Why cigars would work this time around, at least in the minds of those who conceived the plan, was anyone’s guess. Apparently none had ever heard the old adage that the dumbest of the dumb were those who steadfastly continued to try and attain a goal by the same means that had failed in the past.
Lee Oswald could have told them that. But they didn’t ask.
On February 13, 1961, Gunn passed the cigars to an unknown CIA operative assigned to deliver the box to some unspecified Mafia runner, who would then give them to the courier assigned to smuggle the cigars into Havana, these to be handed over to the CIA’s operative, already smuggled into Cuba by submarine.
Whether they arrived but were never employed, or failed to make it there, remains unknown. Two months later, though, the CIA and the Mob received word that any such attempts on Castro’s life must cease, at least for the time being. This edict came down from the highest level of the U.S. government.
The reason? Between April 15 and 18, 1961, the Bay of Pigs disaster transpired. In its aftermath, America appeared shamed in the eyes of the international community. The last thing that anyone wanted now was for Castro to die as a result of what would obviously be an American instigated assassination.
For the time being then Fidel would have to be tolerated.
At least until the world began the process of hopefully forgetting about the fiasco that was the Bay of Pigs.
CHAPTER TEN:
HARD TIMES AT HAPPY VALLEY
“If the press had been doing their job, the
Bay of Pigs would have never happened.”
—John Fitzgerald Kennedy, 1962
Shortly after midnight on April 15, 1961, a long black limo, six CIA agents seated inside, slowly pulled up to a nearly deserted airstrip in Puerto Cabezas, Nicaragua. Dressed in all but identical dark suits, each man wore a thin black tie and sunglasses despite the late hour. Such cryptic attire caused the agents to appear less what they were than stereotypes from some Hollywood movie. Each cradled a submachine gun under one arm. Reaching an empty parking lot, they exited their vehicle and marched up toward the hangers, the buildings’ curved roofs appearing silver in the stark moonlight.
Awaiting them, having patiently remained silent in one of the hangers for an hour, 17 Cubans stood at the ready. For the past six months, they had been living in Miami, training and planning for this moment. Now, the Cubans impatiently held their collective breath, anticipating such members from The Outfit, aka The Company, aka the CIA. Compared with these tall, slick Americans, the Cubans appeared bedraggled, wearing rough khaki pants and worn leather flight jackets. All of those gathered together here had only one thing in common: they wore cowboy boots, natural enough for the scruffy Cubans perhaps, less so for the suited CIA agents. Nonetheless, such foot-ware served as a special sign among these uneasy allies. When these men did on occasion speak of it, they used a phrase that had naturally developed among those united in the international fight against the spread of communism: Cowboy Politics.
Initially, though, no one spoke. The Cubans eagerly nodded to the Americans who returned that gesture, if in a more restrained manner. In the cool of the night, the two groups stood, wordlessly facing one another under what appeared a huge vanilla wafer pinned to a black satin backdrop up above. Some intruder on the scene, failing to grasp what was about to take place, might have mistakenly thought that at any moment the Cubans would reach under their jackets and pull out pistols, the CIA boys responding in kind. Then the two groups would fire at one another in the manner of an Old West shootout, America’s wild frontier days re-staged in the 20th century. The gunfight at the O.K. Corral, circa 1961. But that was not to be the case.
For one thing, the Cubans didn’t carry guns. Also, these men had gathered to confer, not fight. At least not yet. And certainly not with each other.
“We’re on?” croaked Mario Zuniga, titular leader of the Cubans, as well as the person who one day later would land at the Miami airport, receiving a hero’s welcome, he afterwards subject to softball interviews by the press. There, Zuniga would speak eloquently about a great adventure over Cuba, everything he said dutifully reported by journalists working in broadcast news and the print media. As a result, most everyone in the U.S. would learn about a thrilling escapade that, in actuality, had never taken place. In truth a far greater, if also considerably more frightening, event, had: a daring if disastrous misfire of an invasion that would swiftly alter world history.
