Saturday morning, October 27, 1962
Office of the Attorney General, Washington, DC
The Excomm meeting had been set for the usual time, 10 a.m. Bobby had stopped first by his office, his typical routine, making sure the business of the attorney general was functioning smoothly. He did not expect to find J. Edgar Hoover waiting for him.
He despised the aging FBI boss, and the feeling had always been mutual. Hoover saw himself very much as the nation’s primary law enforcement officer, which usually meant that he was operating by his own rules. To Hoover, Bobby was an upstart child, daring to tell the seasoned expert how to behave.
Hoover was seated in front of Bobby’s desk, a coffee cup in his hand. He barely acknowledged Bobby’s entrance, said, “Your secretaries make a good pot of coffee. Careful, I’ll hire them away from you. So, big goings-on this morning? I was told you’d come by here first, make sure the Justice Department remembers who you are. You always work on weekends?”
Bobby moved around the desk, sat, was not in the mood for a jousting match with the FBI.
“I’m where I have to be. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”
Hoover made a grand gesture out of removing a paper from his jacket pocket, as though imparting a treasured secret.
“You might want to know what’s been happening outside of Washington over the past couple of days. Here is my memorandum. Read it at your leisure. Carry it perhaps to your top secret meeting. I’ll be on my way.”
Hoover was up and gone quickly, his half-empty coffee cup still on Bobby’s desk. Bobby ignored that, tried to shake off the uneasiness he always felt when Hoover was present, scanned the memorandum, now read slowly.
“Holy Jesus.”
Saturday morning, October 27, 1962
The White House, Cabinet Room
McCone had opened the meeting as usual, with his intel briefing. There was little that was new, the Soviets continuing with their construction on the missile sites in Cuba, confirmation that six of the sites were operational, prepared to fire. Bobby had entered just prior to the president, took his place to one side, waited for McCone to complete his report. He waited for a break in the chatter, said aloud, “Excuse me. I have some news.”
The faces turned toward him, and Kennedy nodded his way. Bobby said, “The FBI has confirmed that within the Soviet consulate in New York, the staffs are burning documents. The FBI doesn’t have complete confirmation just what it is they’re burning, other than to observe that the documents are of a sensitive nature. The interpretation of this can be made…”
General Taylor said, “The interpretation is clear. They’re preparing for war. That’s what embassies do when the fighting is about to start. They have to assume they won’t be able to keep their walls secure, so they clean out their files. This is certain?”
Bobby nodded toward Taylor.
“The FBI regularly monitors activity within foreign embassies, as much as can be done discreetly. It’s hard to hide a burning trash pile in the middle of a city, even if it’s behind walls. I’m not sure just what else we need to say about this, and we will continue to monitor the situation closely. The FBI is on that.”
Kennedy sat with both hands on the table in front of him.
“Why in hell…? No, we can’t read too much into this, not yet. We still have Khrushchev’s letter, and there’s nothing there that hints that Khrushchev is expecting a war to break out.”
Rusk waited for more of the members to seat themselves, then said, “Sir, the interpreters spent most of the night parsing Khrushchev’s letter, and the translations we had yesterday are sound, no major changes.”
To one side, George Ball, Rusk’s assistant secretary of state, seemed flustered, late to the meeting. Ball said, “I’m not sure we can count on that. Mr. President, we have received a second letter, ostensibly from Khrushchev. Some translation is still ongoing, but what we have so far is right here.”
Ball slid a handful of papers across the table to Kennedy, unwrapped more paper from his briefcase, began distributing them around the room.
Kennedy said, “What the hell do you mean, another letter? How was it transmitted?”
Ball said, “They’re broadcasting it over Moscow radio. I assume they’re trying to avoid any delays in written correspondence and are trying to make the translation a simpler matter.”
“Broadcasting … to the whole world? I thought Khrushchev’s letter yesterday was issued as top secret.”
Rusk said, “It was.”
Kennedy scanned the papers now, the room falling silent, the papers shuffled from each member, the letter absorbed. After a long moment, Kennedy said, “What’s he done? He’s negated the entire letter from yesterday. He’s upped the ante, increased his demands.”
Ball said, “Quite so. If this letter does in fact come from Khrushchev, he is now demanding that in order to remove the missiles from Cuba, we must do the same from Turkey. He goes so far as to suggest …
“You are disturbed over Cuba … ninety miles by sea from the coast of the United States. You have placed destructive rocket weapons which you call offensive, in Turkey, literally right next to us. Do you believe that you have the right to demand security for your country, and the removal of such weapons as you qualify as offensive, while not recognizing this right for us?
