How could they—we—lose?
True, there had been mis-haps, Bissell knew. But he was a realist. When he called JFK, then Stevenson on that Saturday afternoon, Bissell had learned from his information sources that his pilots reported knocking out at least two dozen planes; earlier bulletins warned that there weren’t that many T-3 jets, B-26 bombers, English-built Sea Furies and recently arrived aircraft from Russia in all of Cuba. Nonetheless, this meant at least some, maybe most, of Castro’s air force no longer existed. When our Cuban pilots, after returning to Nicaragua for fuel and a brief rest, returned on Monday, they’d complete the job.
Exhausted, Bissell headed home for some much needed sleep. Here was a done deal/political coup America would approve of if one which, at least for the record, we’d had nothing to do with.
Yet during the night, Bissell found himself plagued by a series of dark dreams. In them, the operation went terribly awry. Burning pilots dropped from their planes, whirling without chutes to the ground below. Armed men in camouflage were mowed down on the thin green line separating thick jungle from white sand. A few survivors hurried back to the big blue only to realize their landing crafts had returned to the convoy, leaving them trapped, helplessly and hopelessly awaiting their deaths.
Bissell irregularly woke from the oppressive nightmare. He felt chilled to the bone each time, sweating profusely as he made a valiant effort to force such horrific images out of his mind. He’d roll over, soon drifting back into a sullen sleep.
When Bissell did at last rise the next morning, he felt more exhausted than when he’d retired. The first thing he did was reach for the New York Times, hoping the headline might make a mockery of his fantasies.
To his surprise, even horror, the newspaper confirmed them. Questioning whether Adlai Stevenson’s statement before the United Nations the previous day had been true, hinting that Honest Adlai had been sold a bill of goods by the State Department or, for the first time in his life, set integrity aside, becoming complicit in an obvious con job. Other articles, scattered through the thick black-and white encyclopedia of the week’s events, deconstructed the U.S.’s official position.
Bissell felt faint. Any person who read this would know that the whole shebang had all been a ruse.
Some time later, as a special news service truck rolled up to his home with papers from all across the country, Bissell took heart from what he found there. Most featured nothing on the Cuban crisis other than an Associated Press summary of what our government had told them. How reassuring it was to know that ninety per cent of loyal Americans would read only this today.
Bissell, however, was far too savvy to continue for long in this cushion of denial. Only a small number of intelligentsia would see today’s Times; tomorrow, though, other reporters would have devoured it, harbored second thoughts, composed better-late-than-never follow-ups. There was no way to head off the coming storm. Still, Bissell might yet minimize any problems this might create and inflate. There was indeed a way!
A Connecticut born-and-raised member of the unofficial U.S. aristocracy of Ivy Leaguers, this old school blue-blood had earned his straight-A grades at Yale by studying seriously in a way he knew the nouveau-riche upstart JFK only pretended to do a generation later at Harvard. It all came down to one inviolable rule: History is written by the victors. So what if word leaked out about what we’d done? So long as those in charge reassured the American people that victory loomed on the horizon, a grave threat eliminated, the vast majority would accept whatever had happened. With victory, the ends would justify the means.
Richard M. Bissell, Jr. believed that to the marrow of his bones. Things would work out so long as the president backed him one-hundred percent. Bissell could not allow himself to even consider the odious possibility that JFK might blink.
Such a notion was unthinkable. He had JFK’s word, didn’t he? Even if the promise had been followed by a phrase that did not sit well with Bissell, whose hand shook as he reached for the phone to once again make contact with JFK ...
BOOK TWO:
THE IDES OF TEXAS
“Why are we always attracted to innocence when we ought to be repelled by it? Innocence is like a dumb leper who has lost his bell: wandering the earth, meaning no harm, endangering us all.”
