Wednesday, October 17, 1962
The State Department, Washington, DC
The Excomm had met three times the day before, once without the president, the men appreciating the freedom to offer their own views without the weight of the president’s judgment staring them in the face. The meetings had become forums for each man to flesh out his own ideas about just what the correct response should be to the presence of nuclear missiles in Cuba. Opinions seemed to change by the hour, some, like Dean Rusk, initially calling for a powerful military strike against the Soviet bases, then moderating his own view, as differing opinions were offered. By the second day of meetings, Wednesday, October 17, two distinct positions began to take shape.
Today, they met in a conference room on the seventh floor of the State Department building, a windowless tomb of a room, designed in an apparent attempt to avoid distractions from outside. John McCone had returned, cutting short a family emergency, and as he freely acknowledged, as director of the CIA, his place at the table was an absolute must. There was another new face as well, the ambassador to the United Nations, Adlai Stevenson. Stevenson had been a rival to Kennedy as the voice of the Democratic Party, had run unsuccessfully against Eisenhower in both 1952 and 1956. His post at the UN had been granted him by Kennedy as a plum, for his service to the party, yet few among the Excomm considered Stevenson important enough to influence anyone, believing him to be a man whose time had passed.
The president was absent again, this time off on another essential campaign stop, those kinds of scheduled events that no one wanted to change, offering the press or the public no hint that there was a greater crisis to deal with. In Kennedy’s absence, the meeting was logically chaired by the secretary of state, Rusk, yet Bobby could immediately see that Rusk didn’t feel up to the task. Even McNamara, equal in stature to Rusk in the Cabinet, seemed unwilling to take the lead in any discussion. At first, Bobby had been annoyed at the lack of a strong voice, but then, he reacted with his own instincts. If no one would run the show, it would be up to him.
GENERAL TAYLOR SPOKE, carrying the weight of the Joint Chiefs, whose own meetings had taken place late the day before.
“We are prepared to launch a surgical strike against the Soviet missiles and their installations, if that is the president’s order. Such a strike can be made in a matter of a few days. Already, the armed forces are maneuvering people and equipment southward, under the guise of training, in the event these strikes call for an all-out invasion. However, I would offer a note of caution. A surgical strike, with limited targets, opens up enormous risk. There is consensus among the Chiefs that a massive assault is the wiser course. Consider the possibility that a surgical strike misses some of the targets. Then we would have tipped our hand, and the Soviets would be in a position to react with their remaining tactical weapons in Cuba or elsewhere. However, an all-out strike against the missiles, the airbases, MiG fighters, Soviet bombers, submarines, and patrol boats would demonstrate our absolute lack of tolerance for their presence. The message would be clear. And, should it then be seen as necessary for a ground invasion, the way would be open for our people to go in. I personally do not agree that a land invasion is called for, nor is it necessarily a wise move. Others among the Joint Chiefs disagree with me. Such an invasion could be put into motion within a couple of weeks.”
The men around the room glanced at each other, and Bobby saw horror on some of the faces, nods of approval on others. He looked at McNamara, knew the defense secretary would have discussed this with Taylor already. McNamara caught his look, said, “There are issues to consider. An all-out invasion is a clear statement of war. Assaulting the Soviet installations and other facilities will kill Russians, possibly a great many Russians. I cannot believe that Khrushchev would accept those casualties without striking back, and, as General Taylor points out, there is no guarantee we will successfully eliminate every target. With such an assault under way, it is likely … no, it is probable, that a Soviet ground commander would launch his own still-functioning missiles at a target here. And then, gentlemen, we have nuclear war.”
Bobby welcomed McNamara’s more moderate tone, said, “What do you propose?”
“A blockade. Seal off the island from more shipping.”
Others spoke up now, a sharp reaction to McNamara’s backing away from military action. Former secretary of state Dean Acheson, another new face, a longtime advocate of aggressive dealings with the Soviets, said, “A blockade will have no effect whatsoever on the missiles already in Cuba. If anything, it might hasten their being launched. At this moment, today, we have the least risk we will face. Every day of progress with their bases is a day closer to action on their part. We must strike now or not at all.”
Douglas Dillon, the treasury secretary, spoke up now.
“A blockade would only heighten the confrontation directly with the Soviets. Soviet ships could be sunk, and we are fooling ourselves if we believe the Russians wouldn’t react to that.”
Bobby looked at McNamara, who stared downward, head shaking slowly. Bobby said, “Gentlemen, we have done an excellent job of fooling ourselves already. We did not believe the Soviets would ever put offensive weapons in Cuba, and here we are. But I cannot believe that it is the wisest move to invite all-out war.”
To one side, Adlai Stevenson spoke now, a surprise to some, who had viewed his presence as ceremonial.
