Eyeball to Eyeball (Final Failure)

by Douglas Niles

  Once again, no clear path was determined, but by the time McCone left the meeting at 9:30 to brief the President, ExComm at least had two clear options on the table. Most of the men present still favored launching massive airstrikes against the missile installations as soon as the target list could be completed. Some favored following up the air attacks with an invasion of Cuba, as soon as it could be mounted.

  But a few, including Bobby Kennedy, McCone, and Thompson, among their influential advocates, were beginning to seriously discuss the more patient option of some kind of naval blockade.

  1345 hours (Wednesday afternoon)

  “The Tank”

  Joint Chiefs of Staff Meeting Room

  The Pentagon, Washington, D.C.

  “What’s the hold up?” Curtis LeMay demanded, as soon as the five chiefs had settled into their places around the flight-deck-sized conference table. “Why haven’t we been given the order to start bombing? We’ve known about these damned missiles for two days now!”

  His belligerent challenge was directed to the chairman, General Maxwell Taylor, who held up a hand in a useless gesture intended to calm the volatile Air Force leader. They knew that the chairman had the ear of the President, and also that he’d been present at the White House strategy meetings. For now, he presented a convenient target for their frustrations.

  “Don’t tell me we’re going to let the bastards get away with this?” the Air Force Chief spluttered. “That’s a goddam outrage!”

  The Air Force Chief of Staff may have been the most vocal, but the other four service commanders clearly agreed.

  “The Navy has 4,000 Marines aboard ship right now in the Caribbean, in a fleet of nearly fifty ships,” Admiral George Anderson, Chief of Staff of the United States Navy, pointed out. “They’re embarked on a landing exercise, planning to go ashore at Puerto Rice—Vieques Island, to be precise. We’ve been working on this through the summer. The men are thoroughly trained, and I think they’re ready for the real thing.”

  The others nodded. The training exercise, dubbed Operation ORTSAC in a not-too-subtle reference to the Cuban dictator, was the largest such action attempted in the last few years. As if sharing the same thought, the other men looked to General Shoup, commandant of the Marine Corps. The bellicose officer had won the Medal of Honor at Tarawa, during WW2, and though he was not a full member of the JCS, his opinions on matters relating to the Marines were valued.

  “I think we should cancel the exercise and turn those ships around so that the Marines can make a start at the real thing,” Shoup proposed. “We’d need to provision for live action of course, but the troops and their equipment are assembled.”

  “We need to take steps to get ready, at the very least,” General Earle Wheeler of the Army suggested. “This might be the best excuse we’ll ever get to go after Castro with world opinion at least partly on our side.”

  The other officers digested that thought without disagreement. In fact, over the last several months, they had tossed around several ideas to justify an invasion of Cuba, including such schemes as blowing up an American ship in Guantanamo Bay, sponsoring acts of terrorism in Miami or Washington, or downing a civilian airliner—with each triggering event being falsely portrayed as the act of one of Castro’s agents.

  “Why doesn’t Kennedy let us go ahead with the airstrikes?” LeMay persisted. “We could remove those missiles in the first hour of the campaign! Then the Marines and Army could move in and mop the place up.”

  “He’s got to look at the big picture,” Taylor argued. “An attack against Russian installations seems very likely to provoke Russian retaliation.”

  “Bullshit!” the Air Force general barked. “If we go in there fast enough, with enough force, Khrushchev’ll take the message that he can’t get away with this kind of crap. He’ll have no choice!”

  “And once the missiles are destroyed, we’d proceed with the invasion,” Shoup added. “With respect to the admiral, I think we could be ready to put two Marine divisions ashore with no more than a week of notice.”

  “And the Army could attack at short notice with the 82nd and 101st airborne,” General Wheeler agreed. “We could follow up with a heavy formation, like the 1st Armored Division, as soon as we had a secure port to land the tanks. There’s little to no risk of the USSR becoming involved, and we could overrun the entire island in a matter of days. Afterward, our analysis suggests one infantry division would be enough to hold the whole country until they can get a stable government up and running.”

  “I think you might be underestimating just a bit there, Earle,” said the Marine general. “The Corps has done a lot of analysis—we’ve had boots on that island quite a bit over the last seventy-five years. Cuba is over 44,000 square miles in size, with a population near seven million. Our expectation is that three divisions will be needed over the course of a few years before the place is pacified.”

  “At the very least, let us start the mobilization,” Wheeler said, again addressing Max Taylor. “That way, if—when—we’re needed, we’re ready. We’ve had the plans drawn up for years now, just this past summer revised into OPLAN 314 and OPLAN 316.” These two plans represented schemes to attack Cuba with airstrikes followed by an invasion, the first with an interval of only two days notice, the second being a stronger attack that theoretically required four days to set up.

  “I know,” Taylor stated with a bit of an edge to his voice. “Get your staffs reviewing all aspects of the OPLANs. Make the preliminary preparations so that if and when the President gives the order, you’re ready to go in the requisite time frame.”

