“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 lay 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.
This regal fellow approached, offering a hint of a smile, the trio a few yards from the final plane, readying to depart.
“I was growing nervous,” George admitted.
”My sincere apologies,” the new arrival sighed, bowing graciously. Though Zuniga had never before met this exalted personage, he knew from pre-planning this must be a high-ranking member of the Nicaraguan Government. The U.S. had secretly, and from the start of this long-in-embryo operation, worked closely with the powers-that-be. On day one, George had negotiated full permission for the training and eventual take-off. The U.S. intelligence community and military considered this a necessity. The upcoming incident would lead to acts of bloodshed which would have grave international repercussions if the truth were discovered. All hoped that would not be the case.
No matter how much money the U.S. delivered annually to those in office to keep Nicaragua from falling under Russian influence, such clandestine permission had to be secured before the mission could be launched. Though that had been set in cement months earlier, a government official had to be on hand at this juncture, just in case anything went wrong.
But what possibly could? Everything had been planned
down to the minutest detail by brilliant strategists. This ought to play in a clockwork manner owing to such thoroughness.
Only something did go wrong. In truth, everything that
could possibly go wrong almost immediately proceeded to do so. As a poet once put it, the best laid plans of mice and men failed to produce the desired results. There would be the Bay of Pigs invasion as it already existed in the minds of all involved, a great victory for the U.S. and all pro-American Cubans. And then there would be the Bay of Pigs invasion as it played out in reality.
Which as all would discover can turn out to be something else entirely.
*
Precisely at their scheduled time, the “Linda” and “Puma” squadrons began dropping bombs on Camp Libertad near the Miramar suburb of Havana and at San Antonio de los Banos. For a brief glorious moment, success seemed imminent as a half dozen planes—MIG fighters as well as U.S. B-26s and T-33 jet trainers from the United States—were consumed in flames. Surprisingly, ground forces responded with anti-aircraft fire far more furious than had been expected. Mon’s plane took a bad hit, swiftly whirling high into the sky, then back down hard toward the sea with the speed and intensity of a rocket. Emitting a long tail of black smoke, the B-26 would have crashed had it not exploded.
The charred remnants of a once formidable aircraft
dropped piecemeal to waiting waters, along with scattered
bits of flesh and bone from the deceased Mon.
The sight of one of their fellow airborne cowboys blown
to smithereens, not part of the game-plan for instantaneous success, set waves of panic tearing through the other flyers. Though the pilots did manage to resume their mission, the aim of their bomb-drops from that moment on tended to be way off. Fewer of the targeted planes down below suffered direct hits. Castro’s pilots, now awake, rushed out of the barracks, hopping into the cockpits of their planes as anti-aircraft guns covered them with rapid-fire. This made it impossible for the two remaining “Pumas” to effectively strafe the scene below.
At that moment, Crespo’s engine began emitting weird
sounds. At first he assumed he had been hit though he’d heard no noise, felt no impact. As he soon grasped, Crespo’s engine had simply malfunctioned. Realizing that he might at any moment lose control and crash, Crespo made the decision to pull out of the formation at once. Knowing that it was not likely he would be able to fly all the way back to the Happy Valley base in this out of control plane, Crespo made an on the spot decision to turn abruptly and fly toward Key West, Florida, a much closer destination, hoping for the best. He and Perez did manage to bring their shaky B-26 down at the Boca Chica Naval Air Station there at two minutes after seven in the morning; precisely one hour before Zuniga, who had no knowledge of Crespo’s situation, sent out his first call to the towers at Miami International.
Neither Zuniga nor Crespo could have guessed that the
problems back over Cuba were rapidly multiplying. It was as if the mission had been exposed to a fast-spreading disease that, once contamination began, consumed all their hopes and dreams like wildfire. Alfredo Caballero of the “Linda” formation, after dumping his first round of bombs, glanced with a pilot’s instinct at his control panel. He noticed that his fuel tank was rapidly approaching empty.
