In fact, Khrushchev was a veteran of the most brutal war ever to wrack Russia, and the world. He had lost his first son, Leonid, to Nazi aircraft. He had stood in the rubble of Stalingrad, watching the city die around him as the heroic soldiers of the Red Army prevailed in what to him would always be the most important battle in the history of the world. Yet all that death and ruination would be dwarfed the moment a single thermonuclear device—let alone hundreds of them!—detonated over a Soviet city.
So, how could he tell the members of the Presidium what he had concluded, and still save face—his own, and his country’s? A natural politician and survivor, he knew that what he had to do was present the truth in such a way that it did not look as though the USSR was losing.
“We have succeeded in drawing all of the world’s attention to the plight of our bold ally in Cuba,” he began. “Now, it is time to negotiate, time to be flexible and reasonable, so that all we have gained is not lost in the fires of a man-made holocaust…”
The idea was starting to sound good, even to himself.
1530 hours (Thursday afternoon)
82nd Airborne Division
Fort Bragg, North Carolina
“Hey, LT. Is this thing, this whole Cuba war for real, or not?” asked Corporal Skilling, the junior NCO in the platoon. The men were ranged about the grass in front of the barracks, with knapsacks, ammo belts, and weapons scattered haphazardly around them.
“How the hell should I know?” Hartley replied, practically snarling. He ignored the barely suppressed snickers of his men as much as he could, even as he felt the shame of knowing he really was a lousy officer.
But he hadn’t signed on for a war! Dammit, the Army was his way to meet girls, to wear a flashy uniform. For a time it was nice to have an organization that fed and housed him, did his laundry, and paid him to boss other, less-educated men around. But now that he might have to take those less-educated men into battle, he wasn’t sure he was up to the task. In fact, he was pretty certain that he wasn’t capable of doing the job.
Of course, he’d figured that out just a little bit too late. The men of Company F, 2nd battalion, 82nd Airborne Division were gathered outside their barracks, sorting knapsacks, cleaning rifles, collecting and securing ammunition. These were tasks they’d done several times over the last few days, but Captain Martin had ordered the men to go through the procedures again.
It would escape the notice of no one that, while the First and Third Platoons of Company F had completed their repacking in a crisp and timely fashion, the men of the Second Platoon were still at it. Several privates were bickering about who was going to carry some extra grenades—though they quickly settled the issue when they spotted Sergeant Hiemstra approaching. Indeed, as the veteran NCO moved down the line, with his face locked into a thunderhead of displeasure, the men of the platoon speedily arranged their gear, packed their knapsacks, and, one by one, stood at ease to signify their readiness to move.
“Second Platoon ready to move out, Lieutenant,” reported Hiemstra, coming up to Hartley. The lieutenant, with some effort, had secured his own kit—he’d been afraid he’d be humiliated by failing to complete the task that his soldiers were doing, even though their commanding officer carried significant less gear in the way of extra weaponry and ammunition.
“Very good, Sergeant. Release the men to the mess hall. Let them get dinner a little early.”
“Okay, Sir,” Hiemstra said, turning to stroll back to the knot of men that had now gathered in the shade of a giant evergreen. Hartley looked around, noticing that the men of the other two platoons had already been excused for dinner, and realized that “early” would be perceived as a fairly relative term by his own soldiers.
Hiemstra, having designated the dismissal task to Corporal Skilling, headed back over to the lieutenant as the men made for the mess hall. Hartley respected the big Dutchman, and was also a little bit intimidated by him, though he tried to cover up the latter fact with an inordinate amount of bluster. These last few days, however—since the wreck of his T-bird and his chewing out by Martin, followed by the President’s speech—he’d found his bluster to be in fairly short supply.
“Sir, might I have a word?” asked the sergeant.
Only then did Hartley realize that the two men were alone on the patch of ground in front of the barracks. The platoon had scattered, and the rest of the company was nowhere in sight.
“Of course, Sergeant. What’s on your mind?”
“You are, Lieutenant. You, and these men.”
Hartley felt a queasy sensation in his stomach. He didn’t like the way this conversation had begun, but he felt powerless to steer it onto a different course. He wasn’t physically afraid of Hiemstra—sure, the man was bigger and burlier than the officer, and a legendary brawler to boot, but he wasn’t about to get physical with his lieutenant. At least, Hartley was pretty sure that he wasn’t.
“You see, Sir. I can’t help but remember when I was their age—well, as old as the younger ones anyway. I was eighteen, and we were in England, getting ready to head for France as part of Overlord.”
Hartley, and everyone else in the unit, knew that Hiemstra was one of the Old Timers, veterans of the great battles of the Second World War, but now, confronted by the blunt statement, the officer found himself surprised. Maybe it’s because he’d never before imagined him as a young soldier, preparing for his first battle.
“Well, Lieutenant. I sat there in the dark, those early days of June, knowing we’d be going into battle in a matter of days. And you know what: I just about shit my pants thinking about it. Now, I had a platoon sergeant—he’d fought with the division in Africa and Sicily, and he told me I was going to do okay.
