Friday, October 26, 1962
USS Joseph P. Kennedy Jr. DD850, at sea
He stayed close to the bridge, binoculars in hand, could see the ship off the port bow. Behind the freighter, another shape, more familiar, a destroyer, and he said, “Skipper, the Pierce is alongside her.”
The ship’s captain, Commander Mikhalevsky, had binoculars of his own, said, “That’s where she’s supposed to be. They’re doing the same thing we are, waiting for orders. Where the hell is that radioman? We should have heard something by now.”
Grayson saw the young man scrambling up the ladder, paper in hand.
“Sir, the decoded message from Admiral Ward. It passed through the Elokomin, Captain Spears. Not sure why, sir.”
Mikhalevsky took the message, said, “It’s called chain of command, son. These orders are coming all the way from Washington, and you can damn well bet the chief of Naval Operations is doing things by the book. I wouldn’t be surprised if these orders are coming all the way from the top. The president. Let’s do him proud.” He scanned the text, let out a deep breath, glanced at Grayson. “Well, we have our orders. That freighter’s the Marucla, and we’re to board her. Check her out for contraband, weapons, et cetera.” He folded the paper, slipped it into his shirt pocket, looked at the faces around the bridge. “You boys wanted to see some action. Well, you’re about to. If that ship’s got something dangerous on board, we just might start World War Three.”
Grayson could feel the skipper’s anxiety, felt it himself. For days now, there had been no real activity along this part of the quarantine line, nothing to suggest there was a crisis at all. Now, that had suddenly changed.
Mikhalevsky looked at Grayson now.
“Signal the Pierce. Tell her to motor her exec over here, in his full-dress whites.”
Grayson moved to the signal station, wrote out the instructions, the seaman reading with wide eyes. He flashed the lights now, a series of Morse-coded words. A long minute passed, Grayson watching the Pierce, then a signal of her own, responding. Grayson tried to decode the signal himself, knew the signalman would do a better job, the young man scribbling furiously on paper.
“Here, sir.”
Grayson slipped back into the bridge, said, “Skipper, he’s on his way.”
“You get his name?”
“No, sir. They probably thought it best not to broadcast that with a potential enemy ship paying attention.”
“And they’re right.”
Mikhalevsky spoke into the intercom now.
“Commander Reynolds, to the bridge.”
In a short minute, Reynolds, the executive officer was there.
“Sir. We boarding that ship out there?”
Mikhalevsky gazed again through his binoculars, and Grayson could see the tension in his face, could hear it in his words.
“Casey, we’ve been ordered to board and search her. You will lead the boarding party. The exec from Pierce is on his way over … yep, there he is.”
Grayson scanned the open water, saw the motor launch heading their way, a single passenger in white.
Mikhalevsky continued, “That fellow will join you.”
In a few minutes, Grayson saw an officer in white, a quick jog up the ladder, out of breath, adjusting his jacket. He hesitated, a nodding glance at Grayson, then he looked toward the other officers, said, “Commander Dwight Osborne, sir. Permission to be on your bridge.”
“Permission granted. You’re the exec on the Pierce?”
“I am, sir.”
“Well, you’re now part of the boarding party.”
“That’s what I was told, sir. Excuse me, but do we know what’s so special about the Marucla?”
Mikhalevsky pulled the written order from his pocket, said, “Admiral Ward is passing on to us the information coming down from the CNO that Marucla is an old U.S.-built Liberty ship, now under a Lebanese flag, commanded by a Greek skipper, under charter to the Russians. She is en route to Cuba, and our orders are to inspect her cargo, apparently whether she likes it or not. Once the boarding party is prepared, and that means dress whites, we’ll pull up alongside. I’ll signal her to stop, and I would have to imagine that with two destroyers flanking her, she’ll pay attention.”
LIEUTENANT PAUL GRAYSON had served on the Kennedy for most of two years, had come to the Navy from a family of sailors that dated back to the 1800s. His father had seen action at Pearl Harbor, and well after, throughout World War II, serving on destroyers like this one. But Grayson knew his father wouldn’t have recognized the kinds of technology he worked with now, from the antisubmarine rocket-launcher to the computerized fire control system. Enjoying a recent refit, the destroyer now had its own submarine-spotting helicopter, and besides her twin five-inch guns, carried thirty-two torpedoes. She had a top speed of more than thirty-five knots, and should the need arise, could launch nuclear depth charges, a source of pride that no one really wanted to experience.
