The President could only shake his head at the ridiculous analogy. “To continue,” he said. “We are hoping to establish a more direct dialogue with your government—so that we can discuss important matters, before they reach the crisis stage,” he concluded ominously.
Gromyko merely moved on to a litany of complaints about Turkish patrolling of the border that NATO ally shared with the USSR—as if Turkey was a threat to the Soviet Union! He complained about economic activity in West Germany, designed, he said, “To exploit the labors of the dedicated workers of East Germany.”
The meeting became little more than an illogical harangue. Gromyko did all of the talking for the Soviets, employing every faulty debate trick out of the high school handbook: circular reasoning, “straw man” arguments, and imaginary facts. He fell back on doctrine and ideology, pressing the verbal offensive so vigorously that there was no chance to bring up any substantive issue. By the time the pair of Russians rose to leave—after about forty minutes—JFK was glad to see them go.
He spoke to his brother privately, as soon as the office door was shut. “They’re going to wait until the missiles are operational before they admit they’re there,” he said bitterly. “They want a fait accompli.”
“Then you’ve got to make sure that doesn’t happen,” RFK replied. “Whatever we do, time is running out.”
“I know. Tell me, what did you think about Dobrynin?” Jack asked, since Bobby knew the man better than he did.
“I get the feeling he really doesn’t know about the missiles.”
“You know what? I do too. He’s just one more pawn in their game. But it makes me wonder: how many others in the Soviet hierarchy either don’t know about the missiles, or don’t approve of what’s going on?”
“That is a very good question. But we have to assume that both Castro and Khrushchev are in full support of the plan. And if they’re for it, it doesn’t really matter what anyone else on that side of the wall thinks, does it?”
“No, it matters what we think, though,” the President noted. “And the more I think about it, the more reluctant I am to start a war over this. I want ExComm to come to some sort of consensus. As for me, I’m leaning toward starting with a blockade of Soviet shipping, and letting things develop from there.”
“All right,” Bobby agreed. “Are you still going on that campaign swing this weekend? You’re scheduled to leave tomorrow for Ohio, then spend Saturday in Chicago with Mayer Daley.”
“How could I pass that up?” Jack said, with a wry shake of his head. “I think you’d better hammer the point home to the committee while I’m gone. I want to have a plan in place by the end of the weekend.”
1824 hours (Thursday evening)
Apartment 5-B
4571 Dupont Circle
Washington, D.C.
Stella had stripped off her work dress and stood in her bathroom in just her bra and panties as she applied a new layer of lipstick and carefully brushed her blond hair. She realized she was humming a little-remembered dance tune from her high school years. The music was so captivating to her imagination that she almost didn’t hear the phone ringing in her living room.
Racing in her bare feet, she picked it up on the seventh or eighth ring. “Hello?”
“Stella!” She recognized Bob Morris’s voice. “I’m glad I caught you.”
“I’m not ready yet,” she replied, chiding and flirting at the same time. “You said you’ve be here at seven.”
“Yes, I know.” She heard the apology coming, and she was surprised by how deep her disappointment cut. “Listen, I am so very sorry, but I’m afraid I won’t be able to make it tonight. Something has come up with, well, work.”
Immediately her whole being transformed from a starry-eyed young woman to a veteran reporter. “Really? What’s going on?”
“Well, of course, I can’t say. But I’m going to have to work tonight. Probably every night for the rest of the week,” Bob said. “I’m really sorry—I can’t tell you how much this aggravates me! Running into you the other night, making this date…well, it was just great.”
“Well, I thought it had the potential to be rather great, too,” she said, deciding to play hardball. “But if you’re going to break our date—with a half hour’s notice, no less!—you’ll have to give me a little more explanation.” She tried to sound stern, while she listened carefully to any kind of clue in his voice. She knew instinctively that something big was going on.
Stella could sense Bob’s hesitation, but she waited, projecting patience she in truth did not possess.
“All right. The thing is, there’s kind of a crisis going on. The President’s schedule is really up in the air, and they’ve increased the roster of agents on duty. People are coming and going—well, I really can’t say any more.”
“You mean, there’s some kind of plot against him?” she asked, feigning horror even as she was fairly certain that wasn’t the case.
“No, no,” he confirmed. Apparently he decided that the least he could do was ease her fears about the President’s immediate safety. “It’s a political—really, an international thing. Honestly, I’m sorry. But I’m not allowed to talk about it. I hope you understand.”
“Apology accepted,” she said, graciously enough. “Please keep our President safe,” she added, as if in jest but in fact very sincerely.
“I will do my best,” Morris said. “Can I…would it be all right if I called you when this is over?”
“Please do,” she said. She hung up the phone and leaned against the kitchen wall. There was only one explanation she could think of, and she couldn’t help but put the conclusion into her father’s and her brother’s words:
The shit in Cuba was about to hit the fan.
