGs. It was no mystery where they were headed but Gitmo surmised that the attack would come from the north or northeast. Fourteen MiG-21s along with its Chinese equivalent J-9’s and eight MiG 23’s led the way as cannon fodder to absorb the twelve precious air-to-air missiles hanging from the F-15’s racks. Thirty-four MiG 29’s provided the real steel in this hammer blow. Well trained Chinese pilots drove the majority of the donated Chinese fighters. Six Venezuelan pilots and three lone surviving Cubans made up the balance.

  Kook and Izzy overheard the AWACS vectoring its two American F-18’s onto the pursuing MiG 29’s. The Americans had been suspiciously quiet for the last two days after the downing of the very expensive radar reconnaissance plane. Castro wrote off Washington inaction to the fact that no American lives were lost in the engagement. Both sides now aggressively contested the air space that would rid the battle of peering Imperialist eyes. Freedom One was busy managing their own upcoming battle but it was clear that the Communist MiG-29’s put up a heck of a fight, tenaciously going after the American intel planes.

  Freedom Four was still nowhere in sight when the older MiG’s were nearly within range just east of Las Tunas 253 kilometers from Guantanamo. Cuco could find no way around them. One thing the older fighter bombers did not lack was speed. Even if he did slide in under them he would be swamped by numbers of sophisticated fighters that even the Eagle could not contend with. Izzy fired two AMRAAM's with what he assumed would be predictable results, banked one-hundred-eighty-degrees and headed for the skies above Gitmo. Izzy looked over his shoulder as one MiG-21 became a fiery smear across the sky. The other one suffered a tremendous explosion as every bit of its fuel, rocket propellant and explosives detonated in a thunderous head on strike.

  “Numerous incoming hostiles. You better circle the wagons, Gitmo,” a not so disguised code phrase for the Gitmo defenses to prepare for action.

  “Freedom Four is airborne.”

  “Glad you could join the party, Slammer. Take high cap over the base.”

  “Roger that Kook.”

  “Freedom One to Mensura, I’ve got a bunch of MiG’s on my tail. Get the missile batteries ready and I’ll try to drag ‘em on through, but make sure you check IFF. I’m the first one you will see.” Cuco really did not expect an answer from the forward missile battery but had no doubt the message would get through.

  “Gitmo to Freedom One, Mensura copies.”

  The mountain Loma de la Mensura stood as a lone sentinel ninety kilometers northwest of Guantanamo. It was the first substantial hill the MiG’s would pass on their way to the Free Cuban base. The little NASAMSxcvii missile trailer sat on the side of the mountain with its box of six missiles pointing to the sky. It looked like someone’s broken down trailer on the side of the mountain. The highly advanced missiles would knock them out of the sky but a single box of six was pathetically inadequate for the task at hand.

  Before Izzy could give Mensura the order to radiate the MiG’s broke off the chase and headed north, away from hidden missiles.

  “Ahh, they know about our SAM's (surface to air missiles).” He keyed the mike “Freedom One to Gitmo, looks like they are heading north.”

  “Copy.”

  The AWACS was still battling for its life and was pushed off station. They probably would not have it back (if it ever came back) till the attack was over. The boys of Freedom One sorely missed the eyes in the skies the Americans had provided in the past. They had not always expressed it. In their bravado they would state that their LADAR could give them all the picture they needed. Now they acutely felt the absence of a God’s eye view of the battle space.

  The MiG’s flew well north of the coast until they were nearly the same longitudinal coordinates as the Free Cuban base then turned sharply south toward it. They flew over the coastal town of Moa with its tall nickel smelting smoke stacks spewing their foul pollutants that hung over the town like a blanket. Twenty kilometers south of Moa a hidden Free Cuban SAM battery held their fire to let the interceptors through. If they did not carry bombs they were not a severe enough threat to the base. The Communists hugged the mountains starting at Pico el Toldo and followed them south.

