Eyeball to Eyeball (Final Failure)

by Douglas Niles

  “Um, yes Sir, of course,” the major agreed. “We do have some reports—again from sources on the ground—that Khrushchev might have sent some MiG-21s, designated ‘Fishbed,’ to Cuba in recent months.”

  “Fishbed capabilities?” LeMay’s two words came out as a question that the major didn’t hesitate to address.

  “Mach 2 speed, armed with air-to-air infrared missiles and a 30mm cannon. They’re the enemy’s most advanced fighter, probably nearly equal to our best. Avionics are known to include air-intercept radar. They can operate from rough fields and, like a lot of Russian equipment, they don’t need a lot of maintenance. The Fishbeds would be a threat that we’d have to take seriously, Sir.”

  “And because we don’t have current recon, we don’t even know where they might be based!” LeMay barked to no one in particular. “What else do they have in terms of air assets?”

  “This came in just last night, sir,” said the major. He pulled down a screen while one of the colonels turned on a slide projector on the far side of the room. The device projected an image of a modern merchant ship on the high seas. She was traveling at a good clip, to judge from the foaming wakes churning along her hull and astern.

  “This is the Kasimov,” the briefing officer explained. He used the pointer to indicate a double row of large crates, apparently about the size of railroad boxcars, lined up on the ship’s long foredeck. “These crates match the dimensions of the crates the Soviets use to transport the Ilyushin-28 light bomber—”

  “The ‘Beagles,’” LeMay snorted. “Not a lot of range, but they’re not a defensive weapons system, that’s for sure. Khrushchev might be sending some offensive weaponry to his Cuban pal.” He paused, thinking and puffing.

  “Get me some prints of that slide,” he ordered. “They might help me change some minds up in Washington. If Castro has bombers capable of reaching even halfway into Florida, the President will have to take notice.”

  “And that’s not all, Sir,” the intelligence major added, continuing quickly as the Chief of Staff waved him to proceed. “The Beagle is a light bomber, short-ranged to be sure. But we’ve learned that they have the capacity to deliver nuclear weapons—one gravity bomb per aircraft.”

  “Now that should get somebody’s attention, even in D.C.! Major,” said LeMay, standing and turning toward the door. “Good brief. You just made my day.”

  05 October 1962

  2030 hours (Friday night)

  Oval Office, the White House

  Washington D.C.

  Five men occupied two chairs and a couch, facing the desk where sat the most powerful man in the Free World. Each man’s face was earnest, voice level and determined. The first to speak was John McCone, Director of the CIA and one of the few Republicans in the Kennedy White House.

  “Mister President, we need to get some more pictures! Right now they have a curtain pulled around that island, and God only knows what they’re doing behind it! We haven’t had an overflight since late summer, and the Reds have been sending tons of freight to Cuba—two ships arriving every day, on average.”

  The President listened carefully, elbows resting on the desk, his handsome features creased by a frown. Before he replied, however, his National Security Adviser argued the point.

  “It’s just too dangerous, Sir!” McGeorge Bundy declared. “Remember, when Powers got shot down over Russia, that knocked our relations with the Soviets to hell, for two years! We’ve at least got a dialogue going with them again—over Berlin—and that’s too important to take a chance on messing it up.”

  “And we know they have SAM sites all over the island,” Secretary of State Dean Rusk noted. The balding, mild-mannered diplomat spoke with a softer tone. “SA-2 missiles, the same one that shot down Powers. And just last week that pilot from Taiwan. It would be only too easy for them to shoot down another U2, and we’d have an international incident on our hands that would be hard to control.”

  “But we can’t operate in the dark, without data. We need more intelligence,” Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara noted, his delivery clipped and precise. “We need to take the chance and get those pictures. It’s absolutely essential that we collect some more solid information.”

  The President leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Robert F. Kennedy, the President’s younger brother, United States Attorney General and de facto prime minister, recognized the spasm of pain that Jack tried to hide. The younger Kennedy knew that his brother was always in pain, and always trying to hide it.

  “Well, Bobby, that’s two in favor, two against. We seem to have a deadlock. What’s your vote?” JFK’s voice was calm, almost as if he was asking for an opinion on what to have for dinner, or what movie to show in the White House screening room. Bobbhy knew the President would make the final decision, but he also knew that JFK liked to gather opinions, to listen to the arguments of men he respected—even those who disagreed with him—before he took action.

  “I think we should send the spyplanes and take the pictures,” Bobby declared. “Senator Keating is making noises again about our being soft on Communism, and he’s using Cuba as his club. And Director McCone is right: we really don’t know what’s going on down there. But there have been enough reports from refugees—whole villages being dislocated, long convoys of trucks in the night—for us to believe that something is up. And we need to know what it is.”

  “All right,” said the President decisively, sitting straight again and looked at the DCI. “Send a couple of U2s. See what kind of pictures they can get. And we’ll decide where to go from there.”

  “Yes, Mr. President. I’ll do that—this time of year we might have to wait for a week or two before we get clear weather, but at the first opportunity we’ll get those pictures.”

