Saturday afternoon, October 27, 1962
Submarine B-59, at sea, off Cuba
It was hot, the crewmen around him sweating, what had passed for normal in most of the Soviet subs. It meant more to Arkhipov, and he glanced around, couldn’t escape the nervousness of just what the heat might mean. To this crew, the sweat and grime was part of a day’s duty, the sub keeping below the surface throughout daylight hours, surfacing only in the darkness. It was unavoidable that within the confines of the submerged vessel, the temperature rose and the air grew more stale with each hour they stayed under. But Arkhipov had a different experience, the year before, a different craft, nuclear submarine K-19. It had been near Greenland, a routine training mission, the cooling system for the nuclear power plant breaking down, a significant leak. The tension had been high as the men struggled to solve the problem, most of the crew, including Arkhipov, exposed to far more deadly radiation than was acceptable. But eventually, the cooling system had been repaired, a lesson carried by that entire crew that this new technology, the precious nuclear submarines, could be more deadly than the old reliable diesel.
The B-59 was diesel, noisy, dirty, but Arkhipov welcomed his assignment, escaping the various unknowns that seemed to haunt the nuclear-powered subs. For now, his official position was commodore, a key officer who served in partial command of the four-sub fleet, all of them cruising now near Cuba. To the captain of the B-59, Valentin Savitsky, such a grand title didn’t seem to carry much weight. Out here, so far from any land base, the B-59 belonged to Savitsky, a fact made clear to Arkhipov the first day they had released the lines. Arkhipov had no reason to look for an argument, and so far, the mission had been reasonably routine. They had one job to do: monitor the Americans enforcing their blockade line around Cuba. If any Soviet vessel required aid, no matter what kind of aid, the B-59 and the other three subs were there to provide it. What that might mean was anybody’s guess.
Arkhipov kept to his position, near the navigator, one eye on the man’s charts. Behind him, the captain called out, his usual request.
“Depth?”
“Sixty meters, sir.”
“Sixty meters. Heading?”
“One eight zero, sir. Eight knots.”
“Enemy position.”
“Two American destroyers to starboard, range eight kilometers and at least twelve kilometers.”
The captain cursed, said to no one in particular, “Our orders insist we must stay submerged. But no one says we can’t take a closer look. Helm, change course to two five zero, maintain speed.”
Arkhipov shook his head, kept his thoughts to himself. Our orders do not tell us to play a chess game with American warships. Certainly they know we’re here, or they’ll detect us when we get closer. This is foolishness.
The bulkheads around him groaned with the course change, the telltale sign of the aging sub, and the primary reason they could rarely sail close to a destroyer undetected. The batteries are getting low, and it’s getting hotter in here, he thought. The air will begin to foul soon. We should lie low until dark, save our energy until we can surface. But here I am only the second-in-command. It’s Savitsky’s boat.
From the sonar station, a hushed voice.
“Sir, the American destroyer has changed course, to intercept us. She is closing rapidly.”
Arkhipov looked at Savitsky, hoped to see some contrition, that he would accept that playing tag might be a poor idea. The captain seemed annoyed, wiped his brow with a dirty white handkerchief.
“Change course, give him room. Return to one eight zero.”
“Aye, sir.”
Arkhipov waited and heard the groans again, the sub leaning to port as it made the turn. Long minutes passed, no one speaking, Arkhipov pulling his shirt away from his skin, the sweat soaking through. From his command chair, Savitsky said, “Where is he?”
The sonar man responded with a useless whisper.
“Sir, he’s caught us. He’s … less than a kilometer to starboard, closing.”
The captain slapped the arm of his chair.
“What in the devil does he want with us? Or is he playing his little cat and mouse game too?”
Arkhipov obeyed his instincts, looked upward, as though he might actually see the destroyer passing over. Others did the same, eyes upward, and Savitsky said, “Submerge to eighty meters. Maintain heading.”
The rattling thunder came now, a short burst, then another, more following. Arkhipov steadied himself against a railing, the navigator beside him, very young, suddenly very afraid.
“Depth charges. They’re hunting us!”
Arkhipov put a hand on the young man’s shoulder.
“They know where we are. They’re just letting us know. Those are signal charges, low yield.”
Savitsky said aloud, “They’re telling us we’re captured. It’s their order for us to surface. Damn them to hell. They will have to do more than spit at us.”
Arkhipov looked at the captain, said, “They’re probably checking up on us, just to make sure we’re aware of the blockade line. It might be a good idea to obey them. Chances are, once they identify us, they’ll move on past.”