There was another source of pride: the destroyer’s name. She had been christened to honor the president’s older brother, who had been killed during World War II. That Joseph P. Kennedy’s brother was now the president only added to the prestige the crew felt serving on his family’s namesake. For Grayson, there was pride enough in wearing the uniform, a junior officer hoping to climb the Navy’s ladder. Thus far, the primary claim to fame for the Kennedy had been in service to the space launches out of Cape Canaveral, the ship serving as one part of the Mercury Seven astronaut program as a potential rescue vessel. The orders to join the quarantine had been a stark surprise, inspiring a rapid scramble to reach the designated quarantine line, as part of Commander Task Group 136.3. Immediately, the reconnaissance helicopter had been sent airborne, with constant radio contact with other members of the task force, one fleet oiler, the USS Elokomin, and several destroyers. So far, contacts with potential target ships had been fairly minimal, most of the cargo vessels they were to monitor staying out of range.
For the crew, the duty was both an adventure and a serious dose of nervousness, many of the younger crewmen experiencing a seaborne journey for the first time. Gone were the drills, the mundane duties that seemed designed solely to give the crew something to do. Now, when the radio operators relayed messages, everyone seemed to freeze, wondering if, this time, they might be called to battle stations. And with all the men knew of what was happening around Cuba, no one expected it to be a drill.
WITH THE FIRST light, the ship had been ordered to general quarters, the guns manned, fire stations monitored. As torpedo officer, Grayson also manned the bridge lookout, and from first light, he had kept his position peering out to port, and even now, the sun was not yet fully above the horizon. They had shadowed the Marucla throughout the night, keeping constant contact with the destroyer John Pierce, and with first light, Pierce had drawn much closer to the Marucla, though the Marucla had not yet slowed her speed. He could feel the heightened attention of everyone around him, eyes mostly focusing on the skipper.
Mikhalevsky spoke to the helmsman, said, “Slide up alongside her. Keep your distance. No traffic accidents.” After a long pause, he said, “Signal station, raise signal flags Oscar November.”
Grayson thought, that’s a clear message. Stop. The flags went up, the order for the freighter to halt dead in the water. The surge of speed from Kennedy’s engines drew her much closer to the freighter, and Grayson stared through binoculars, saw activity on the Marucla’s deck, the ship not seeming to slow. Mikhalevsky seemed to read his mind, said, “Give her a few minutes. Maybe they haven’t had their coffee yet. They’re a little slow on the uptake.”
They waited five more minutes, all eyes on the Marucla, still plowing forward, and beyond, the Pierce keeping pace.
The radioman was there again, the young man out of breath, his nervousness obvious.
“Sir, a message from Captain Spears, on Elokomin.”
“What the hell’s he want? Jesus.” He took the message, read, looked out away from Marucla, toward the horizon. There was a silent minute on the bridge, no one speaking. Mikhalevsky turned to Osborne, Pierce’s executive officer, said, “There’s a Russian sub, Foxtrot class, fifteen miles east. Seems to be heading this way. She’s on the surface, so there are no secrets, not yet anyway.” He focused his binoculars on the Marucla now. “What the hell’s wrong with those people? All right, no more flags. Signalman, on my command, flash ‘Request you stop. I intend to board you. Request you advise when your sea ladder is ready.’”
Another long minute, Grayson glancing out east, wondering if he would actually see a submarine. And worse, would she try to interfere?
“Sir, she’s slowing.”
There were small cheers, silenced now, the exec officer, Reynolds appearing, now in his whites, a quick handshake to Osborne.
“How do we do this, sir? I assume we have orders for everything?”
Mikhalevsky said, “Casey, today, I’m not going to the head without orders. Now, Lieutenant Grayson, go get dressed, like it’s your mama’s birthday. Where’s that translator, Seaman Mass? Get him into his whites too. Radioman, you’re going with them. Get dressed.” He looked around, pointed to a CPO. “Chief, you’ll join ’em.” The chief put a hand on his holster, the .45 secure. “No. No weapons. No mistakes. This isn’t the wild west. Remember, we’re under orders that go all the way up to heaven. Every detail.”