  “Good,” Jack said with a curt nod. He turned to look at his Secretary of Defense. “Now, what kind of strategic report are we getting from the JCS?”

  “They didn’t want to stray from SIOP 62, Sir,” McNamara replied. “If it comes to any kind of an exchange, General LeMay maintains that anything less than a complete demolition of the Communist Bloc would leave us wide open for retaliation.”

  For the first time Kennedy revealed a flash of anger. “Goddamn it! They still say the only way we can use our nuclear arsenal is to hit every target they can find, all at the same time?”

  “They were locked into the plan, Mr. President. I agree we need more flexibility, but it’s been like pulling teeth to get that out of them. They’re working on it, though: the new plan, SIOP 63, is ready for implementation. It includes five levels of escalating response. Levels one and two, at least, avoid direct strikes on cities.”

  “Thank God for that! I can’t believe the way these guys are ready to talk about the obliteration of half the globe! It’s not acceptable! Tell them to put the finishing touches on SIOP 63 and make it official. There’s no reason that every kid in Bucharest and Budapest should get burned to death just because we can’t get along with Moscow!”

  “I’ll go back and tell them to make it a priority, Sir,” the secretary replied. “They’ll have to finish it up. It’s not like they haven’t heard your point of view before.”

  Sensing a pause as the other men collected their thoughts, Bobby cleared his throat. “Now, about Mississippi,” he began. “Things have settled down some, but the FBI has picked up reports of fresh KKK activity.”

  They all had fresh memories of the “Battle of Ole Miss,” where, with the backing of the United States Army National Guard, James Meredith had been admitted as the first negro student in the university’s history. The whole situation had become a sore point for JFK, and his explosive answer confirmed that fact.

  “Jesus, Bobby—not today! I don’t have time for it right now. Bring it back to me tomorrow!”

  “Yessir, Mr. President,” replied the attorney general.

  The tension in the room lingered for a moment until a knock sounded from the door. “Come!” snapped JFK.
<
br />   It was veteran Secret Service agent Bob Morris who stuck his head into the Oval Office.

  “Excuse me, Mr. President,” he said. “But your wife said to tell you that it’s time to tuck the kids into bed.”

  Kennedy leaned his head back, his face creased with a shadow of a smile. “Thanks Bob,” he said. “Tell Jackie I’ll be right up.” The door closed and the President looked at each man in turn. “And thanks, fellows,” he said with obvious sincerity. “I couldn’t do this without you.”

  * * *

  Bob Morris was still on duty three hours later, as the clock neared midnight. Now he was stationed in the basement of the White House, where the elevator shaft terminated. The smell of chlorine lingered in the air, evidence of the private swimming pool. He was waiting for that elevator and wouldn’t be able to go home until it had arrived.

  A few minutes earlier he’d been handed a brief note, written by another agent. It read “2 Special Visitors, ETA 2345.” He wondered, idly, if they’d be blond, brunette, or redhead. He tried not to think of the First Lady; he liked her, and he didn’t like this part of his job

  The chime sounded, indicating the arrival of the elevator. He was mildly surprised to see that the passengers were not only blond, but that they appeared to be twins. He recognized one of them from a previous visit, though, as usual, he’d not exchanged any conversation with the special visitor. He couldn’t help overhearing, however, as the first girl pushed her way through the door into the pool.

  “Don’t worry,” she said to her sister in a conspiratorial whisper. “You’re not going to need your swimming suit.”

  2352 hours (Friday night)

  Submarine B-59

  North Atlantic Ocean

  Captain Savitsky retired to his cabin shortly before midnight. The space was barely a closet, with a bunk just long enough for him to lie down on it. He had a tiny desk, safe, and cabinet crammed in there with the bed. Submarine B-59 had been churning steadily into the ocean for five days now, passing around North Cape, the Faeroe Islands, then Scotland and Ireland as they’d made their way into the Atlantic Ocean.

  The crew of the boat had fallen into an easy routine. The captain was pleased by their high morale, but worried because he knew so very little about their mission. They were far from their base on the Kola Peninsula near Murmansk, and neither he nor anyone else aboard knew their ultimate destination. Now, in the middle of the night, they ran on the surface, as fast as their three diesel engines could propel them. Those same diesels were recharging the batteries, which rapidly drained whenever B-59 submerged below snorkel depth and had to run on electric power. The radio antenna was high in the air, ready to receive any signals from home, though the boat was under strict radio silence and couldn’t send any kind of message.

  He removed his boots in the tiny compartment and sat on the bunk, which allowed barely enough room for his legs to stretch toward the hatch—and of course, his were the roomiest quarters on the cramped, utilitarian boat. No wonder the men called the Foxtrots “Pig-Boats,” he reflected. He had left the hatch open, so he looked up immediately as a sailor, one of the radiomen, drew up outside of the captain’s quarters.

