The Kennedy Momentum

By Leon Berger

Cuba, 1962: The Cold War reaches its zenith with the installation of Soviet nuclear missiles in Cuba threatening the United States. While JFK and his brother face deep divisions in trying to defuse the apocalyptic crisis, young CIA agent Philip Marsden is sent on a mission to the island where he is betrayed by a joint CIA-Mafia operation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Media
• Release date: Jul 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781497669970

Leon Berger

Leon Berger is an award-winning writer and photographer, with seven published books to his credit, including two previous docudrama thrillers.   In his early years, it was the Kennedy era that sparked an avid interest in geopolitical affairs. Each morning over breakfast, Berger read everything he could about the tanks in Berlin, the missiles in Cuba, and that fateful day in Dallas.   Eventually, this fascination with the world at large paved the way to an extensive international career spanning over fifty countries on five continents. At various times, he was based in London, New York, Singapore, and Beijing, before finally returning to Montreal, where he currently resides with his Québécois wife and French-speaking parrot.   Today, half a century after JFK, it’s fair to say that this trilogy represents a return to Berger’s intellectual roots. Over the years, he claims to have read just about every book, seen every video, and heard every theory—yet he guarantees that these works are his own impartial take on this most iconic period in history.

Book preview

1.

The Soviet directive was so classified that the missile specialists themselves were subject to a program of disinformation. Under the official protocol for secrecy and denial known as maskirovka, they were deliberately misdirected into believing that, instead of Cuba, they were being transferred from their base in Kazakhstan to the frigid shores of the eastern Arctic.

Having been first flown to Sevastopol in Crimea, the disoriented technicians and engineers were then shipped through the Black Sea, the Mediterranean and across the storm-tossed Atlantic, traveling the entire journey below deck to avoid any possibility of detection by air. Many suffered severe bouts of seasickness and diarrhea before arriving on the island and had to endure days of recovery. Finally, several grueling weeks after embarkation, they found themselves heading east out of Havana on the recently opened Via Blanca coastal highway, traveling in darkness under the stifling humidity of a tropical summer.

Behind the personnel transports on a column of flatbed trucks were the R-12 Dvina booster stage rockets, their sixty-seven foot length camouflaged by heavy canvas tarpaulins. The convoy stretched for a quarter of a mile but only the KGB liaison officer and his local SDE counterpart up front were aware that their final destination was the still unfinished MRBM complex at Sagua La Grande.

Yet this wasn’t the only such site. Also underway was a similar construction to the west of the capital at San Cristóbal, plus the newer IRBM installation at Guanajay with double the range; and all were protected by an extensive series of S-75 surface-to-air batteries all along the coast from San Julian to the Sierra Maestra, as well as by substantial air and ground support. Once these megaton-class missiles were fully installed and armed, most of the United States would fall within targeting range, with a maximum warning period of just five minutes in Miami and less than thirty minutes in Washington DC. The arsenal wasn’t vast but it didn’t need to be. Once launched, the guided projectiles were unstoppable, which meant that under any first strike scenario, an immediate death toll of up to eighty million US citizens could be envisaged.

To keep unwanted attention to a minimum, the sites and their accompanying barracks were located within heavily forested areas, with transportation carried out entirely at night. Unfortunately, with such a massive operation, not every detail can be so efficiently controlled. Wherever humans are engaged, accidents tend to occur and it was near the end of the highway that the recently arrived detachment was held up for several hours due to a spilled container vehicle. The delay was unavoidable but it meant that the drivers were obliged to detour in early daylight through the heritage city of Matanzas, where the heavily laden vehicles shook the foundations of colonial landmarks and shanty barrios alike before finally emerging on the southern outskirts of town.

It was here that a silver-haired, aristocratic figure by the name of Luis Gilberto Rafael was taking a tranquil Saturday breakfast in the shade of his veranda when the vibrations rattled the coffee cup on the table next to him. Lowering his newspaper, the man known respectfully as Don Plata gazed across the cactus shrubs to where the unmarked trucks, with their ominously long shapes and conspicuously pale-skinned occupants, were rumbling slowly past. As he watched, he lit up a Partagás cigar, his first of the day, and puffed at it until it glowed.