Abruptly, Caballero aborted his mission, turning his plane south toward Grand Cayman Island. On their way to that new destination Cabellero and his co-pilot Maza discussed how they ought to handle what would likely be a difficult situation once they landed. Since Grand Cayman Island fell under British jurisdiction, and that country had not been informed of this American mission, so secretive that even the closest allies of the U.S. were left blithely unaware as to what was going down (or more correctly failing to go down), this could turn ugly.
As no one involved in the planning process figured on anything like this, none of the Cubans had been briefed as to what they ought to do or say in such a situation. They panicked.
*
JFK had, from day one, viewed the Bay of Pigs
invasion in precisely the same manner that he, in the recesses of that man’s uniquely functioning mind, perceived everything: a no-lose situation. This ought to benefit him if it worked, leave the president as unscratched as Teflon should it fail. This helped explain why, after approving of the final strategy as submitted to him days earlier, JFK made plans to be away for the weekend. He would travel to Middleburg, Virginia, there enjoying the relaxing atmosphere of a luxurious home he had rented.
Shortly before lunch-time in Washington on Friday, April 14, JFK addressed an African Freedom Day celebration held at the State Department. JFK basked in applause as a civil rights crusader, the hero of all ethnic minorities. No mention was made of the fact that several years earlier he, as a senator, during the Eisenhower administration blocked the passage of key civil rights legislation which that president had attempted to pass, eager to have the fight for racial equality become a part of Ike's own legacy. But when Ike had attempted to push important bills through congress, JFK led the fierce opposition. His prominence insured the reforms would die in committee.
JFK did so not because he opposed the proposals, the very sort of anti-racist legislation his administration would put in place and, after 1963, President Lyndon Johnson would continue to uphold. Why insure the defeat of what he then did believe in? JFK wanted to convince white southerners that he was not hostile to them, thereby making it easier for him to win the next presidential election. Give them some early evidence that he was not as liberal on this issue as had been reputed and, in fact, actually was.
Some might consider it cynical that, once in office, he planned to perform a total turnabout, championing such bills in the congress, then take the credit for this himself. In the minds of those who did not feel comfortable with JFK, even if they happened to agree with most of his political positions, the idea was to double-cross those southern citizens he had courted. As the reliable saying goes: That was then; this, now.
Within minutes after concluding his inspiring speech, JFK was swept by limo to the D.C. airport. In Air Force One he flew off for a much-needed vacation. Lyndon Johnson, who had been added to the ticket as JFK’s vice-presidential candidate only because this would allow JFK to carry Texas—both Kennedy brothers were openly contemptuous of the “ignorant cowboy”—had been purposefully kept in the dark (“black,” in CIA lexicon, for anything secretive) about the operation’s existence. Johnson had been shuffled off to some insignificant speaking engagement so that, with JFK out of town, Johnson would not be able to claim executive privilege if anything went wrong.
That left Richard M. Bissell, Jr., the CIA’s DDP (deputy director for plans) in charge of Washington, America, and by implication the world. Bissell would remain in close contact with the president as to how details proceeded.
*
To a large extent the Bay of Pigs invasion had from day one been Bissell’s baby. He was the one who had approached JFK time after time, fervently requesting permission to officially begin work on this covert operation against a foreign land that, so far as the press was told, we were attempting to diplomatically woo over to our side. Not that Bissell was some maverick; he broached this subject with full authorization from his own boss, CIA director Allen W. Dulles, the brother of Secretary of State John Foster Dulles, who also believed that such a move was not only advisable but necessary.
So that no one would suspect that the CIA might be involved as the longest weekend proceeded, Allen Dulles flew off to Puerto Rico. While the attack took place, he’d meet with pro-U.S. business people, a perfect cover. As for chain of command, Allen Dulles knew precisely how to delegate responsibility. As to Dick Bissell, there was no one person Dulles trusted more. Rightly so. JFK himself admitted to having been highly impressed by Dick’s tall, angular frame and his knowledgeability from that day the two men met in the Oval Office, shortly after JFK assumed the U.S. presidency on January 20, 1961.