“Frankly, gentlemen, I would much prefer that we seek a peaceful solution to this problem. That is, after all, what the United Nations is for. Surely calmer heads will make the wisest decisions.”
There were low murmurs, Bobby scanning the room for anyone who agreed. No one spoke. A phone rang on the table in front of him, Bobby picking up the receiver.
“Sir, there are CIA officers here, with information.”
Bobby welcomed the break in the tension, the door opening, the same two CIA men from the day before entered. Envelopes were passed out, one man saying, “We have additional photographs. As well, we have continued to analyze the footage we have now.” The officer didn’t seem to know where to look, but Bobby said, “Tell us what you’ve got.”
“We have confirmed the presence at San Cristóbal of twenty-eight launchpads for two types of ballistic missiles. The two ballistic missiles have capabilities as follows. The shorter-range missiles, which, in Soviet parlance are their medium-range missiles, have an effective range of approximately one thousand miles. The larger, intermediate-range missiles have an effective range of twenty-two hundred miles. These are immovable, fixed-position weapons, whose purpose is as a first-strike missile. In a counterattack, they are indefensible, and could easily be taken out. Their warheads could easily reach as far as Arizona, Wyoming, and Montana. We will continue to provide you with photographs as the film is developed, and further U-2 flights are undertaken.”
Bobby scanned the photos, more of what he had seen before, some much clearer now.
“Thank you, gentlemen. That will be all. Fine work.”
The men left the room, the meetings breaking down in orderliness now, busy men with busy agendas. But the core of the group stayed put, Acheson speaking out.
“It’s very clear what must be done. Missiles so close to our shores are unacceptable and must be eliminated. This only shows just how much danger we are truly in.”
McNamara said, “It is very little difference to the danger we face from Soviet ICBMs, should they be fired from within Russia. A few minutes time doesn’t increase or decrease the danger. It is the hand on the trigger that matters. The most pressing question we face is how to get the missiles out of Cuba without starting a war.”
THE DEBATES CONTINUED. Various plans were offered, including notifying Khrushchev of the discovery, suggesting in the strongest diplomatic terms that he voluntarily withdraw the missiles. This was widely rejected, no one expecting Khrushchev to simply admit he had made a mistake. Other diplomatic solutions seemed to fall on deaf ears, no one ignoring the logic that the Russians had placed the missiles in Cuba for a reason that mattered very much to them. It was highly unlikely they could simply be asked to pull them out with any success.
As the debates continued, the more military approaches still held traction, McNamara and Bundy pushing for various forms of blockade, while some of the others insisted still on a massive military strike. As the discussions continued, heating up, cooling down, Bobby felt himself pulled away from the military strike concept. The most logical reasoning for him was the argument that even an all-out military strike might miss some targets, which would lead to obvious consequences, and practically ensure the need for a full-on invasion of Cuba. This would guarantee enormous casualties for both sides, especially among the Cuban people, innocent bystanders to most of what was happening.
With Acheson, Dillon, and the others firm in their commitment to an immediate military strike, others, including Rusk, McNamara, Bundy, and Bobby, adjourned with the understanding that more discussion was to come, but that regardless of their disagreements or differences in philosophy, the ultimate decision would be made by the president.
BOBBY SAT WITH Ted Sorenson, Kennedy’s primary speechwriter, huddled inside a black limo. Outside, the rain was relentless, but not so damaging as to prevent the president’s plane from making its landing. Kennedy was returning from yet another campaign trip, the rain not keeping away well-wishers upon his landing, happy faces that seemed to greet Kennedy no matter the conditions, or where he might be. But the crowds gave way quickly, Kennedy moving directly toward the waiting car, the crowd not aware just who the passengers were. The president offered a final smile to the crowd, a lengthy wave, then slid quickly into the backseat, alongside the others, said, “Jesus, what a mess. Sorry if I’m dripping on you.”
The smile was gone now, something Bobby had seen before, Kennedy playing the role the crowd hoped for, bright, optimistic, the energetic young man who was leading his country to greater heights. But in private, especially now, the happy talk and pleasant smiles gave way to the stark reality of what was happening around them.
Bobby handed his brother an envelope, a summary of the discussions from the latest Excomm meetings, Jack glancing at the contents, shaking his head.
“I didn’t expect clear answers. But we’re going to figure this out. We have to. Anything new?”
Bobby said, “Better photos from the U-2s. The interpreters are parsing out the details, just what we’re looking at. Even if I can’t identify everything they’re seeing, I take their word for it. We have no choice, really.”
“No, we don’t. I always said that after the Bay of Pigs I wouldn’t trust anything to the experts ever again. I was wrong. We have to accept that these are good people who know how to do their jobs. So, the boundary lines are being drawn? Acheson and Dillon want to bomb the hell out of everything, Stevenson wants to sit down and have a nice friendly talk. Everybody else is somewhere in between?”
