Monday, October 29, 1962
Soviet Army HQ, near Havana, Cuba
“Do you enjoy boxing, Captain?”
His aide seemed to fumble for words, surprised at the question.
“When I’m able to view a match, yes, I suppose so. My father was a great fan of boxing.”
“Good for your father. In 1956, I was in Australia, commanding the guard to our boxing team for the Olympics that year. It was the first time, so I heard, that the Soviet Union could feel truly proud of our boxing skills, that we were certain to win a great many medals. We did too. Three gold.”
Pliyev moved to the window, stared out, not sure if his aide was paying any attention.
“I especially enjoyed the middleweights. I was ringside and saw the match between one of our top fighters, Gennadi Schatkov, against some fellow from Chile. Schatkov was brilliant, dominated the fight, and won the gold medal. Afterward, I recall watching his face, full of victory, enormous joy. We had been told that our boxing team drew their inspiration from the Soviet flag, and perhaps that’s true, though I’m not sure any mere flag could have produced the ecstasy I saw on that man’s face. But oddly, I found myself watching the other fellow, the Chilean, who had failed to achieve the glory his own country expected of him. He was badly beaten, and for a long while after the match, he sat on the small stool in his corner with his head down, feeling the kind of pain no one outside the boxing ring can understand.” He looked at his aide now, who stared at him with wide eyes. “Until now. I believe I know what the Chilean boxer felt, and not just the physical pain of being beaten with fists. His job … his duty was to achieve glory for his country. But it was denied him, as it has been denied me. Some will find fault with the job I have done here. Some will blame me because someone must be blamed, and after all, I am here.”
He moved away from the window, sat slowly at his desk. His telephone was ringing, and he ignored it, his aide moving closer, Pliyev holding up a hand.
“Leave it be. If it’s important, they will call back. These days, I suppose, everything is important. There are a great many beaten fighters in this place today.”
The phone continued to ring, and Pliyev was increasingly annoyed, couldn’t tune it out, pointed to it, the aide jumping in quickly to answer.
“General Pliyev’s office. Yes. Yes.” He put a hand over the receiver. “General Grechko wishes to have a moment with you. He is most insistent, sir.”
Pliyev lowered his head. “Another blow to the body. Certainly, tell him I am available for the next few minutes.”
“GENERAL PLIYEV, I was told … no, I was shoved hard to complete my antiaircraft installations. You berated me more than once for making slow progress, when Moscow demanded speed. Other commanders were given the same advice, from you and from Moscow. Finish the work, complete the job. Fine, we obeyed, we pushed our men hard, in miserable conditions. This place is a bug-infested hellhole. That is not a revelation to you, General. And work we did. General Statsenko, who commands the missile division, feels as bad about this as I do, and his people worked even harder than mine to get their missiles operational.”
Grechko was shouting, and Pliyev let him go, knew that on this day, there was a great deal of shouting to go around. Grechko seemed to wear down, obviously surprised Pliyev had allowed him such indiscretions.
Pliyev said, “General, I do not dispute anything you say. But what would you have me do? Should I gather up all of my commanders here and sing a chorus of protest to Moscow? Should we ignore our orders and start a war, just because we are frustrated? I have worked all of my career to further the goals as they have been given me. I have followed my orders as explicitly as possible, because I understand that’s what a good officer does. Well, General Grechko, we have new orders now, and they are very direct. We are to dismantle every missile launcher, every SAM site, we are to crate up every missile and transport them to the shipping terminals. There, they will be inspected by United Nations officials, and once on board the transport ships that will carry them back to the Soviet Union, they will be inspected again, at sea.”
Grechko was visibly shaken now, said, “Do you approve of this?”
“General Grechko, that is an absurd question. My job is not to approve anything. It’s to do what I am told. This is also your job. Your protests are noted. Your concern for the pride of the Soviet Union is noted. But you will follow your orders.”
There was no fire in his words, his energy drained. Grechko eyed him, as though there was much left unsaid, but Pliyev ignored the hint, would not spew out his own feelings about what had taken place. After a short moment, Grechko said, “What of the Cubans? How are they responding to this outrage?”
Pliyev glanced at his watch.
“I am about to find out for myself. In ten minutes, Castro is due to grace me with his glorious presence. I am told he is … unhappy. General Grechko, please return to your post, and complete your new assignment.”
CASTRO ARRIVED, ACCOMPANIED by General Aleksei Dementiyev, the officer charged with training Castro’s forces to work closely alongside their Soviet counterparts. Now, Dementiyev’s presence seemed more irony than particularly useful.