19 October 1962
0545 hours (Friday early morning)
Chairman Khrushchev’s Apartment
Kremlin, Moscow
As Operation Anadyr approached completion, it became the focus of Nikita’s Khrushchev’s full attention. He was becoming increasingly aware that he had thrown the dice on a major gamble, and those dice were still rolling.
Most of the time, he felt confident that the Soviet plan would prove triumphant. When the Americans awakened to the fact that they had a lethal strategic arsenal parked virtually on their doorstep, they would have little choice but to accept that state of the affairs—as the entirety of the Communist world had been forced to accept the reality of American missiles targeting them.
But sometimes, a tiny voice of doubt would begin to whisper in the corners of his mind. What if the missiles were discovered before they were operational? The installations were terribly vulnerable, he knew, and the feeble Cuban air force—and even the relatively small portion of the Soviet military present on the island—would be powerless against American air power. The bases could be destroyed by bombing, which would be a tremendous humiliation to the chairman personally, and to the cause of world communism.
Even in his darkest, weakest moments, he didn’t give much thought to the dangers of an American invasion. There, he was convinced, the Soviet ground forces present in Cuba would prevail. They had an array of battlefield nuclear weapons, such that they could probably wipe out an imperialist invasion fleet even before the first troops landed on the shore. The Americans would be foolish to try and attack into the face of such a defense, and whatever the Americans were, Khrushchev knew they were not fools.
His agitation was such that, last night, he had decided to stay in the small apartment maintained for his use in the Kremlin, disdaining the drive out to his residence and a night at home with Raisa. He was not one to work late into the evening—that brought back too many memories of the Stalin era, those eternal sessions where the previous chairman had insisted his subordinates, including Khrushchev, get drunk on vodka. Often he had endured Stalin’s fierce glare, knowing of the paranoia, and the utter ruthlessness, behind the man’s cunning mind. No, those days were over, and Khrushchev would not subject
himself, nor his own subordinates, to that treatment.
Even so, he had been too restless to go home. He retired early, with a KGB man standing guard outside the apartment, but tossed and turned all night, never able even to get comfortable. Finally, near dawn, he did slumber—only to be awakened by a knock on the outer door of the apartment.
He looked at the clock, alarmed to see the time, realizing that it would take a good reason for someone to knock at the door of the Chairman’s apartment at this hour.
Khrushchev was sitting up in bed when the KGB man on guard duty tentatively tapped at the bedroom door.
“Come!” he declared curtly.
“I am sorry to disturb you so early, Comrade Chairman, but this cable arrived from our embassy in Washington. They have just decoded it and felt it should be brought to you immediately.”
“Very good,” Khrushchev said. “Give it to me and leave me to my privacy.”
He picked up the piece of paper as soon as the man had left, annoyed to see that his hand was shaking. It was a message from Foreign Minister Gromyko, and the chairman felt a chill as he read the few lines:
Met with President Kennedy as scheduled 18/10/62. No overt acknowledgement of ANADYR, but suspicions raised. Concerns on operational security increasing. JFK issued warning against installing “offensive weapon systems” in Cuba, said USA would not tolerate presence of such weapons.
Khrushchev felt a shiver of panic. Had the weapons been discovered? Surely not—the Americans would certainly do something if they knew about the missiles! No, Gromyko, damn him, was just worried, like the old woman he was! The operation remained on course, and now they were close, so close, to being ready. It was too late for anything to go wrong!
Despite his most resolute reassurances, however, he was not able to go back to sleep.
0945 hours (Friday morning)
Cabinet Room, the White House
Washington D.C.
The five Joint Chiefs of Staff came into the cabinet room like they were marching to war. At least, that’s how it looked to the young President, though at least the Chairman, Max Taylor, was a friendly presence. The other four: LeMay of the Air Force, Anderson of the Navy, Wheeler from the Army, and Shoup of the USMC, could barely muster a polite greeting to their Commander in Chief.
Taylor started out by reporting on the briefing the JCS had just received at the Pentagon. “The latest round of pictures show conclusively that there are at least two sites in preparation for the SS5 Skean, the intermediate-range missiles that would be able to reach virtually the entire continental US. Those missiles themselves have not been seen in Cuba yet. The SS4 Sandals, however, are probably going to be operational sometime this weekend.”
“That’s my understanding, as well,” the President replied. He looked around the circle of stern, military faces. “What do you gentlemen think should be done?”
LeMay, not surprisingly, was the first to speak. “We need to go in there with air power, Mr. President, and flatten those missile sites into the ground! All this talk about a blockade, well, that’s just dilly-dallying around. We need to take them out! And we’ll neutralize their airfields while we’re at it. As for an invasion, well, I guess the jury’s still out on that one. But we have to attack!”
“The problem with attacking, General, is that Comrade Khrushchev might be inclined to attack back. He’s made enough noise about Berlin that I’m certain the Soviets would take over that city in the blink of an eye, if we give them an excuse.”
