Headquarters, USN Atlantic Fleet (CINCLANT)
Naval Station Norfolk, Virginia
Admiral Robert Dennison had a lot of responsibilities under his command, which under normal circumstances covered the entire Atlantic Ocean. In the last few days, however, his focus had narrowed considerably—specifically, to the island of Cuba, its sea approaches, and the vast military force the United States was gathering for potential action against that Caribbean outpost of the Communist world.
The Department of Defense and the Joint Chiefs of Staff had agreed that any offensive activities required against Cuba would be launched under the United States Navy’s auspices. The Commander in Chief, Atlantic Fleet, was to be the summit of the chain of operational command, not just for the Navy and Marine forces, but for the Air Force and Army assets, as well.
Under his immediate control, Dennison had overall command of two large carrier task forces, including a large number of destroyers and support ships, two smaller carrier groups with a special focus on ASW (antisubmarine-warfare) duties, land-based naval air units on Key West, Guantanamo Bay, Puerto Rico, and other airfields. He had dozens of destroyers and a smaller number of cruisers; many ships of both classes were very modern, equipped with guided missiles for antiaircraft or antiship combat. Most ships carried at least one helicopter aboard, while the ASW aircraft carriers Essex and Randolph had dozens of choppers, since the “rotary wing aircraft” had proven to be especially adept at sub hunting.
General Sweeney of TAC would still coordinate the strikes made by the United States Air Force tactical attack squadrons from many bases in the southeastern part of the country, but Dennison would be in charge of the timing, and would coordinate the target selections, of those attacks as well. Ground forces gathering under his umbrella included two full Marine divisions, one of which was currently en route from the Pacific, due to traverse the Panama Canal in a matter of days, as well as two airborne divisions, and the heavy punch of the follow-up force, the 1st Armored Division, now in transit from its base in Texas to ports along the Gulf Coast. Naturally, Dennison’s command also included the ships needed to transport all of these units and their supply services to Cuba, as well.
He’d already accomplished his first important task, even before the end of the previous day, when all of the civilian noncombatants at the Guantanamo Bay Naval Base had been evacuated. The operation had gone very smoothly: Word had gone out late morning on Monday that the noncombatants were to pack up one suitcase apiece and gather outside their residences. They had been given one hour of warning, and that had proved to be adequate. Pets were to be leashed and tied up outside the houses, where they would be retrieved and cared for by military personnel until the family members were allowed to return.
At the allotted time, buses had gone around the base to collect the wives and children of the Navy and Marine servicemen and carry them to the airfield or port, where they embarked onto ships or airplanes. By 5 p.m. that day, every one of them had been pulled out of the naval base. Today, another battalion of Marines, with a full Marine Air Group, was landing on the American installation to increase its defense capabilities. In the event of war, Guantanamo—which lay on the south coast near the east end of Cuba—was expected to defend itself, while offensive operations against the Cubans began on the north coast at the other end of the island.
On this morning, barely fourteen hours after the President’s speech, Dennison’s headquarters was a beehive of activity. He’d had a large conference room dedicated to this mission, with a huge map of the action area spread on several tables. Teletypes chattered along one wall, continuously spitting out updated order-of-battle and location information. Enlisted personnel deployed and moved counters indicating American assets, and suspected Soviet and Cuban forces, on the land and sea spaces of the giant map. Dennison was considering the deployment of the forces along the quarantine line when his aide called him back into his office.
“Urgent message from Admiral Anderson at the Pentagon, Sir.”
Dennison took the sheet of paper and tried to keep his pulse from pounding as his job just got significantly more complex and dangerous:
Unconfirmed reports Soviet submarines, FOXTROT class, moving into Western Atlantic. As many as four submarines may be present. Best estimates suggest could reach Cuban waters within one week. Take extra care to prevent or anticipate surprise attacks from submarines. Use all available intelligence, deceptive tactics, and evasion to counter.
Soviet submarines, if located, should be warned with practice depth charges and forced to surface.
Merchant ships approaching quarantine line should be stopped with radio communications, backed up by shot across the bow. Boarding parties should be prepared to inspect cargoes.
The halting and boarding operations had been established and reviewed during conferences with Admiral Anderson and Defense Secretary McNamara over the weekend. At least one Russian-speaking officer had been dispatched to each of the dozen or so destroyers in the picket line. With no Soviet surface warships in the vicinity, Dennison didn’t anticipate trouble, even against an armed merchantman.
It was the submarines that now caused the admiral the most unease. Clearly, they had been dispatched weeks earlier, to have reached the positions they currently occupied. Dennison had an idea as to how they had been tracked, for he knew about a top-secret system of undersea microphones called SOSUS—an abbreviation of Sound Surveillance System. These sensitive devices had been installed across much of the Atlantic sea floor during the preceding decade, with an emphasis on choke points, such as the passages between Greenland, Iceland, and Scotland. The reports from SOSUS had undoubtedly allowed Navy Intelligence to determine the class and general location of the Soviet subs. But it was not nearly detailed enough to allow ships or ASW planes to actually find, much less engage, the undersea craft.
