Eyeball to Eyeball (Final Failure)

by Douglas Niles

  As the clock entered the early hours of 14 October, Major Heyser prepared to take one of those planes into the sky. He was not a large man, but even so he had to squeeze himself into the very tight confines of the cockpit. He ran through the pre-flight checklist, and everything was a go. At 0230 hours, local time, he released the brake and allowed the single powerful engine to start him down the long runway.

  For all of its tight cockpit space, the U2 was a fairly large airplane. The wings were long and gently tapered, a full one hundred feet in span, as opposed to the mere sixty-foot length of the fuselage. In order to save weight, many typical items of aircraft equipment had been omitted. Those wings, for example, would have scraped on the ground from their own weight, since the designers had been unwilling to install extra wheels. Instead, each wing was held off the runway by a strut, with a wheel on the bottom, that rested in a socket on the underside of the wing, midway to the end. The strut was not attached to the plane in any way except for the gravity that caused the wings to sag downward when the U2 stood at rest. When the aircraft lifted off the tarmac the struts and wheels would fall to the ground, where they would be collected for reuse by the ground crew.

  The force of the jet engine pressed him back into his seat as the U2 gradually accelerated down the runway. Since the plane was designed for the thin air near the stratosphere—and power assists on the controls would have added unnecessary weight—Heyser had to use all of his considerable strength to pull back on the stick, forcing the balky machine into a very shallow climb. A minute later he felt the freedom of flight and banked very gently as he continued to gain altitude. He continued to gradually get higher and higher as he crossed southern California, Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas, until by the time he reached airspace over the Gulf of Mexico, he was more than ten miles above the placid, still-dark waters below.

  14 October 1962

  1150 hours (Sunday midday)

  Chairman’s office

  Kremlin, Moscow

  The Defense Minister and Foreign Minister arrived together, ready to brief their Chairman on the latest developments in Cuba and regarding Operation Anadyr. Nikita Khrushchev knew that just an hour ago Foreign Minister Gromyko had been in contact with Ambassador Aleksandr Alekseev, the Soviet Union’s senior diplomat in Cuba. Following this meeting, Gromyko would be taken to the airport, where he would board a plane that would carry him to the United States for a diplomatic conference with President Kennedy—part of a series of meetings that had been scheduled for the latter part of this year, in an attempt to improve communication between the two superpowers.

  Khrushchev gestured at Gromyko to go first. “What is the latest word from our revolutionary comrade in Havana?”

  “Comrade Fidel has repeated his request that we announce the presence of the missiles, and of our mutual defense treaty, immediately, rather than waiting until the missiles are operational,” Gromyko replied. “He is delighted with our deployment of strategic weapons to his country, but feels that knowledge of that deployment, and awareness of our mutual defense pact, will serve as additional deterrent to the imperialist enemy.”

  “Impossible! We have come so far already. The plan will work best as a fait accompli,” the chairman insisted. “The Americans must know nothing about our missiles until those missiles are ready to fire.”

  “Comrade Alekseev has made Comrade Castro aware of your views, and the Cuban leader accepts your decision. But he did want his opinion made known to you,” Gromyko replied apologetically. His reticence was understandable—there were not too many people willing to let Khrushchev know that they disagreed with him.

  “And we are very close to readiness now, are we not, Rodion Yakovlivich?” the chairman asked, turning his attention to the Defense Minister. “Are any of the missiles ready to fire if the order was given today?”

  “No, Comrade Chairman,” Malinovsky replied, understanding that his leader was asking a rhetorical question—Khrushchev had been briefed on a Operation Anadyr on a daily basis and knew down to a matter of hours the progress made on each of the installations. “But the SS4 launch sites are well under way, and all of the equipment, launchers, missiles, and warheads have arrived in Cuba. The warheads are being transported to a secure storage facility, while the launch installations themselves are rapidly being made operational.”

  “Best estimate, then?”

  “I believe I can assure you that within seven to nine days from now, the SS4 batteries will be ready to fire. Those in central Cuba are approaching completion slightly ahead of the batteries in the west, near San Cristobal in Pinar del Rio province.”

  “Splendid! Even those, mere medium-range ballistic missiles, will change the balance of power completely.” The chairman leaned back far in his chair, lifting his short legs to rest his feet on his desk. “The Sandals, as I recall, will be able to reach Washington D.C. and even New York City, from Cuba. It will serve the Americans right to feel the threat of nuclear destruction from just beyond their borders—as we have known that threat from imperialist bases in Turkey, in Italy, in England.”

  Khrushchev nodded in satisfaction at his own reasoning before continuing. “And the SS5s, the intermediate-range Skean rockets? They will take a little longer, will they not?”

  “Indeed, Comrade Chairman. Most of the SS5 equipment, and all of the warheads, are still at sea. Some of the initial preparations have been made, but the warheads—aboard Alexandrovosk—will not even arrive in a Cuban port until another ten days or more has passed.”

  “But when the IRBMs are ready, we will be able to strike at every corner of the United States. The Yankees will have nowhere to hide!”

