Morgan had slept only a few hours the night before, chain-smoking and downing cups of coffee. But he had to keep pushing himself. He needed to get out far enough to avoid the Coast Guard.
Just a few feet away was Francisco Betancourt, a former captain in Batista’s army brought in to help Morgan make the journey. Their plan was to meet the other vessel, a fifty-four-foot yacht moored a dozen miles away that was loaded with an arsenal for a small army.
Despite running around to avoid the FBI, everything was going as planned. Trujillo’s people were waiting for the signal when Morgan arrived in Cuba. So were Menoyo and Castro. The plan was to get the boatload of arms to the southern coast of Cuba near Trinidad and drop them off to Menoyo and the others.
The ocean was kicking up as the boat pulled farther out, the lights of Miami growing dimmer in the distance. As he looked ahead, Morgan could see the flickering movements of another vessel on the horizon. No signs of any Coast Guard cutters, just the dark open ocean in front of them. They had made it.
It would be twenty-four hours before they cut through the Straits of Florida and circled around the belly of Cuba. But time was of the essence. Trujillo was listening to the radio constantly, waiting for the next update from his people in Miami. Castro was pacing, making sure his men remained in touch with Morgan’s at the house in Miramar.
Now it was all up to Morgan.
As the smaller boat pulled alongside the yacht, he climbed aboard, motioning for Betancourt to follow. The man stood on the deck, hunched over. With every mile, Betancourt had grown more nauseated until finally he couldn’t go on any longer. There was no way he could make the ninety-mile trip to Cuba.
“I’m sick,” he told Morgan.
Morgan didn’t have time to wait. It was better for Betancourt to head back on the fishing boat. Two of Trujillo’s people were waiting on the yacht, ready to push off. Morgan motioned for them to throw the rope back into the fishing boat, and Betancourt climbed down. As the yacht’s engines revved, Morgan braced himself for the last leg of his trip. Surrounded by the numbing drone of the engines, Morgan needed to stay alert. He didn’t know the crew. He didn’t know the waters. Anything could happen between here and landfall.
As he stared into the night, one of the crew approached him. The look on his face said trouble. “We’re not going to make it,” the man said.
The captain had been watching the fuel gauge. It was showing far less gasoline than they thought they would need. There was no way the boat was going to have enough fuel to snake around the tip of Pinar del Río and the Isle of Pines before landing near Trinidad.
Morgan couldn’t believe what he was hearing. How did this happen? Legions of men were waiting for him in Cuba, and there was the matter of the crazed Dominican dictator who wouldn’t rest until there was a bullet in Castro’s head.
Morgan was about to get stuck on a boat full of weapons with a fuel tank coughing up fumes. Perhaps they hadn’t estimated the extra weight of the weapons or planned on the rough waters in the Great Bahama Bank. But ultimately it didn’t matter. They needed to find the closest port. The map provided their answer: Havana.
They could make the capital, but the port was crawling with customs agents who would board the yacht, search the cabin, and undoubtedly turn up the arsenal below. Without any knowledge of Morgan’s role in the plot, the bust would blow up everything they were trying to do.
He had planned to unveil his true role when they arrived in Trinidad. But like everything else, he had to change plans. As the two crew members stepped onto the deck, he grabbed his handgun and waited for them to reach the rails. Then, raising the barrel, he pointed the gun at them. The men looked up, startled. He was taking them prisoner.
36
Just before dawn, the men gathered in the living room.
They had been roused from their sleep and told to report to the house in Miramar. After months of planning, it was time. To the anti-Castro operatives, the new government was just a day away. No one was going to deprive them of their rightful place.
Arturo Hernández Tellaheche, the former Cuban power broker, came through the doorway and took a seat in the living room. Arturo Caíñas Milanés, the millionaire cattleman who once backed Castro until the farmers began losing their land to the government, also arrived. Ramón Mestre Gutiérrez, the wealthy thirty-one-year-old contractor who stood to be the next premier, joined his older colleagues at the table. The government-in-waiting, as they were known, had been preparing to grab the levers of power. In the corners of the home, Roger Redondo and other rebels of the Second Front stood guard, keeping an eye on everyone.