Sorenson said, “That’s pretty close. Some are just going along for the ride, playing wait and see, waiting for others to pave the way.”
Jack looked at his brother now.
“You?”
Bobby looked down, wiped at the rivers of rainwater his brother had deposited on the car seat.
“I’m leaning toward a blockade. That’s McNamara’s position, primarily. There’s danger there, of course, just like there’s danger in all of this. But a full-on military strike … I don’t see how daring the Soviets to bomb us is good policy. Killing Russians will do exactly that.”
Kennedy wiped away the wetness on his face.
“Then how do we blockade Cuba without sinking Russian ships?”
There was a silent moment, Bobby looking at Sorenson, who shook his head. Sorenson said, “That’s the problem in a nutshell. No matter what we decide to do, we’re depending on Khrushchev not to react to us by launching missiles.”
Thursday, October 18, 1962
Hickory Hill, near McLean, Virginia
McNamara had come to Bobby’s home early that morning, a shared breakfast on the patio, a scattering of leaves drifting past as the trees gave way to winter. But today, there would be no tennis match.
They shared a pot of coffee, Ethel and the maid depositing a tray of muffins on the metal table, then disappearing into the house. It had always been that way, the understanding between Bobby and Ethel that his work was his alone, that whatever he was dealing with was not to be discussed. She seemed to prefer that, as much as he preferred not hearing every detail of life inside their home, every problem with the children. Now, that separation was more important than ever, the unspoken rule around his home that serious goings on were not discussed at all. Bobby assumed it was that way with every member of the Excomm, the president’s strict rule that secrecy meant secrecy from anyone outside the meetings. Any kind of leak now could be catastrophic, even if it meant keeping wives in the dark.
McNamara toyed with one of the blueberry muffins, had always enjoyed whatever treat Ethel had provided.
“I miss the parties here. I could always count on you for something entertaining, including tossing some celebrity into your pool.”
Bobby ignored the food, said, “Doesn’t seem right, not now. Too many faces, too much talk. If we get through this without blowing ourselves up, I promise you, the parties will go on. Ethel wouldn’t have it any other way.”
McNamara chuckled.
“I doubt Ethel enjoys those gatherings as much as her husband. You just itch to embarrass some hotshot, bring them down a notch. Funny thing is, all those hotshots, whether government or Hollywood or anything else, they seem eager for your abuse. It’s more important just to be here, to be a part of your world. Too bad Jack doesn’t enjoy it more.”
Bobby thought of his brother, the tragedy of Jackie’s miscarriage, six years earlier, the incentive for Jack to sell this property to Bobby.
“He’ll socialize, when he feels like it. But now, being president, I think he accepts that there are some limits to how he shows his face to the world.”
McNamara took a bite from the muffin.
“You’re right. It wouldn’t do for the president of the United States to be dumped into the pool. The Secret Service might not approve.” McNamara finished the muffin, wiped his hands together. “The meeting is at eleven this morning, right?”
Bobby pushed the coffee cup around in a slow circle, nervous energy.
“Yep. The State Department. We can ride together, one less limo. Jack’s made it clear, we need to be discreet about the cars we use for these meetings. Any good reporter who sees a cluster of black limos outside any building in DC will smell something’s up. We need to use the garages, do some walking.”
McNamara made a slow swipe at a leaf drifting past.
“Right. Do you think the blockade is the right thing? Truly?”
Bobby expected this, knew that McNamara wasn’t comfortable leading the way on any of these ideas.
“There’re still questions, Bob. What exactly do you blockade? Offensive weapons only? Or, go the whole way, and stop every damn ship that comes toward Cuba?”
McNamara sipped from the coffee cup, popped a bite of muffin into his mouth.
“I’ve been thinking about that one a great deal. You can’t just shut down all sea traffic into Cuba. There are humanitarian reasons. The Cuban people rely on all kinds of shipments, food, fuel, all of it. Stopping all of that could seriously wreck their economy.”
“So, you focus only on weapons, military shipments?”
“I think so. Maybe oil too, but that could also cripple them. No, you have to spell it out plainly, no fogginess about what the blockade is for.”
Bobby tossed the coffee from his half-filled cup out toward the grass, said, “The only way to separate what’s allowed in and what’s not, is to board ships. If the Russians say no…”
“If the Russians say no … it means I’ve misread Khrushchev. Maybe we all have. I think these missiles are just his way of evening the balance of power, maybe poking us in the eye for our missiles in Turkey. I cannot believe he is doing this just so we’ll force him, or he’ll force us, to start a damn war.”
Bobby stood, walked a few steps out to the yard, looked up at the trees, a soft breeze rustling the limbs, a shower of leaves.
“This could be one of those things … where there is no right answer. Everything we do could be wrong. But you have to do it anyway.”