One Brief Shining Moment

By George M. George and Daniel R. George

George and Daniel are this month’s winners of $525.00 for a thrilling and meticulously researched historical fiction.

Bio: Daniel R. George is a professor of humanities and public health sciences at Penn State College of Medicine. He has a BA in English and philosophy from the College of Wooster and an MSC and a Ph.D. in medical anthropology from Oxford University in England.

George M. George is a retired public defender in Cuyahoga County, Ohio. He has a BA in political science from Baldwin-Wallace, an MA in philosophy from Cleveland State University, and his JD from Case Western Reserve University.

Without further ado, “One Brief Shining Moment” by George and Daniel.

“Let every nation know, whether it wishes us well or ill, that we shall pay any price, bear any burden, meet any hardship, support any friend, oppose any foe to assure the survival and the success of liberty.”

~John F. Kennedy, Inauguration Speech, 1961

***

The assassination was a go. Arthur Spangler believed he had fully internalized the peculiar agency norm that any order from CIA headquarters, no matter how depraved, could be explained away as patriotism of the highest order. Now, in the deep freeze of the Cold War, he would have to rationalize his “patriotic” role in yet another major political murder. That nagging inner moral voice must again be muted, since his country, and his President, needed him to start planning the operation right away.

“You understand this is priority one for the President, right?” Richard Bissell, the agency’s Director of Plans and lead on Cuban operations, had just told Spangler on their private line.

“Yes, of course, sir.”

“No mistakes, no connection to us, or we are likely headed for nuclear war.”

“I understand the stakes, and I appreciate your trust, sir.”

“Just get it done.”   

After he hung up, Spangler had felt nauseous and poured himself a glass of scotch from the tumbler locked in his desk drawer. For someone who had planned covert assassination plots for the CIA since 1955, this wave of squeamishness blindsided him. Something about the magnitude of the target and the gravity of this historical moment felt different.

Nevertheless, he had received a direct order, and the urgency of the operation was made clear by Bissell’s pointed words. Failure to execute this mission already cost former CIA Director Allen Dulles his job in 1961. Although unspoken, all of Spangler’s colleagues at the JM/Wave station in Miami, headquarters for covert Cuban operations, understood that no foreign policy objective was given a higher priority by the Kennedy administration than the elimination of Fidel Castro and the Cuban Communist threat. Spangler believed this was where the real battleground between freedom and tyranny would be on display. Southeast Asia was a mere sideshow.

Now feeling his stomach settle beneath the familiar burn of scotch, Spangler steadied his hand enough to pick up the phone. Even in an organization filled with brazen assassins and operatives, the man he was now dialing on his secure mobile two-way line was the most ruthless figure on the AM/ORCA team charged with removing targets within the highest circles of Cuban political and military leadership. Known simply as “Dahlgren”, he had risen from an asset called in on “wet job” projects, the CIA’s preferred buzzword for assassinations, to the executive action team leader.

When Spangler heard Dahlgren’s voice, he immediately began to doubt whether he was prepared for this assignment—the most important of his career. A surge of adrenalin rushed through his body.

“Spangler, you better not be wasting my fucking time again.”

“Room 53, noon,” replied Spangler, and hung up.

***

When the Cuban removed the manhole cover and dropped down into the darkened crawl space, his feet were instantly submerged in cold, wet muck.

“Mierda! Holy shit!” he growled, contorting his face as he felt the filthy water rushing into his boots. He gathered himself, making sure the rifle slung across his back was dry, and slid the manhole cover back into place as quietly as he could. Surrounded in darkness, he flipped on his headlamp, shining the beam down the storm drain tunnel and listening to the steady trickle of effluent rushing around his feet and down along a concrete surface matted with slick black mold.

The space was just as they had told him. 1.5 meters in diameter, cylindrical, and full of fast-moving residual water from the city’s storm drains, flush after a morning rainstorm. A few hundred feet beyond his light beam, the tunnel would dead-end and become a tight crawl space that he would need to maneuver through. But he would deal with that when he got there. It was cramped and foul-smelling down here, like being buried in wet fermenting garbage, but he had worked in worse conditions. He spat into the rancid stream and tracked its pathway with his headlamp as it ebbed down the long corridor that bent northeast towards his sniper’s nest.

***

“Today no war has been declared — and however fierce the struggle may be, it may never be declared in the traditional fashion. Our way of life is under attack. Those who make themselves our enemy are advancing around the globe. The survival of our friends is in danger. And yet no war has been declared, no borders have been crossed by marching troops, no missiles have been fired.”