At 1105 today, Tuesday, solid confirmation came in the form of another report. An observer aboard a P5M Marlin, a twin-engine piston-powered amphibious patrol plane operating out of Bermuda, spotted a churning on the surface of the ocean that was almost certainly caused by the snorkel of a submerged submarine. Before the spotting could be confirmed, the submarine had disappeared, no doubt going deeper. But it was enough for Dennison, who had ASW aircraft operating from Iceland, eastern Canada and the United States mainland, Bermuda, Puerto Rico, and Guantanamo Bay.
“We have a probable submarine contact, Soviet, 500 miles south of Bermuda,” he reported to his ships at sea, after checking the disposition on the map of his own assets. “Aircraft Carrier Randolph and support group should make for the location at flank speed. Use all air and surface units, including helicopters, to prosecute the search. Aircraft Carrier Essex and support group should stand by, ready to act against further contacts.”
He had no doubt but that the Randolph group would be able to locate the submarine. As to what happened after that, God only knew.
1030 hours (Tuesday morning)
Battery 2, 539th Missile Regiment
San Cristobal, Cuba
By Sunday night, the last of the concrete pads for Tukov’s battery had been measured, leveled, and laid. The launchers were now mounted on stable platforms. The missiles were nearby, in their tents, and all of the fueling and targeting equipment required to launch the SS4s was ready, tested, and waiting for orders. Monday the men had rehearsed the launch procedures, without actually fueling the rockets, and the colonel was pleased to see that they could complete the entire process for each launcher in less than four hours.
Of course, the warheads, each of which had a yield of one megaton, or about seventy times the force of the Hiroshima bomb, were not on site yet. Pliyev was keeping them secure in their bunker, but Tukov had measured the distance from the bunker, which was near Havana, to the battery. He estimated that the warheads could be brought to his battery within a matter of two or three hours, as soon as they were released by high command.
Also on Monday, Tukov and the other regi
ment and battery commanders had been summoned to El Chico for a meeting of the Soviet Military Council. There, he had listened with his colleagues to the American President’s speech, broadcast in both English and Spanish, so he had been able to follow the Spanish version. He had been pestered for details by many of his monolingual fellow officers, and so Tukov had provided a running translation as best he could.
General Pliyev had returned to the Soviet headquarters after the speech, which he had listened to with Fidel Castro up at Casa Una. He was pale and sweaty—though all Russians were sweaty in Cuba—and the palsied shaking of his hands suggested something serious was wrong with his health. Even so, he had spoken to his officers resolutely, telling them of the blockade, then ordering them back to their units with specific orders to be prepared for an American paratroop attack at any time.
Tukov understood that the crisis was approaching a climax. He wasn’t particularly worried about the blockade, since everything needed to employ the SS4s was already present, in Cuba. But he realized that the potential for combat between the North Americans and the Cubans and Soviets was much closer than it had been before now. And he had never considered the possibility of a paratroop attack. Now, as he thought about it, he realized that his unit would be fairly vulnerable to a unit of elite infantrymen, if those soldiers could come down from the sky, rather than having to fight their way through the 134th motorized rifle division that was some 15 kilometers north of the battery.
The normally two-hour drive from El Chico back to his battery had ended up taking more than four, since in the hour following Kennedy’s speech, the highway was crowded with cars, trucks, and buses transporting huge numbers of Cuban reservists to their units. Checkpoints lined the road, seemingly one every twenty or thirty kilometers. The traffic jams at each roadblock were aggravating, but once his Soviet Army command car was recognized, he and his driver were waved through—often with shouts of “Viva la Union Sovietica!”
By the time they reached San Cristobal, it was nearly dawn, yet he knew there was an important task he would need to take care of that morning. He entered his tent for one hour of sleep, then rose and immediately ordered Private Smirnovich to bring his scout car around. He sent word for his targeting and engineering officers, Captains Kutuzov and Dubovik, to join him. He also called for the lieutenant who was in charge of the battery’s infantry company, the 100 or so soldiers tasked with defending the unit against direct enemy ground attack.
“General Pliyev says we’re to be alert for attack by enemy paratroops,” Tukov told the young officer, who looked barely old enough to shave. “I want you to have your men plot out defensive fire positions on all sides of the battery. Plan where you will set your machineguns. Dig some prepared positions, and be sure to consider attack from any quarter. You and your men must be able to react at a moment’s notice.”
“Absolutely, Comrade Colonel!” declared the lieutenant, eyes wide. “It shall be done at once!”
“Good man.” By that time the two captains had arrived. They took the back seat in the scout car, and Smirnovich drove the three officers out onto the highway toward San Cristobal. After four kilometers, Tukov had him turn onto a wide, but slightly overgrown, road leading off of the highway. Che Guervara had shown him this place on Saturday morning, as he had promised to do, and Tukov had been intrigued by the possibility it presented. Now, today, he had brought two of his smartest and most knowledgeable SS4 officers to see if they shared his opinion.
“I want you to consider the problems involved in moving one of our launchers here,” Tukov told his captains. “In the event we need to move some of the battery to a reserve position, this might be our best option.”