As they waited for their next cue, Morgan walked into the house. Dirty and unshaven with dark circles under his eyes, he was a welcome sight. He had just delivered the prisoners and the weapons at the dock in Havana and rushed to his home.
At his side stood Menoyo. Now the final stages of the plan could begin. First, they would send out a signal on the radio to alert the anti-Castro fighters huddled in houses across the city. The signal would go directly to Trujillo, who would be waiting to send in the foreign legion.
As the men stood to talk about the plans, Morgan and Menoyo stepped back, reached down, and pulled out their weapons. If anyone moved, they’d be shot.
Hernández turned around, startled. So did Caíñas. Both men looked petrified. What had happened? Redondo and the other rebels drew their weapons and pointed them at the rest of the plotters in the house. Morgan, Menoyo, and the other rebels motioned for the men to move into one room. No one was going to even think about escaping.
Just then came a knock at the door: Fidel and Camilo Cienfuegos were standing on the front steps. Castro couldn’t help himself. It was his moment to gloat and stare into the eyes of his adversaries. Hernández and the others now realized they were done. Morgan had turned the tables on them, and they never had a clue.
Like a cat, Castro circled the men in the room. “Any orders, Mr. President?” he said mockingly to Hernández. Stunned, Hernández looked straight ahead. Wheeling around, Castro turned to Mestre. “So, what were you going to be minister of?”
In a duffle bag Morgan had carried on the boat were wads of cash—seventy-eight thousand dollars from Ferrando in Miami. As Castro pranced about the room, Morgan reached down into the bag and began laying it out on a table. Castro went over to him and nodded. The Yanqui comandante had come through.
Now it was time to talk about next steps. For Castro, the first order of business was to round up the Batista supporters holed up in the safe houses. They would never know what hit them. Then came the tough part of the plan: rushing to Trinidad before news about the arrests leaked. Trujillo was still waiting in the wings. They needed to draw out the dictator before he could pull back. Otherwise, the plans they had been forging for months would collapse.
The Jeep bounced back and forth as the Second Front leaders gripped the side rails. Menoyo looked at Morgan and smiled. The American had juggled half a dozen competing interests—the mob, Castro, Trujillo, the FBI, Batista, and his own men—while carrying out an incredible intelligence operation that would alter history. Morgan wasn’t a secret agent. He was a soldier. And that made his work all the more noteworthy.
The Jeep moved along the dirt road until it reached the stretch of beach just a few miles from Trinidad. They had finally arrived. It seemed like they hadn’t stopped moving since leaving Morgan’s house, boarding a government plane in Havana, flying to Trinidad, then hopping into the Jeep so they could reach their destination.
Now they needed to launch the plot. Castro’s men were waiting in a nearby house with the shortwave. As soon as they hit the frequency, they could connect directly with Trujillo. No doubt the feisty dictator was grousing about not hearing from the leaders of the Second Front.
Grabbing the microphone, Menoyo signaled for the operator to flick on the transmitter. The receiver c
rackled as the operator moved the dial.
“3JK calling KJB,” said Menoyo.
For a few seconds, the waves bounced in and out. No one said a word. Menoyo looked up and then spoke into the microphone again: “KJB, come in, please.”
If the Second Front was ever going to get this plot under way with any success, they needed to do it now.
“KJB here,” the gravelly voice broke through. “I hear you loud and clear.” El Jefe himself was on the other end.
Menoyo gripped the mike a little tighter. “Instructions completed. I am now in the mountains fighting the Communists. The American landed at the appointed spot. Now everything is in your hands.”
Trujillo was elated. He had waited months for this moment. The rebellion was in full swing. He insisted on knowing everything. He had put the foreign legion—thousands of the most ruthless fighters in the islands—on alert. All the generalissimo needed to know was that the insurgents on the ground were ready. Then he’d order the legion to land.
