by Bob Mayer
“And Penkovsky?” Khrushchev asked. “What does his source tell him?”
“That Kennedy is angry. He feels you betrayed him.”
“The hell with him!” Khrushchev banged a fist on the top of his desk. “They came into our neighborhood, our part of the world, and put missiles in Italy and Turkey. West Berlin is bad enough. Who does he think he is? Cuba has a right to protect itself from Imperialist aggression. The Americans already sponsored one invasion attempt on the island. We know they are planning another. We have a right to help our ally when they ask for our help. The Americans believe everything in the world must align with their vision, no matter how misguided.”
“The Americans might not be the real problem,” Mikoyan said.
“Castro?”
Mikoyan nodded. “I told him the Americans will just make a fuss and then accept it, just as we’ve accepted the missiles in Italy and Turkey. I told Che Guevara not to worry. I cannot promise them more than that. But now that the cat is out of the bag, so to speak, Castro and Che feel it is time for a showdown with the United States.”
“Ha!” Khrushchev slapped the palm of his hand on the desk. “They do? Very nice of them to try to raise the ante with my military forces. Would Castro take his ragtag army and invade Florida? How far would he get?”
“Comrade, our man in Havana says Castro is talking of a beautiful death.”
“What is the point of fighting the Imperialists if we die?” Khrushchev didn’t expect an answer. “Tell Gromyko to meet with Kennedy. If pressed specifically on it, have him inform the American President that the missiles are only for defensive purposes, especially given the Bay of Pigs. Surely he can understand that. We have no designs on attacking the United States. But he is not to mention the missiles if Kennedy doesn’t. Let us see what kind of player the American really is.”
Mikoyan stood. “Yes, Premier.” He headed for the door.
“And Comrade,” Khrushchev halted him in his tracks. “Tell Penkovsky to make an initial feeler to the Americans for a back door.”
Mikoyan turned. “What kind of back door, Premier?”
“You need not concern yourself with that,” Khrushchev said. “He’ll know what I mean.”
A look of irritation that couldn’t be controlled flashed across Mikoyan’s face, but he nodded. “As you wish, Comrade.”
He left and Khrushchev opened his center desk drawer. A dog-eared paperback was resting on top of a pile of folders stamped TOP SECRET.
He leaned back in his seat and continued reading Fail Safe.
Chapter Eight
Evie gave up on McBride’s notes and the electronic archives of the APS for the time being. Burns’ call with Turnbull’s tidbit about the Peacekeepers drove her to the stacks. A climate-controlled room at the back of the second floor filled with rows and rows off books and papers, carefully indexed on three-by-five cards in several drawers.
It was archaic, but effective for two reasons: even though the computer system here was shielded and cut off from the outside world, no one in the covert world trusted electronic records. Not only could they be hacked into, they could also be destroyed by EMP. More important, the original documents were here, which meant they hadn’t been altered; electronic records could never be trusted.
The problem with the index cards though, was that they weren’t exactly Google. Without Turnbull’s tip, why would she ever have looked for the term ‘Peacekeeper?’ And even if she had stumbled across the card, what importance would it have had?
She found the card easily enough in the alphabetical order.
Following the stack, row and order number, Evie found a folder sandwiched between two leather-bound books. As she pulled it off the shelf, a paperback fell out and hit the floor.
Evie picked it up. Fail Safe. A classic, both in print and film.
Suddenly, Evie remembered that there was a world outside of this Archive. She looked at her watch. The Turkish warplanes must be close to an interception with Ducharme and the plutonium cores.
But there was nothing she could do about it from here except continue to do her duty.
She carried the book and the file over to a standing desk in a corner of the Archives. She opened the file up and was rewarded with a single page of yellow legal pad on which some notes were scrawled:
Peacekeepers—New York City—initial roster two: code names Aaron and Bathsheba—contact: Groves
Evie’s eyes became unfocused as she processed the scant information, adding in the copy of Fail Safe. And the Jupiter missiles in Turkey and three missing warheads.