  “Almost completely,” Malinovsky agreed, adding slyly: “Of course, Seattle and the northwest corner of their country, as well as Alaska and Hawaii, will remain beyond even the SS5 range. But the bulk of the United States will be vulnerable to a fast strategic strike.”

  “There you have it,” Khrushchev stated, as if the facts had made his case. “We will wait until both the medium-range and intermediate-range ballistic missiles are ready to fire before we announce their existence.”

  “Very well, Comrade Chairman. I will convey word to our ambassador,” Gromyko replied.

  “And I will encourage our troops to work even faster than they are right now, in support of the rodina,” Malinovsky added, invoking the sacred cause of the Russian motherland.

  “So, very soon the Americans will know what it is like to fear annihilation! They will be so surprised!” Nikita Khrushchev exclaimed, clapping his hands in giddy excitement.

  Across the desk, Defense Minister Malinovsky and Foreign Minister Gromyko did not seem to share his glee.

  0730 hours (Sunday morning)

  Altitude: 70,000 feet

  Approaching Cuban coastline from the south

  So far, Photoreconnaissance Mission 3101 had gone off without a hitch, but Major Heyser knew that the truly risky stretch awaited him, a few miles in front of his nose—and some fourteen miles below. An hour earlier he’d been given the “all clear” by the crew of the RB47 on weather forecast duty, so he proceeded on the due-north course that would soon carry him directly over the communist-controlled island.

  The details were encouraging: Cuba’s skies were free of cloud cover. No defensive fighter patrols had been detected, though even if they had, Heyser would have proceeded with his mission. No other aircraft on earth could fly high enough to challenge a U2. As far as the surface-to-air missiles, the pilot was prepared to take his chances.

  His target area lay in the westernmost province of Cuba, Pinar del Rio. He had been ordered to make a single pass, from south to north, which would leave him over the island for only about twelve minutes. Rumors from ground sources indicated suspicious activity there, especially around the town of San Cristobal. His job was to confirm or deny the suspicions of the various United States intelligence agencies.

  Heyser doublechecked the camera controls as he crossed the line be
low, where the blue water turned to verdant greenery, and then he activated all systems. It was merely a transition of color from this altitude—he could only imagine that his eyes made out a strand of beach between the sea and the tree cover.

  The main piece of equipment in the belly of the U2 was the monstrous, high resolution “B” camera, which exposed each frame on an eighteen-inch by eighteen-inch negative. The reel of film for the B camera was nearly a mile long, and so heavy—and the U2’s flight characteristics so sensitive—that it was sliced down the middle so that it rolled in equal lengths onto drums to the port and starboard of the camera, in order to equalize the weight. The B camera shot straight down, while a smaller “tracking” camera captured images stretching from one horizon to the other on two-inch squares of film. Each could shoot multiple frames per second and would continue to record images until the pilot turned off the camera motors.

  Heyser could make out little in the way of detail from his lofty height, though his chart showed him that, about halfway between the south and north coastlines, he flew over the town of San Cristobal. He kept his eyes and ears tuned to his controls. A buzzer would sound if the aircraft was picked up by SAM tracking radar, and the buzzing would accelerate to a staccato zat-zat-zat of noise if the airplane was hit by the more intense missile-targeting radar. His flight over Cuba lasted the expected dozen minutes, however, without either of his radar detectors giving any indication that the Communists knew he was there.

  Even so, he breathed a little easier once he was over the Florida Strait. He gradually reduced his power, bringing the U2 almost to a glide as he lost altitude over several hundred miles, flying northward toward his destination of McCoy AFB, in central Florida.

  0900 hours (Sunday morning)

  Battery 2, 539th Missile Regiment

  San Cristobal, Cuba

  At dawn, Tukov made a walking tour of his installation, which—for all its incredible striking power—did not cover a terribly large amount of ground. His battery, one half of the 539th Strategic Rocket Regiment, consisted of four launchers and a total of six missiles, centered around the headquarters compound. Each launcher was supported by an array of trucks that carried equipment for fueling and servicing the rockets. Long tents had been erected, and the missiles had been moved into them for protection against both unwanted observation and potentially destructive elements of the weather.

  The final stage of preparation was the laying of massive concrete pads, one for each launcher. These platforms had been cast in the Soviet Union and trucked, at great difficulty, to the battery site. Two of the pads were already here, while he’d been informed that two more were on their way and should arrive by tomorrow.

  The Soviet colonel knew that elite infantry units of Castro’s Revolutionary Armed Forces had cleared the residents from a fairly wide area around the battery, and that the Cuban soldiers constantly and aggressively patrolled the area to ensure that no unsuspecting hunter, herder, or sightseer—not to mention potential counterrevolutionary spy or saboteur—wandered too close. To further enhance the battery’s security, Tukov assigned Russian troops to guard the perimeter of the installation, within the boundary of the fence that had been quickly installed.

  He knew that, out of sight of his immediate area but close enough to support, a series of six SAM sites had already been created, surrounding him with a ring of powerful antiaircraft rockets. The SA-2 launchers were located in a Star of David pattern, with antiaircraft missiles based at each point of the star and the MRB launchers, Tukov’s responsibility, in the middle.