The Caribbean stood on the verge of war.
For most of the day and into the night, Trujillo was beside himself. Every hour or so, he went to his shortwave and asked his staff whether anyone from Cuba had called. Then he grumbled and walked back to his office. If he could have gone to Cuba to move the plan forward more swiftly, he would have, but at this point, it was a waiting game, with Morgan in charge. Word couldn’t come soon enough.
Finally, the shortwave lit up and Morgan was on the other end. He assured the dictator that the men on the ground were taking on Castro’s forces. At one point, he even ordered his men to fire their machine guns in the air to create battle sounds. Trujillo was overjoyed. This time, he was really going to make his mark. Castro would never mess with him again.
On the next radio call, Morgan reached Trujillo’s chief of security, Johnny Abbes, a sadistic investigator who took pleasure in watching men die. Morgan had good news to share: The Second Front was inching toward Trinidad and a major victory. If they took the southern port city, they were that much closer to taking the entire country.
Trujillo was now fully engaged. He was close to sending in the legion—as close as he was going to come. But some of Trujillo’s men had their doubts. Despite what Morgan was saying, they were getting reports to the contrary—news they didn’t expect. Some of the news correspondents were reporting that Castro’s men were arresting people in Havana and elsewhere. No one could confirm it, but no one had been able to reach Hernández or Caíñas, the two leaders in waiting.
That night, Trujillo took the call when the shortwave lit up. “KJB here, over.”
“The American speaking.”
“What’s going on?” Trujillo yelled. “They say everybody’s been captured and you’re about to be captured, too. What can you tell me? Over.”
Once again, Morgan had to think fast. He knew that eventually the reporters on the ground would get the story. Don’t believe it, he said. The Cuban government was fabricating the news. “You know those people are experts in propaganda. It’s a plan to create confusion and avoid the reinforcements that they imagine are on the way.”
Morgan signed off, but he knew Trujillo wasn’t going to buy it for long. They had to do something quick. After talking to his men, Castro came up with an idea that once again demonstrated his Machiavellian might. If they cut the electricity to Trinidad—just for one night—they would show the Dominican pilots flying overhead that the town indeed had been captured and shut down. It was a gamble, but they had to do something drastic to turn their fortunes around.
As night fell over southern Cuba, the entire city was plunged into darkness. The streetlights were turned off, and homes went pitch-black.
Without identifying himself, Castro got on the radio and announced that insurgents had captured the town. “You can now send the shipments to the airport,” he said.
Trujillo and the others looked at one another. The news was encouraging, but some of his men still had their doubts. Trujillo agreed to send another plane, but this time, he would send one of his most trusted advisers: Father Ricardo Velazco Ordóñez. The aging Spanish cleric had been a part of the plan since its inception.
No one was better at feeling out a situation than the round man in the robe and collar. He had won the confidence of Trujillo long ago for his role in snitching on the other clerics in the Dominican Republic who had sided with the people over the government. If the priest gave his blessing to the situation, then Trujillo would send in his legion.
At about 7:00 p.m., on August 10, a C-47 transport plane circled the airport in Trinidad and moments later touched down. Menoyo and his men were waiting. As the door of the plane swung open, the priest appeared and waved to the men walking toward the runway. The crew on the plane began unloading more weapons for the Second Front, including nine bazookas, fifteen cases of ammo, and thirty-nine cases of .50-caliber shells. The men in fatigues waved back.
To maintain the illusion the city was still under siege, Morgan’s men fired artillery shells and machine guns in the background to make it sound like a battle was being fought nearby.
“¡Viva Trujillo! ” the men yelled to the priest.
Velazco smiled and waved. He was convinced. Morgan was on the verge of owning the city. All Trujillo needed was a nudge. One more call to his headquarters, and he’d sic his men on Santa Clara.