“And we had us a platoon lieutenant, well, he was fresh from the States. Never heard a shot fired in anger, as they say. But damn, he was gung ho. He made me believe he’d charge through a wall to get to a kraut machinegun nest, he wanted to kill those bastards that bad. And I believed him, and I didn’t shit my drawers, and I lived to see the end of the war. I believed in him, but more to the point, Sir—I knew that he believed in me.”
Hartley drew a breath. He was touched and shamed by the sergeants words, and he didn’t know what to say.
“Now I suggest you forget what these men think of you. That’s not the point. But I have ask you a blunt question, Sir: Do you believe in them? And if you do, do you think they know you believe in them? Because the answer to that question just might make all the difference on whether a lot of those boys live, or get killed.”
“I…I do believe in them,” Hartley said, the words sounding lame even as he spoke. “Truth is, I think they’re really good men. Sometimes I don’t feel like I deserve them, and I think they know that.” Sometimes—hell, I never feel like I deserve them, he realized with a flush of embarrassed resentment.
“Like I suggested, Sir. Forget about what they think of you—that’s really not important. But you need to let them know that you believe in them.”
“I…thank you, Sergeant. I appreciate that,” Hartley said.
“You’re welcome, Sir.” Hiemstra gave him a salute, which the officer suddenly realized the NCO hadn’t been doing for quite some time. “Um, Sergeant—Rick? Your sergeant, and your lieutenant…how did they do, when you landed in Normandy.”
Hiemstra shook his head. “I never got a chance to find out, Sir. Our stick overshot the LZ, and there was a pond, a deep pond, just past it. Both of ’em drowned before they could even kick their boots off.”
2215 hours (Thursday night)
The Press Club Lounge
Washington, D.C.
“I’m glad you could get away,” Bob Morris said, bringing a glass of wine to Stella at their table in a darkened corner of the bar. He had a mug of beer for himself. “It’s been pretty crazy in this town this past week. At the White House, of course, but I imagine for you, too.”
“Yes, it has,” Stella agreed, taking a small sip. She’d been exhaust
ed from an intense week of work when she got home, less than an hour ago, to find her phone ringing. But when Morris had asked her to meet, her fatigue had vanished in a rather amazing fashion. She couldn’t help but smile when he’d walked through the door and shyly looked around—he almost seemed surprised to see her, though she’d readily agreed to meet him.
“How…I don’t want you to think I’m prying for information—but how is the President?” she asked, feeling some vague combination of professional curiosity and genuine concern.
“I’ve never seen him better, or stronger,” Morris said bluntly. “It’s like this showdown with Khrushchev, well, it’s really given him something to sink his teeth into. His usual problems, the things that act up all the time, they don’t seem to be bothering him.”
“What kind of ‘usual things’ do you mean,” she followed up, unconsciously going into 100 percent reporter mode. “I understand he’s had some issues with back pain—is that it?”
Morris seemed relieved that she added some detail. Kennedy’s health issues were not generally a matter of public knowledge, and certainly not something that was reported by the media. In truth, her awareness of his chronic pain had come from personal experience, something she’d observed—and JFK had confirmed—in the approximately three hours that they had spent together.
“He has a lot of trouble with that, usually,” the Secret Service agent was saying. “But I haven’t noticed it bothering him these last few days.” He blinked, as if remembering where—or more likely who—he was. “Listen, I’m really not supposed to talk about, well, my job. I feel like I can trust you, though. Can we keep this between us, for old times’ sake? What would you call it? ‘Off the record?’”
Stella leaned back in her chair and arched her eyebrows, thinking about what he was saying. “So, you do remember I’m a reporter, right?”
“Oh, yes. In fact, I saw you on TV the other night, in front of the Pentagon. I used to watch Cronkite but, well, since I met you again, I’ve switched to NBC.” He seemed embarrassed to admit it.
And she was flattered, in spite of herself. “Well, it’s a slow way to expand my viewership, but I’ll take it. Listen, Bob, I like you, and I like the President—I voted for him! I’m not about to go public with anything that will make him, or you, look bad. And I know how to keep a conversation off the record. So if you think you can have a friendly conversation with an old friend who’s a reporter, I’d like to keep talking to you.”
“Me too,” he admitted sheepishly. He took a sip and looked at her over his mug. “But ‘an old friend?’ Couldn’t you think of me as ‘an old boyfriend?’ Old, or current, I guess I’d let you pick. Maybe both.” His expression tightened into one of alarm. “That is, I mean, I know you’re not married, but are you seeing someone?”
She laughed. “You mean, are you treading on some other guy’s turf? No, you’re not. But I never realized that you thought of me as your girlfriend. I mean, we had that night at homecoming, and went to a few movies I guess, now that I think about it…”
“Well, you were a lot more social than I was,” he admitted. “You seemed to go out with plenty of guys. I didn’t date much—I was more of a loner. So I have to admit, you weren’t really my girlfriend. It’s more that I wanted you to be.”
She winced, not sure if she’d been insulted or not. What kind of reputation did he think she had, anyway? “Well, you could have said something!”