  When the bomb laden MiG’s appeared following the interceptors a few minutes later the Free Cuban SAM launcher got a perfect score of six kills for six shots. MiG pilots incensed at the ambush gunned the nearby radar vehicle to pieces.

  The MiG interceptors cleared the last hills that separated them from the Free Cuban Sector at Guantanamo. It was the first time during the war that Communist aircraft laid eyes on it. They rocketed skyward in pursuit of the two F-15’s patrolling high and to the south of the base.

  The moment the twenty interceptors popped over the range of hills forty kilometers north of Gitmo Patriot missile batteries cut loose a flurry of deadly accurate anti-ballistic missiles. The fiery darts seemed to knock them down as fast as they peeked over the terrain that shielded them. Only the computers and radar operators could see the action at this distance. The Patriots were automatically fired and needed no human intervention. What seemed like a profligate waste of weapons was actually carefully orchestrated by a main fire computer assigning to each missile a unique target. The one thing a fighter jockey did not want to come up against was a Patriot missile. It was designed to hit ballistic missiles traveling many times the speed of aircraft. The weapon system proved itself time and again in combat smashing head-on into incoming ballistic warheads in one of the most unbelievable feats of accuracy on the battlefield today. Nine MiG’s went down leaving eleven streaking skyward after the Eagles. Twenty-eight bombers were on their way and only twelve Patriots were left to greet them.

  When the heavily laden MiG’s appeared at the very same ingress point they got a similar reception as the interceptors. The newer, more sophisticated MiGs had much more effective jamming capabilities and only eight of them were knocked down by the Patriots. They came in low following the terrain closely. Trails of white hot flares dropped from the planes like brilliant necklaces falling to the tortured earth beneath them. Dozens of Free Cuban shoulder fired heat-seeking missilesxcviii reached up and managed to swat only four from the sky. Their poor performance would be one of the greatest disappointments of the war. Another great d
isappointment would be the close-in Phalanx gattling gun. The Free Cubans only had one. They had run out of the highly specialized ammunition early in the first day of the war. They had reloaded their own rounds to disastrous effect. The gun inevitably jammed and became useless after a second or two of use.

  The THELxcix, short for Tactical High Energy Laser, was the secret weapon that the Free Cubans had purchased with surprising ease. Being defensive in nature it did not carry with it the stigma of offensive capabilities that the liberal U.S. Democrats found so repulsive. To defend oneself against tyranny was barely permissible in their view. To actively fight evil was deemed an egregious moral crime. The laser operator had waited until the MiG’s were within five kilometers then engaged. The wing tanks were the most easily visible target on the fighters but the tough titanium took an entire second to burn through. In four seconds the laser would be under attack. The laser slashed across the plane, and through the clear canopy of the lead aircraft instantly igniting the flight suit and boiling the skin of the pilot beneath it. Fire raged for an instant filling the cockpit with smoke. The blinded pilot instinctively pulled back on the stick climbing away from the blurring ground just fifteen meters below it. A pair of brand new MiG 29’s were hit in similar fashion. The deuterium fluoride chemical laser properly tracked the first of the two aircraft and hit the cockpit with three-tenths of a second burst. It was overkill. The body of the pilot literally exploded popping the canopy off and sending it flipping off into the slipstream. The aircraft nosed into the ground fireballing and skipping like a blazing stone amongst the shanties of Caimanera. His wingman rolled the aircraft away from the ground based laser shielding himself with underside of the aircraft. The laser easily tracked the fighter across the sky. The beam blistered and split the smooth titanium skin of the wing like flaming banana peels. The propellant of one of the heat-seeking missiles exploded nearly instantaneously but it did not bring down the aircraft. In 1.2 seconds the port wing fuel tank was breached and exploded like a bomb. The beautiful aircraft spun as only an explosion could spin it as it too joined its twin in death. Two more aircraft were brought down before the laser was swamped by numbers of aircraft that even it could not overcome. Tracers from a MiG 29’s 30 millimeter gun reached out for the THEL’s mirrored tracker and destroyed it.