“They wouldn’t dare!” LeMay countered.
“I think they would dare. And if they do, the only option left to us is to fire nuclear weapons—which is a hell of an alternative.”
The Air Force Chief drew a deep breath, visibly trying to maintain his self control. “Sir, you don’t understand. It’s if we don’t do something that they’ll know they can take Berlin. A blockade, to them, will look like weakness—like appeasement.” LeMay blinked, then blurted it out: “It would be as bad as Chamberlain at Munich!”
The President stiffened, angry. All these men remembered Munich, the benchmark of craven leadership in the face of dictatorial threat. More personally, JFK’s father, Joseph Kennedy, had been the American ambassador to London at the time and had supported Prime Minister Chamberlain’s acquiescence to Hitler’s demands. Ambassador Kennedy had finally been recalled by President Roosevelt when the elder Kennedy voiced public skepticism of Britain’s chances of survival in the face of Nazi military superiority. His mistaken assessment of Hitler had ended Joe Kennedy’s political career, but now it seemed that his son was picking up right where the father had left off.
President Kennedy remained silent, his eyes boring into the Air Force Chief’s. If he was waiting for an apology for the audacious remark, it was not forthcoming. Instead, LeMay pressed on. “You’re in a pretty bad fix!”
The President snorted, a sarcastic bark of laughter. “Well, you’re in it with me. Personally!”
LeMay blinked, and the other generals chuckled slightly, the tension broken. When it became clear that Kennedy was determined to pursue the blockade option, the JCS began to discuss, earnestly, how that blockade could be implemented.
“If you do opt for the airstrike option,” LeMay said, “You should know we could be ready to go by Sunday morning, 21 October. Although we would have more assets on hand by Tuesday, the 23rd.”
The conversation was suspended for a moment when Bundy came into the room. “Sir,” he said to the President, “It’s time to leave for your campaign trip.”
“Thanks, George,” JFK replied, standing. “And thanks for your input, gentlemen. I’m going to step out, but you can continue your conversation if you wish.”
In the hallway, Kennedy told Bundy they’d make a small detour. He stopped at the private recording studio, where Ron Pickett was dutifully watching the tape recorders. The technician looked up, a little startled at the intrusion, but quickly returned to studying his dials and reels.
“Can you put that onto a speaker?” JFK asked.
“Certainly, Sir.” His hand trembled slightly, but Pickett flipped a switch. Moments later the voices of the JCS, angry and frustrated, came crackling into the room.
“You were really screwed, there,” someone said.
“It had to be said,” LeMay’s flat Midwestern voice proclaimed. “Let him fire me if he wants to. We’re giving Castro and Khrushchev a green light!”
“Don’t I know it, Curt,” said Marine Corps Commandant General David Shoup. “It’s like you said: we have the Russian bear by the balls. We should cut off his legs, and take his balls while we’re at it! Use your bombers to take out these bases, and then send in my marines to clear the commie bastards right off of that goddamn island?”
“Damn straight. But he won’t listen to reason. Shit! He’s every bit as bad as his father,” LeMay growled.
“Turn it off,” JFK ordered. “I’ve heard enough.”
He turned to Bundy as he started down the hallway to the elevator. “You know, the problem with LeMay and these blowhards is if we do what they want us to do, and they’re wrong, there won’t be anyone left to tell them so!”
1015 hours (Friday morning)
Battery 2, 539th Missile Regiment
San Cristobal, Cuba
Tukov had taken to starting his morning routine an hour early, so that he would be finished with his initial patrol by the time Che Guevera made his almost daily stop at the missile base.
“I have an idea,” the Argentinian said without preamble, when he was ushered into Tukov’s tent.
“Go on,” the Russian said politely.
“As we’ve discussed, your missiles are vulnerable to American air attack. Even with the SAM protection, there is a chance that a surprise attack could knock them out of service before they could be used.”
“Yes, that is true,” Tukov agreed. It was one of the hazards of this position, and he had taken it for granted.
“Standard doctrin
e would call for you to have a reserve position, would it not? In case this installation becomes compromised?” Che noted suggestively.
“Yes, it would. But a lot of standard doctrine has been set aside in light of the circumstances. For example, we need a solid concrete pad to base the launchers on, and we’re just now getting the last of those installed. We don’t have any more available to create a reserve position,” Tukov pointed out.
“Hence, my idea,” Guevera said, cheerfully undeterred. “Did you know about the quarry?”
“I don’t understand,” the Soviet colonel replied, annoyed at the feeling he was being toyed with.
“It’s very near here, an old pit where limestone was excavated. One side has been bulldozed away—there’s a nice flat ramp leading down to the bottom. And that bottom is smooth, hard limestone. It’s as solid and flat as any concrete pad.”
Eyeball to Eyeball (Final Failure) Page 12