by M. Dobbs
As the Presidium members listened to Dobrynin's report, the "highly electric" mood of the meeting became even more charged. RFK's reference to hotheaded American generals resonated with Khrushchev and other Soviet leaders who had long suspected that the Pentagon was the real center of power in Washington. The ambassador's report made it clear that the "hour of decision" had finally arrived.
The Presidium members asked Troyanovsky to read the cable again, so they could fully understand its implications. The Turkey offer clearly sweetened the proposed deal even if, as Dobrynin reported, Bobby Kennedy insisted it be kept "extremely confidential." Any remaining desire to haggle about terms and conditions drained away. After listening to the latest message from Washington, the men around the table "agreed fairly quickly that they had to accept President Kennedy's conditions," Troyanovsky would later recall. "In the final analysis, both we and Cuba would get what we wanted, a guarantee that the island would not be attacked."
At this point, a phone call arrived for the secretary of the Defense Council. Colonel General Semyon Ivanov returned a few minutes later to report that the U.S. president would go on television at 9:00 a.m. Washington time. It looked as if Kennedy was about to make some kind of dramatic announcement, perhaps a U.S. attack on Cuba or the bombardment of the missile bases.
The good news was that Khrushchev had an extra hour to reply to Kennedy's letter. The time difference between Moscow and Washington had stretched from seven hours to eight hours overnight with the end of American Daylight Saving Time. The deadline for a Soviet reply was 5:00 p.m. Moscow time. To save time, the reply would be transmitted publicly by radio, rather than as a coded diplomatic cable.
There was not a moment to lose. Khrushchev called for a stenographer, and began dictating a personal letter to John F. Kennedy.
Despite all their differences, both personal and ideological, the two men had reached similar conclusions about the nature of nuclear war. Nikita Khrushchev and John Kennedy both understood that such a war would be far more terrible than anything mankind had known before. Having witnessed war themselves, they also understood that a commander in chief could not always control his own armies. They were awed, frightened, and sobered by their power to blow up the world. They believed that the risks of war had become unacceptably high, and it was necessary to act decisively to cut what Khrushchev had called "the knot of war." In short, they were both human beings ― flawed, idealistic, blundering, sometimes brilliant, often mistaken, but ultimately very aware of their own humanity.
Kennedy had already decided, against the advice of many of his closest aides, that he was not going to risk a nuclear war over a few obsolete missiles in Turkey. He had concluded that "we are not going to have a very good war" unless he could provide the American people with a convincing explanation of the "whys and wherefores."
The master of the Kremlin did not have to pay as much attention to public opinion, at least in the short term, as the occupant of the Oval Office. But he too understood that his people would never forgive him if he led them into a "war of annihilation" without taking "all necessary measures" to prevent it. Castro's suggestion that he consider a preemptive nuclear strike against the United States filled him with foreboding. Even though Khrushchev was a gambler by nature ― his Presidium colleagues would later accuse him of "hare-brained scheming" ― he would not tempt fate. He had a crafty peasant's instinct for when to push and when to pull back. As he told his generals before sending them on their Cuban adventure, "Let none of you think that he can lead God around by the beard."
When they met in Vienna in June 1961, Khrushchev had privately felt "a bit sorry" for Kennedy even as he bullied him over Berlin. He vividly recalled the expression of deep disappointment on the president's face when the meeting broke up. But he reminded himself that "politics is a merciless business" and resisted the temptation to help his rival out. He felt free to bluster and threaten as long as there was no grand consequences. The situation now was very different. The world was teetering on the edge of nuclear destruction. The Russian had come to "deeply respect" the American. Kennedy had shown himself to be "sober-minded." He had not allowed himself "to become frightened," but neither did he "become reckless." He had not "overestimated America's might." He had "left himself a way out of the crisis."
Khrushchev's latest missive to Kennedy contained the usual outpouring of impulsive thoughts and pungent imagery. The diplomats would go over the text later, bringing it "up to standard," in bureaucratic jargon. Knowing that time was short, the chairman got to the point very quickly. The Soviet Union would withdraw its missiles from Cuba. A jumble of self-justification followed. Cuba had been "under continuous threat by aggressive forces, which did not conceal their intention to invade its territory." "Piratic ships" roamed freely around. The Soviet weaponry was for defensive purposes only. The Soviet people wanted "nothing but peace."
