Re: Blood and Iron - Chapter 818: Operation: Downfall

Chapter 818: Operation: Downfall

While the Americans in Guantanamo Bay were given a chance to surrender. Batista and his army were not so lucky.

Cuban airbases found themselves under a sudden and ruthless assault as medium jet bombers launched from the German aircraft carriers, escorted by jet fighters, and dropped a pre-emptive attack on their fleet of aircraft that had yet to properly take to the skies.

All that was heard was the tearing of the sound barrier, followed by fire and fury that consumed the airstrips, and all the planes laid across them.

Hangers were vaporized in the blasts, their maintenance crews with them. While air traffic control towers and flak guns were annihilated before they could properly realize they were under attack.

The Germans struck from the air with the speed of lightning and disappeared all the same. In Havana, Batista and his leading generals were shocked at how quickly the Germans had completely annihilated their limited air force.

Years the Americans had spent training and arming the Cuban Armed Forces for a potential invasion from across the Atlantic, and all of that preparation and funding had been burnt to ash in a single strike.

Currently, his army was in a state of disarray. Germany continued to bomb critical military infrastructure, launching attacks from its carrier strike groups that were precise and lethal to the Cuban command structure.

Reports were constantly flooding in of more damage reports, while aides ran around scrambling trying to confirm what information was correct, what was false, and where their troops were located.

Batista’s hands gripped the table so tightly, his nails threatened to permanently etch its surface. Though his face projected calm strength, internally he was in a state of turmoil that could not possibly be explained in any tongue known to man.

Eventually, a general approached President Batista with a report in his trembling hands.

“It is believed that Guantanamo Bay was seized by the Germans without firing a shot. They are using it as a staging force to launch an invasion of Cuba. And several amphibious assault forces appear to have scattered to different points across the island. At this point, it is presumed the Germans have wiped out all air and anti-air assets within the landing zones. We are facing a total invasion by a hostile force of unknown answer… Officers in the field are awaiting orders, sir….”

Batista could not longer pretend that he was calm, flipping folders and loose papers off of his desk in a fit of rage as he flung a stapler out the window, shattering its glass in the process.

“God dammit! Those fucking Americans! They promised me… They promised us…. All of us! That when they won this war, we would all have a place at the table of the new world they created. And look at us now! Surrounded, cut off, isolated, and under assault by the men who defeated them! Where are the Americans when you need them most? Waving the white flag and shooting each other instead of the enemy, just like they always do!”

Nobody dared interrupt the President’s outburst. Nor could anyone find the heart to disagree with his statement; crude as it may be.

He had no choice now… surrender was simply not an option. Not for him, not for Cuba. They would not go back to a people ruled under the banners of an empire from across the ocean.

He quickly pointed his finger at the General’s chest, aggressively prodding while shouting aggressively.

“Give the order to mobilize the army to all landing zones. We will fight the enemy on the beaches, we will fight them in the cities, and we will fight them in the hills! If they wish to take Cuba from its people, then it will be the death of their empire!”

The General did not voice any discontent, even if he might be hiding some behind his stoic gaze. He simply saluted the President and withdrew to convey the orders to their proper departments. Leaving Batista to stare back at the map covered in documents and stare into its abyss knowing the end had come for him.

—

Kurt walked through the streets of Havana as sirens blared across its landscape. His pair of aviators was tinted to match the setting sun over the Caribbean Sea.

The man’s skin was tanned from many years south of the American border. The way he dressed, the way he walked, the way he talked, was practically like that of a Cuban native.

If it weren’t for the golden head of hair that crowned his head, one might think he was a local.

Unlike the rest of the pedestrians spread throughout the streets, he did not seem the least bit distraught.

No, if anything, he blended in too perfectly as he disappeared from the gathered crowd as Cuban troops rushed forward with machine guns and armor, trying to get the people back into their homes and businesses. While trucks and halftracks rushed to the beaches beyond the city’s borders.

Kurt dipped inside a local cantina, shutting the door behind him, and locking its door after ensuring nobody had followed him.

Inside the facility were not patrons, drunks, or call girls, but instead a group of men armed with submachine guns and semi-automatic rifles.

One man wore two belts of ammunition wrapped around his bare bronze torso, with an army green bandana in his hair. Resting on his shoulder was a belt-fed Browning .30 cal machine gun.

When Kurt entered the ragtag group of men looked over at him, and nodded. Not saying a word, nor standing at attention.

These weren’t soldiers; they were Rebels. And Kurt had been in Latin America fostering chaos for the better part of a decade. From Rio to Havana, he had left a trail of blood and bullets that gave dictators a run for their money.

The sirens continued to wail in the background as a man by the name of Jose looked over at their latecomer.

“Is it true… the Germans have arrived?”

Kurt nodded, picking up an old Thompson submachine gun, not the military model currently in service within many of the Allied Powers, but instead a 1920s “gangster” era model with the finned barrel, compensator, and the infamous drum mag.

“And half of Europe with them… Batista’s reign has come to an end. He can’t win this fight, but he will endure it, nonetheless. You know what must be done. We’ve been planning this operation for over a year now. We’ve got one shot, so don’t fuck it up….”

The Rebels stared coldly at the map in front of them, a blueprint layout of the Presidential Palace.

It was only after the charging handle of the Thompson submachine gun was racked that they returned their attention to their fearless leader.

“Operation Downfall is a go. Death to Batista!”

The rebels raised their weapons in the air, shouting their mantra, as each and every one of them steeled their resolve for the mission they were about to conduct.

“Death to Batista!”

—

Batista watched from a distance, from the safety of his palace’s balcony. The shores were on fire. Smoke rose ever higher, spreading like a plague that could not be contained.

Every halftrack, every Jeep, every Liberty tank sent to the shores was a fire source either already ignited, or waiting to be set aflame.

The war was lost; Cuba would fall. And yet, here in his palace, Batista was surrounded by his most elite guard. Preparing to fight until the bitter end.

He would not be the man to surrender Cuba back into the hands of colonial powers. He would rather die fighting that end and bring half the city with him in the process then to ever be remembered for such cowardice.

A pistol lay on the table nearby. A 1911, with its magazine inserted, its chamber loaded, and its safety on.

Next to it lay a bottle of rum, and a box of cigars. As the sound of combat and bloodshed continued to spread closer and closer to Havana itself. He could not help but open the bottle and drink straight from its lip.

He had no use for cups, not tonight. He would be dead long before the booze took him. And as he drank enough to dull his senses, he reached for the cigar cutter. Only to hear a burst of gunfire from his courtyard below.

Shouts filled the air in Spanish, not German.

“Death to Batista! Long live Cuba!”

Batista could not help but frown as he reached for his pistol; his elite guard was doing their best to drive back the rebels. But from the sound of it, the fighting had begun to spread through the palace, hallway by hallway, doorway by doorway. Until finally it arrived at his bedroom door.

Batista raised his pistol and dumped his mag straight into the double doors that led into his bedroom. He was just about to reload when the chugging of the Chicago typewriter echoed across the hallway.

Whoever was outside had returned fire, and its chorus was the last sound Batista would ever hear, as he gazed down at the shattered glass in his hands, and the sanguine warmth leaving his body and staining his suit. The man fell over the edge of his balcony and into the fiery abyss below, ending his reign of terror.