  “Well, that’s something. At least we’ll have units in position,” the Army Chief of Staff acknowledged.

  “I’ve already got Sweeney down at Tactical Air Command in Virginia moving his strike aircraft to our bases in Florida. We’ll be ready to go,” LeMay pledged.

  “All right,” the Chairman agreed. “Start the call ups, cancel leaves, that sort of thing. Continue moving units, ordnance, and supplies into position, both for a bombing campaign—which might have to begin on just a few minutes notice—and for an invasion.”

  18 October 1962

  0900 hours (Thursday morning)

  82nd Airborne Division

  Fort Bragg, North Carolina

  “What do you see here, Hartley? Can you tell me that much?” Captain Martin’s voice was a growl, not unlike the aggressive noise made by one of the bulldogs that he so closely resembled. He thumped his fist on his desk.

  Second Lieutenant Greg Hartley had been standing rigidly at attention, eyes fixed on the wall—and the photo of airborne hero General Matthew Ridgway—behind his commanding officer’s desk. At Martin’s gesture, however, Hartley forced himself to look down, while managing to avoid meeting the angry captain’s eyes.

  He saw a black-and-white picture of a crumpled hood, a twisted bumper, and shattered windshield, and he recognized the image at once. “That is my car, Sir. My blue ’56 Thunderbird, to be precise.”

  “Your car, huh?” Martin replied, spinning the photo so that he could mockingly examine it. “That’s funny. It looks like a piece of junk to me. Scrap metal, I’d call it.”

  Hartley sighed inaudibly but didn’t think an answer was called for. And indeed, his commanding officer proceeded as if his subordinate couldn’t possibly have anything to say. “The MPs tell me this—‘car,’ you called it—was found wrapped around a tree, about two miles outside the gate to this very fine military installation. They found it yesterday morning. Coincidentally, you were reported entering the fort through that gate on foot, at approximately 0800 hours that morning. Let’s see: if my math is correct, that is approximately two hours after your leave was over. Is my math correct, Lieutenant?”

  “Yes, Sir, it is.” Hartley braced himself. His hangover had faded by yesterday evening, but he felt sick to his stomach as he thought about the crash that had cost him his most prized possession. His bandaged forehead still ached from the
impact.

  “You have identified this piece of scrap metal as your car. And you returned to the fort on foot. The gate guards reported that you had some blood on your forehead as well. Can I deduce, Lieutenant, that you have some knowledge of how this former automobile came to be wrapped around a tree outside the front gate of Fort Bragg.”

  “I’m afraid I drove it there, Sir. I—er—it was an accident.”

  Martin changed tacks almost faster than Hartley could follow. “Did you or did you not volunteer for this unit, Lieutenant?” demanded the captain, knowing full well that the 82nd was an all-volunteer unit.

  “Volunteered, Sir. I am proud to be an All American.”

  “Do you know this history of this unit? Do you know about the heroic American paratroopers who landed behind the Nazi front line at Normandy? Who paved the way for the defeat of Adolf Hitler? Do you understand the meaning of the word ‘elite’?” continued Martin, the sarcasm growing even thicker—if that was possible.

  “Sir! Yes, Sir.”

  “Well, Hartley, if it was up to me, I’d cashier you out of this unit so fast you’d have to slow down just so your underwear could keep up with you. You’d be out of the airborne, and shipped off to whatever godforsaken backwater they could come up with. Probably filling out supply requisitions to buy seal blubber from the eskimos! And I’d be happy to be rid of you! Do you read me, Lieutenant?”

  “Loud and clear, Sir. I would like to offer my apol—“

  “Shut up about that! It wouldn’t make any difference. But it so happens that it is not up to me, that I can’t, at least of this moment, ship you out of here! And do you know why, Lieutenant?”

  “No, Sir, I do not,” Hartley replied honestly.

  “It’s because we need your worthless ass in that uniform, in command of your platoon—and we need it there right now! As of this morning, the entire 82nd Airborne Division, including F Company and its ineptly commanded Second Platoon, is being activated and ordered to prepare to move out. We are to be ready to move on one hour’s notice. So you will march out of here, Hartley, and you will make sure your men are ready to go. And when I order you to move, you will move when and where I tell you to go! Do I make myself understood?”

  “Absolutely, Captain.” Sensing—at least hoping for—dismissal, Hartley snapped a crisp salute, right hand tight against his bandaged forehead. When Martin didn’t say anything further, the lieutenant took his chances and did an about face, then marched stiffly out of his CO’s door.

  1012 hours (Thursday morning)

  Harry S. Truman Annex

  Key West Naval Air Station

  Key West, Florida

  “Well, Sullivan, now they’ve decided to go ahead and send us that Hawk battery,” Commander Alex Widener told his chief petty office, tossing the latest coded message from Washington onto a steadily growing stack of paper. “The thing is, they’re not sending me any more acreage!”

  “I see, Sir,” the non-commissioned officer replied, knowing as well as his commander that the small naval air station was already packed to capacity. “Hawks are antiaircraft missiles, our most modern. I suppose this means they’re worried about an air attack against Key West. From Cuba, obviously.”