This was not good.
*****
“We’ve got Turkish F-16s inbound,” Stretch reported over the radio. “I’ve got ‘em on my scope and they’ll be on top of you in about two minutes.”
Ducharme heard the report. He was busy with Cane and the TriOp’s men, hooking the lift cable from the Halo to the attaching point on top of the lead safe, while others were trying to unhook the chains that held the box to the bed of the track.
The latter was proving to be difficult after half a century of rust.
“Hold on, attaching the cable,” Cane finally ordered, just as they were about to snap it in place. Tethering the huge helicopter to the chained vault wasn’t the smartest idea.
“How about lifting truck and box?” Ducharme shouted, trying to be heard above the roar of the blades over their head. “We don’t have time to dick around.”
Cane was decisive, if anything. “Stop!” he ordered the men trying to cut the chains. “Halo, this is Six. We’re hooking you to the box in the cargo bed of the truck. The box is attached to the truck by chains. You’re taking the whole thing. If the truck gets loose from the box during flight, that’s fine. Over.”
There was a moment of silence, then a voice with an Eastern European accent responded. “Roger. But that is going to be an unstable load. It gets us out of balance, I punch it.”
“We’re doing it.”
Cane and Ducharme grabbed the large hook and stuck it through the attaching point, latching it shut and then securing it with a safety.
“Get off!” Cane shouted to his men. “Lift,” he ordered the Halo pilot.
Ducharme ran to the end of the tailgate and jumped off, tumbling on the ground, into a mix of dirt, rock and viscera. The roar of the Halo’s engines increased and the truck slowly lifted off the ground.
It floated away to the south. As soon as it was clear, Cane called in the Blackhawk. The chopper came in fast, touching down fifty meters away from the hangar. Ducharme ran with the rest of the TriOp men to it and slid on board. It was airborne as the last set of boots left the ground.
Ducharme grabbed a headset. The Blackhawk was faster, and not carrying a truck with a lead safe, so it quickly took a position above and behind the Halo. The time for stealth was over. Both choppers gained enough altitude so they would clear any obstacles and headed south.
The radio crackled and Ducharme recognized Turnbull’s voice. “Cane. I’ve got someone at the Embassy working on calling off the Turks, but they haven’t gotten through yet. Over.”
Cane glanced at Ducharme in the dim light of the cargo bay. “Roger that. We’ve got a fighter that’s going to give us some cover.” The fact the fighter had no ordnance was an irritating and significant one if the Turks decided to escalate the situation. Ducharme’s hope was that they wouldn’t fire on the American aircraft. The two unmarked helicopters were a different story.
“Thirty seconds out,” Stretch said. “I’ve pinged them with my radar. Trying to raise them on the radio. Anything you want me to tell them other than not to shoot you down?”
“Tell them we’re recovering equipment from Operation Provide Comfort,” Ducharme said, a weak cover story at best, but as his first company commander in the Army had always said, any plan was better than having Rommel shoving it up your rear on the drop zone.
He’d never been quite sure exactly what his commander had meant by tha
t.
Provide Comfort had been a humanitarian mission run by the United States to help the Kurds after the First Gulf War.
The two fighters roared by, an inspection pass. Dawn was just beginning to tinge the sky in the east, and Ducharme could make out the silhouettes of the pilots’ heads in their cockpits. They were F-16Cs with the large bubble cockpit; an American fighter built in Turkey under a licensing agreement. The eclectic nature of the armaments of the world indicated that corporations cared little for political borders or alliances. It was not uncommon in modern warfare for the same model of aircraft or tank or ship to be battling its mirror image on the other side.
“They’re looping back,” Stretch said. “Not responding to my hails. I’m picking up targeting radar from them.”
“Who are they targeting?” Cane asked.
“Not me,” Stretch said. “They’re going weapons hot,” he added. “I can try to get between you and the missiles when they launch and draw them off.”
