The use and abuse of the Cuban Missile Crisis

  • Themes: Geopolitics

The claim that we are now closer to nuclear war than at any time in the past is of dubious historical value. Compared to 1962, both the United States and Russia have much better procedures in place to prevent an apocalyptic catastrophe.

JFK and Khrushchev on the cover of 'Domenica del Corriere' dated May 27, 1962.
JFK and Khrushchev on the cover of 'Domenica del Corriere' dated May 27, 1962. Credit: Photo 12 / Alamy Stock Photo

Russia’s frequent use of nuclear threats has encouraged comparisons between our present predicament and collective historical experience. It is not uncommon to hear that today is as perilous a moment as during the Cuban Missile Crisis of 1962 or, indeed, that ours are even more dangerous times.

It is little wonder that this comparison has captured the public’s imagination. The Cuban Missile Crisis was the moment when the world (arguably) briefly stood on the brink of an all-out nuclear war. The experience of the Cold War generation, amplified through books and films, has fed through to our own day as a recollection of acute danger, and a dire warning. ‘We were just lucky,’ it reads. ‘We all could have ended up dead.’ This warning is then cherry-picked and applied by would-be historians and observers to explain why we must embrace their preferred solution to pressing international issues.

But how dangerous was the Cuban Missile Crisis, really? There is no simple answer to this question, not only because we still do not know all the details, but because it is impossible to put a number on something that did not happen. To say that we were ‘on the brink’ is to say very little; there is no objective measurement of the ‘brink’ that can be profitably applied. There are, however, many things that could have gone wrong.

The 1964 Stanley Kubrick film Dr. Strangelove ends on an apocalyptic note: something goes wrong, and then bombs begin to fall. One after another, mushroom clouds rise to the sky to the tune of Vera Lynn’s ‘We’ll meet again’, without any need for human intervention. Dr Strangelove’s doomsday machine – a giant bomb that automatically explodes when incoming missiles are detected, setting off this particular cinematographic apocalypse – never existed in reality (though some of its elements do appear in the Soviet Perimeter system, also known poetically as The Dead Hand). In real life, either the Soviet or the American leaders would have had to order an all-out nuclear strike, or a retaliatory strike. There was, however, the option of battlefield use of nuclear weapons on the basis of pre-delegated authority. This was at least a possibility during the Cuban Missile Crisis. Nor could one entirely discount an accidental detonation.

The record of Soviet decision-making during the Cuban Missile Crisis is incomplete (indeed, even the US record – much more voluminous – can never be truly considered ‘complete’). What evidence we do have, including patchy notes of the Soviet Presidium’s discussions, and the fairly extensive memoir literature, shows no indication of a Soviet intention to authorise a nuclear strike against the United States from Cuba in October 1962.

It is probably fair to say that Soviet leader Nikita Khrushchev never entertained this idea seriously. In fact, when at the height of the crisis Fidel Castro hinted at the prospect, Khrushchev was horrified. He thought Castro was crazy for even suggesting nuclear war as a possibility. ‘Only a person who has no idea what nuclear war means, or who has been so blinded, for instance, like Castro, by revolutionary passion, can talk like that,’ Khrushchev said.

The Soviet leader, by his own admission, believed that any nuclear war would be suicidal and, having learned this, ‘was able to sleep again’. Nevertheless, Khrushchev was comfortable with using nuclear weapons for political blackmail, as he attempted to do in Cuba, to his later regret.

One of the subjects that formerly animated discussion of the Cuban Missile Crisis was whether Soviet troops in Cuba had the independent authority, delegated by Moscow, to use nuclear weapons. It is difficult to make definitive assertions here. The incomplete evidence suggests that on 22 October 1962 the Kremlin explicitly prohibited the use of any nuclear weapons stationed on the island – including the R-12 ballistic missiles, the only type of ballistic missile that was ever fully operational in Cuba – as well as various types of tactical nuclear weapons.

The controversy centres on the question of whether the Soviet commander Issa Pliyev had the authority to use tactical nuclear weapons before the directive on 22 October. The argument that he did is based on an unsent and unsigned set of instructions dated from a month before, on 8 September, which allowed Pliyev to react if the Americans attempted to land in Cuba. However, it takes quite an imaginative leap to conclude from an unsent draft stating that Pliyev had such authority that he would then have gone on to use his weapons.