“The approach road is wide,” Dubovik noted. “It must have been cleared for heavy trucks at some time in the past. And the ground is solid stone, under a little clay. Not much danger of mud.”
“I agree,” Tukov said. The car came around a shallow bend in the road, and the large open pit of the quarry came into view. “Turn left here, and follow the ramp down into the pit.”
The driver followed his instructions, and they all took note of the fact that the car didn’t lurch or bump much—the terrain was easy to drive over. Smirnovich did have to veer around a couple of large boulders, but the engineering officer assured them those could easily be bulldozed out of the way.
The ramp down into the quarry was wide and gently graded. Obviously, it had once been employed by large stone- or gravel-hauling trucks carrying heavy loads out of the pit, so it was relatively easy to negotiate.
At the bottom, the three officers got out and kicked through the dust lining the limestone bedrock. “It is smooth,” Dubovik noted. “If I put some men on it with grinders, we could level it sufficiently to base a launcher.”
“I doubt we would have time to establish the exact coordinates,” cautioned Kutuzov, the targeting officer. “We will lose considerable accuracy if we are forced to launch from here.”
“Ah, but you have coordinates from our current site, correct?” Tukov countered. “Given that, we could establish an exact distance and direction from that site to this, and make an educated guess as to the difference in elevation, I think an adequate shooting solution could be established. Don’t you?”
“Yes, Comrade Colonel, if precise accuracy is not required.”
“I don’t think it is,” Tukov replied. They all knew what he meant: a one-megaton warhead would obliterate an area quite a few miles across, so if the missile detonated on the outskirts of a target city as opposed to directly over the downtown center, the damage would still be catastrophic.
“One other thing, Sir,” the engineering officer pointed out. “I am certain we could get one of the trucks and trailers down this ramp and close enough to transfer the missile to a launcher.” He gestured to the high walls rising on all sides, except where the ramp descended. “However, I’m not at all certain there will be room to turn the truck around to get it out again.”
“I had thought of that too, Anatoly Alexandrovich,” Tukov said, with a weary shake of his head. “However, if things reach the point where we are moving a missile to a reserve position, I think we will consider this our last stand. It won’t be necessary to move any farther.”
1041 hours (Tuesday morning)
USS DDG 507 Conning,
Quarantine Line, 500 miles NE of Cuba
Seaman George Duncan had finished United States Navy basic training just six weeks before. After a leave that he had spent back on the farm in Wisconsin, he’d been assigned to the crew of the fast, modern destroyer, Conning. He’d learned that it was named after some Navy hero of the War of 1812 or something, though he wasn’t exactly clear on the details. In any event, he had settled into his job as cook’s assistant with enthusiasm, since he liked to cook and he quickly had learned that he liked to be on the ocean.
But he had never expected things to get as exciting as they had in the last few days. Five days earlier Conning had been pulled from a routine training exercise off the coast of Massachusetts, racing south at high speed to join up with a bunch of other destroyers and some larger ships. Chief Petty Officer Weber, who had sort of taken the young sailor under his wing, had pointed out a guided-missile cruiser and an antisubmarine-aircraft carrier, and once they’d even glimpsed the massive fleet carrier Enterprise, which Weber had claimed was the largest ship in the world. Gaping in awe at the massive flattop, Duncan hadn’t been inclined to argue.
When he wasn’t working or sleeping, Duncan spent all the time he could on deck, just watching the water, the wake of the fast ship, the sky, and any other vessels that happened to be in view. That’s what he’d done today, after breakfast had been served and the cleanup completed. Chief Weber found him near the stern of the ship, watching the churning white wake expanding in a broad “V” behind the destroyer.
“Duncan,” the chief said. “Come with me. You’ve got boarding party duty.”
“Sure, Chief,” he said, falling in
to step behind the broad-shouldered NCO. Weber was all of twenty-five years old, but he seemed to Duncan like he’d had about 100 years of experience in the Navy.
“Uh, what’s boarding party duty?” he asked, as the chief led him through a hatch and down a ladder into a part of the ship Duncan had never seen before. He didn’t think “boarding parties” had been covered in basic training, as far as he could remember.
Weber didn’t answer. Instead, the chief unlocked a large metal hatch and pulled it open to reveal racks loaded with rifles, shotguns, and other weapons. Weber reached to a high rack and pulled down a submachine gun. He took three stick magazines from another shelf and closed the hatch behind him.
“Do you know what this is, Duncan?”
“I think that’s a Tommy gun, chief. Isn’t it?”
“Good job, kid—thought technically it’s a ‘Thompson submachine gun.’ Still, you get the gold star.” He tossed the weapon, barrel sideways, to the sailor, who caught it reflexively.
“For now, it’s your security blanket. You’ll sleep with it, you’ll cook with it—well, I don’t mean you’ll use it to cook, but you’ll damn well wear it on your back while you’re stirring soup and peeling potatoes. You keep it with you when you use the head and when you eat. You get the picture?”
Eyeball to Eyeball (Final Failure) Page 14