Zuniga’s CIA counterpart, known only as George, nodded. “Yes, clearance completed,” he formally announced. George held high, then waved official papers signed by his boss at the CIA, the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and John Fitzgerald Kennedy, sitting President of the United States. Which meant too, as all were aware, America’s Commander in Chief. The man who, if things worked out the way they should, when all was over and done, would stand up boldly, like good ol’ Harry Truman nearly twenty years earlier, insisting that whether the scheme had gone well or badly, the buck stops here ...
Therein lay the problem. John F. Kennedy was no Harry Truman, nor had he ever longed to be. Perhaps what happened next proves that the right man for that big job may not be one of “the best and brightest” with an Ivy League degree, a ghost-written Pulitzer prize winning book, an upscale trophy wife and a lofty reputation for heroism in naval combat that didn’t come close to what it was cracked up to be. Maybe far better suited was some former soda jerk from Grandview, Missouri; a simple man who knew and understood people, in particular this nation’s people, thanks to constant contact with them every day of his life.
‘An egg-cream? Yes, sir! Coming right up!’ A man who respectfully listened to what such heartland types had to say, deeply respecting the common man in all his glory and misery. An ordinary guy doing the best he could, with the common sense of those who work hard, as well as a commitment to standing behind one’s word. Or, if things fall apart, taking it on the chin.
*
“On, then!” the Cubans chanted, like a group of little
boys playing games despite their menacing appearance in full combat gear. The great moment had arrived at last. The one they’d planned and prepared for in such detail. Zuniga stepped forward and accepted the three pieces of paper, impressed at the notion that he now fingered letters from a triad of the most powerful men in the world. Zuniga then breathed in deeply as, after reading them over, he now passed them back again to George, the American who had recruited the Cubans in Florida, then oversaw their thorough training, mostly in Miami, the final lessons in airborne war, guerilla style, taking place here.
“It’s official,” George declared without emotion.
“Alright,” Zuniga cheered. “Let’s do it!”
As had been carefully pre-planned, and rehearsed more than once, the Cubans, moving in unison, shuffled off to one side. There they, hushed, observed while the CIA men, pairing off, entered the hangers. As the automatic doors rose, each pair of agents re-emerged, seated in the cockpit of a readied and running B-26. The planes slowly wheeled out to a waiting area adjacent to the runway. At that point, the CIA men braked, shut down each plane’s twin engines, and descended.
“Stand back,” George commanded the Cubans.
As they obeyed orders, anxiously waiting and watching, the CIA agents aimed their submachine guns at one of the planes and let loose with a hail of gunfire. This was the B-26 Zuniga had been selected to pilot, Number 933 painted on its nose. This bit of artwork had been applied the previous morning, while the letters FAR were emblazoned on its tail. Zuniga observed his craft while each of the other planes awaited their turn under the gun.
“Perfect,” George wistfully sighed.
As the shots resounded through the night air, Mario
Zuniga felt a sudden chill pass over him. At hand was the
event he’d been dreaming about, hoping for, their moment of truth. The CIA and other organizations had carefully outlined every move the Cubans would make. The time had arrived when
they’d initiate the task of bringing back the good ol’ days that abruptly ended in 1959. With a little luck, the Mob would return, re-opening the casinos three months from today.
American money would once more pour into the economy. Cuba would be liberated from its supposed liberator, who had proven as authoritarian as his predecessor. Reclamation of the homeland, at last, would take place. Normalcy would return.
Viva Kennedy! Down with Fidel! Up with a free Cuba! A Democratic Cuba. A capitalist Cuba. An American influenced
Cuba. An anti-communist Cuba.
A Mafia-controlled Cuba.
George approached Zuniga. “Run it by me again,” he barked. “The whole story, from start to finish.”
One last run-through? Sure. Can’t be too careful, particularly when considering the stakes. After all, Zuniga—whom George had deemed the smartest of the group, also the most mature at 35 years of age—was the one who had been picked to sell their story—“legend,” actually—to the American public. This had been scheduled to take place at the precise time when his companions performed the considerably more dangerous grunt work.