Having done his part to avert war, Khrushchev detailed his complaints about American behavior. At the top of the list was the provocative probing of Soviet territory by U.S. reconnaissance planes. He reminded Kennedy that the slightest spark could result in a general conflagration. Soviet air defenses had reported an overflight of the Chukot Peninsula by an American U-2.
The question is, Mr. President: how should we regard this? What is this: a provocation? One of your planes violates our frontier during this anxious time we are both experiencing, when everything has been put into combat readiness. Is it not a fact that an intruding American plane could be easily taken for a nuclear bomber, which might push us to a fateful step? And all the more so since the U.S. government and Pentagon long ago declared that you are maintaining a continuous nuclear bomber patrol.
After finishing the letter to Kennedy, Khrushchev dictated a message to Fidel Castro. Dealing with the prickly Cuban leader was difficult enough at the best of times. The rush to announce an agreement with Washington complicated matters even more. By the time the coded cable reached Havana, the whole world would already know about the "crate and return" order from Radio Moscow. Anticipating an explosion, Khrushchev pleaded with Castro "not to be carried away by sentiment." He acknowledged that the Americans had acted rashly in sending their reconnaissance planes over Cuban territory. "Yesterday you shot down one of them," he complained, as if Castro was personally responsible for the decision. "Earlier you didn't shoot them down when they overflew your territory."
Khrushchev advised Castro to "show patience, self-control, and still more self-control." If the Americans invaded, Cubans had every right to defend themselves "by all means." But Castro should not allow himself to be "carried away by the provocations" of "Pentagon militarists" who were looking for any excuse to invade Cuba.
There was one more message to send, to General Pliyev, the commander of the Soviet Group of Forces on Cuba. It was succinct and to the point:
We consider that you acted too hastily in shooting down the American U-2 spy plane, at a time when an agreement was already emerging to avert an attack on Cuba by peaceful means.We have taken a decision to dismantle the R-12 missiles and evacuate them. Begin to implement this measure.Confirm receipt.
At Khrushchev's behest, Pliyev's men had labored day and night to prepare the missiles for firing, and target them on American cities. Now, at the very moment they had completed their assignment, they were being told to disassemble everything. No explanation for this stunning turnaround was provided.
4:30 A.M. SUNDAY, OCTOBER 28
The American destroyers had been trailing the Grozny all night. Standing on the bridges of the Lawrence and the MacDonough, U.S. naval officers could see the lights of the Soviet merchant vessel as she headed toward the quarantine line. They discussed how they would board the tanker and inspect her cargo, if ordered to make an interception.
The Navy was rethinking how to halt Soviet ships that refused to stop for inspection. "Firing a shot across the bow should be avoided if possible," read the latest message from the headquarters of the Atlantic Fleet
in Norfolk. "If this situation arises, a scheme has been devised to bring such ships to a stop." The new procedure consisted of entangling the target ship in "a long wire" or rope. Exactly how this would work was unclear. Further details were promised later.
As they waited for dawn, the Americans noticed that the Soviet ship had come to a standstill just outside the quarantine zone. A flash telegram was dispatched to Norfolk: "Contact dead in water since 0430."
The Grozny had received instructions not to challenge the blockade.
6:30 A.M. SUNDAY, OCTOBER 28
Three hundred miles further north, American destroyers were still surrounding submarine B-59. The Soviet crew had painted out the number on the conning tower, but the ship was flying the red flag. Attempts by American warships to communicate with the sub by flashing light had been hampered by the language barrier and peculiarities in the Russian Morse code alphabet. American signalmen had interpreted the name of the Soviet submarine variously as "Korabl X" or "Ship X," and "Prinavlyet" and "Prosnablavst," two items of meaningless gibberish.
As dawn broke, American commanders decided to make another attempt to contact the sub. A pair of Russian-language speakers were dispatched by helicopter from the Randolph to the Lowry. The destroyer came alongside the submarine, within hailing distance by megaphone.