Now retired, this son of a modest electrician had risen to become a major player under the former regime of Fulgencio Batista by providing American casino operators with access to his sizeable network of local resources, including utility supply, building maintenance and security services. With the revolution, however, his fortunes had changed, so he’d chosen to settle out here in Matanzas, far removed from the ideological fervors of Fidel Castro and his compadres. These days, with his wife long since passed away, he lived alone with just a small personal staff plus, every so often, a nubile young mistress to keep him from feeling that he wasn’t completely dead. With little else to do, he kept himself busy by reading, watching and waiting for signs of change.

Of course, like everyone else, he understood Castro’s motivations well enough. The populist idea of liberating the nation from corruption was romantic, even seductive, but in his own venerable opinion, the only thing the bearded guerilleros had accomplished was to position his quiet island as just another piece on the superpower checkerboard. It was a game for only two players and according to Don Plata, the result was a foregone conclusion for a small country like his own. If they weren’t on one side, they’d be very quickly overwhelmed by the other. At first, he thought the Americans would soon be back but when their under-manned, under-supported incursion failed so abysmally at Playa Girón near the Bahia de Cochinos – known in the US as the Bay of Pigs – he knew it would be only a matter of time before the vacuum was filled by the Russians and their weaponry.

Finally this morning, here they were right in front of his house and he knew that everything he’d predicted was in the process of being realized. He’d heard reports of the installations, knew where they were located; but now, at last, he’d seen the missiles with his own eyes, unmistakable even under the camouflage.

Slowly, he got up from his chair, paced his way back inside and made a call to one of the few men on the island he still trusted.

The man who took Don Plata’s call was Raul Fuentes, proprietor of a well-known local tavern down near the bay called El Pescadito. He was a lanky, raw-boned forty-year-old who, like the old man, had also worked in the island’s casino industry and looked forward to the day when he could once more get back to the more lucrative entertainment business. In the meantime, he ran this place, listened carefully to the random chatter and accepted a stipend from Don Plata to help maintain the old network, thereby keeping at least some of the hope alive.

On this day, his assignment was to climb aboard his prized Harley and ferry Don Plata’s message to the elevation behind the town known as Pan de Matanzas, negotiating the steep trail all the way to an isolated shack near the summit with a clear view across the Yumari Valley to the distant ocean. This rundown wooden structure had become home to a shaggy bear of a man known as Fico who’d once been a navy signals officer but who’d chosen in recent years to subsist as a recluse, his only company being a flea-plagued dog, a resident flock of humming birds and the ham radio operation which was his only source of income.

With the island’s international telephone service severely compromised, this was how the network kept in touch with family, friends and former associates across the Straits of Florida, the short wave signal arriving via a relay boost from an equivalent operator in Key West. The system they employed was an advanced single-sideband modulation, or SSB, using a speech-scrambling technique which could be easily encrypted; but while this methodology appeared to be secure, there was no way to know that with the arrival of the covert missile installations, Soviet SIGINT on the island had been significantly upgraded at their new facility near Lourdes, just south of Havana, which now had the capacity to monitor such stray broadcasts. Without realizing the consequences, Fico allowed the message to repeat on a two minute cycle while he made coffee for his visitor. As a result, a unit of local militia had been alerted and dispatched even as the transmissions were still underway.

Raul Fuentes was on his return descent, twisting his way around the hairpin curves, when he spotted the telltale dust cloud below; but the men in the vehicle had seen him, too, so he had no time to return to the shack and give warning. Instead, he escaped by swerving off the dirt track and skidding his way into the mountain forest, eventually concealing himself and his bike behind a rocky outcrop, unable to do anything except wait it out.

Half a mile back up the hill, Fico was still busily engaged, his earphones blocking out the sound of both the oncoming engine and the dog’s snarling growls. He’d only just completed the transmission when the door was broken open and the khaki-clad platoon burst in, beating back his resistance with their rifle stocks until he was a lifeless heap, then smashing the American-built equipment array with a focused intensity. Finally, they doused the walls in gasoline and set both the shack and the corpse ablaze, a funeral pyre which sent a mass of dense black smoke curling above the forest canopy.

