17
George had never felt nearer death than he did in the Cabinet Room of the White House on Wednesday, 24 October.
The morning meeting began at ten, and George thought war would break out before eleven.
Technically, this was the Executive Committee of the National Security Council, called ExComm for short. In practice, President Kennedy summoned anyone he felt could help in the crisis. His brother Bobby was always among them.
The advisors sat on leather chairs around the long table. Their aides sat on similar chairs up against the walls. The tension in the room was suffocating.
The alert status of Strategic Air Command had moved to DEFCON-2, the level just below imminent war. Every bomber of the air force was ready. Many were continuously in the air, loaded with nukes, patrolling over Canada, Greenland and Turkey, as close as they could get to the borders of the USSR. Every bomber had a pre-assigned Soviet target.
If war broke out, the Americans would unleash a nuclear firestorm that would flatten every major town in the Soviet Union. Millions would die. Russia would not recover in a hundred years.
And the Soviets had to have something similar planned for the United States.
Ten o’clock was the moment the blockade went into effect. Any Soviet vessel within five hundred miles of Cuba was now fair game. The first interception of a Soviet missile ship, by the USS Essex, was expected between ten-thirty and eleven. By eleven they might all be dead.
CIA chief John McCone began by reviewing all Soviet shipping en route for Cuba. He spoke in a drone that heightened the tension by making everyone impatient. Which Soviet ships should the navy intercept first? What would happen then? Would the Soviets allow their ships to be inspected? Would they fire on American ships? What should the navy do then?
While the group tried to second-guess their opposite numbers in Moscow, an aide brought McCone a note. McCone was a dapper white-haired man of sixty. He was a businessman, and George suspected that the CIA career professionals did not tell him everything they were doing.
Now McCone peered through his rimless glasses at the note, which seemed to puzzle him. Eventually, he said: ‘Mr President, we’ve just received information from the Office of Naval Intelligence that all six Soviet ships currently in Cuban waters have either stopped or reversed course.’
George thought: What the hell does that mean?
Dean Rusk, the bald, pug-nosed Secretary of State, asked: ‘What do you mean, Cuban waters?’
McCone did not know.
Bob McNamara, the Ford president whom Kennedy had made Secretary of Defense, said: ‘Most of these ships are outbound, from Cuba to the Soviet Union—’
‘Why don’t we find out?’ the President interrupted tetchily. ‘Are we talking about ships leaving Cuba or ships coming in?’
McCone said: ‘I’ll find out,’ and he left the room.
The tension rose another notch.
George had always imagined that crisis meetings in the White House would be supernaturally high-powered, with everyone supplying the President with accurate information so that he could make a wise judgement. But this was the greatest crisis ever, and all was confusion and misunderstanding. It made George even more afraid.
When McCone came back in, he said: ‘These ships are all westbound, all inbound for Cuba.’ He listed the six vessels by name.
McNamara spoke next. He was forty-six, and the term ‘Whiz Kid’ had been invented for him when he turned the Ford Motor Company from loss to profit. President Kennedy trusted him more than anyone else in the room except Bobby. Now, from memory, McNamara reeled off the positions of all six ships. Most were still hundreds of miles from Cuba.
The President was impatient. ‘Now, what do they say they’re doing with those, John?’
McCone replied: ‘They either stopped or reversed direction.’
‘Is this all the Soviet ships, or just selected ones?’
‘This is a selected bunch. There are twenty-four altogether.’
Once again McNamara interrupted with the key information. ‘It looks as though these are the ships closest to the quarantine barrier.’
George whispered to Skip Dickerson, sitting next to him: ‘The Soviets seem to be pulling back from the brink.’
‘I sure hope you’re right,’ Skip murmured.
The President said: ‘We’re not planning to grab any of those, are we?’
McNamara said: ‘We’re not planning to grab any ship that is not proceeding to Cuba.’
General Maxwell Taylor, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, picked up a phone and said: ‘Get me George Anderson.’ Admiral Anderson was the Chief of Naval Operations and was in charge of the blockade. After a few seconds, Taylor began speaking quietly.
There was a pause. Everyone was trying to absorb the news and figure out what it meant. Were the Soviets giving in?
The President said: ‘We ought to check first. How do we find out if six ships are simultaneously turning? General, what does the navy say about this report?’
General Taylor looked up and said: ‘Three ships are definitely turning back.’
‘Be in touch with the Essex and tell them to wait an hour. We have to move quickly because they’re going to intercept between ten-thirty and eleven.’
Every man in the room looked at his watch.
It was ten thirty-two.
George got a glimpse of Bobby’s face. He looked like a man reprieved from a death sentence.
The immediate crisis was over, but George realized over the next few minutes that nothing had been resolved. While the Soviets were clearly moving to avoid confrontation at sea, their nuclear missiles were still in Cuba. The clock had been turned back an hour, but it was still ticking.
ExComm discussed Germany. The President feared Khrushchev might announce a blockade of West Berlin to parallel the American blockade of Cuba. There was nothing they could do about that, either.
The meeting broke up. George was not needed at Bobby’s next appointment. He left with Skip Dickerson, who said: ‘How’s your friend Maria?’
‘Fine, I think.’
‘I was in the press office yesterday. She called in sick.’
George’s heart missed a beat. He had given up all hope of a romance with Maria, but, all the same, the news that she was ill made him feel panicky. He frowned. ‘I didn’t know that.’
‘None of my business, George, but she’s a nice gal, and I thought maybe someone should check up on her.’
George squeezed Skip’s arm. ‘Thanks for letting me know,’ he said. ‘You’re a pal.’
White House staffers did not call in sick in the middle of the greatest crisis of the Cold War, George reflected; not unless they were seriously ill. His anxiety deepened.
He hurried to the press office. Maria’s chair was empty. Nelly Fordham, the friendly woman at the next desk, said: ‘Maria’s not well.’
‘I heard. Did she say what the trouble was?’
‘No.’
George frowned. ‘I wonder if I could get away for an hour and go see her.’
‘I wish you would,’ Nelly said. ‘I’m worried too.’
George looked at his watch. He was pretty sure Bobby would not need him until after lunch. ‘I guess I could manage it. She lives in Georgetown, doesn’t she?’
‘Yes, but she moved from her old place.’
‘Why?’
‘Said her flatmates were too nosey.’
That made sense to George. Other girls would be desperate to learn the identity of a clandestine lover. Maria was so determined to keep the secret that she had moved out. That indicated how serious she was about the guy.
Nelly was flicking through her Rolodex. ‘I’ll write down the address for you.’
‘Thanks.’
She handed him a piece of paper and said: ‘You’re Georgy Jakes, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’ He smiled. ‘It’s a long time since anyone called me Georgy, though.’
‘I used to know Senator Peshkov.’
The fact that she mentioned Greg meant, almost certainly, that she knew he was George’s father. ‘Really?’ George said. ‘How did you know him?’
‘We dated, if you want to know the truth. But nothing came of it. How is he?’
‘Pretty well. I have lunch with him about once a month.’
‘I guess he never married.’
‘Not yet.’
‘And he must be past forty.’
‘I believe there is a lady in his life.’
‘Oh, don’t worry, I’m not after him. I made that decision a long time ago. All the same, I wish him well.’
‘I’ll tell him that. Now I’m going to jump in a cab and go check on Maria.’
‘Thank you, Georgy – or George, I should say.’