~John F. Kennedy, speech to American Newspaper Publishers Association, 1961

***

Spangler sped down Old Cutler Road in his blue Chevy Bel Air. He had a few hours to kill before his meeting with Dahlgren at the Fontainebleau Hotel, and Hannah Boyd’s apartment in Coconut Grove, just south of Miami, was on the way. Hannah was a freelance journalist for United Press International who had been recruited as a CIA asset in the late ‘50s. She had gained the organization’s attention after writing a series of articles documenting connections between Guatemalan president Jacobo Árbenz and the USSR that had helped garner public support for the eventual ouster of Árbenz, carried out by the CIA in ‘54. Hannah was based in Miami. She had been spending most of her time as a spy in Washington D.C. under the guise of writing mainstream human interest features about President Kennedy’s life as a family man to strengthen his coalition among voters in the heartland.

Spangler heard through a colleague that Hannah was just back from a trip to Washington, and he felt an urgent need to speak to her. She was one of the few people in his high-pressure life who had a calming effect on him. Showing up at her apartment without calling ahead was inconsiderate, but he knew she’d understand. He parked on Bayshore and headed up to room 406. Looking up and down the hallway to make sure no one was watching, he knocked on the door.

Spangler heard a faint patter of footsteps. When the door began to open, his heart skipped a beat as he found himself looking into the barrel of a gun aimed just over his left shoulder.  

“Jesus, Hannah! It’s just me,” he said in a frantic whisper. “Put that thing down!”

“Art, thank god,” said Hannah, lowering the gun against her white robe. “You know I have to be careful these days. Come in.”

They sat together on a gray couch in the living room in silence. Hannah placed the weapon on the table in front of them. A sharp-featured brunette in her mid-30s, she was long and slender, and favored outfits that flattered her figure. People often commented that she bore a striking resemblance to the actress Olivia de Havilland. She possessed a sharp intellect, a natural grace with people, and thus an uncanny ability to hold her own with the politicians, military men, and other egomaniacs in Washington. Spangler found these traits irresistible. He knew she was drawn to his smarts and enjoyed their occasional meetings over coffee or drinks, but he felt locked in a perpetual friendship with this beautiful and beguiling woman.   

“Bissell called early this morning,” he said, breaking the silence.

Hannah nodded as she glanced down at the gun on the coffee table. “They are reviving Sleepy Hollow, aren’t they?”

“Yep. Full budget.”

Spangler admired Hannah’s profile, but quickly averted his gaze as her green eyes flashed at him. He took a deep breath, smoothing out the creases in his pants. “Do you think it’s the right move?”

“Of course, I do, Art,” Hannah said, smiling. “Look at me. You should feel fantastic about this! We’ve been trying to get rid of El Caballo for two years, and now you have the resources to realize your vision. Don’t we live for moments like this?”

“Yes, but say we succeed. What happens after Castro is gunned down?” asked Spangler. “Do we just turn Cuba back to the Cosa Nostra crime bosses? Kennedy has no plans to invade … we know your ‘family man’ has no stomach for that, don’t we?”

Hannah now looked sternly at him.

“This jealousy of Jack is unbecoming, Arthur.”

“I’m sorry, Hannah. I’m just feeling a bit … unsettled right now,” said Spangler.

“I’ve told you,” said Hannah, “one of your greatest attributes is clarity of purpose. Everybody has an off day, it’s okay ... let me get you a drink.”

Spangler held up his hand.

“No, I’ve already had one too many this morning. I would take some water though.”

Hannah walked to the sink and filled a glass. Spangler stood and watched her, admiring the flex of her shapely calves beneath the silky robe as she glided over to the fridge and stood on her tiptoes to pluck a few ice cubes from the freezer. He breathed in deeply, catching the alluring plume of powder and perfume that always seemed to linger in Hannah’s presence.

“I just keep coming back to the same question—what exactly is the endgame of our Cuban policy?” Spangler asked. “We can take out Castro, but then what? There’s no credible government in exile waiting to be installed, so the communists will still be running the show. Kennedy knows the agency lied about the popular uprising after the Bay of Pigs. He still hasn’t forgiven us.”

As Hannah approached him with the glass of water, Spangler realized he had been flailing his arms as he talked.

“Deep breaths, Art,” said Hannah, handing off the glass.

He exhaled before continuing in a softer voice.

“This mission has no strategic purpose, so what’s the point? We’re striking someone down just because we can. It’s force without wisdom. And if we think there won’t be any serious political repercussions with the Soviets, well, we are deluding ourselves.”

Hannah motioned for Spangler to sit back down.

“The point is, we do what we’re told to do,” she said. “If you do your job right, which you always have, the Soviets won’t know we were involved.”