Savitsky looked at him with a hard sneer.
“Commodore Arkhipov, command has made you soft. I have been expecting this. It is my greatest fear, and yet I welcome it. It is quite clear that the war has begun. They’re seeking a prize. I won’t give them one.”
“War?”
“Yes, Commodore. You are aware that we have been unable to raise our home base, or any base, for several days. My guess is that they have far more to contend with than one lonely submarine. Simply put, Commodore, we’re on our own out here.”
Arkhipov looked toward the radioman, said, “Have you tried contacting base today?”
The young man glanced at the captain, then said, “No, sir. Last night. But there was interference. I had to charge the batteries before I could try again, but today, we’ve been submerged.”
“What about right now?”
“No, sir, we’re too deep.”
The depth charges came again, thumps and rattles to one side of the sub. Arkhipov said, “Captain, that’s definitely a signal. They are demanding that we surface.”
Savitsky rose from his seat, moved toward him, motioned with his hand.
“Commodore, in my quarters, now, if you please.” He scanned the con, said, “Find that political officer and have him report to my quarters immediately.”
One of the crewmen left quickly, and Savitsky motioned toward Arkhipov. “Now.”
Arkhipov followed the captain through the narrow corridor, saw the political officer, Maslennikov, moving toward them. Maslennikov wore the same uniform, but was no navy man, had been assigned to duty on the submarine seemingly to test loyalties, to catch someone at any sort of indiscretion that would reflect badly on him in Moscow. As such, he was extremely unpopular, though Arkhipov had yet to see any sign that the man cared what any one of the crew thought about him. Maslennikov said with a smile, “Yes, Captain. Something you need?”
Savitsky opened the hatch to his quarters, said, “Inside, both of you.”
The captain remained standing, pointed to a small chair and the edge of his bed. The other two sat, and Savitsky stood with his arms crossed, said, “It is my belief that we are at war with the United States. It has been expected for some time, and we have made preparations in that event. For the past few days, our guard has been down, and so, the American destroyer caught us easily. That is my fault. He could have destroyed us an hour ago, but instead he is seeking our capture. I do not have to tell either one of you, this is unacceptable.”
The hull rattled again, more small blasts peppering the sub.
“The American navy will bring reinforcements, to aid in the capture. No doubt, other ships are steaming our way. It is what I would do. Should they be unsuccessful in calling us to the surface, their patience will run out. Then they will kill us.”
Maslennikov seemed to absorb what the captain was saying, the smile gone, a strong nod.
“That sounds correct, Captain. But why do you believe we are at war?”
“It was inevitable. It is not widely known, but I am aware that we have constructed nuclear missile launchers in Cuba and have prepared them for offensive use. There is only one reason to position your greatest weapons so close to the enemy. You intend to use them. Clearly, the Americans discovered what we have done, thus, they have positioned this blockade, to prevent additional arms from entering Cuba. Until now, there has been no effort to interfere with our submarine traffic, since it is expected that we would observe and protect our own ships. But obviously, that has changed. And, if you consider we have not been able to contact any land base … I believe that is the result of a deadly engagement. It is quite likely that our cities, and the cities of the Americans exist as smoldering ruins. And in that, we have one great advantage. We are very far away, and so, when war erupts, when so much destruction spreads over so much of our lands, our cities, our people … we survive.”
Arkhipov felt cold in his gut.
“But you have no proof of this. What are you suggesting?”
“I rely on intuition, Commodore. And I say this with no enthusiasm, with no joy. But the time has come to fight for our country. We have a very limited window of time before the American destroyers finally destroy us. I intend to employ our Special Weapon. We will arm our torpedoes with the nuclear warheads, and we will eliminate the threat from the American ships.”
Maslennikov stood, a show of excitement.
“This is grand, Captain. This will strike a blow that will be heard all the way to Moscow.”
Arkhipov said, “Captain, please. If such a blow is heard in Russia, it will be because there are people alive to hear it. I have no evidence that there is a war, however should you do this, you will risk starting one. I am not convinced that the American destroyers are doing any more than signaling to us to surface, so that they might identify us and our intentions. This is their blockade, after all.”
Savitsky kept his arms crossed, stared at Arkhipov with disgust.
“Yes, you have grown soft. This war, my friend, has been going on since World War Two. For seventeen years, we have been positioning ourselves for the great blow. Why else would we put missiles in Cuba? Why else would we have been sent to this blockade, except to destroy it? Commodore, it is my belief that this war that scares you so has already begun. You have children, yes?”
