Eyeball to Eyeball (Final Failure)

by Douglas Niles

  “You mean that they might have battlefield nukes, as well as strategic bombs, in there?” Bobby Kennedy demanded.

  “’Might’ is the operative word, Sir,” McCone said. “We still haven’t had any luck finding where they’re storing their warheads. The FROGs could be conventional high-explosive rockets. But we have to consider the possibility.”

  “It’s looking more and more like it could get nasty, isn’t it?” JFK concluded, as Lundahl started to collect his displays.

  “Yes, sir,” McCone replied. “That’s some very evil stuff they have on the ground over there.”

  1315 hours (Friday afternoon)

  USS CVN Enterprise

  120 miles East of Cuba

  Windward Passage

  Derek Widener had flown CAP missions the last two days, and would no doubt be scheduled again tomorrow, Saturday. But for today, he wasn’t on the duty flight list. He decided to take advantage of the free time by seeing what he could learn about the strategic situation. His second-seat man, Ensign King, came with him as they entered the pilot’s briefing room.

  “Looks like we’ve come around to the east end of Cuba,” King observed, looking at the ship’s position as it was plotted on the map. For the last week the carrier task force had been cruising to the south of the island, so this was an interesting development to both pilots.

  The long chain of the Bahamas stretched from the southeast to the northwest, screening Enterprise and her task force from the Atlantic Ocean. The nearest of that chain were the Turks and Caicos Islands, but there were deep water passages to both sides of that archipelago that would allow easy ship access to the open sea.

  “You don’t suppose we’re leaving Cuba behind, do you?” King asked.

  “I doubt it,” Derek replied. He gestured to another American task force, some 300 miles northeast of them, already in the ocean. “They’ve got a carrier out there already—looks like Randolph. She’s been converted to ASW now, hasn’t she?”

  “I think you’re right,” the ensign replied. “Do you suppose she’s on a hunt?”

  They knew that any suspected Russian subs would not be displayed on the pilot’s chart. Information on sub tracking was highly classified, and really none of their business. Still, it was easy enough to put two and two together.

  “Well, at least we’re close enough to help, if something happens out there,” Widener remarked. But he looked to the left, where the tip of Cuba was still very close, and the naval base at Guantanamo not that much farther away.

  “Still, if trouble comes,” he concluded, “I’d expect us to find it on Castro’s tropical paradise.”

  2134 hours (Friday night)

  Battery 2, 539th Missile Regiment

  San Cristobal, Cuba

  Lieutenant Colonel Tukov kept the lamp burning brightly in his tent, going over readiness reports. His men had drilled and tested, proving that they were able to fuel the rockets and hoist them on their launchers to the ready position in fifteen minutes or less.

  He had taken the precaution of moving several trucks, as well as one of the reserve missiles, into a grove of trees on the outskirts of the battery site. He had another truck tractor nearby. All of the vehicles had been heavily camouflaged. In the event of an emergency—and only if Tukov gave the order to fall back—his men had been instructed to hook one launcher to the truck tractor and make for the quarry position with all speed.

  Finally, he concluded that all was in readiness. The only thing lacking was access to the missile warheads, and he expected them to be released on General Pliyev’s order within a day or two.

  The battery’s communication network was connected to El Chico by an old telephone line, since radio silence remained a primary requirement. Tukov had ordered an officer to remain at all times within a few steps of that phone connection, and now the young lieutenant who was in charge of the switchboard came into the tent. The colonel looked up expectantly.

  “A message from General Pliyev, Sir,” the communications officer said, handing a typed note to the battery commander. Tukov needed only a moment to digest the brief contents:

  Warheads for SS4 rockets released from storage as of 1900 hours 26 October. Anticipate delivery to San Cristobal sites by 2400 hours, 26 October. Warheads are to be stored in a secure location at battery site. Do not install on rockets unless explicitly ordered by Command, Soviet Military Mission, Cuba.

  Also note: as of dawn 27 October, SA 2 radars will commence operation. America aircraft incursions over Cuban air space will be resisted with all force.

  Tukov took a deep breath and looked at his watch. He knew that the warheads, in their bunker at Bejucal, were only a few hours truck ride away up the main highway. They would arrive by the middle of the night tonight, and maybe sooner.

  “All right, Lieutenant,” he told the communications officer, who had been standing by in case the colonel intended to make a reply. “Looks like we’ll have a long night ahead of us. But by tomorrow, we’ll finally be able to make a difference in events. For better or worse.”

  Almost certainly worse, he thought, but he kept that idea to himself. He was still pondering the possibilities when he heard the rumble of an old jeep approaching his tent. The sound was a familiar one, and besides, only one person would be coming to visit him this late in the evening. He went to the flap of his tent and held it aside as he watched Che Guevera bounce out of his passenger seat and stride over to the colonel. The driver kept the jeep motor running, so Tukov assumed this would be a short visit.

