Monday, October 1, 1962
Near San Cristóbal, Cuba
He wiped at the sweat flooding his eyes, glanced upward at the blistering sun. He focused on his visitor now, the man’s uniform standing out in a sea of civilian clothing. He’ll learn, he thought. Starched collars don’t do as well in this kind of heat. He saw the man run a finger along one side of his neck, pulling the fabric from his skin. Pliyev, enjoying the man’s agony, spoke now.
“So, you see, General, all is proceeding as planned, though of course, we are experiencing some delays. It is due to the infernal weather and the conditions our men must labor under. In all our training, no one thought to advise the men that they would work without shirts or roast in the rock-hard dirt. Our bulldozers at this base are next to useless, with all the rocks in the soil.”
His observer, General Gribkov, watched the workers with his hands behind his back, said nothing. It was infuriating to Pliyev that Moscow would send teams of brass to look over his shoulder, as though no one could lay concrete and build blockhouses without the highest supervision. It didn’t help that the near-sixty-year-old Pliyev was being observed, if not judged, by a man twenty years his junior. After a long moment, Gribkov said, “It is always thus, General Pliyev. The old adage, one soldier, one axe, one day, one stump … seems to have taken root here. Is there no way you can speed up the progress? Moscow is working with a tight timetable for completion of these sites. The logistics are formidable.”
Pliyev fought to hold his tongue, did not need to be told just how formidable the logistics truly were.
“General Gribkov, I am well aware that when this project is completed, forty-five thousand Soviet troops and support staff will be positioned here. I am aware that two entire antiaircraft divisions will be in place, manning seventy-two missile launchers to combat any possible invasion from the Americans. There is an entire regiment of helicopters en route, along with seventeen IL-28 bombers, six of which will be equipped to carry a nuclear payload. I assume that I need not detail all of the artillery pieces or armor. In addition to a great force of conventional weapons, we are thus far equipped with eight short-range Luna missiles, in the event the Americans unwisely attempt to overrun our infantry positions. The Lunas are capable of firing a tactical nuclear shell with a lighter yield sufficient as a battlefield weapon. Do you have any further questions, General Gribkov?”
He waited impatiently, knew he had strayed into insolence. Gribkov seemed to weigh his words, then said, “We do not question your ability to command these forces, General. We naturally expect you to know just what those forces are now and what they will be. We are merely concerned at the lack of progress. Where is your second-in-command, General Dankevich? Have you assigned him to other areas of the construction?”
It was already a sore point between Pliyev and his chief subordinate. Lieutenant General Pavel Dankevich had long commanded units of the Soviet rocket forces, and thus naturally considered himself the man most suited for the position handed to Pliyev. Dankevich chose to accept Pliyev’s seniority largely by ignoring him, and worse, ignoring his own duties.
“General Dankevich is playing tennis. It seems that it is his passion.”
Gribkov looked at him, and Pliyev ignored that, continued to stare at the ongoing labor.
“Tennis?”
“Quite. I understand he is quite good at it. He has made it plain that if he is to suffer through this interminable heat, he shall do it in his own way. Short of having him shot, I chose the more diplomatic approach. So, he plays tennis.”
“It is your command, General. I just assumed you would make good use of whatever assets we had assigned you.”
“I assure you, I have. Some men are more of an asset than others. I accept as my responsibility the right to determine which is which.”
Gribkov stared at him, nodded slowly, pointed now.
“I must ask … why are all of your men, the ones still wearing their shirts … why are they all wearing the same checked shirt?”
Another sore point, Pliyev measuring his words.
“As you surely have noticed, we were ordered not to wear uniforms, as a part of our overall secrecy. Moscow provided these men with civilian shirts as a disguise. As you can see, every man is wearing the same exact shirt, and I assure you, you will not observe any Cuban wearing such a garment. Thus, you may properly describe those shirts as indicating … a uniform.” He turned to Gribkov now. “I am following orders as best I can, General. We are constructing missile sites, such as this one, in appropriate places all over Cuba. The field commanders under me are the best we have, and they know their jobs. Operation Anadyr is a logistical officer’s worst nightmare. You did not command in the Second Great War, is that correct?”
Gribkov took his time responding.
“I was too young for command.”
“No fault of your own. I commanded division and corps, army and army groups. I did my duty defending Moscow and Stalingrad, to name but two campaigns. I am the only cavalry commander awarded two ‘Hero of the Soviet Union’ awards. Did you know that? I have received the Order of Lenin, and other awards I will not bore you with now. So, you see, General, when you come here to question whether or not I am doing my job, I must wonder if it is only because someone above you in Moscow is not doing theirs. Premier Khrushchev has placed great faith in my abilities to command a nearly impossible assignment, and I am serving my country as I did in the Second Great War.” He paused, pushed away a hint of hesitation. “I am quite certain that when he has time to vacate the tennis court, General Dankevich grades my performance, hoping that Moscow will see the light of day and put him in my place. He is, after all, a man who knows missiles. But I know command, General. I understand logistics and supply, and I have accepted the need for utmost secrecy. What I have discovered above all else is that Moscow did not fully appreciate the challenges here in Cuba. I am meeting them the best way they can be met. That should be the report you take back to our superiors.”
HE DRANK FROM the small coffee cup, the strong bitterness curling his nose.