—Graham Greene, 1948
CHAPTER ELEVEN:
LICENSED TO KILL
“I always felt that the Cubans were being pushed into
the Soviet block by American (foreign) policy.” —Lee Harvey Oswald, 1962
So where was Lee Harvey Oswald when Bay of Pigs went down? According to official records, in Minsk. Lee had arrived in Moscow on October 16, 1959, announcing to Soviet officials there and the American ambassador his plans to defect. Russian authorities sent him to Minsk in January, 1960; Lee had lived there ever since. On March 30, 1961, complaining of an inner ear infection, he had been admitted to a hospital. During his twelve days there he was often visited by his latest girlfriend, a pretty if none too bright young thing named Marina. On April 11, Lee would be discharged.
Most of this was “legend,” a cover-up for what Lee had been assigned to try and achieve during this time period. George had remained in contact on a regular basis since the defection, via several couriers, while Lee divided his stay between two Moscow hotels, later via a single go-between once he reached the smaller provincial city. The assigned courier appeared on Lee’s first day in Minsk. An elderly American had approached him on the street, mentioning that he too had defected. They genially shook hands. When that was done, Lee walked away with a piece of paper in his hand. The following morning when the men passed each other again, they stopped, chatted, and shook hands once more. This time it was Lee who passed a message through this intermediary back to George. And so on and so on.
On March 28, the brief note from George instructed Lee to enter the hospital within two days, complaining of unbearable pain in his right ear. Admitted on March 30 and putting on a convincing performance, Lee noticed in the midnight darkness a male coming up the aisle to his bed. This shadowy figure stepped close, whispering in Lee’s ear. Finally Lee got a good look at the intruder’s face, a duplicate of his own. Realizing that what George had explained to him would be a transfer was occurring, Lee slipped out of bed even as the twin took his place. Quietly Lee exited. As he left the hospital a car pulled up, the driver signaling to Lee. Two hours later he was dropped off in a remote field where a plane awaited. Once aboard Lee found himself headed to Helsinki, transferring there to a jet bound for Miami.
Lee stepped off that craft four hours later and, exhausted, headed into the main terminal. George and Johnny Rosselli were waiting for him. They greeted the bleary-eyed arrival, took Lee out for breakfast, and described the upcoming mission. Something big was about to go down in a week and a half. Lee was not to be briefed about any of it for fear that if captured by Castro’s forces he might be tortured into talking, so the less he knew the better for all. George would only say that in less than 24 hours Lee would be off to Cuba, there to serve as part of a three-pronged assassination attempt on Castro. Johnny would be one of the other two operatives, as would a sometimes employee of the government to be known to Lee only as ‘Dick Tracy.’
Just like in the James Bond books ... and the upcoming movies based on them, which I read are already in pre-production ... my private fantasy is about to become public reality ... 007 and, now, Lee Harvey Oswald are ... licensed to kill!
Kill, but not drive. As Sinatra would say, now ain’t that a kick in the head? I doubt I’ll ever master it. Something comes over me every time I try. I shake and shiver and give up.
Killing? Ah, that’s easy. Driving? Difficult!
*
The following day, according to plans, Lee arrived at the Tamiami airport at precisely six a.m. He waited in the lobby, miniscule compared to the one in Miami’s International Airport, until Johnny Handsome stepped alongside him, motioning for Lee to follow. At the ticket counter stood
a young attendant, the only person on duty so early. Johnny explained that he and his friend had paid in advance for the rental of a Cessna 172, the three-year-old model most popular with amateurs who wanted to take flying lessons. A pilot had been arranged for as well. She checked over their identification, with a smile instructing them to pass through the lobby and onto the runways out back.
A pilot, wearing the traditional brown-leather jacket that had been popularized during the war by the Flying Tigers, smiled broadly, waving for them to board. Johnny slipped into the back while Lee hopped in next to the flyboy. Several attendants on the ground scurried about, making the final checks. These men stepped back and signaled for what was to be a conventional take-off. Each was shocked to see that the man in the backseat pulled out a pistol, crammed it into the pilot’s right cheek, and roared:
“We are defecting to Cuba. You will fly us there at once.”