He didn’t sound very optimistic, and Cane surprised Ducharme with his response.
“Negative. This is our play. We’re unsanctioned. You’re official US government.”
“I can put the fear of God in them, at least,” Stretch said.
Ducharme and Cane watched as the F-22 banked hard and headed toward the F-16s that were closing.
“You know how to win a game of chicken with two cars heading toward each other?” Stretch asked, not waiting for an answer. “You throw your steering wheel out the window.”
Stretch won as the Turkish jets blinked, avoiding an air-to-air collision by breaking off their run.
This gained them about a minute and a half. The Iraqi border was a good fifteen minutes away.
“They’re splitting up,” Stretch said. “One of them at least is going to make a solid run on you this time.”
“Our turn to run that one off,” Cane said.
“I’m taking the one from the north,” Stretch said. “You’ve got the one from the west.”
He leaned forward and tapped the pilot on the shoulder. The Blackhawk arced around toward the second Turkish jet.
The distance closed rapidly. Ducharme was shoulder to shoulder with Cane in the cargo bay, staring at the oncoming F-16. But before it got within dangerous distance it broke off. So did the other one. The two rapidly gained altitude and took up a racetrack five thousand feet overhead.
“Cane?” Turnbull’s voice came through the radio. “Our man got hold of the right person in the Turkish government. You are clear to the border.”
*****
Baths stood in front of Arlington House in the darkness. The cemetery was so large, it was easy to infiltrate at night. She knew the history of the place and the land. Arlington House had been the Custer-Lee House, owned by Robert E. Lee’s wife. He’d become the owner of it and the slaves tied to it when he married. During the Civil War, the Union seized the house and lands to serve a specific purpose: a cemetery for the thousands of Union dead.
Perhaps the very definition of irony.
Looking to the east, Baths could see the Lincoln and Washington Memorials, well lit on this chilly night. At the base of the hill the house was on, a small flame flickered, fighting bravely against the darkness and the cold. It marked the gravesite of John F. Kennedy, his wife and his two children (one who’d died in childbirth and the other slightly after).
Turning to the right, she could now see the Pentagon, many of the windows lit, as running the military was a twenty-four hours a day operation.
“We keep the peace,” Baths said and began to make her way down the hill to do her checks.
18 October 1962
“The missiles have a range of one thousand, one hundred and seventy-four miles,” the CIA analyst informed President Kennedy and the rest of the EXCOMM staff. He slapped a pointer on a map and ran it along a circle outlined in red. “Washington, DC is within range, and if the missiles are launched, could reach here in thirteen minutes.”
“Tell me something I don’t already know,” Kennedy said, shifting irritably in his seat.
Robert Kennedy, the Attorney General, spoke up. “You fellows asked for this briefing. Why?” Robert also knew something no one else in the room did: everything was being recorded by his brother. If it came down to the Missiles of October, the President wanted the record to be clear, even though there was a good chance no one would be around to listen to the recordings.
The CIA analyst glanced at his boss, Director McCone, who gave a slight nod. They were in the Cabinet Room in the West Wing of the White House. It was a beautiful fall day outside, belying the tenseness inside the room.
“Sir, we can’t make an estimate on when the missiles will be ready for launching. It really depends on how soon the nuclear warheads can be attached.”
“Wait a second,” the President said. “I was told the missiles and warheads were on ships still at sea.”
“We believe the R-12 Dvina ballistic missiles are on those ships, sir,” the analyst said. “Most likely along with their warheads. However, there is some intelligence indicating that some nuclear warheads are already in Cuba, capable of being delivered either by Soviet artillery or aircraft.”
“’Some intelligence?’” the President repeated.
Director McCone stepped into the breach. “Unsubstantiated reports from agents on the island, sir. The accuracy of the reports and the reliability of the agents are both suspect. But I felt it best that you are aware of all possibilities. It is also possible some missiles are on the island, we just haven’t picked them up yet with imagery.”