"Vnimaniye, vnimaniye," Captain Oscar MacMillan shouted into the microphone from the bridge of the Lowry. "Attention, attention."
"Kak vas zovut? What is your name?"
A couple of Soviet sailors were on the bridge of B-59. They ignored the shouted greetings from the Americans. Their faces betrayed no emotion, or any sign of recognition.
The second American interpreter, Lieutenant Commander George Bird, tried to speak louder. "Attention, attention please," he yelled several times. "What is the name of your ship? Where are you going?"
Still no reply.
The captain of the Lowry tried a new approach. He assembled the destroyer's jazz band on deck, and told them to play some music. Strains of Yankee Doodle floated across the ocean, followed by a boogie-woogie number. The Americans thought they could see a smile on the face of one of the sailors. They asked if there was any particular tune he would like to hear. The Soviet sailor did not respond.
The Americans on board the Lowry were dancing in tune to the music, and ostentatiously enjoying themselves. They threw some packets of cigarettes and Coca-Cola cans at the Soviet submarine, but the packages fell into the water. The B-59 skipper, Savitsky, told his men to "behave with dignity." The Russians photographed the Americans and the Americans photographed the Russians. When Savitsky spotted one of his men on the bridge discreetly tapping his foot in time with the jazz band, he ordered the sailor below deck.
It was a relief to know that World War III had not broken out. Even so, there would be no fraternizing with the Americans.
B-59 managed to break away from its pursuers after two days of continuous surveillance. Savitsky waited until his batteries were recharged, took his vessel down to five hundred feet, switched course by 180 degrees, and made his escape. Shortly afterward, the USS Charles P. Cecil was able to force another Soviet submarine, B-36, to the surface. A third Foxtrot, B-130, had to be towed back to the Kola Peninsula by tugboat after failing to repair its broken diesel engines. Only one submarine, B-4, under Captain Ryurik Ketov, managed to complete its mission without the humiliation of having to surface in front of American warships.
The submarine commanders returned to Murmansk at the end of December to a frigid reception from their superiors. No allowances were made for the technical shortcomings of the Soviet vessels or the superiority of U.S. naval forces. As usual, the failure of the mission was blamed on the men who had risked their lives to implement it rather than the admirals and apparatchiks who made a mess of the planning. The deputy minister of defense, Marshal Andrei Grechko, refused to listen to the skippers when they tried to describe the difficulties they had encountered. At one point, he became so angry that he removed his glasses and smashed them against the conference table. They promptly broke into small fragments.
Grechko seemed unable to understand that a submarine had to come to the surface in order to recharge its batteries. "The only thing he understood was that we violated the secrecy requirements, were discovered by the Americans, and that for some time we stayed in close contact with them," recalled Aleksei Dubivko, the commander of B-36.
"It's a disgrace," the marshal fumed. "You have shamed Russia."
The moment had arrived that Chuck Maultsby had been dreading ever since his safe return to Alaska. General Power wanted to see him. The SAC commander had a reputation for being a harsh taskmaster, intolerant of the slightest mistake. His associates believed he derived a perverse pleasure from stripping subordinates down in public. A top deputy would later recall that Power "enjoyed ridiculing people and heckling people, and he was an expert at it. He delighted in getting a group in his office for a briefing and then making an ass out of the briefing officer." If a wing commander was summoned to brief the general about an accident, "nine times out of ten he was going to go home fired."
The circumstances of Maultsby's debriefing could scarcely have been less propitious. He had almost fainted at Kotzebue Airfield when told that six Soviet MiGs had attempted to shoot him down. "Shit, oh dear!" was his first reaction. "I'm glad I didn't know it at the time…Whew!" He then "stumbled over to a chair and took the weight off, fearing my legs were about to give out." A special C-47 military transport plane was dispatched to Kotzebue to take him back to Eielson Air Force Base, while his unit commander recovered the U-2. From Eielson, another plane, a KC-135, flew him to SAC headquarters in Omaha, Nebraska. He was the only passenger aboard.