“I therefore make this proposal. We are willing to remove from Cuba the means which you regard as offensive … the United States will remove its analogous means from Turkey.
“We will make a statement within the framework of the Security Council to the effect that the Soviet government gives a solemn promise to respect the inviolability of the borders and sovereignty of Turkey … the United States government will make a similar statement within the framework of the Security Council regarding Cuba.”
McNamara said, “He has suddenly tossed an invasion of Turkey onto the table. This is completely different from his letter yesterday. What the hell is going on?”
McCone said, “There is something strange about this, and I don’t just mean the subject matter. The whole tone is different, too matter-of-fact. There are no flourishes, there’s no emotion.”
Kennedy sat back, and Bobby could see the anger on his face.
“I don’t believe this. We were on the right path … the settlement was right in our hands.”
McNamara said, “You don’t suppose Khrushchev’s been overthrown? Yesterday, his letter seemed ready to settle this, with an admission that the Soviets were in the wrong, that they would take the steps necessary to end this mess. Now, suddenly…”
Bobby said, “It sounds like somebody’s put a gun to his head. I know this sounds a little Hollywood … but it’s as though he’s writing this for broadcast with a handful of generals standing in front of him, pointing at him with a machine gun. The timing is too odd. He sends a plaintive letter yesterday, and within, what? Twelve hours? He voids it and offers much tougher terms. Somebody in the Kremlin got pissed off at his first letter.”
Kennedy held up his hands, still a hard scowl.
“We don’t know anything of the sort. What we know is that the game has changed. We were concerned about delaying tactics before, allowing them to get more of their missile launchers up and running. Well, that’s what this is. There is no way I will jerk our Jupiter missiles out of Turkey without a careful negotiation with our allies there. How the hell do we tell most of NATO that we’re going to yank their defenses away, just so we can become more comfortable here at home? Those people live under the shadow of Soviet nuclear missiles every day, and even if those Jupiters are obsolete, pulling them out of Turkey is a hugely symbolic gesture that will have an impact all the way across NATO. And by the way, I thought we had begun making arrangements to remove those things months ago, and replace them with far superior Polaris subs.”
Bundy said, “Yes, sir. You had ordered us to begin the process of removing the Jupiters last August. It was taking longer than expected. As you note, sir, negotiating with the Turks has been problematic. They rather like having a backyard full of our missiles.”
Bobby saw the anxiety on his brother’s face.
“If this second letter comes from Khrushchev, truly, it appears obvious that someone convinced him he didn’t have to give away the store by pulling his missiles out of Cuba. There had to be something on our side, something far costlier to us than a guarantee we wouldn’t invade. There might not be a gun to his head, just a fresh analysis of our offensive weapons that are sitting on his doorstep. But this deal is a nonstarter, and surely, he has to know that.”
Bobby said, “And so, is this about delay? Stalling this process so they can get more work done in Cuba?”
The phone rang, Kennedy picking up the receiver, a quick hand off to McNamara, who answered, “Yes?”
There was silence for a long minute, McNamara seeming to droop.
“When? Do we know of the pilot?” More silence, then McNamara hung up the phone.
“I have just received word … God almighty. A U-2 recon plane has been shot down over Cuba. Apparently three SAM missiles were fired, one found its mark. The pilot was Major Rudolph Anderson, from South Carolina. He did not survive.”
There were low groans, mumbles, and Kennedy said, “Good Christ. Get word to his family. Do it right.” He paused. “So, now it’s a shooting war. Yesterday, Khrushchev moaned about escalation, how we had to avoid that at all costs. Today, he escalates. How the hell do I order more U-2 flights down there if they’re so damned vulnerable? It’s come to this. We can’t allow the SAM sites to continue operating. Do you understand what this means?” Kennedy looked at McNamara now. “How quickly can we launch a full-on air strike against the missile sites?”
McNamara hesitated, said, “Forty-eight hours. Thirty hours if you push.”
“And the invasion? Following the air strikes by how long?”
“Four to six days.”
Kennedy folded his hands together, stared down, the room silent.
“Someone in here, maybe it was me, said that we couldn’t afford to back Khrushchev into a corner. Well, that corner is right here, and we’re in it. More than a corner … this feels like a noose.”