An argument immediately broke out, splitting along the lines of those who wanted a pre-emptive strike on Cuba, those who wanted not only that but also an invasion, and those who wanted a more peaceful resolution.
The whole point of forming EXCOMM was to avoid the group-think that had led to the Bay of Pigs. The argument raging now indicated that the goal had been achieved, perhaps too well.
“Enough,” Kennedy finally said in a low voice, but one that cut through all the cross-chatter. “Secretary McNamara. Give us the latest status of our armed forces.”
“Yes, sir.” McNamara glanced down at his notes. “The entire military is on high alert. The First Armored Division has been deployed to Fort Stewart in Georgia, where it can move to Savannah Harbor and take ship for an invasion. Five more divisions have been alerted for combat operations. The Air Force has extra B-52s airborne around the clock. B-47 Stratojet medium range bombers have been dispersed to civilian airports as per their war plan. The Navy is positioning ships for both a blockade or invasion.”
“Or both,” Robert Kennedy said.
“Or both,” McNamara quickly covered his gaffe.
“Or neither,” the President said.
McNamara flushed. “Yes, sir, but I must relay the advice of the Joint Chiefs. They believe unanimously and strongly that an air strike should be launched against the missile sites before they are completed. The sooner the better.”
“Thank you for your input.” President Kennedy leaned forward in his seat. “I have a meeting with the Soviet Minister of Foreign Affairs in a few minutes. I’m going to put his feet to the fire and get some answers on what’s going on. I’m not going to let him know we have a good idea of the build up in Cuba, but push him enough to worry him.”
The President stood. “Gentlemen, we’ll meet again in six hours.”
Everyone filed out of the room except for Robert Kennedy.
The President jumped right into it with his brother. “I’m going to have to take out those missiles.”
“You can’t pre-empt,” Robert said. He slapped a hand on the conference table. “You launch a surprise air attack on Cuba, you’ll go down in history like Tojo and Pearl Harbor.”
“Now, that’s a bit much, Bobby,” the President protested. “Pearl Harbor was a long way from Japan, and the fleet had been there for decades. The Japanese were offensive in that attack. We’re on the de
fensive.”
“Sabotage,” the younger Kennedy advised. “Blow up a ship near Guantanamo and blame it on Fidel. Then you have free reign to do what you want. Bomb them. Invade. Whatever.”
“’Remember the Maine,’” the President said. “No one knows what happened there. We’ve invaded Cuba before, although not many remember.” He walked over to his brother and slapped him reassuringly on the shoulder. “Let me talk to Gromyko and see what he has to say.” Kennedy reached under the desk and turned off the recorders. “Bobby, contact Penkovsky. Tell him I need to get a direct line to Khrushchev. We’re walking a tight line here.”
Kennedy left the conference room and walked through the White House. Everyone in the building knew something was up, but outside of EXCOMM and those directly in the intelligence and military lines of communication, no one knew exactly what it was. Kennedy was keeping this close to the vest, hoping to resolve the crisis before public opinion skewed the reaction.
Kennedy sat behind his desk. He made sure the recorder in here was off.
When Gromyko entered Kennedy stood, but everyone else left. There were no photographers to take photos for the next day’s papers. No staff. No aides.
The Russian moved forward warily, toward the chair in front of the President’s desk.
“May I sit, Mister President?”
“Certainly,” Kennedy said. As the Russian sat down, Kennedy began speaking. “So. All is quiet in Berlin.”
“It is.”
“Will it stay quiet, Minister Gromyko?”
“There is no reason it shouldn’t, Mister President.”
“I assume Premier Khrushchev knows I misspoke in Vienna. I consider West Berlin as vital to my country’s interests as, let us say, Florida.”
Gromyko raised a bushy eyebrow. “I do not know what Comrade Khrushchev knows. Why would you mention Florida?”