  “Sir! A message from Moscow!” reported the crewman, handing the captain a sheet of filmy paper. Amid several lines of gibberish, Savitsky saw a phrase—“Long live the October Revolution!”—that set his heart to pumping.

  “Send for Commander Arkhipov and Lieutenant Commander Maslennikov,” he ordered the radioman. “And close the hatch behind you.” As soon as the sailor had departed, the captain leaned over his bunk and dialed the combination to his small safe, from which he removed a thin envelope. He was holding the envelope in one hand, idly slapping it against the palm of the other, by the time the other two officers tapped against the metal hatch.

  “Come!” he ordered. Arkhipov pulled the hatch open. “Squeeze yourselves in here and close it behind you,” the captain ordered, stretching his legs onto his bunk so there would be room for the two men to stand. A moment later they stood over him, watching expectantly.

  “We have received the message from headquarters indicated in our initial orders,” Savitsky said. He extended the envelope to political officer Maslennikov. “Please confirm that the seal is intact.”

  “It is, Comrade Captain,” the commissar replied, showing the envelope to Arkhipov for confirmation.

  Without further ceremony, Savitsky used his pocket knife to slice through the seal. He pulled the single sheet of paper out, read it—making an effort to keep his face expressionless, despite his surprise—and then handed it to his executive officer.

  Arkhipov could not maintain the poker face as he passed the note to the political officer. “Cuba!” he said. “That’s an awfully long way from the rodina!”

  “I believe no Soviet submarine has every journeyed so far from the motherland,” Savitsky agreed with forced aplomb. “We have the honor of making history for our revolution, and our navy.”

  “Indeed, comrades,” Maslennikov added, handing the sheet of orders back to the captain. “To Cuba!” The commissar officer, who was a good crewmate despite his somewhat unmilitary role, seemed shaken by the news, but determined to display enthusiasm. Savitsky admired him for that.

  The captain summarized the rest of their orders: they were to escort merchant ships that carried important cargo to Cuba, and to defend those ships—and themselves—if they were attacked. They were not to allow the Americans to interfere with the movements of Soviet ships, and no restrictions were placed on the type of weaponry the submarine could employ in accomplishing the mission. They all understood what that meant: Even Feklisov’s nuclear warhead was a legitimate asset in performing this task.

  “So, Vasily Andreivich: In a few minutes you will go to the plotting compartment amd commence drawing a new course. We have an ocean to cross! But, before then, what can you both tell me about the concerns we will face on this rather unprecedented voyage?”

  “I think the morale of the crew is high,” Maslennikov answered after a moment’s thought. “They will be proud of the assignment and make every effort to ensure that our orders are executed promptly and honorably.”

  The captain nodded in agreement. “We have sufficient fuel to reach Havana, I expect—though of course we will need to make detailed calculations, now that we have this knowledge. The crew will be able to maintain normal rations for at least another month, so food should not be an issue.” He looked at Arkhipov. “Commander?”

  “You are right, Comrade Captain. We will need to pay special attention to the water filters, of course. Our boats are not used to operating in warm waters.”

  “That’s a good point. We’ll issue orders to control water use even more tightly than normal—we’ll need all the fresh water we can distill just to make sure the batteries keep functioning.”

  “Captain?” inquired the political officer. “Do you suppose the entire brigade will be joining us in Havana?” They all knew that B-59 was one of four boats attached to the 69th Brigade, and it was common knowledge—at least among the officers—that the quartet of Foxtrots had all departed port on the same day.

  “It would seem likely,” Savitksy acknowledged, “though whether or not that is the case should make no difference to our mission.”

  “No Sir, of course, not,” Maslennikov agreed hastily. Even as he spoke, the captain pulled three small glasses and a metal flask from a compartment on his sea desk. He poured a dram of vodka into each glass, and each officer lifted his in a brief toast.

  “To the rodina!” Savitsky declared.

  “To the motherland!” his senior officers repeated. All three men tossed back the clear, burning liquid in smooth swallows.

  “Now, I’m going to get some sleep,” the captain announced. He felt strangely calm and settled, now that he had the answer to his most burning question. He glanced at the chronometer on his bulkhead. “Stay on the surface for three more hours, then take her down. I want to be under wat
er well before dawn.”

  06 October 1962

  1123 hours (Saturday midday)

  Battery 2, 539th Missile Regiment

  San Cristobal, Cuba

  Tukov looked up in annoyance from the blueprints on his mapping table. The steamy heat wore on him, and he was trying to establish the final layout for his rocket battery. He didn’t need any interference from the aide who had just pushed open the tent flap.

  “What?” he demanded in irritation.

  “I am sorry, Comrade Colonel, but there is a visitor—a distinguished visitor—here to see you.”

  “Unless it’s General Pliyev himself I don’t have time—“

  Tukov bit back the rest of the remark as a cloud of cigar smoke preceded a tall, bearded man, clad in worn fatigues, who strode boldly into the tent. Though he had never seen him in person, the Russian officer recognized Fidel Castro immediately—and found himself at a loss as to how to address the leader of the Cuban state, who was smiling broadly.