That same afternoon, Don Plata was again on his veranda when an open-topped GAZ 67, the Soviet equivalent of the American Jeep, bounced its way through his gates and on to his property. From its antenna flew a red and black pennant inscribed with M-26-7, symbolic code for the revolutionary Movimiento 26 de Julio, and in the front passenger seat sat the familiar, squat figure of Joaquin Famosa, locally-born comandante of the Seguridad del Estado, the Cuban internal security agency commonly known by its abbreviation, SDE, or more formally by its divisional appellation, G2.

It was to Famosa’s credit, as well as a certain native cunning, that he was one of the few senior officers within the organization to have survived the regime change and Don Plata had known him for a long time. They weren’t exactly friends but they did manage to maintain a mutual understanding. Once Famosa had been shown up to the veranda by Don Plata’s aging bodyguard, Esteban, the officer was invited to sit for coffee.

Luis, I’ve got some news for you, said the comandante when they were settled. But I’m afraid it’s not good.

Don Plata put his cup down and looked across at the table. Tell me.

The Russians located your radio on the hill. We had to go take it out. I’m sorry, we had no choice.

What radio?

Listen to me. That crazy fool up there was sending one of your messages at the time.

How do you know it was mine? Was it signed? Did it have a return address?

Sure, funny... but this is no joke, Luis. They’re trying to decrypt it right now.

This was more serious and Don Plata breathed out a long sigh. In theory, there was no way they could tie him to either the radio, the recluse or the message itself but in the new reality, nobody needed proof of anything. A suspicion was enough for an accusation and that, in turn, was sufficient for a tribunal followed all too rapidly by a firing squad.

What’s your point, Joaquin?

My point is that, but for me, you’d already be wearing a blindfold.

I’m most appreciative.

Good, because that, too, is my point.

Don Plata knew what that meant: an increase in the monthly bribe, as paid into the numbered account at the Banco Nacional. It was little more than a protection racket but, in that sense, nothing had really changed since the revolution. That’s how it used to be and that’s how it still was, with Joaquin Famosa as the living proof.

The old man nodded and offered his guest a corona. Fifty per cent, he offered.

The comandante accepted the cigar but declined the offer. I’m finding it increasingly difficult to shield good friends like you from the Russian inquisition. You know, our brave leader thinks he’s top dog but between you and me, he’s nothing more than a chihuahua for the Kremlin, a pet to play with. ‘Fetch, Fidel... beg, Fidel... heel, Fidel.’

Don Plata managed a laugh. At least we agree on something.

The face of Famosa, however, remained serious. But you must understand what that means. The KGB is all over us and they’re no fools, Luis, trust me. They don’t play nice like our old friends at the CIA.

I believe you. There was a pause. So if not fifty, how much?

Double.

Double? You think I’m made of money?

Maybe not... but you’re the closest thing to Fort Knox around here.

Don Plata nodded reluctantly. Do I have a choice?

The comandante drained his coffee. No, he said simply.

Then he shook hands with his host and found his own way downstairs, past the wary Esteban, then outside to his waiting vehicle. With another wave of his hand, he was gone, leaving Luis Gilberto Rafael to contemplate his ever depleting circumstances.

It was true he was still known in these parts as a man of means but the revolution had dried up his once substantial income and he was now living off the proceeds. It meant that if he died soon, he’d be fine but if he lived to be a hundred, he might be hard-pressed to afford a tombstone. Since he didn’t really care for either option, he felt he had no choice but to keep on fighting for the life he’d once known, despite Fidel Castro and even despite his dubious friend, Joaquin Famosa. Ultimately, if he had to choose, he preferred the Americans to the Russians and it was both as simple and as complex as that.

2.

Just a couple of hundred miles to the north of Matanzas, Philip Thomas Marsden was trying to make the most of the Labor Day long weekend.