A cautious historian would have to say, on the balance of the available evidence, that Pliyev probably did not have any pre-delegated authority in relation to nuclear weapons. There is a lot riding on this ‘probably’, however, which is why the danger of unauthorised use haunts, and will continue to haunt, histories of the Cuban Missile Crisis, at least until we have a clearer view of the Soviet command and control procedures. And we may never have that clearer view. The Cuban misadventure was in many respects a novelty for the Soviet armed forces, and there were no set procedures in place (which would explain why, from 22 October, Moscow felt the need to repeatedly prohibit Pliyev’s use of nuclear weapons without additional authorisation).

Similar uncertainty plagues the other key episode of the Cuban Missiles Crisis: the story of B-59, a nuclear-armed Soviet submarine that was pursued and harassed by the US Navy. As the story goes, the distressed captain of the submarine, Valentin Savitsky, came close to ordering the launch of the nuclear-tipped torpedo against his pursuers (in some accounts, twice), and was only dissuaded from doing so at the last moment by the Chief of Staff of the submarine detachment, Vasily Arkhipov, for which the latter has been credited with ‘saving the world’.

The story is based on contradictory oral history, and a more careful juxtaposition of this and other supporting evidence would suggest that the chance of a nuclear war breaking out as a result of Savitsky’s actions was, as one historian put it, ‘exceedingly small.’ This completely sensible conclusion serves as a reality check for the more dramatic accounts of the Cuban Missile Crisis, but it is unlikely to shift the general public view that the crisis was even more dangerous than we thought it was.

Very few historians have the required expertise and time to thoroughly analyse the available evidence, and those who do usually come to vague, uncertain conclusions. The public, however, demand certainty and drama. The public require ‘lessons’ that may be readily applied to the confusion of the present to somehow make it less confusing. Nuance and cautious scepticism impede public recognition, and indeed historians are occasionally incentivised to spice up their findings with dramatic clickbait headlines: ‘We were so close to death – read here to find out why we are still alive!’

There is another reason, however, why historians are keen to dramatise the Cuban Missile Crisis. Doing so looks like the responsible thing to do. We historians like to imagine ourselves to be sober-minded adults in the room, keen to remind others that history is a complicated business, where there is plenty of scope for crimes, follies, and misfortunes, and things rarely work out the way people hope they do. We want our contemporaries to stand before history in awe and humility so that they act with care and circumspection rather than recklessness and hubris. This way, if something untoward does happen, no one can blame historians for failing to foresee the dangers ahead.

Historians, for all their flaws, have this advantage: they work with the past, which cannot be altered. We can develop different interpretations of the past, uncover new evidence, or disagree about the meaning of the existing evidence, but the past is already there. It happened. The present, by contrast, is ever moving and shifting, and therefore far less open to methodical, careful scrutiny. Unlike the past, which offers lessons, if incomplete and misleading, the present simply stares us in the face with mocking indifference. Are we living through a dangerous moment? We will properly find out when we have turned the corner.

Yet one cannot escape the temptation to speculate and compare our dangers with those that others have experienced. Are things worse or better today than they were during the Cuban Missile Crisis? Let us consider some of the variables.

The Cuban Missile Crisis happened at a time when the two superpowers were rapidly building up stockpiles of nuclear weapons and developing advanced missile technologies. Although enormously destructive, nuclear weapons were as yet unreliable and vulnerable to attack. This was especially true for the Soviets, whose fateful decision to send missiles to Cuba was probably in part motivated by concerns over missile reliability.

In the years that followed, Moscow and Washington vastly upgraded their nuclear arsenals and strengthened their respective second-strike capabilities by introducing technologies such as hardened missile silos and MIRVed warheads. Whereas in 1962, detection relied on aerial surveillance, such as, in the US case, the U-2 programme, which proved essential in identifying Soviet missile sites in Cuba, each superpower later developed satellite capabilities that significantly improved what they knew about the other, and so lessened the scope for strategic surprise. Each side now had well-functioning early-warning systems. In the meantime, the development of nuclear-armed and nuclear-powered submarines and stealth technologies further increased the survivability of their nuclear deterrents, lessening each side’s anxieties and thus contributing to strategic stability.

In short, with time, mutually assured destruction (MAD) became ever more mutual and ever more assured. This was undeniably a positive development that helped keep conflict at the sub-nuclear level.

Compared to 1962, today each side has much better command and control procedures. Communications are more secure, and unauthorised launches are practically unthinkable. Moreover, the two sides have direct, secure communications. Indeed, the first hotline between Washington and Moscow was established precisely as a consequence of the Cuban Missile Crisis.