THE MARUCLA HAD finally obeyed, gave the signal that her ladder had been lowered. The launch pulled away from the Kennedy, the six men bobbing about in the low swells like an out-of-place wedding party. The journey took short minutes, the destroyer now alongside the Marucla. The Kennedy’s executive officer, Casey Reynolds, commanded the boarding party, the man holding tight to a legal pad, notes written out, but no one was quite certain what to expect or what kind of reception they would receive. Grayson felt the butterflies, looked back at the destroyer, comforted by the guns, the gunners’ mates visible, lookouts with sharp eyes in all directions, the nagging thought of an approaching submarine.
They reached the flank of the Marucla, the Jacob’s ladder dangling, crewmen steadying it as much as possible. The men stepped clear of the launch, climbed slowly, Grayson grateful there were six of them.
He climbed, then swung his legs over to the deck now, joined the others, an awkward silence, the crewmen of the Marucla with mostly smiles. One man emerged now, a ragged uniform, his hand extended.
“I am Georgio Condorrigos. I am the captain. Welcome aboard my ship.”
THE COFFEE WAS painfully strong, Commander Reynolds leading the way by accepting the Greek’s hospitality. All six men struggled through the coffee, the captain enjoying himself at their expense.
“We have breakfast for you, if you wish. Nothing like what your American ships can offer, but my men do not starve.”
Reynolds said, “We appreciate your kind reception to our request, Captain. But we have official duties here. We must determine if your cargo is acceptable to pass the quarantine. Surely you understand our purpose here.”
The captain stood, still smiling, and Grayson thought, he is either an expert at lying, or he knows he’s out of danger. I guess we have to find out which.
Condorrigos produced a thick sheaf of papers.
“Here is my manifest, and my bills of lading. Please notice my cargo. You have already seen that I have trucks parked along my upper deck. I have rolls of paper below, along with barrels of sulfur, truck parts, and some petroleum and electronics.”
Reynolds took the manifest, handed it to Grayson, said in a low voice, “Look it over.”
Reynolds said to the captain, “I should like to examine your hold, sir. If you do not mind.”
Condorrigos still smiled, pointed the way. He led them down two flights of ladders, a hatchway, then pointed to a locked door. Reynolds said, “Open, please.”
A crewman stood nearby, unsmiling, the captain barking a sharp order, the man obeying. The hold was dark, piled high with boxes, and Reynolds said to no one in particular,
“The writing on those boxes is Russian. Interpreter.”
Behind Grayson, the man stepped forward, said, “Electronics, sir. It says precision instruments.”
The captain kept his smile, said, “Well, yes, of course. It is electronic gear, intended for Russian use. My ship is under charter to the Russians, as I am sure you know. Shall I open the rest of the cargo holds? I assure you, it is more of the same. Mostly truck and tractor parts.”
Reynolds seemed to ponder his options, a glance back toward Grayson, the others.
“No, that will not be necessary. You have shown us what we came to see. Your ship will remain in this position until we return to our ship. Orders will follow.”
The captain seemed to lose his smile, said, “I have done nothing to alarm you, sir. I am aware of the contraband you seek, and there is nothing of that here. Please allow us to be on our way.”
“When we return to our ship, we shall issue you the order. It has to be this way. I am under orders of my own.”
Condorrigos lowered his head, seemed to accept his fate.
“Then I shall escort you to the ladder.”
THEY RETURNED TO Kennedy, Reynolds reporting the details of the ship’s cargo that he had seen and catalogued. Commander Mikhalevsky radioed the results to his superiors, those details traveling quickly up the line, as he had expected, from his own task force command, to the fleet command, the chief of Naval Operations, all the way to the White House. As Captain Condorrigos had insisted, the ship’s cargo bore no resemblance to the kinds of weaponry or materials the quarantine line had been created to stop. With no further reason to hold the Marucla, she was given the order releasing her to resume her voyage to Cuba.
The submarine that had been observed only minutes before the rendezvous made no effort to intrude and soon disappeared.