He’d taken the opportunity to extend his fitness regimen with a five-mile run around his Miami neighborhood of Coral Way but by the time he returned home, he was dizzy, dehydrated and drenched in his own sweat. Somehow, he’d hoped that determination would make up for lack of athletic proficiency but his personal resolution to achieve peak condition was turning out to be a more difficult process than he could have imagined. As a CIA operative, he had many advantages – a fine intellect, an exceptional ability in languages and an eminently forgettable face – but physicality wasn’t his strong suit. He was quick enough and could defend himself if absolutely necessary but muscular strength and tireless stamina were qualities that would better describe others in the agency.

He was just stepping into the shower, when he heard the phone. Since his wife, Caridad, had just entered her second trimester of pregnancy, he kind of felt the onus was on him to go take the call but then he heard her pick up. If it was someone in her family, either her dad, her sister, or one of her cousins, she’d no doubt be on the line for a while, so he turned the water on cold and just stood there, radiating heat as well as a mild glow of self-satisfaction that at least he’d made the effort.

Carrie, as she’d called herself in New York – or Cachita as she was called by her family – was of Cuban-American heritage and the fact that she’d be close to her relatives in this area was one of the key reasons they’d moved down here. Another was that her father had been willing to pass on this Coral Way house to the couple when he moved into his new condominium farther up the Beach. For Philip himself, however, the main advantage to being here was that the location allowed him something of a personal life as well as a career and it was to this end that they’d made a mutual pledge: in return for her leaving a promising position on Madison Avenue, he would switch back from CIA field operations to his original specialization of political analysis. The opening which presented itself was at the newly upgraded Miami station and it was not long after they’d transferred down here that she told him they were about to become parents.

As he came out of the bathroom, hair still wet, he looked in at the half-finished baby’s room. The walls needed a final coat and there were still shelves and doorknobs to install before the new furniture could be unboxed, all of which represented maybe a week’s more work if only he could find the time. There were always so many reports to peruse, so many documents to digest, that he sometimes wondered how the forests of the world could ever survive the agency’s endless demand for paper. Many times he came home so weighed down he could hardly carry his weekend reading matter into the house; and that was merely the unclassified stuff. At the office, there was an even larger pile of confidential material, all of it deemed essential. As an analyst, he had to be prepared at a moment’s notice to draft a five thousand word report on any given topic. Very little of what he produced was ever used and some, he suspected, was never even read but this was the job and he had no real choice in the assignments he was given.

Here in Miami, the station’s mandate included all of Latin America but by far the most important file at the current time, as it had been for two years, was the endlessly dissected subject of Cuba. He was therefore more than interested when he arrived downstairs in their modest kitchen to discover that the recent call had been from Carrie’s cousin, Ernesto, over in Riverside, now part of the area known as Little Havana. Apparently, there was some important news from Don Plata, one of the last members of the family still on the island. Philip had heard the nickname before: Don was a deferential honorific and Plata was Spanish for silver because of his hair.

That’s Uncle Luis, right? he asked, just to confirm. He poured juice for both of them, then came over to sit with her at the small table by the wall. He’s the rich one in Matanzas.

Well, I’m not sure how rich he is now.

He was into the casino business, wasn’t he? Must have stashed away a fair amount, back in the day.

I guess so. I only met the man once. Came up one time when I was still in high school but it was like they all worshipped him, the whole family. He just had a way about him, you know? The nice clothes, the big cigars... It was like he owned the world.

Philip chugged back his juice and felt the sweetness resuscitate his blood sugar level. What could be so important, d’you think?

No idea. Ernesto just asked me to make sure you come to the barbecue tonight. He said he knows you sometimes have to work late but he really wants you to be there.

It was an open secret that Philip was employed by the Central Intelligence Agency, an organization generally admired within the Cuban community of Florida for having trained and equipped the twenty-six hundred exiles at the failed Bay of Pigs incursion. The general attitude seemed to be that while the agency had at least made the attempt, the real villains were in the White House for refusing military backup for the fighters in their hour of need. While candidate Kennedy had promised to do everything possible to free their homeland from Communist rule, when the crucial moment arrived, the president had shown what they considered to be weakness and cowardice. The expected carrier force with air strikes and a Marine landing just never materialized, leaving the exposed beachhead to be crushed by Castro’s numerical superiority. Not only was the Cuban community in Havana angry at the defeat but so was the CIA itself which felt betrayed, firm in the belief that JFK’s overly cautious approach had just cost them their best chance to vanquish the revolution once and for all.