“You’re making my point about self-delusion,” said Spangler, resting uneasily back into Hannah’s couch.

“No need to be snarky, Arthur.”

“I’m sorry Hannah, but you can’t really believe that. The Soviets may be monsters, but they’re not stupid. If one aspect of this operation goes awry, it could trigger a nuclear war.”

“Point taken, but the policy decisions are out of our control. We have to trust that the ones who put the weight of wisdom behind the force have the strategic vision we lack.”

“Wisdom is quite the assumption, but, yeah, I suppose you’re right,” said Spangler, taking a small sip from the glass.

“Look,” said Hannah, leaning back in her chair, “the way I see it, you’re developing an operation like Roosevelt in Iran. You’d have no problem with a result like that, right?”

“I don’t know if Sleepy Hollow will change the strategic landscape, but I appreciate the support,” said Spangler, half-heartedly.

Hannah re-crossed her legs and leaned over, placing a hand on Spangler’s knee. “Look, I’m not trying to give you support. I’m trying to be realistic, but you seem to want theology this morning.”

She smiled at Spangler, who felt his heart flutter at Hannah’s touch.

“I don’t need a transcendental purpose,” he said, looking behind Hannah at the Guernica print on her living room wall. “But I must know that what we are doing has some meaning. Or do I just console myself by saying we are the killers of all killers? That the savagery I orchestrate is simply the means to an end that I may never comprehend?”

“Please not another rant about means and ends,” said Hannah, rolling her eyes, leaning back, and taking her hand off Spangler’s knee.

“Arthur, you can’t consider political assassination for the cause of liberty a ‘murder’. More is at stake than any of us can know … history books will make sense of the chaos in front of us. You are good at your job – the best – and you have already done so much for the country. The agency is in survival mode and we need you to come through. This is your moment.”

Hannah looked at the floor and said in a whisper, “You know, you’re right about Jack. He doesn’t trust us. What if he does shatter the CIA into a thousand pieces and scatter us to the wind…what happens to us, to the free world?”

“Is that what this is about? Agency self-preservation? Carrying out murder to justify our organizational existence?” asked Spangler, his voice dropping to a barely audible whisper.

“What will the President do when he finds out you’re one of us, and not just some journalist trying to sell him to Midwestern housewives like a box of soap flakes?”

Hannah fell silent, the color draining from her face. “I dread that day, Arthur,” she said, glancing again at the gun on the table, “but I’ve taken an oath and I do as Langley tells me. We all have to do our duty right now. It’s what the moment demands.”

“You’re falling in love with Kennedy, aren’t you?”

***

As he prepared to advance down the storm drain, the Cuban’s attention was momentarily drawn to the concatenation of dripping water echoing up and down the darkened cavern. He had heard this strange symphony before. As a boy in Cuba, he and his brothers would visit the house of his abuelos, who ran the family farm outside of La Boca, and play in the large metal culverts that diverted irrigation run-off towards the Bahia de Mariel. They explored deep inside the pipes with flashlights, searching for hidden treasure and fighting gangs of imaginary pirates with sticks they’d fashioned into swords and guns. As he got older, he would walk the drain in solitude and listen to the din of water droplets falling throughout the pipe, and it sounded like this, especially after a rainstorm.

Those memories from his youth were tinged with a painful nostalgia, for they were – in his mind – of a different Cuba, a Cuba before Castro, a Cuba when his family still lived a quiet and dignified life in the countryside. When the horseman, El Caballo, had risen to power, the small plot of farmland his family had tended for generations on the outskirts of La Boca was seized by the State. Mere months after they were forced to cede the land, his grandfather died of a heart attack, and two months later his grandmother, having lost everything that mattered, convinced a local pharmacist to give her prescription painkillers which she used to take her life. Cuba before the Revolution had been no utopia, but Batista was just a common criminal who, at the very least, respected private property and the right of families to control their own destiny. Castro was a tyrant so convinced of his own rectitude that he would use the blood of his people to water the roots of his Marxist-Leninist vision...

The Cuban shook his head, regaining concentration, and aimed the headlamp at his watch. 1135 hours. Twenty minutes to get to the spot and set up. He crouched down with one hand cradling the weapon against his chest and continued advancing down the cramped tunnel with long sideways strides, the way he’d practiced since being recruited for the initial operation in late April. Cold rainwater splashed up, saturating his pants, and small droplets forming in the cracked concrete above trickled onto his head and shoulders.

***

“I want to express my great appreciation to the brigade for making the United States the custodian of this flag. I can assure you that this flag will be returned to this brigade in a free Havana.”