The pilot, appearing panicky, nodded. They cruised down the runaway and rapidly ascended. The mechanics hurried back into the building, calling to the young woman to report another skyjacking of the type that had recently become frequent.
Once airborne, the three jet-age cowboys had a good laugh. The ruse was necessary so that word of the hijacking would be spread all over international radar. Those in Cuba assigned to monitor such airwaves would pick up on this, which ought to prove helpful once they landed, as heroes, outside of Havana.
“Well, so far, so good,” Lee smirked.
“We’ve only just begun,” Dick Tracy reminded him.
During the first third of the flight they ran through their operation. In three days time, each man working on his own would try to kill Castro while he dined at his favorite restaurant. Their approaches were so drastically different that it seemed impossible all three could fail when the tactics were carried out simultaneously. This would make the situation all the more favorable for their side on ‘D Day,’ a term Dick Tracy used, Lee aware the flyer knew more about the coming Big Event than he.
“Well, I trust and believe that we’re going to pull this off and maybe with a little luck all three of us will live to tell our grandchildren about it,” Lee said.
“The odds are in our favor as to the first part of your statement,” Dick Tracy explained, “less so as to the second.”
“Most likely one of us will go down,” Rosselli added.
“Maybe two? Well, as I said that first day when I signed up for the marines, I’m willing to give my life for my country.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Dick Tracy replied.
“Still, I’ve got to say, while all I know about Castro is what I read in the papers, and while my impression is mostly negative, I’ve got a feeling in my gut that says all of this crap might have been avoided.”
Dick Tracy turned to Lee briefly, studying the man who sat grinning smugly in the passenger seat. “I don’t get your drift.”
“Well, I keep as close an eye as I can on everything that’s happening on the international scene. So I can’t help thinkin’ that things didn’t have to reach such a ... how would you put it ... crisis point between the U.S. and Cuba.”
Dick Tracy, checking out his flight panel once more, solemnly shook his head. “How could we have avoided it, Lee?”
“After the takeover in ’59, the only thing I think Castro really cared about was his own survival. If I’m right, that means he had to be open to all offers which might benefit him. Including any overtures from the U.S.”
“You’re forgetting,” Rosselli said, “Castro was a Red.”
“Right. But also an American. A Latin American, a Third World American. But an American. Don’t you think he might have opened his arms to U.S. aid if we’d offered to pour money and goods in, rather than assuming a bunker mentality toward us? I mean, think about it. A lot of blood got spilled during that New Year’s eve revolution, but no Americans were harmed.”
“You sound soft on communism,” Dick Tracy remarked.
“Better dead than Red,” Rosselli added.
“Well, yeah. Sure. Hey, I like American style capitalism as much as either of you guys. But that doesn’t mean we can’t live with a Marxist state, so long as it isn’t openly hostile.”
“You’re claiming then that Fidel might have been an ally?”
“I’m saying that I believe he left that route open until we started playing dirty tricks, like cigars to destroy his beard.”
“You yourself were in on some of that stuff.”
“I know, Johnny, I know. And glad to do it. My country calls, I answer! All I’m saying is—“
“—we might have tried extending an olive branch first.”
“Right, Dick Tracy. I mean, the Soviet Union likes to come in and swallow things whole. Maybe Castro would have preferred to be our ally, however uneasy, if only we gave him a chance.”
“Yet you’re going down there to kill him at this moment?”
“I sure am, Johnny. Like Alfred, Lord Tennyson said about those who serve their country in the military or any other such capacity: Ours is not to reason why; ours is but to do and die.”
“Could all those months in Minsk, when you were pretending to be a true believer in communism, have turned you around?”
“No, no, no! Believe me, if there’s one thing I learned over there, it’s that their supposedly left wing government is as authoritarian as Batista’s fascist Cuban state before the revolution, and Castro’s left wing authoritarian regime now.”
“How about the U.S. of A.?” Dick Tracy wanted to know.