So here was how it must go down ...
*
Zuniga would wait until each of the other eight B-26 planes had in turn taken off, this procession beginning promptly at 1:40 a.m. They’d ascend in as rapid succession as possible.
Once airborne, the flyers would divide their crafts into three pre-arranged groups for the trip to Cuba. Codenamed “Linda,” “Puma,” and “Gorilla,” each would fly in a direct route, every mile to be crossed significant since each plane was weighted down with extra loads of fuel as well as ten bombs, 260-pounds each.
There could be no margin for error.
Hours later, their timing must be precise: even as dawn broke, the three formations must simultaneously sweep down on their assigned stretches of the unsuspecting homeland, doing as much damage as possible to Fuerza Aerea Revolucionaria below. Take out as many planes as they could. Kill the pilots, many of them former friends, if they should dash out of their barracks, trying to speed their planes into the air, hoping to save them from destruction. Pave the way for the coming armed invasion
by sea so that in 48 hours Castro would be a fading memory.
The first formation to rain down bombs and bullets was
commanded by Luis Cosme. Though Cuban-born, he could have easily passed for Dobie Gillis, the all-American boy next door played by Dwayne Hickman on a popular TV show that the Cubans enjoyed during the eight months they spent in the Miami area. His “Linda” force, augmented by two other planes piloted by Alfredo Caballero and Rene Garcia, both of whom like Cosme were Cuban Air Force veterans who had also done commercial flying for Cubana Airlines, would sweep down on San Antonio de los Banos, located southwest of Havana. Their job was to take out the wide array of crafts, including B-26s, from back when the U.S. thought of Cuba as a likely ally. And Russian MIG fighters, more recent contributions from the other side, in the brief moments before daybreak.
Minutes later, Jose Crespo’s “Puma” formation would circle Camp Libertad closer to Havana. This small squadron included B-26s piloted by Daniel Fernandez Mon and “Chirrino” Piedra, each accompanied by a co-pilot dedicated to carrying out the mission should the man in charge be maimed or killed owing to ground-fire.
A final task force consisted of two planes, flown by Gustavo Ponzoa and Gonzalo Herrea: “Gorilla,” the only unit assigned to knock out grounded aircraft in a far distant location. At Santiago de Cuba in Oriente Province where the revolution originally simmered five years earlier, a small, significant airport hidden away in the bleak Sierra Maestra range housed the second largest formation of planes. This reserve could, if undisturbed, be called upon a day later when armed forces, pro-American Cubans even now huddled on six U.S. troop-carriers surrounded for defense purposes by a full array of smaller battle-ready warships, initiated their attack.
With Castro’s air force knocked out, the invasion would
face no harsh strafing from above. They ought to easily push forward so as to take the high ground while encountering little if any resistance. The Cuban patriots, even then waking from an uneasy sleep aboard such transports as the Houston, had spent the past two months in Guatemala. There, American trainers ran them through the most rigorous program the U.S. military, operating in full accord with the CIA, George also the genius behind all this, ever devised. Recruited from the anti-Castro Cuban population that flooded into Miami two years earlier, these men now possessed not only the will but the know-how and equipment to get the job done.
As the three squadrons whistled across the night sky
above, each man aboard the boats took pride in the knowledge that some 24 hours hence, he would hear the order “hit the beach!” Then swiftly, violently, proceed to complete through hand to hand combat what their airborne allies earlier began.
Their landing would take place at Bahia de Cochinos, soon to be known worldwide as the Bay of Pigs.
*
George smiled, even as the first plane roared down the
runway before slowly tipping upward. Several seconds later, the sleek craft punctured the vast blackness above.
“Now, your personal, specific role in the operation. Tell me slowly. We still have time before your scheduled 1:40 take-off. Be thorough. Leave no detail out.”
“Very well,” Zuniga said, beginning the story he would tell a day later first to reporters who would gather at Miami’s main airport, unwitting pawns in our Invisible Government’s grandest scheme to date. Zuniga would fly the 830+ miles from Puerto Cabezas to Florida’s southern tip. Owing to the minute planning and exquisite timing, he would arrive over U.S. soil simultaneous with the release of the first bombs down toward the island nation of Cuba.