All of this means that today a nuclear strike can be launched only by the deliberate choice of each country’s commander-in-chief. Preparations for such a strike will probably be discovered by the other side (in fact, historically, such preparations were themselves used to send signals). Leaders of each nuclear power are in a position to talk to their counterparts in order to signal resolve, promise concessions, or simply make them aware that they are being closely watched. This means – all things considered – that the world is probably less dangerous today than it was during the Cuban Missile Crisis. At least some key safeguards are in place.

How these safeguards work in practice is illustrated by an episode in the autumn of 2022 when, in response to what Washington interpreted as Russia’s possible preparation for nuclear use in Ukraine, the United States promptly and decisively reached out to the Kremlin to make unspecified threats and provide reassurances. While we cannot be certain yet whether Vladimir Putin intended to resort to nuclear weapons or whether he was simply engaging in nuclear signalling, Russia’s actions were immediately visible, and channels were in place to communicate with the Russian leadership, reducing the scope for misunderstanding.

Yet uncertainties remain. It is impossible to properly account for subjective perceptions. One of the reasons that Khrushchev capitulated so quickly in the Cuban Missile Crisis was that, despite all his boasting and missile-rattling, he had a direct experience of war with all of its horrors, suffering, and destruction. Indeed, he lost his son in the Second World War. We know that this experience indelibly shaped his approach to risk-taking. Yes, he gambled by sending missiles to Cuba, but he did not want to push his luck in an uncompromising standoff with President Kennedy, and opted to back down.

Khrushchev’s risk-aversion was perfectly mirrored in another Second World War veteran, Kennedy himself. The American president was also a keen reader and not long before the crisis he devoured The Guns of August, Barbara W. Tuchman’s brilliant study of miscalculations that led to the outbreak of the First World War. This historical awareness and personal experiences on the part of the two leaders probably made the Cuban Missile Crisis less dangerous, even if it is impossible to know just by how much.

Meanwhile, the fact that Putin never experienced the horrors of war probably contributed in some way to his willingness to start one, and may affect his decision-making in a nuclear standoff. When questioned whether he could imagine himself in Khrushchev’s place, Putin bluntly said that no, he couldn’t – ‘under no circumstances’.  Would Putin have agreed with Khrushchev that only madmen start nuclear wars? Or would he have pushed his luck with Kennedy in the expectation that the latter would blink first? There is no telling, but there is every reason to suppose that Putin’s actions would have differed from Khrushchev because his worldview and his experiences are so very different.

The self-proclaimed American journalist Tucker Carlson declared on X in the last months of 2024, that ‘we are closer to nuclear war than at any time in history, far closer than we were during the Cuban Missile Crisis’. Carlson was in Moscow to interview Russian Foreign Minister Sergey Lavrov. The ostensible purpose of this interview was to remind his American viewers that Russia is a formidable adversary and that therefore it was time to talk and make concessions. If the war continued, he implied, who knows, it could turn nuclear, and what patriotic American should not shudder at the thought of seeing their homeland decimated by Russian missiles for the sake of Ukraine?

The message resonates with the Kremlin, and indeed Putin has deliberately played up Russia’s nuclear threats in order to elicit the kind of response that Carlson’s so-called journalism represents. Still, the threat remains real, as it was in October 1962. The problem is to go beyond such generalisations to explain just how close we came to nuclear conflict then, and how close to the brink we are today. The simple answer is that we do not know.

In 1962 Khrushchev gambled with the lives of millions in pursuit of strategic gains. He failed, but his memorable misadventure entered history as an example of reckless policies that are best avoided among nuclear powers. The lessons were internalised by US policy makers, not least President Joe Biden, who was just shy of his 20th birthday at the time of the Cuban Missile Crisis. These Cold War lessons help explain why Biden has been so cautious in handling Russia. And who can blame him? Whether or not the world really was on the brink of nuclear war in October 1962, we like to remember that it was. This is a useful memory – for as long, that is, as it does not paralyse will.

Kennedy, to give him credit, moved decisively to counter Khrushchev’s adventurism. Indeed, pushing back against aggression lessened the likelihood of war over the long term. Fresh from his Cuban humiliation, Khrushchev resolved not to test fate again and promptly engaged in a constructive dialogue with the United States, which led, in short order, to the conclusion of the first nuclear arms control agreement, the Partial Nuclear Test Ban Treaty. And so, oddly, the Cuban Missile Crisis ultimately made our dangerous world just a little safer and a little saner. That historical lesson also counts for something in our volatile world.

Author

Sergey Radchenko