An Air Force colonel escorted him to Power's underground command post beneath Building 500. It was a hive of activity. People were "running from place to place as if their lives depended on it." The colonel took him to a briefing room next to the command post, and announced that CINCSAC would be with him shortly. At the head of the briefing table was an aeronautical chart plotting Maultsby's route to the North Pole. A sheet of paper was taped over the portion of the chart that illustrated his overflight of the Soviet Union.
General Power finally entered the room, followed by "eight other generals who looked as if they hadn't been out of their uniforms for days." It had been a nerve-wracking twenty-four hours for Power and his colleagues. One U-2 pilot had got lost over the Soviet Union; another had been shot down over Cuba; all high-altitude air-sampling flights had been canceled until further notice; SAC had reached a level of mobilization never before achieved in its sixteen-year history. Maultsby stood to attention nervously while the generals took their seats around the conference table. General Power sat directly across the table from him. Unlike some of the other generals, he wore a clean uniform and was cleanshaven, but looked "extremely tired."
"Captain Maultsby, how about briefing us on your flight yesterday?" said Power, after everyone was seated.
Maultsby stood next to the navigation chart, describing the air-sampling mission and indicating his planned route to the North Pole. He mentioned the effects of the aurora borealis and the difficulty he had taking fixes.
"Captain Maultsby, do you know where you went after leaving the Pole?" CINCSAC finally interrupted.
"Yes, sir," replied Maultsby, as the other generals "squirmed in their seats," looking as if they were "sitting on tacks."
"Show us please."
Maultsby lifted the paper from the classified portion of the map, and showed the generals his flight route with a pointer. He had seen a similar map at the military radar station in Kotzebue soon after his return, so he knew where he had been. But he had no idea how the Air Force had been able to track his flight, and could not understand why he had not been "given a steer" before blundering over Soviet territory.
"Gentlemen, do you have any more questions?" asked Power, after Maultsby finished.
Nobody had any questions.
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The general smiled.
"Too bad you weren't configured with a system to gather electromagnetic radiation. The Russians probably had every radar and ICBM site on maximum alert."
Power ordered Maultsby not to discuss his overflight with anyone. It was not the first time that a SAC plane had gone badly off track in the vicinity of Chukotka. In August, a B-52 bomber fully loaded with nuclear weapons got lost as it was returning to Alaska from Greenland. The B-52 was heading directly toward the Soviet Union and was within three hundred miles of the Chukot Peninsula when ground control finally ordered it to switch course. It appears to have been following a similar track to that followed by Maultsby. According to the official SAC history, the incident "demonstrated the seriousness of celestial computation errors in the polar region." Since it was twilight, the navigator had been unable to take accurate readings from the stars ― just as Maultsby was confused by the aurora borealis.
The generals left the briefing room in order of rank. The last to leave was a one-star. On his way out of the briefing room, the brigadier general turned to Maultsby in amazement.
"You are a lucky little devil. I've seen General Power chew up and spit out people for doing a helluva lot less."
Miguel Orozco and Pedro Vera had recovered their catamaran from the mangrove swamp of Malas Aguas on the northwestern coast of Cuba. They had been trying to contact the CIA mother ship that was meant to bring them back to Florida for several hours, without success. The stomach pains that had plagued Miguel for the past three days were causing him agony. The two men would make further attempts to make contact with their CIA rescuers by radio on October 29 and 30. Their increasingly frantic messages went unanswered.
Gradually, the truth sank in: they had been abandoned.
The CIA later said that it "heard nothing" from the two agents after the successful infiltration on the night of October 19–20. Harvey claimed in a memo that it had been "operationally infeasible" to provide Orozco and Vera with communications equipment "in view of the operational timing, the terrain [and] the distance to be traveled." But his version of events, and the accompanying chronology of the Matahambre operation, appears to have been primarily designed to protect his own, severely damaged reputation. Forty-five years later, Vera was taken aback when told Harvey's account, which he dismissed as "nonsense." He himself had lugged the radio over the mountains after Orozco fell ill with appendicitis. The radio was their lifeline. "They knew we were trying to call them," he insisted. Vera's memory is more convincing than Harvey's official chronology. CIA records show that previous agent teams dispatched to Matahambre were equipped with radios.