While that was perhaps a valid contention, it was only one side of the issue and as a political analyst, Philip Marsden was one of the few within the agency who remained detached enough to be objective. Even if a full-fledged US military intervention had managed to unseat Castro, what would have been the cost? Thousands of Soviet troops were already on the ground, which would have meant direct conflict with US forces and then what? Escalation? Retaliation in other parts of the world? And if so, how far would it go? Was one small, mostly rural island producing sugarcane, tobacco and a meager supply of nickel worth the risk of global conflict? Like the Kennedys, Philip was less convinced but since he now lived within the Cuban expatriate community, he thought it best to keep his more even-handed opinions to himself.

He understood well enough that nobody really wanted to let go the hope of returning some day. Ever since the failed invasion, there’d been all kinds of groups coalescing in order to make counter-revolutionary plans, to collect money and purchase arms in preparation for yet another attempt. Carrie’s cousins, too, were involved but none of these efforts had ever really amounted to much and so far, all rumors of a growing resistance movement on the island just waiting for a chance to overthrow the regime had proven to be illusory.

Yet, ideology aside, Philip couldn’t help but like the Rafael family and he was always prepared to listen to whatever they wished to tell him. Even if there were nothing to it, as usual, the barbecues were always fun.

It was Elvis Presley who greeted them as they approached – not the man but his music, with Jailhouse Rock blasting out enough decibels to reverberate around the narrow street.

Philip and Carrie parked the car, then followed the source of the sound, around the side of the modest brick bungalow to the backyard where a crowd of relatives, friends, neighbors and all their kids had already gathered. Multicolored light bulbs had been strung up across the cramped area and in one corner, the charcoal was just being lit. It was Ernesto who came over from the grill to welcome them, hugging each in turn. He was about the same age as Philip, same height and weight, too, but his frame was tight with sinew and the grip of his handshake was powerful.

Good to see you, man, he said, offering a final slap on the shoulder. Glad you could make it.

Glad to be here. Who’s the Elvis fan?

Yeah, sorry about that. Some of us wanted Jerry Lee but we got outvoted.

‘That’s democracy," replied Philip, which got a big laugh from Ernesto.

So what can I get you guys? Rum or beer? He ran a liquor store in South Beach with his two younger brothers: Gregorio, nicknamed Goyo; and Francisco, who they called Pancho. It was Carrie’s married sister, Concepcion, known by all as Concha, who still did their books.

Just a soda for me, Carrie replied, dutifully tapping her belly.

Sure, I’ll take a beer from you, said Philip, but also felt some guilt knowing it would do nothing at all for his efforts to get back into shape.

Coming right up. Then, just as he was leaving, Ernesto leaned in with a semi-whisper. Listen, man, we gotta talk, okay?

Sure, whenever you like.

While they waited, the newly arrived couple wandered over to Carrie’s well-to-do father, Jorge, who was always nostalgic whenever he returned here to the old neighborhood. It reminded him of his younger, struggling days, when he lived here with Carrie’s mother before moving to Coral Way, where she finally lost her long fight with cancer. A licensed criminal lawyer, he was now semi-retired but still very active within his own community, on the boards of various civil groups and charities.

Hello Felipe, he said, greeting Philip as he always did with the Hispanic pronunciation of the name. It was a compliment to his new son-in-law, a way to claim him for the family.

Don Jorge... how’s it going?

Fine, fine, thank you. And you? How’s life at the agency?

Philip put his finger to his lips in comic fashion. That’s supposed to be a secret.

Don Jorge smiled along. I must try to remember that. Tell me, have you heard the news?

You mean from the island? No, I just got here. Ernesto said he wants to talk to me later.

I think you’ll find it interesting.

Sounds intriguing.

It comes from my cousin, you know... Luis Gilberto.

Yes, so I understand.

Used to be a big shot down there but now, not so much. Don Jorge shook his head at the tragedy of it all. Time passes, things change.