If Morgan and his men could convince the Dominican leader that the Second Front was about to take the historic city in the heart of Las Villas Province—just as Che Guevara had done—they’d snare him. If anyone could convince the dictator that the rebels were carrying out the same sweep that had ousted Batista, it was the Yanqui comandante.
Morgan gave the signal. “3JK calling KJB.”
The hissing sound of the shortwave’s static filled the air. Moments later came Trujillo’s voice. “KJB here.”
This time, the words were urgent: They had captured the town of Manicaragua and were about to launch a drive to invade Santa Clara. It wasn’t going to be easy: The Cuban Revolutionary Army was fighting back and had wrested control of the Soledad Sugar Mill. If the Second Front could just get more men, they could complete a sweep of the mountains. Morgan drove home the point: “We must take advantage of the state of demoralization to land our foreign legion which will give them the final kick.”
Trujillo had Castro by the balls. Now he could put his own stamp on the counterrevolution and declare himself the conqueror. It was time. But before he could give the order to send in the legion, his own men interrupted. They weren’t convinced that everything was as Morgan described. One of the pilots who flew near Trinidad indicated he hadn’t seen one dead body. Trujillo’s men were also getting reports that Castro had smashed the coup and that the Batistianos were done.
Trujillo was getting angry, accusing his men of losing their nerve. He wasn’t going to get a chance like this again. He agreed to scout the scene one more time with a plane, but then he was sending in the cavalry.
Trujillo had his operatives tell Morgan that another plane was coming with weapons aboard. That was all that Morgan needed to hear. He and his men circled the airfield, taking their positions. For Castro, the baiting had lasted long enough. If Trujillo wasn’t going to send his legion, it was time to strike. It didn’t matter how many men were on the plane or how many weapons they were carrying. Castro was going to send a message to Trujillo.
In the distance, Morgan and the others heard the plane’s engines roar overhead. A C-47—a big transport—dropped from the sky, scoping out the darkness below. The men strained their necks to watch the craft descend and come in for the landing. Each corner of the grounds was covered. No one could escape. As the plane roared down the runway, the men whipped out their machine guns and aimed them straight ahead.
For a moment, no one moved.
Turning on the runway, the plane came to a halt. Moments later,
the doors flung open. As the crew members bounded off the plane, they were met by Menoyo.
Luis del Pozo, son of the former mayor of Havana, recognized his old friend from their early days and hugged Menoyo in the middle of the runway. For his part, Pozo had a message of greeting from El Jefe. The big man was pleased. If the Second Front needed more men, they’d have them. If they needed more guns, they’d fly them in. Even bomber planes were standing by.
As the two old friends talked, the Second Front members began quietly moving in. Suddenly, the men surrounded the crew members, and before anyone said anything, they lowered their machine guns and pointed them at the guests.
Stunned, the crew members put up their hands. But in the shadows, the copilot pulled out his gun and started shooting at the rebels. The airport erupted in gunfire. Both sides took turns running around the plane, shooting at each other. Within seconds, the entire rebel force was charging toward the C-47.
Trujillo’s men fell back and threw up their arms. Two of the rebels lay dead. Two crew members also lay dead—one of them Francisco Betancourt, the Batista captain too sick to ride with Morgan on the boat leaving Miami.
It was over.
37
Olga turned on the boxy, black-and-white television in time to watch Morgan walk across the broadcast studio floor dressed in his comandante greens.
Reporters had descended on the television station, catching a glimpse of the American who led the international conspiracy that stunned Cuba. The news had just broken about the coup attempt, with stories splashed in the New York Times and other newspapers across the Americas. It was the biggest story to break in Cuba since the revolution ended.
Under the heat of television lights, Castro started the press conference by lighting into Trujillo as a “gangster” who pushed for what amounted to a counterrevolution and a desperate plan to kill Castro. “All this is part of a great plot,” he told the reporters. “This is not only the work of Trujillo. Trujillo is just one phase of the giant conspiracy against the revolution.”
The Yankee Comandante Page 18