“We may be far from perfect but so far as I can see we’ve got the best of all possible governments in an imperfect world.”
“Now you’re talkin’, pal!”
“Still, any government is only as good as those people who are running it at any one point in time.”
“Are you referring to Kennedy?” Dick Tracy wanted to know.
“Yes. But Eisenhower, too. I mean, he may not have been out for Castro’s blood, like JFK. Still, maybe he over-reacted a bit by trying to rid the world of Castro by non-violent means.”
*
They said little else during the remainder of the two hour seven minute trip. Lee wondered if he might have spoken out of turn, even as he had back during his first days as a marine when he opened up too soon to a seeming friend.
Yes, these guys were fellow members of a mission, but not my best buddies. Well, too late now to do anything about it. Just hope they took my words as intended: small talk.
Dick Tracy, clearly a skilled flier, kept their positioning at 210 degrees, straight on toward Havana. Some twenty minutes north of Cuba, Lee spotted a pair of MIGS out his window, but they roared off in the opposite direction and did not turn around at the sight of this American craft. Shortly the plane crossed over and away from The Big Blue, crossing over sandy browns of the rugged beaches, then wildly diverse greens of adjacent rolling hills, fully visible, absolutely breathtaking.
“Here we go,” Dick Tracy sighed, nosing the plane downward. All had been briefed as to the swiftly-evolving defense system on the island, posts strung out at regular intervals so that any air invasion attempt could quickly be detected. Dick Tracy circled twice, checking his controls, over toward a medium-sized compound: a dozen rusty tin buildings circling a larger, older wood-frame structure. A quarter-mile northward, a landing strip extended eastward, little more than a primitive field cut from waist deep weeds, shoulder-high cane, and an encroaching mantis-green jungle. Descending the Cessna, the pilot likewise released the wheels. Minutes later, they landed without a bump.
“We’re here!” Lee shouted, excited to once again be in Cuba, which he had adored during his previous brief stay.
“Do precisely as you are told,” a firm voice commanded in thickly accented English, “or we will shoot. Do you understand?”
“Oh, shit!” Lee gasped. A squad of eight men rushed toward them, all wearing drab olive fatigues, crouched low, pointing submachine gun
s directly at the recently airborne intruders. Burning eyes suggested none had any hesitations as to shooting the Americans on the spot rather than assume any risk.
“We’re defectors!” Johnny called out, standing still in the spot where he had leaped down seconds earlier. Dick Tracy, just then jumping down from out of his own doorway, repeated that in Spanish.
“Step away from the plane. Quickly!” One bearded Cuban, obviously the leader, barked orders while waving sharply, his other arm cradling his weapon. Never having felt this close to death before, Lee’s body shook so hard he feared that he might not be able to comply, however much he wanted to. The leader then nodded for them to proceed toward the main building.
A not inconsiderable arsenal of weapons remained trained on the three as the Cubans roughly escorted them to G-2, the local office of Castro’s secret police. That imposing Cuban squad leader verbally accosted and accused the men, insisting that they were CIA agents. All denied, denied, denied, pleading to be taken to Havana to where they could present their case to the authorities. The inquisitor’s eyes suggested that he might possibly believe Lee and Johnny were defectors, Dick Tracy the hapless pilot they forced at gunpoint (Johnny’s weapon long since seized by guards) to fly them here.
The interrogation at last over, they were held for several hours in one of the windowless tin shacks which, as the middle of the afternoon encroached, came to feel like a crude oven. As evening wore on, a guard approached, informing Dick Tracy that he was free to go but must immediately return to Florida. Not glancing at the others, he exited the building and headed back to the plane. Shortly Lee and Johnny heard the motors roar as he took off. This was precisely as they had hoped things would go. Their confederate would proceed to a hidden airstrip not far from Havana, meet them at an appointed time and place, so the three-pronged assassination attempt would proceed on schedule.
Patsy! : The Life and Times of Lee Harvey Oswald Page 23