  “Comrade Colonel,” the revolutionary said without preamble. “I come to warn you: El Máximo Lider has determined that the American invasion will almost certainly commence tonight. He has put Cuban forces on full alert and advised, in those cases where we are closely coordinating with our Russian allies, that we share word of his warning with those allies. I consider you to be a very close ally, Comrade, and so I bring you this warning.”

  “Thank you, comrade,” Tukov replied. He thought about telling Che that the warheads were on the way to the battery site but decided against that. He did have something he felt he could reveal, however: “My general has informed me that the SAM radars all around Cuba will be activated at dawn. I think those incursions by American spyplanes are about to come to an end.”

  Guevera’s handsome face broke into a broad smile. “That is excellent news, Comrade—thank you for sharing it!” He strode back to his jeep and hopped in, offering his customary departure: “Viva la Revolucion!”

  Tukov saluted, casually, as the vehicle roared away.

  2210 hours (Friday night)

  Submarine B-59, submerged

  Approximately 400 miles NE of Cuba

  The sudden appearance of American warships the previous day had sent the B-59 deep. For more than twelve hours, she had lurked hundreds of feet below the surface, relying on her the virtually silent power of her big batteries, combined with careful restrictions on crew activities. This so-called “silent running” made a submarine very difficult to find, even with modern detection equipment.

  There were two significant problems inherent in operating a submarine on battery power: First, the boat could not move nearly as fast as it could when the three powerful diesel engines were driving the trio of six-bladed propellers. Even submerged, when the snorkel was extended above the surface and the diesels ran at full power, the boat could glide through the ocean at a respectable fifteen knots.

  Battery use, however, cut the speed to less than half of that, and even that would drain the cells very quickly—which brought up the second problem. The batteries needed to be recharged frequently, and certainly after a couple of days at depth. To get more than twelve to eighteen hours out of the battery, power had to be used very sparingly, which meant that the speed was reduced to barely two or three knots.

  The Foxtrot had been operating to conserve power for more than twelve hours, now, and the batteries were getting dangerously low. The air in the sub, though it wasn
’t further fouled by the diesels at the moment, still grew increasingly rank merely because of the respiration of the 78 officers and men who made up B-59’s crew.

  “What’s going on up there?” Captain Savitsky demanded in a breathy hiss to no one in particular. The thickness of the air, heavy with carbon dioxide, was clearly fraying his own nerves, maybe even his judgment.

  He was angry at the Americans, angry at the navy hierarchy that had sent them on this fool’s mission, and irritated with the increasingly erratic performance of his men. Just moments ago, one of the youngest sailors in the crew, groggy from lack of oxygen, had fallen as he made his way through the control room. He hadn’t made much noise, but any unusual sound could prove fatal when the American navy was listening for any clue as to the boat’s whereabouts. Savitsky’s rage had nearly erupted, and he had to bite back a profane outburst that would have been much louder than the young sailor’s tumble. Instead, the captain had closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe deeply while the young man had hastily tiptoed out of the control room and back to his station in the forward torpedo room.

  The interior of the boat was nearly pitch dark, in order to conserve battery power, and the emergency lighting cast every man’s gaunt, sweaty face in an eerie red glow. Commander Arkhipov approached and touched Savitsky on the shoulder, a friendly gesture that nevertheless caused the captain to flinch.

  “Comrade Captain,” said the executive officer quietly. “Allow me to take the helm for a few hours. Perhaps you can get some rest?”

  The suggestion, a perfectly normal one that had occurred multiple times in their years together, almost threw Savitsky into another rage. He recognized the signs of stress, and nodded wearily.

  “Let me listen for a moment, and then I’ll lie down.” He went to the sonar table, where a young sailor sat hunched over, earphones clamped to his head. The man jerked when the captain touched him, then removed and handed over the earphones at the captain’s gesture.

  “Stay here,” he told the lad, who had moved to give his chair to Savitsky. “I just want to hear for myself, a minute.”

  The sounds in the ’phones were faint, but definite. First he heard the crackling growl that told him propellors, of more than one ship, were churning the water overhead. The searching ships were not directly overhead, but they were not too many miles away. Every few seconds he heard the ping of an active sonar array, seeking to locate the sub by the echo that the sound would return if it was accurately directed at a metal hull.

  Nodding, the officer handed the earphones back to the sailor, and turned to Arkhipov. “They’re still there, but not close, Vasily Andreivich,” he whispered. “I will try and get some sleep—but wake me if there’s any change in status.”

  “Aye aye, Sir,” replied the loyal first officer.

  At least I can leave my boat in good hands, thought the captain, as he weaved his way unsteadily—almost as if he was drunk—toward the illusory comfort of his cabin.