“No, I couldn’t have,” he replied frankly. “Not then, anyway. I guess I was too shy, or polite, or something.” He reached across the table and put his hand over hers. “But I’d like to see you again, more than once. If you’d like—you know, when things settle down.”
“If they settle down,” Stella retorted. “I think I’d like that too. But who knows what the hell is going to happen? Do you think it’s possible that there will be a war?”
“I think it is possible,” Morris said. He looked away, then turned back to meet her eyes frankly. “I’ve told my parents to get out of Alexandria for a while, to take a week or two at their cabin up on Blue Ridge. And I wonder, Stella…I mean, what about you? You should really think about getting out of town. Maybe go see your parents, or something…”
His solicitous concern for her made her angry. “My mother died three years ago. My father is the CO at Key West Naval Air Station. I hardly thinks he wants family there now, or that it would be a safe place to go. And my brother is a pilot on the Enterprise, somewhere in the Caribbean,” she responded more sharply than she’d intended. “And dammit, Bob, I have a job to do in this town just as you do. So I’m not going anywhere!”
“Okay, of course—sorry I asked. I was out of line.” He gestured at their glasses, which were both empty. “Would you like to stay for another?”
She would have liked another, honestly. But now she felt unsettled, more frightened than she did before—and acutely conscious that she did have a job to do, one that would require all of her alertness in the morning.
“I’m sorry, Bob. I can’t, not tonight. But…I am glad you caught me at home when you called. And you should call me again.” She rose to leave and he stood too. Quickly, maybe rashly, she leaned forward and gave him a peck on the cheek. “I’ll talk to you soon,” she said, before passing out through the door.
The night, she was surprised to discover, had grown surprisingly cold.
26 October 1962
1200 hours (Friday midday)
Oval Office, the White House
Washington D.C.
Bob Morris poked his head in the door after the President responded to his knock. “Secretary of State Rusk, and Directors McCone and Lundahl to see you, sir.”
“Thanks, Bob—send them in.”
The three men joined JFK and his brother in a more casual setting than the usual ExComm meeting, but the topics were no less serious. Arthur Lundahl went to set up his briefing board across from the President’s desk, while the Secretary of State began his report.
“I got some unusual news from Ambassador Kohler, in Moscow,” Rusk stated. “It seems he got a visit over there from William Knox, president of Westinghouse. Knox is over in Russia to try and set up some manufacturing deals. Anyway, Khrushchev knew about his visit and invited Knox to come and see him at the Kremlin. The chairman was pleasant enough, according to Knox, but he clearly wanted to pass a message back to Washington. Khrushchev wanted him to let us know that the Soviets intend to stand firm on the matter of the missiles.”
“But they’ve already backed off from the quarantine line,” JFK objected. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Apparently they met two days ago,” Rusk continued. “It’s possible Khrushchev hadn’t made up his mind yet, depending on the exact timing. You know they’re about eight hours ahead of us over there. But that wasn’t the thing Knox thought was most important.”
“Go on,” said Kennedy impatiently.
“Well, even though he was cheerful, Khrushchev made a threat. He did explain that the missiles would stay under Soviet control, says he knows that the Cubans are, quote, a ‘volatile’ people, and he wouldn’t release nuclear weapons to them. But he also said that if we started an invasion, the Guantanamo Naval Base would, again quote, ‘disappear on the first day.’”
“That’s one hell of a threat,” the President agreed. “Does he mean he would target it with a strategic missile? Wouldn’t that be a bit of overkill?”
“Quite possibly,” Rusk agreed. “Let’s hear what Art has to say about that.”
By then the director of NPIC had his easel and display boards arranged, and the other men gave him their full attention. “You’ll see here additional evidence of the Soviet ground troops in Cuba,” Lundahl said. He indicated a row of what clearly were tanks, lined up and apparently ready for action. Many trucks, armored personnel carriers, and other vehicles were ranked in orderly rows behind the tanks.
“We have confirmation of four motorized rifle regiments on the ground, now,
Sir. One of them is in the east, clearly a threat to Guantanamo Naval Base. It’s deployed to block any move by our men to advance out of there, though it could conceivably attack as well. A second is in central Cuba, positioned to defend the Sagua la Grande missile sites; a third is doing the same for the San Cristobal sites; and the fourth seems like it could be used to defend Havana, or move out as a reserve.”
“All right,” JFK said. “That’s a lot of troops. But one regiment isn’t going to make Guantanamo ‘disappear,’ is it?”
It was McCone who replied. “Not conventionally, no sir. With recent reinforcements, we have three times as many Marines there as are men in that regiment. And our men are dug in, and that position has been prepared for some sixty years. But show him what you have, there, Art.”
“These, Mr. President, are the problem,” Lundahl resumed smoothly. He gestured to a pair of tracked vehicles, the size of tanks. Instead of turrets, each one had a cylindrical object, missile-shaped, resting on the hull. “We’re pretty sure these are FROG launchers. That is, ‘free rocket over ground.’ The Russians call this type the Luna, and it is capable of carrying a nuclear warhead. A small one, about a two-kiloton yield.”
Eyeball to Eyeball (Final Failure) Page 18
