"They're coming back!" someone yelled. The MiGs banked and flew side by side toward them, their machine guns flashing. Each MiG carried a pair of bombs and the crew of the Willow watched in horror as they were dropped. Three bombs crashed into the sea in or near the crowd of mauled small boats, sending debris and torn bodies into the sky, while the fourth bomb headed directly towards the Willow.
One of the MiGs burst into flames as anti-aircraft fire from the Willow hit it. A small cheer went up as it cartwheeled into the sea. A second later, the fourth bomb exploded against the hull of the Willow. Watkins felt himself being hurled in the air, and then he was flung down hard on the metal deck. Flames and smoke enveloped him. Arms grabbed him and dragged him away from the fire. He lost consciousness for a moment. He heard someone ask for a tourniquet and wondered why. He looked down before someone could push him back. His left leg was gone. Bloody strands of meat dangled from where his knee had once been and blood was all over the place. Was it all his? If it was, he was a dead man.
He groaned and turned to say something to Lieutenant Harkins who was lying a few feet from him. Harkins would now have to take over. Watkins could speak, but Harkins couldn't. His executive officer was dead, his eyes were blank, and his chest was ripped open by bomb shards. Watkins watched as Harkins' horribly visible heart stopped beating.
"We gotta report this," he mumbled. Vitale was injecting him with morphine. The morphine, combined with loss of blood, was causing him to fade.
"It's done, skipper," Vitale said. "Planes are on the way and so are some ships. Don't you just wonder where they were a few minutes ago?"
"We heading back to Miami?" Watkins managed to ask, his voice weakening.
"As soon as we finish picking up the dead and wounded. We're safe, sir. We're not anywhere near sinking condition and the remaining MiG has disappeared."
Watkins had no idea which of his surviving officers was skippering the Willow and didn't care. They were all good men. They would definitely make it to Miami. As he lost consciousness he wondered what the hell would he do with only one leg.
Captain Miguel Rojas listened to his radio. The two planes he'd sent to attack the American warship had actually managed to hit her with one of their bombs, which was a totally unexpected bonus. When their spies in Florida radioed that a force of Miami based exiles was departing and would attempt to land near Havana, it created a dilemma and an opportunity. His superiors had been certain that the Americans would try to stop the exiles, and they also felt there was a tremendous opportunity to hurt both the United States and the growing exile community.
Thus, they’d devised the plan to attack the ship they know knew was called the Willow, along with killing a large number of exiles. It would require the Americans to launch fighters from Florida to protect them all, which would then provide a distraction to the Cuban main effort, an attack on Miami International Airport.
Rojas' flight of six swept-wing MiG 17 fighters was headed to Florida to bloody John F. Kennedy's nose. The planes were the best the Cuban air force had. They each had a 37mm nose cannon and a pair of 23mm guns in the wings, along with a 500 pound bomb. With external fuel tanks they would have no difficulty flying from Havana to Miami, along with engaging the enemy if they had to. Better, it was now very likely that the Americans were focused on rescuing their damaged ship.
Rojas was pleased at the opportunity to strike back, even though he was reasonably certain they would never again have the opportunity. Even though American carriers had not yet arrived, there were too many enemy planes in the air. The Cuban air force had suffered grievously and, after this attack, would go into hiding.
Rojas had been in on the discussions regarding their target. Homestead had been ruled out because it was already military and likely heavily defended. Therefore, Miami International with its brand new circular terminal was the target. Originally there had been a military presence, but it had been moved to nearby Homestead. Now, the airport was being re-configured to handle military traffic to fight Cuba, which made it a legitimate target.
They flew low over the lush Florida countryside, hoping they would not be sighted or picked up on radar. The MiG 17 had a passing resemblance to the American F86 and the new F4 fighters, and it was hoped that any ground observers might be confused or misled that their planes were American.
Rojas had flown over the area several times when there had been peace and he quickly located the Tamiami Canal leading from the Everglades to Miami. He clicked on his radio and the planes followed as he headed them in.
Moments later, the runways were in sight and, yes, they were lined with military transports and fighters, and there were few civilian planes near them. As planned, the planes broke into three pairs and began their runs. Only now did American anti-aircraft fire begin. It was too late. The MiGs strafed the neat lines of planes, their shells ripping into the fragile hulls. Explosions billowed into the sky and Rojas saw men running around in panic as they streaked by.
It only took a few seconds to use up their ammunition, and they dropped their bombs on what appeared to be fuel storage facilities. They were rewarded with a series of gigantic and fiery explosions.
Rojas ordered them to return to Cuba, only this time they would not go to Havana. So far it seemed to be off limits to American bombers, so the decision had been made to not tempt fate. They would land at a hastily built base farther east at Santa Clara where waiting crews would camouflage and hide their planes.
Rojas counted his planes. He had four left. The men he'd lost were among the best and they would be missed, but war caused casualties. He hoped that Castro was happy that they'd again humiliated the mighty United States.
When Rojas landed, he expected to be swarmed over by admiring mechanics and others not fortunate enough to fly planes. Instead, one soldier ran up as he started to climb down and receive their congratulations and simply yelled, "Run for your life!"
Rojas jumped to the ground and raced as quickly as he ever had for the thick woods nearby. A few minutes later, a jet screamed overhead and then others quickly followed. Bombs dropped and the field behind him erupted in explosions. What had happened was obvious. He'd been followed back to his so-called hidden base by a bunch of very pissed off Americans who'd either followed him visually or on radar. He sagged to the ground and lit a cigarette. His plane was now burning brightly and the Cuban Air Force, for all practical purposes, had ceased to exist. Still, he laughed, he had truly stuck it to the damned Americans. Better, he’d managed to survive.
John Kennedy, Bobby Kennedy, and Lyndon Johnson had been discussing matters in the Oval Office when word was flashed that Miami was under attack. Within minutes, a grainy black and white picture was being shown on television and Walter Cronkite was trying manfully to decipher what was going on from his base in New York. The three men in the Oval Office were aghast at the flames and smoke billowing from Miami's airport.
Another camera angle showed near panic in the streets as civilians rushed to get away from an unseen enemy. Another shot showed ambulances racing towards the airport. CBS was using their new portable Ikegami television cameras to record the event. JFK couldn’t help but wonder if portable television was going to be the new face of war.
A quick phone call from the Pentagon confirmed what they were seeing. A small force of Cuban planes had strafed and bombed the airport. An unknown number of Air Force personnel were dead or wounded and a large number of planes had been destroyed. Also, a major fuel storage area had been set on fire and was burning dramatically. On the positive side, if there was one JFK ruefully noted, civilian casualties were minimal if any.