  2344 hours (Friday night)

  FKR Cruise Missile Battery

  Vilorio Village, Cuba

  The frontovaya krylataya raketa (FKR) cruise missile was an ungainly looking weapon, but it was one of the most lethal in all the vast arsenal the Soviet Union had dispatched to Cuba. Two regiments had been sent to the tropical island. One was deployed to defend the beaches around Havana, and the other had been posted in the east, where it could menace the American naval base at Guantanamo Bay.

  Colonel Dmitri Maltsev was in command of the easternmost regiment. In the event of war, he had been tasked with the destruction of the deeply resented American military presence at Guantanomo. His unit consisted of eight launchers and a full forty FKR cruise missiles, each of which was equipped with a fourteen-kiloton atomic warhead—almost exactly the yield of the Hiroshima bomb. The cruise missiles were launched by rocket, but a jet engine activated as soon as it was clear of the launcher. The FKR flew under the power of that jet and could be steered by remote control radio. The missile could fly to a range of some twenty miles.

  The FKR was, in effect, a pilotless jet fighter, with a single engine, wings, and a tail. When it was over its target, the radio operator would cut the engine, and the missile would fall. Since it was well known that a burst some distance above the ground would inflict much more damage over a larger area than if the bomb was allowed to impact before detonation, the nuclear warhead would activate when it reached a designated altitude, usually some 250 feet above the target.

  For two weeks, the men of Maltsev’s battery had been cooling their heels near the town of Mayarí, where Raul Castro—who was responsible for command of the eastern third of the island—maintained his headquarters. The rockets were hauled on trailers, but the wings folded back enough that they were not easily recognizable from the air. Because of the large number of missiles, Maltsev needed a lot of space to park his vehicles, but they had been dispersed around the outside of the town. Fortunately, they were smaller and easier to hide than the SS4s. So far as Maltsev could tell, they had escaped notice by American surveillance aircraft.

  Two days ago, the colonel finally received his orders to move out, hand delivered by none other than Fidel’s brother himself. Maltsev had been instructed to bring his convoy to this advance position, some twenty miles from the target, and to await further orders. The launch position, where he would actually set up his battery to fire, had been designated as the village of Filipinas, about ten miles away, closer to the coast and a mere fifteen miles from the American naval base.

  “Remember,” Raul Castro had reminded him, “If war breaks out, you are to wipe that excrescence from the face of the earth!”

  “I will remember, Comrade—it will be an honor to strike a blow for my Cuban revoltionary allies!” The promise had been sincere: Maltsev was a good soldier, and he viewed America as the mortal enemy of his country.

  As soon as he had reached the advance position, Maltsev ordered an advance team to move to Filipinas and prepare the firing position. Flat spots for the eight launchers had been designated, and trees had been bulldozed out of the way to ensure that each of the rocket-assisted missiles would have a smooth flight as it ascended to cruising height.

  Now, on the night of the 26th, the order to move out had been delivered to Maltsev by a courier carrying a sealed envelope. It had the authority of both General Pliyev and Raul Castro, and though it was well after dark it was marked “For Immediate Implementation.”

  He cursed the timing, since the road to Filipinas was rough and narrow and passed through treacherous terrain. But he was a soldier, and he and his men would follow orders. Within an hour, all the men and equipment had boarded their vehicles and the massive convoy, more than 100 vehicles stretched out for more than two kilometers, began to creep toward its launch base.

  They traveled with no radios and were not allowed to use headlights, so progress advanced at a crawl. At one point, a huge engineering truck with twenty soldiers riding in the back slipped off the edge of a precipitous road and rolled into a ravine. Three men died in the crash, and precious time was lost restoring order to the convoy. In the end, the wrecked truck was left in the ravine, and the convoy crept onward.

  It took more than four hours to traverse the ten miles to the launch site. There, despite the advance party of Russians who’d been working for two days, a Cuban militia unit—charged with defending the perimeter against intrusion—opened fire on the first trucks, and another hour was lost sorting out the confusion. Fortunately, there had been no additional casualties.

  By the time dawn started to brighten the sky, the launchers were being hauled into firing position. Camouflage nets were pulled across the missiles and as many of the trucks as could be concealed. Sunlight finally spilled into the clearing, where eight cruise missiles, each tipped with a Hiroshima-equivalent atomic bomb, were pointed at the American base only fifteen miles—and two minutes’ flight time for the FKRs—away.

  And the Americans had no idea they were t
here.

  Six: Foxtrot B-59

  “Even little wars are dangerous in this nuclear world.”

  John F. Kennedy

  November 8, 1963

  27 October 1962

  0300 hours (Saturday early morning)

  Soviet Embassy, Vedado Neighborhood

  Havana, Cuba

  The cobbled streets of the Vedado evoked Cuba in the Spanish era, lined as they were with stately villas, walled compounds shrouded with vines and leafy trees. One two-story mansion, formerly the domicile of a clan that had become wealthy in the sugar trade, had been claimed by the Soviets for their embassy. The ambassador, Alexander Alekseev, had made it his residence and the housing for much of his staff, as well as using it as the official state office building.