Approaching Florida, Zuniga would then call in a sudden distress signal to the control towers at the Miami International Airport. His rehearsed pleas for help would begin with a barrage of lies, Zuniga’s fanciful scenario serving as a cover-up for the planned invasion. This had been planned by members of the CIA but would be carried out by a motley group of Cubans composed of true idealists as well as jaded opportunists, transported by U.S. military ships. The attack force itself would consist of citizens of a foreign country with which America was not at war, for the purpose of attacking their own homeland.
He had just defected from Cuba, Zuniga would explain
after touch-down. There, his plane had been shot to pieces by Castro’s gunners. He would reach into his jacket pocket for the pack of Cuban butts George had planted there, another small but convincing detail; this, taken together with other such touches, would allow the ruse to appear convincing first to the officials and later in the day to journalists. Zuniga would light up the cig before explaining that an internal revolution had begun.
When members of the press heard, an hour or so later, from Radio Havana that Cuban airfields were under attack, the natural assumption would be that these raids were being carried out by those very friends Zuniga had spoken of: Two men who like him stole the planes they had up to then been flying for Castro, boldly turning their guns against the communists in an act they hoped would initiate a major counter-revolution. They were, in theory, firing the contemporary equivalent to the first shots heard at Lexington Green at the onset of America’s Revolution.
With one major difference: None of this had any bearing in reality, as the pilots flew to Cuba from Nicaragua. What Zuniga delivered was not The Truth, rather ‘a truth.’ This, everyone in the anti-Castro force of Cubans and the United States’ government wanted the world to accept as reality.
A myth—or in CIA terms a “legend”—its source stretching all the way up to the highest power in our country.
The chain of events was supposed to work this way: When other like-minded Cubans on the homeland learned that the first salvo had been fired and heard ‘round the modern world, they would declare that enough was enough, take up whatever crude weapons they could l
ay their hands on, and strike. That was the “foregone conclusion” (in the words of the then-current CIA head) on which this air raid and subsequent invasion were based, the essential motivation for carrying the plan out.
*
Still, why Miami, of all Florida cities? the press might ask Zuniga. Ah, but that two was part of the scenario ...
Because here, beloved American friends and allies, my dear wife Georgina and our four darling children—the two boys, Eduardo and Enrique, and the girls, Beatriz and Maria Cristina—live. Don’t take my word for it. Contact them at south West 20th Avenue. They’ll back up everything I have said. Just don’t print their names, please! Or mine, for the time being. You see, that might endanger our relatives still in Cuba. You cannot imagine the wrath of Fidel when he learns what I have done, and his immediate reaction will be that I have betrayed him, and Cuba.
I, and you, know better: To “betray” Castro and his odious communist/authoritarian regime is to prove my ongoing love for Cuba and my prayers, as a devout Christian, that we will take our homeland back from his godless regime and begin to build a ‘little U.S.,’ so to speak, with a democratic system of free elections and an economic base in capitalism.
For now, we must trust that you will be kind enough to host us, the pro-American Cubans, and others like us, until our country is freed from the oppression of Castro.
“Very good,” George said, impressed by the thoroughness of Zuniga’s soon-to-be-delivered plea and the sincerity of his tone. “And, finally: Your ultimate order?”
“Under no circumstances whatsoever must I tell the truth about what is going on, not to anyone, not for any reason.”
Even as Mario Zuniga finished relating his plan of action to George, who beamed with approval, another limo, smaller but far more elegant in design than the one in which the CIA men had arrived, cautiously approached. Once the driver had glided his vehicle to a halt, the driver servant-like bounded out, hurrying around to open the passenger’s door. A tall man, silver-haired and impeccably dressed, stepped forth, holding his head high, his body moving in what struck both George and Zuniga as an aristocratic manner.
Patsy! : The Life and Times of Lee Harvey Oswald Page 21