Castro was furious, no surprise to Pliyev. The interpreter strained to keep up, the words flowing from Castro in a molten torrent.
“I do not recognize this stupidity. I was not consulted, no permission was sought. Your country has abandoned us, left us to the wolves.”
Pliyev waited for an opening, said, “My understanding is that the Americans have pledged not to invade your country.”
Castro’s eyes seemed to light up even brighter, the cigar clamped tightly in his teeth. He removed it now, waved it menacingly at Pliyev’s face.
“Have you heard of Czechoslovakia? Abandoned to the Germans at the start of World War Two? The Allies sang a beautiful song together, oh no, there shall be no invasion by the Germans, because Hitler has given his word. So, now I am to swallow such nonsense? Especially since your wonderful Premier Khrushchev does not bother to communicate with me such decisions that directly affect the lives, and possibly the deaths, of my people? Well, be advised, General. I have issued my own plans for settling this crisis, for all the good it will do. I have instructed Chairman Khrushchev that this is the correct plan. The Americans shall remove their criminal blockade without delay. The Americans will stop supporting all harassments of my country by guerilla groups, and stop all raids against my country by these guerrillas. The Americans will end all illegal reconnaissance flights over Cuban airspace. And they will immediately withdraw from Guantánamo naval base. I was … ignored. Instead, your friend Khrushchev decided to surrender everything in sight.” He pounded a fist on the table. “I curse him, General, as I curse you, and every one of my supposed allies here. You are dogs, obedient to the devil, forgetting who your true friends are. Khrushchev has abandoned us, tossed us aside, and for what reason? To bow down to the bullying Americans and their every absurd demand.”
Pliyev kept his calm, felt his way into another slight opening.
“Perhaps you should be consulting with our ambassador, expressing your displeasure to him. As you must understand, I am under orders, and those orders are explicit. I am to remove all Soviet missiles from Cuba…”
“All of them? All of them?”
“Yes, sir. My orders are clear.”
“Well, General, allow me to say that it is a fortunate thing your missiles are going away, because under my control, there would be a different result. I do not fear a fight, unlike your Khrushchev. Have you seen this?”
He produced a letter from his shirt pocket, stuffed the cigar back into his mouth, handed the letter to his interpreter.
“Read this aloud to the general.”
The man was nervous, cleared his throat, obeyed.
“I would like to recommend to you now, at this moment of change in the crisis, not to be carried away by emotions. I would like to advise you in a friendly manner to show patience, firmness and even more firmness, so as to avoid additional provocations.”
Castro spat to one side.
“He insults me even more, suggesting that I cannot control myself, nor can I control my military. I should like to remind you that it was not I who shot down the American spy plane. I did not provide such a provocation as your people did. Well, you may advise your Khrushchev that I shall order my military to shoot down American planes when I decide it is prudent. As for the United Nations inspectors said to be coming to trespass on our soil, be advised, that they had better wear battle armor.”
PLIYEV WAS EXHAUSTED. He sat at his desk, his mind racing with Castro’s bellicose claims, the raw abusiveness the Cuban leader had aimed at Premier Khrushchev. How wise is it, he thought, for any head of state to make such statements? This is a large stage, larger than I command, larger even than Moscow commands. Castro is angry, certainly, and perhaps much of what he claims is true. But he cannot stomp with heavy boots over carefully arranged agreements, no matter how he might not like them. Hell, I don’t like them, but I cannot change what is happening.
He heard commotion outside, unusual, stood, went to the window. He peered out toward the main road, was surprised to see a vast crowd of people, moving slowly up the thoroughfare. They were chanting, signs held aloft, many of the people motioning toward his headquarters. The words were indistinct, but he saw the faces, could hear the raw anger in their voices. Good God, he thought. There are hundreds of them, maybe thousands. He thought of his guards, knew they could see this as well, would have come to alert already. Surely, they won’t try to come in here. He heard the single word, Khrushchev, other words he didn’t understand. Nothing I can do about that. But, clearly, this is why Castro shows his own temper. His people embrace that, mimic it, share his love of boisterous protest. How long will this last, he thought. How many days, and how long before the words turn to violence? What do we do then? Do we shoot them down? No, don’t be ridiculous. That would create more problems for us all.
He backed away from the window, could still hear the chanting. Perhaps this is why it has to end. They cannot have any chance of using our missiles, of flying our bombers, flying our MiGs. And, Pliyov thought, I can honestly say, now that this is coming to an end … I’m really happy to leave this place.