~John F. Kennedy, Brigade 2506 Speech at the Miami Orange Bowl, 1962

***

The bottle of scotch that Spangler ordered the Fontainebleau staff to send up in advance of the meeting with Dahlgren sat on a rectangular coffee table alongside a bulging file containing extensive information on Havana’s infrastructure. While the midday sunlight in Miami pushed the temperature into the upper 90s, the blinds of room 53 were drawn closed for the meeting, and Spangler sat rubbing his temples and trying to calm his dyspepsia. Dahlgren gave the coded knock at the door – 10 taps mimicking the chorus of “High Hopes” by Frank Sinatra. After centering himself, Spangler let him in.

“Frying pan in hell out there,” said Dahlgren, an imposing brutish man whose narrow merciless eyes, army haircut, and muscular frame seemed starkly incompatible with his boyishly round face.

He walked into the room with a facial expression that shot contempt at Spangler.

“Why don’t we cut to it. Just tell me what this is about.”

“Yes, well, certainly, but we’ll both want a drink with this news,” said Spangler, motioning towards the table.

He had always been intimidated by alpha field operatives like Dahlgren—dangerous men who had seen and done unspeakable acts on multiple continents, and who filled every civilian room they occupied thereafter with pure aggression and rage, like penned-up attack dogs.

“I got the call from Bissell this morning,” said Spangler, pouring two drinks. “Operation Sleepy Hollow has been approved by Langley.”

“Do we have the whole budget?” Dahlgren asked, as he accepted his drink. Spangler nodded.  

“Those damn fools in Washington actually want to get this thing done,” said Dahlgren. “Maybe they learned a thing or two since we fought with one hand behind our back in Korea.”

Dahlgren pointed towards his temple. “I had a feeling Kennedy’s kid brother would appreciate the direct approach. Enough of this Mongoose terrorist bullshit ... a bullet to Castro’s brain is what we need, and now is the time to do it.”

“Well, the deep thinkers in the SGA – Bobby, McNamara, and the others – seem to agree. You know I can’t implicate the President or the company in this project,” said Spangler.

“Yeah, thank you, I know how this game is played,” said Dahlgren.

“You are on your own, but let’s just say money is no object, and your benefactor is emptying his pockets to bankroll this one.”

“Yeah, well that son-of-a-bitch needs killing,” growled Dahlgren, looking menacingly into his glass. “If nothing else, I’m doing this for the men shot to bits on those godforsaken beaches. I trained them and they believed in me, counted on me ... their deaths will be avenged, I don’t care if we have to empty the damn Treasury.”

“Yes, I know,” said Spangler. His heart was thumping, but he forced himself to stay focused on his objective. “We can avenge them and take back Cuba if we pull this off. That’s why you’re h --”

“Look,” interrupted Dahlgren, his eyes burning a hole through Spangler, “I know you’re the agency’s golden boy. You tipped off McCone about the Russian missiles. It’s no secret. He owes you, but this is too important. I know you love that cloak-and-dagger bullshit, but I will not carry out any plan involving poison pens, or exploding cigars, or hallucinogens and shit. We have to do this job right. Put a bullet in Castro’s brain. Taking back Cuba and building it up is your job. I am just the exterminator getting rid of the roaches.”

Spangler nodded as he sipped at his drink, but that annoying inner voice returned and he felt sick at having to accept that he and Dahlgren could ever be on the same side.

***

The flow of muck rushing over the black mold that coated the storm sewer brick made the footing difficult for the Cuban and he nearly slipped several times. Otherwise, he found himself exhilarated as he approached the crawl space near the end of the tunnel. They had sent him detailed maps of the sanitation infrastructure under the city, and he had memorized the system of tunnels and manholes that led to his sniper’s nest and to the post-assassination escape point downstream. He knew the angle that would present itself when the target came into view and the precise path his bullet would have to travel for the kill shot. He knew there were other assassins and had a vague notion of their positions around the plaza. One would be at street level and several others in nearby buildings.

The basic idea was to set up a ring of fire, let multiple snipers acquire their mark, and unleash a quick, deadly hail of bullets from separate elevations. He knew that, of the gunmen, he would be closest to the target when triggers were pulled. He had one moment to line up a shot and deliver death from the ground. But, before he could get to the sniper’s nest, he would have to shimmy through the tight cylindrical crawl space, only a half-meter in diameter and 50-meters in length, that was now illuminated beneath his headlamp.

***

“In the long history of the world, only a few generations have been granted the role of defending freedom in its hour of maximum danger. I do not shrink from this responsibility — I welcome it.”

~John F. Kennedy, Inauguration Speech, 1961

***

The map of Old Havana was spread across the Fontainebleau coffee table with a transparency of the city’s infrastructure resting nearby. Spangler and Dahlgren stood side-by-side.