  Additional protection on the ground was provided by the presence of the 134th Motorized Rifle Regiment encamped between San Cristobal and the coastal cities of Mariel and Havana. Tukov hadn’t visited his fellow countrymen’s camp yet, but he had seen it marked on Pliyev’s map and had approved. An MRR offered tremendous combat punch, as it was equipped with an armored battalion containing thirty of the USSR’s most modern tank, the T-55. The armored formation was augmented by three battalions of well-trained infantrymen, all of whom could be transported in armored personnel carriers. A battery of artillery, antitank, and antiaircraft units, including several FKR “Frog” battlefield nuclear-rocket launchers, provided massive fire support.

  If the Americans came, they would almost certainly come from the north, Tukov knew. Thus, after landing on fiercely contested beaches and battling through Cuban coastal-defense units, they would have to fight their way through the 134th MRR before they could reach the rocket battery. All in all, it was the best he could hope for.

  His tour completed, he walked down the dirt road from the fourth launcher back to his headquarters compound, which was a cluster of tents enclosing his communications equipment and the unit’s kitchen and infirmary, as well as sleeping and living quarters for the headquarters staff—the crews of the individual launchers camped near their weapons. Right now, his men lived in tents. Only after the equipment was fully operational would more permanent types of creature comforts be considered.

  All these observations, procedures, and concerns—the area defense, the progress toward completion, the accommodations for his men—ran through his mind until he saw the Cuban army jeep, with a uniformed driver at the wheel, parked outside of his headquarters. He bit back his frustration as Che Guevera emerged through the tent flap.

  Tukov’s personal sentry, a loyal peasant lad named Gregori Smirnovich, looked at Tukov in mute apology, and the officer could hardly blame the young soldier for failing to stop the charismatic revolutionary from entering the colonel’s headquarters in his absence. Though he had a thousand things demanding his attention, the officer forced a smile onto his face and saluted Guevera.

  “Comrade Che. It is an honor to see you again at our humble unit position,” he declared in Spanish.

  The Argentinian flashed a sly smile. “There is nothing humble about your unit, Comrade Tukov. I think you have more destructive power at your fingertips than perhaps any general or emperor from any previous era throughout the long and violent history of man.”

  “You know, that’s true,” Tukov conceded. “Though matters of seeing that my men are housed and fed, that my equipment—however powerful—is operational, sometimes keep me from seeing that large picture.”

  “You must never lose sight of it. You, your men, your glorious revolutionary republic, are examples to all of us. I cannot overstate how much your presence means to Comrade Fidel and myself, to all of Cuba. You give us a chance to stand against the yanqui menace, a menace which has loomed over this country since it gained independence from Spain.”

  “Is there something I can help you with this morning?” Tukov asked, entering his tent as Che followed him.

  “Perhaps it might be the other way around,” said the Latino. “Perhaps you know that I have been entrusted with command of western Cuba—Pinar del Rio, in particular. When the Americans come, this will be their first target.”

  “You say ‘when’ as though it’s a foregone conclusion. Do you have some new information on the American response?” Tukov asked.

  Che merely shrugged. “I believe it is inevitable. The enemy finds our regime intolerable and will act to destroy it.”

  “Your revolution is doomed, then?” The Soviet colonel was surprised: Che did not seem depressed at the prospect he so casually presented.

  “This is not my revolution, Comrade—it is a revolution of world socialism. Sacrifices must be made, and those sacrifices may have to include myself, Comrade Fidel, possibly this entire country. If, by sacrificing ourselves, we can bring about the transformation of the world, I would gladly lay down my life.”

  Tukov was appalled by the casual description “Surely it will not come that, comrade,” he suggested. He continued gamely. “Of course, in the event your supposition is correct, I agree. The area from Havana west, including San Cristobal, will be the first target of an American invasion.” It was not a great leap of logic, since anyone who looked at a map would reach the sa
me conclusion.

  “And I did know,” Tukov added, “That San Cristobal, and all of this end of your country, has been placed under your command. Congratulations on an important assignment.”

  Che waved away the compliment. “My men have made me a headquarters bunker, less than an hour’s ride from here. It is deep in a cave and should be proof against any kind of attack—not that I intend to spend much time there,” Che added hastily. “But I have taken the liberty of writing down directions, and the necessary passwords, so that you and your officers can establish direct communication with me. In the event that something occurs which impairs our general strategic communications network, of course.”

  “I am honored, Comrade Che.” Since the ‘strategic communications network’ of Cuba relied essentially on a web of antiquated telephone lines, such a contingency was not a bad idea, Tukov knew. Privately, however, he resolved to hold on vigorously to his place in the Soviet Armed Forces chain of command. Things would have to deteriorate very much indeed before he took orders from even the highest ranking of Cubans—especially when he had heard Che and Fidel both express their surprising willingness to employ Tukov’s weapons of mass destruction, even when such use would inevitably result in the absolute obliteration of their cherished island.