Way of the world, replied Philip, who often found himself sinking all too easily into these kind of philosophical platitudes just because they were so expected with an occupation such as his.

I suppose you’re right, replied Don Jorge. But we must remain optimistic, am I right?

Absolutely.

Thankfully, that was when Ernesto arrived with the drinks and Philip turned to him, using the interruption as an excuse to escape the conversation. Ernesto, your uncle here thinks I should be told what’s going on. What say we do it now?

Okay, why not? Lemme just tell Goyo to take care of the grill. I’ll meet you inside, okay?

Mind if I join you boys? asked Don Jorge.

In fact, Philip would have preferred that he didn’t but could hardly say it out loud. Sure, no problem, he answered. It wasn’t that he disliked his father-in-law, it was just that the man tended to exaggerate Philip’s importance at the agency, no doubt in order to boost his own status. It didn’t help matters.

Five minutes later, while Carrie went off to chat with her sister, Philip was sitting with the two men around the dining room table. He and Ernesto were chugging Budweiser straight from the bottle, with Don Jorge clutching a glass of his preferred dark rum on the rocks. It happened to be Jamaican, not Cuban, but only because that particular brand was the liquor store’s discount promotion this month.

So... what’s the big news? Philip said to Ernesto.

Yeah, well, I don’t know how much Cachita told you about Uncle Luis...

Just that he was in the casino business.

Okay, so what you should also know, he’s a pretty smart guy. Knows a thing or two about what’s really going on, you get what I’m saying?

Which means the information is probably reliable.

Yeah, yeah, right. That’s it, man, exactly. If he says it, you can count on it.

Okay, so tell me.

Ernesto took another swig of his beer. Then he leaned forward, elbows on the table. Missiles, he said simply, allowing the force of the word to play itself out.

This wasn’t exactly news to Philip. It was common knowledge that the Soviets had been increasing their air-defense capability on the island for some time. What kind of missiles? he asked casually, for the sake of conversation.

Yeah, see, that’s the thing. These were long ones, much longer than the other type, you know? He says he saw trucks going through the town.

Where? In Matanzas?

Yeah.

By day or night?

He said early morning.

Philip hesitated. He didn’t want to doubt the report but that sounded very unlikely to him. Interesting, he replied, for want of something better to say.

You see? said Don Jorge to his nephew. I told you he’d want to know.

Philip didn’t want them to get too excited. Well, now, let’s just back it up a little, shall we? First, it’s kind of unusual that they’d transport missiles through a town like Matanzas. Second, it’s even stranger that they’d do it in broad daylight.

What you saying, man? asked Ernesto. That’s it’s not true?

No... No, not at all, said Philip, obliged to retreat. If it’s from Uncle Luis, I believe it. All I’m saying is that it’s unusual... which is what makes it interesting, right?

Yeah, that makes sense.

But here’s the thing... and this is what’s really important. What I really need to know is how long they were, those missiles.

How long?

Sure. Now listen, what I’m going to tell you doesn’t leave this room, okay? He looked at both of them and saw them nod only too willingly. He knew they’d never keep anything to themselves but felt it was useful to keep reminding them that this was, after all, CIA business, not just street gossip. "All right, so we know they’ve already got what we call SAM’s. Know what they are?"

It was Don Jorge who answered, eager to display his knowledge. Of course... They’re surface-to-air missiles for air defense. Then he felt the need to explain it to Ernesto. See that’s the initials... S.A.M.... stands for surface-to-air missiles, see?

I’m not an idiot.

Okay, keep your shirt on, just trying to help.

Philip thought he’d better step in. What I need to know, he said, is whether these are just more SAM’s, or whether they’re something else.

Like what? said Ernesto.

That’s what I need to find out. That’s why I need to know how long they were. Did he say?

He said fifty or sixty feet.

Fifty or sixty feet? He’s certain?

Well, yeah, they were under wraps but he’s pretty certain.

And which way were they heading, these trucks?

What he said, they went past his house heading east on the CC, figures they were heading down to Sagua La Grande.

The CC, as Philip knew, was one of the island’s main arteries, the Carretera Central. He figures that how exactly?

"Everybody knows about that place, man, big construction site