“Castro will be giving his national address here, on a raised platform near the old Capitol Building,” said Spangler, pointing downwards with the tip of a pencil.

“He is using that backdrop as a symbol of oppression to show how he has removed the yoke of capitalism from his people. Of course, he is totally ignoring the failure of his economy.”

“Really Spangler, I don’t need the civics lecture,” said Dahlgren.

“Right,” said Spangler, smoothing out the creases in the map and tapping in the middle.

“The Capitol Building is here, and it’s surrounded by many other multi-story structures in Old Havana. My thought is to get converging fire from at least three, ideally four, locations.”

Spangler pointed to multiple spots on the map.

“Now, there are numerous vantage points in which to place gunmen – two here in the front at different elevations, and two in the rear – but we need an insurance policy since we are only going to get one chance at the target before Castro’s bodyguards move in.”

Dahlgren considered the map. “Looks like an ideal position to set up a crossfire.”

He raised his eyes and glared at Spangler before continuing.

“They’ll hit Castro, but from these positions his security will be on us in under two minutes. You got a plan for that? Or are my guys just collateral damage?”

“Hear me out, I’m not sacrificing your men.”

Spangler looked at Dahlgren, who was circling the ice in his glass with an unblinking stare. After a few painful seconds,  he nodded as if to imply that Spangler had achieved a modicum of his attention. Spangler cleared his throat and continued.

“We need a diversion, a sleight of hand, using an expendable asset. Like the mob did when they killed the old mayor of Chicago, Anton Cermak, back in ‘33.”

“You want a patsy.”  

“Exactly,” said Spangler. “When the mob killed Cermak, they knew FDR was making a speech in Miami with the mayor in attendance. While everyone was watching Roosevelt, an Italian immigrant named Giuseppe Zangara sprang from the crowd and took several wild shots at Cermak, who was standing in front of FDR. With all the commotion around Zangara, the Mafia’s real assassin moved in and finished the job.”

“I’m well aware of all of this, Spangler.”

“The point is,” said Spangler, “the public still believes that Zangara was trying to take out the President when in fact the mob was carrying out a coordinated assassination of the mayor. Zangara was electrocuted within a month. The real assassin melted into thin air.”

Dahlgren sat his glass down and cracked his knuckles.

“A minor detail, but who takes the fall and how exactly do my guys get out?”

Spangler reached into his briefcase and dropped a manila folder on the table.

“This man, Elizardo Anuñez, has the perfect profile for our ‘Zangara’,” said Spangler, placing a series of photographs and documents across the map. “He is a Cuban dissident, 28 years old, who served a year in prison for passing out pamphlets criticizing Castro’s government. After receiving international pressure, they released him three months ago. One of our operatives has cultivated a relationship with him and has made sure he will be in the Hotel Saratoga in Old Havana near where I want you to place one of your snipers. He believes he is connecting with some fellow dissidents during Castro’s event. We have prepared plenty of evidence linking him to the assassination.”

“What evidence?” asked Dahlgren.

“The gun the police find will be his. The bullets we plant will be from his gun.”

“There’s a problem with that, genius. Won’t be any goddamn gunpowder residue on his hands.”

“Let me finish before you jump all over me,” said Spangler. “We have an operative planted in their forensics team who will contaminate the gunpowder residue sample they will take from his hands and clothes. It will prove beyond a doubt he fired a gun.”

“Alright, what if the post-mortem determines other shots were fired from different locations?”

“We have gained compromising information that gives us significant leverage over the chief autopsy physician in the Cuban military. He has been briefed, and his report will be consistent with a single shooter.”

“Well shit, boy genius, maybe you have thought of everything.”

“Everything but the most important part. For this plan to succeed, you and your team must take him out at the right moment.”

“Don’t worry about that,” said Dahlgren. “You know the guys I have access to. My Cubans who survived Kennedy’s clusterfuck of an invasion, and a nice set of Roselli’s pros we’ve been doing business with for years who want Castro dead as much as we do. We’ll take him out.”

Dahlgren leaned back and lit a cigarette.

“Just one thing,” he said, blowing smoke in Spangler’s direction. “I want to know what you mean by an ‘insurance policy’, and don’t speak in your agency snake-tongue.”

“Well, it’s pretty simple,” said Spangler, clearing away the Anuñez documents and once again pointing to the map.

“Your guys in these buildings here, here, and in the Hotel Saratoga are critical to the operation, but they are essentially the ‘diversion’ in the equation, like the initial shots from Zangara that allowed the mob hitman to move in. The kill shot, the insurance policy, comes from below.”