“More sugar.”
The aide obliged, a demitasse spoonful dumped into his cup, stirred briskly.
“Better. I’m not sure how these people tolerate this stuff. Is nothing ever served cold here?”
“The refrigerated units are not functioning, General. The power supply is too limited, and we require…”
“Yes, yes. I know. I suppose none of us requires luxury, when the men are baking under this sun.” He looked at the young man now, a lieutenant, not more than twenty-five. “You have many questions, certainly. I cannot answer them. But I can tell you this. In the Second Great War, we moved enormous numbers of troops and equipment overland. None of us ever had to cross an ocean to establish a base. Here, we are more than seven thousand miles from the nearest Soviet port, and we are to manage only with what we can bring with us and what this place provides. We are entirely dependent on our navy and their ability to be discreet with the cargo they carry, with more discretion applied to that cargo when it is unloaded. We must guard against prying eyes, listening ears, careless talk. This is all a new adventure for me, and for these men. You could say that in future years, we will be described, you and I, as pioneers. Be proud.”
“Yes, sir. Certainly, sir.”
Pliyev laughed.
“You are too young and too gullible to recognize sarcasm. No matter. Bring me another of these coffees.”
THE TRUCK BOUNCED its way slowly along the tall wire fence, scattered trees and brush beyond. It was one more inspection, another visit to another base, the constant need to push the work. He sat in the rear, a guard beside him, the driver and another guard in front, all in civilian clothes. They rounded a curve, caught a flash of a running man, vanishing into brush across the road, away from the fence. The driver said, “It is this way every day, General. The Cubans are curious. They hug the fences to see what we are doing.”
Pliyev searched the brush for the man, long gone now.
“I don’t blame them. Castro promised us a thousand laborers, men eager to please their new Russian friends. I reluctantly told him no, that we would handle the labor ourselves. Castro was mightily insulted, to be sure. I suppose these people have some right to know what we are doing in their country, what we are doing to their country. In time. But my orders are very explicit. No Cubans will be allowed near these bases until well after completion of the work. I don’t want to have to shoot anyone, but I have notified the security teams that if they observe someone inside the wire, they are authorized to use force. I can only imagine what Castro will think of that.”
They rounded another bend, came upon a slow-moving truck hauling an enormous cargo, shrouded with a canvas tarp.
“Should I pass them, sir?”
“No. We are close to the gate. Let those men do their job.”
They halted, the large truck easing to the security gate, a dozen guards swarming around the truck, past it now, eyes on Pliyev’s vehicle. Salutes were offered, and Pliyev winced, thought, Any Cuban watching that will surely figure out I’m brass. Old habits are hard to break.
The larger truck moved ahead now, Pliyev’s truck following, more unwanted salutes as they passed through the wire. He couldn’t help himself, scanned the land out to either side, the construction sites, great slabs of concrete nestled between all manner of low buildings, some still not completed. Out to both sides, the trees were scattered, so different from what he had been told to expect. The experts had assured him, as they had assured Moscow, that Cuba was rich with enormous thickets of palm trees, certain to hide either the labor or the bases themselves, that missiles standing tall would blend in perfectly with the towering trees. Instead, the ground here was mostly bare, trees in small clusters, pockets of thorny brush, little shade and little cover for anyone or any piece of equipment.
The workers were using hand implements, construction equipment sitting idly by, one more case where the ground was too difficult for anything but the shovel. We have rockets here that will strike a target a thousand miles away with precision, but we must dig holes like peasants. He thought of General Gribkov’s adage, one soldier, one axe, one day, one stump. Indeed.
A formation of fuel trucks sat parked to one side, other smaller vehicles with them. There were great rolls of cable, and then, the first of the missile launchers, and far beyond, a row of heavy tarps, covering what he knew were missiles. He couldn’t avoid butterflies in his stomach, the enormous secret, lying plainly in the open, the workers nearby toiling through the afternoon sun, carpenters and masons, rough laborers hauling heavy bags of concrete and mortar.
“Not very well hidden.”
The words had come out before he caught himself, his own worst habit. In front of him, the driver said, “It’s all right, sir. I’m told by the commander here that the Cubans can’t see this far past the wire fences, that there is enough ground cover to disguise any of the structures, especially the launchers.”
Pliyev looked skyward, knew that whenever the American U-2 spy planes were observed by radar, the orders were specific, that they were to be ignored. For a while now, the U-2s had seemed to stay out to sea, as though probing more carefully, afraid perhaps of the very missiles aimed their way. Pliyev understood that there was to be no provocation with the Americans, but Moscow had been so concerned about any possibility of an aggressive action from the Americans that they had even insisted that no radar be used to track the planes, as though every officer was to pretend they simply weren’t there. It was maddening to him, and to the antiaircraft officers, the men whose ground-to-air missiles were the same as those that had brought down the U-2 over Russia two years before. Then, the American flyovers had been general, seemingly nonspecific, photographing the Russian countryside, searching for anything that wasn’t supposed to be there, whatever the Americans believed that to be.
That was then, he thought.
The small truck crawled to a stop, the guards exiting, one man at his door, pulling it open. The driver said again,
“Truly, sir. The Cubans cannot observe any of this.”
He stood out from the truck, still stared skyward.
“I’m not so worried about the Cubans.”