After much careful consideration, JFK concluded that if this idea came from such a source—Ivy League Bissell had been a professor of economics before accepting a government position—chances are everything would work out fine. Even if, when push finally came to shove, it wouldn’t be men like Bissell who’d mount an attack on the current equivalent to San Juan Hill but a coterie of cowboys—CIA operatives and anti-Castro Cubans—doing so without any equivalent to the daring, fearless, inspired leadership of Teddy Roosevelt. That battle’s in-front-of-the-troops commander had insured their earlier operation’s success, its legal questionability notwithstanding.
How can I say no? JFK mused. They succeed, I take the credit. They fail, I blame the CIA Either way, I win.Make a public appearance with Jackie by my side, basking in the glory should we conquer Cuba, expressing my wrath if we do not. Either way, I come off smelling like roses. Then ditch the bitch, meet Marilyn for some secluded sex. Or, if she’s too drunk or drugged up, Jayne, Mamie, Angie ...
*
“Hello, Mr. President,” Richard Bissell said to JFK mid-afternoon, Saturday. “Enjoying your vacation?”
“Lovely down here in Virginia, Dick. Tell me some good news. I’m put off by a few things I heard on the radio.”
“Several planes shot down. In my mind, Mr. President? So long as we remain on course, the outcome will be as planned and expected.” Bissell paused, then spit out the next words, hoping and trusting JFK’s answer would be what he so needed to hear: “I have your assurances, Mr. President, that you’ll allow us to continue according to our scenario?”
“By all means, Dick. Why did you think you had to ask?”
Relieved, the CIA man breathed in deeply. Until, that is, JFK followed his initial statement with a disclaimer: “Unless, of course, you hear different from me.”
The president replaced his receiver on its base, leaving Bissell as uncertain in Washington as Adlai Stevenson then felt in New York. He, of course, was the man Bissell must call next.
Adlai sat in his office, shaking, waiting for the phone to ring. The moment of truth had arrived, as he knew during those three months following his meeting in the Oval Office that in time it would. He had yet to decide what to say when his name was called to approach the podium at the General Assembly Political Committee’s upcoming emergency meeting at the United Nations. There, he was expected to deliver the United States’ official statement as to what was going on down there in Cuba.
What’s a man to do? Adlai Stevenson wondered.
The time was precisely two p.m. Less than an hour from now he would address the gathered diplomats. Should Adlai offer the usual disclaimer, muttering something to the effect of “so far as I know ...” hoping that would be enough to squelch this tense situation? And the world’s wanting to know if America was, in any way, shape or form, mixed up in whatever this might be? Or would he do what he knew those in the chain-of-command—up from Barnes through Bissell to Dulles to JFK—had begged for: his insistence in public that we absolutely were not involved.
Throughout the day Dick Bissell had fought to restrain himself from calling either JFK or the U.N. ambassador. He knew what everyone else following the story did and little else. Bissell did hear first, if only by minutes or in some cases a matter of seconds, before the latest release of what had just occurred hit the media. The first reports had been encouraging. Bombs were dropped, several enemy planes knocked out.
Still, Bissell held out, not wanting to jump the gun. In time he was glad he had taken such a cautious approach. Later reports made clear that gunfire from the ground had brought down one, maybe two of the planes that had attacked from Nicaragua. Others veered off course. This worried Bissell, but not much.
Not yet. Perhaps the initial bombing accomplished the necessary damage to curtail Cuba’s air force. A second scheduled air raid ought to knock out the remaining opposition even as the anti-Castro Cuban volunteers began their sea-to-land invasion. The progress, if limited, appeared to Bissell as acceptable.
Then came word that Mario Zuniga successfully landed at Miami airport. After disembarking he swiftly launched into his fully rehearsed lie about how he and his companions bravely stole several planes from their hangers in Havana, headed up into the wild blue yonder, thereafter bombing their own base. Could this be considered a perfect morning? Perhaps not. Still, Stage One, Operation Mongoose, had more or less proceeded according to plan. There was every reason to believe Monday’s sea-to-land attack, Code Name: Operation Zapata, would cinch the victory.