“I have a daughter.”
“I hope she survives. But if we do not fight, here and now, and instead we pretend there is no war … we return home to what? A charred and desolate land? You will find nothing of your family, so how will you feel? You could have done something, made a decisive move, inflicted great damage on the enemy, and instead you chose to wait and see.”
Maslennikov looked at him now, said, “I truly believe he is correct, Commodore. Our opportunity could be brief. I do not wish to become just one more casualty, when we can strike hard at the enemy with a weapon they cannot withstand. I know very little of glory in battle, but I know opportunity. This is opportunity.”
There was a faint knock on the captain’s hatch, and Savitsky moved that way, pulled it open, a terse “Yes?”
“Sir, two more American destroyers are approaching. And, we are picking up the sound of aircraft.”
“Good. Back to your station.” He turned to Arkhipov now. “You see? As I predicted. They are moving in for the kill. It is time to act, Commodore. I will not die a coward’s death, when I could have taken down the enemy. I will launch the nuclear torpedo, and eliminate at least one, or perhaps two American ships. And they can do nothing in response.”
Arkhipov was feeling a panicky helplessness, said, “You are wrong, Captain. If we start this war, there shall be response aplenty. We don’t know why there are missiles in Cuba. That is not for us to know. We have no orders to fire our nuclear weapons, in any event. I would surface, allow the Americans to do what they intend to do, and when they allow us to move on our way, we contact land base, while we’re on the surface.”
Savitsky stared at him, shook his head.
“Have you heard nothing I’ve said? If we surface, we will be offering the Americans our surrender. We will hand them our ship and our crew without any struggle. As long as this is my submarine, gentlemen, I will decide its fate. You both know my orders, that I am required to accede to both of you before using our Special Weapon. I believe I know where you stand, Comrade Maslennikov. Now tell me, Commodore. Will you stand with Russia, with your navy, with your honor?”
Arkhipov stood now.
“When Russia calls upon me to fight a nuclear war, I will do so. But I will not accept that such a war exists without direct evidence, without proof, and without orders. I will not approve your use of our Special Weapon, and you cannot employ that weapon without my approval. Captain, I will not allow you to start such a war.”
Savitsky stared at him, red-faced, seemed ready to burst. He looked at Maslennikov now, said, “I have no choice but to accede to his decision. My orders are specific on this point. This decision must be unanimous.” He looked at Arkhipov now. “Be wary, Commodore. I will not allow this kind of treachery to occur again. I will surface, as the Americans demand. But know this. You have doomed us to an inglorious surrender.”
THEY BROKE THE surface near one of the destroyers, the hatch opening quickly. It was nearly dark, Savitsky climbing up out the hatch of the conning tower, Arkhipov close behind. He had seen the captain strap on his sidearm, a show of defiance that seemed faintly ridiculous under the five-inch gun and antiaircraft batteries of the destroyer. Above came the roar of an aircraft, and the officers looked that way, a searchlight suddenly glaring down, blinding light. Arkhipov lowered his head, blinked, stared into the dark hatch, and now a new sound, the plane’s machine guns coming to life.
Savitsky shouted, “They’re firing on us! Get below, prepare to dive!”
Arkhipov looked up again, the searchlight passing by, machine-gun fire spraying the surface of the water, clear out past one side of the sub. Now another flyover, but no machine guns, the planes circling, coming back around.
Arkhipov said, “No! They’re just getting our attention. Look, Captain. A boat.”
From one side of the nearest destroyer, a boat was lowered into the water, a handful of officers on board. The boat began to approach, and Arkhipov saw Savitsky’s sidearm come up. He put a hand on Savitsky’s arm, said, “No, Captain. If there was a war, we’d already be dead.”
“I don’t trust them.”
Arkhipov watched the small boat drawing closer, saw officers without sidearms. He saw one man, obviously in command, the man smiling, a saluting wave. Arkhipov slowly raised his hand in response, thought, one day there could be a war. But it is not today.
AFTER ENGAGING WITH the Americans in a tense yet amicable standoff, the destroyers moved off, allowing B-59 to go on its way. To Captain Savitsky’s credit, his first order while still on the surface was to attempt to contact a land base once again. This time they were successful, and confirmation was received that, in fact, no war had yet begun. B-59 received one additional order: The sub was to leave the waters near Cuba and return to her base in the Soviet Union. Her mission to monitor the American blockade line was concluded.