  “Well, that’s the only reason I can think of for them to deploy an antiaircraft missile battery here. We’ll have to find some place to put them—and if the Commies come north, I guess we’ll be glad we have it here.”

  “What about the Marines, Sir? Any word about them?”

  “Not yet,” Widener said with a groan. “But I’ve been told we might be getting a whole Marine Air Group. That’d be strike aircraft and fighter support. If that happens, I’ve got them earmarked for the south apron. The planes and most of the equipment will have to stay outside.”

  “What about the men, Sir? How would we house them?”

  “I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do,” Widener said. “It’ll probably come down to buying up every hotel room in town.”

  “One good thing, then,” Sullivan said, looking for a silver lining. “Key West has a helluva lot of hotels.”

  1245 hours (Thursday midday)

  Atlas F Missile Silo

  310th Bombardment Wing

  Schilling AFB, Kansas

  First Lieutenant William Bodden, USAF, took a few seconds to reread the communication that his dedicated teletype machine had just spit forth. He knew what the message meant, and he’d been trained to react with all haste to just these words. But he wouldn’t have been comfortable with God, or his conscience, if he hadn’t taken the time to make sure. He read it again slowly, and then he was sure.

  He took the microphone from its stand on his desk, clicking the button to make sure it was active. “This is Bodden,” he began. “We are going to mobilization status. Prepare to fuel the rocket.”

  His team of six men didn’t hesitate. The Atlas F was the most modern version of that venerable program, the USA’s oldest ICBM design, but the new model had done away with many of the flaws of the earlier Atlas. The “F” variant was the first to be stored vertically, in an underground, hardened silo, which greatly enhanced the missile’s chance of surviving a Soviet first strike.

  More significantly, the Atlas F operated on an advanced fuel compound. Unlike the earliest versions, which relied upon liquid oxygen that could not be pumped into the rocket until immediately before launch, the F variant began the countdown phase with a very stable kerosene liquid fuel. Two of Bodden’s men were already attaching the fueling lines, beginning the process.

  Once fueled, the rocket could remain underground, protected in its silo. Once the launch order was received, the kerosene would be replaced by liquid oxygen in a matter of minutes, before an elevator lifted the ICBM up to the surface. Bodden and his men knew that once the initial preparation had been completed, they could have a devastating nuclear payload launched into the sky in a matter of about ten minutes after receiving the “launch” order.

  1701 hours (Thursday evening)

  Oval Office, The White House

  Washington D.C.

  President Kennedy found it hard to conceal his anger at the two men who had just been seated on the couch in his Presidential office. Soviet Ambassador Anatoly Dobrynin was known to him, and even more well known to his brother, who stood just behind JFK’s seat in his desk chair. Jack had made a point of asking for Bobby’s attendance at this meeting.

  Over the past summer and early fall, Dobrynin had been most ardent in denying that the Soviets would ever install offensive weapons in Cuba. Bobby Kennedy, in particular, had taken his assurances to heart. Now both Kennedys felt personally betrayed, and angry.

  Foreign Minister Gromyko was more of a cipher. His visit to the U.S. was the occasion for this meeting, which had been scheduled for many weeks. It was one of several face-to-face encounters, supposedly intended to improve the often balky communication between the two great powers. To prepare for the meeting, the President had ordered a series of photographs prepared, proving the existence of the missile sites in Cuba. Those photos were in a folder in the top drawer of his desk. In the event JFK could maneuver Gromyko into an obvious lie, he intended to produce the pictures and watch his adversary squirm.

  As soon as the pleasantries were out of the way, however, the Soviet foreign minister went on the attack. “My government must protest, again, your nation’s continued interference in the affairs of our erstwhile ally, Cuba,” he declared stiffly. “American influence is being projected beyond your borders in ways that are intolerable, and dangerous to the world. There have been reports of sabotage missions too numerous to recount, and these saboteurs—all of whom have been arrested by Cuban security personnel—are clearly carrying equipment provided to them by your CIA.”

  The Russian didn’t give Kennedy a chance to respond before he turned the focus to Berlin, accusing the Americans of fomenting the division in that walled city by inciting “good, honest citizens” into fleeing their homeland for the Wes
t. All the while, Ambassador Dobrynin sat in silence. The President thought the ambassador seemed puzzled by his boss’s harangue but didn’t dare contradict him or steer the conversation in a more constructive direction.

  “Cuba is in our sphere of influence,” JFK stated, when he finally got a chance to get a word in. “And, by historical precedent and practical reality, we will take a great influence on happenings there. This does not mean we are committed to destroying Castro’s regime. But if, for example, your country was to place strategic offensive weapons there, we would clearly be required to take some action.”

  He left the implied accusation hanging, but Gromyko didn’t rise to the bait. “Berlin is in our sphere!” he barked. “How do you think it feels to have American and other NATO troops there—an enemy garrison in the midst of our friendly territory? It would be like asking you to tolerate a Soviet Army Base in the middle of Texas!”