That meant Bissell could call ring up Adlai. First, though, the man at the top. So Richard Bissell, Jr. placed that initial call to JFK, the president then relaxing with a cool drink and a hot blonde at Glen Ora. This conversation concluded, Bissell dialed up Adlai, while JFK set about fucking the movie star, who had recently appeared with his sometimes pal Frank Sinatra in one of the popular Rat Pack films. In later years she would sarcastically refer to the experience as “the best seven seconds of my life.” Precisely what she also secretly whispered about JFK’s world-famous entertainer friend.
The subsequent phone conversation between Richard Bissell and Adlai Stevenson lasted less than three minutes. This took place between 2:47 and 2:50 p.m., moments before the latter exited his office and proceeded to the special suite where the political committee would meet. Bissell would listen to the broadcast on his radio, nervous as to Adlai’s famed idealism. Trusting though that, however much a milk-toast liberal Stevenson might be, he remained at heart a patriotic American, and would come across for his country and president.
Before the debate began, Bissell rearranged paperwork on his desk, hurriedly reading through notes, preparing to spend the hour listening to all that was said while checking each new report as it trickled in. Also, he’d try and keep track of what was going on down in Miami as Zuniga schmoozed with Ed Ahrens, in charge of the International Airport, then a bevy of reporters who were quickly invited out for an official press conference.
Bissell felt a little like a juggler, attempting to keep three balls in the air at once. Difficult, but not impossible. And, in truth, he loved that sort of thing. This explained why he’d left The Ford Foundation for the U.S. secret intelligence community after his World War II spy unit, then known as the OSS, evolved into the CIA. In so doing, Bissell had situated himself at the cusp of contemporary history-in-the-making; the very thought of his eminence provided a sudden rush.
Still, now, his mind kept returning to the question: Would Adlai do the right thing? Hardly superstitious, Bissell crossed his fingers as the three o’ clock hour approached, then silently prayed. He wasn’t much on religion. But as someone noted back in WWII, there are no atheists in foxholes.
Well, here was a whole new kind of war. And foxholes, if not always visible, still existed.
Half an hour later our American ambassador to the U.N. concluded by insisting those Cuban planes which landed on American soil would be impounded, and under no circumstances would the pilots be allowed to take off again.
Zuniga was, in fact, already readying to leave. Early the following day—Sunday, April 16—he, Jose Crespo and Lorenzo Perez departed in a C-54 on their way back to Happy Valley in Nicaragua to rejoin their anti-Castro Cuban forces and members of the CIA. The following afternoon, the two were off and flying again as part of the air command scheduled to give full support to those sea-to-land troops readying to attack. Crespo and Perez were shot down, dying on April 17 as Bay of Pigs turned from a no-brainer success into an unprecedented disaster.
Momentarily Richard Bissell, Jr. relaxed. So Adlai Stevenson had, as hoped for, proven himself a good soldier. Thank God for that! A God, of course, that loves America.
*
From day one, the success of the Bay of Pigs invasion had been pegged on one vital element: those air strikes carried out by Cuban pilots, flying out of Nicaragua on American planes. Even as back home knowledgeable Bissell and the unwitting Stevenson provided an elaborate cover, further bombings insured a victory by taking out the FAR, assuring no airborne counter response could be mounted two days later as sea-to-land forces swept up from the beach. Though our traditional military brass agreed with little that the CIA chiefs, who now co-opted many decisions which in the past were theirs to make, believed best, everyone involved in the long, elaborate planning process, JFK included, agreed that eliminating the FAR was essential.
This accomplished, it seemed impossible that the wave of well-armed, carefully-trained fighters could be halted as they marched on Havana. Even as dawn broke on Monday, 1,447 patriots prepared to disembark from the safety of seven U.S. ships and attack.
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 ...