Kennedy sighed. He could not put the picture of American marines, along with women and children, being crushed by tanks out of his mind. "You have my permission to do whatever you think best."
Captain Dudley scribbled on a piece of White House stationery and pushed it to the President. It read, “Please give him a direct order to surrender. Otherwise, he might hesitate and cost lives. Or he will always be second guessed and reviled for surrendering.”
Kennedy read the note and nodded. "Major Hartford, I am giving you a direct order. Can others hear me?"
"Yes sir."
"Good. You will surrender immediately. Immediately, major, and that is a direct order from me, your Commander in Chief. I am directing you to do that to save lives. Do you understand and will you comply?"
"Yes sir."
"Then goodbye and good luck to all of you, major."
"Thank you, sir."
After a moment, JFK grabbed Dudley's note. He wrote "concur" and signed his name along with the time and date. He handed the note to Dudley. "Good job, captain. I should have thought of it myself. You keep this and if any son of a bitch tries to smear that Hartford man, you show it to him."
Dudley nodded, folded the now priceless document and stuffed it in his pocket. He would make a copy of it on the White House’s brand new Xerox 914 Copier and keep the original for himself.
Marinda Alvarez and her teenage nephew listened with pleasure as Cuban guns and bombs pounded the hated Guantanamo naval base.
"I cannot believe it is finally happening," laughed Manuel Hidalgo. "It is so long overdue. The Americans have caused us so much suffering and for so long."
Marinda hugged her nephew. Normally, he protested such acts of affection as unbecoming to a growing young man, but these were special circumstances and, besides, they were alone in the squalid little hut they called home.
Marinda was forty years old and a widow, and most days she felt every minute of her years and looked much older. She had worked as a field hand, laborer, housecleaner, or anything else to get food to put on her table and the occasional cash to spend on rum or tobacco. Five years ago, her husband had been beaten to death by Batista's thugs for daring to suggest that a labor union might be a good thing. They hadn't even let her collect his body. It had been dumped into the sea, and she still cried each night at the thought of sharks devouring him. Every night before she went to bed she kissed the fading photo that was all she had left of the man she’d loved and married.
Manuel's mother had died in childbirth, from lack of proper medical care. He sometimes thought he was responsible for her death, but both his father and Marinda had assured him that it had been the fault of the criminals in Havana who had deprived the poor of Oriente Province of what they needed to live.
Once, the two of them had a normal life, or as normal as it could be under the corrupt Batista regime that had been dominated by the criminals from the United States. But then came Fidel Castro and his promises of justice and a better life. Castro had turned guerilla and wound up in the nearby Sierra Maestra Mountains where he and a handful of loyal followers had hidden from Batista's soldiers until those wonderful days when they arose and the Batista regime had collapsed.
On more than one occasion, Marinda and Manuel had actually sneaked into the wilderness with food for Fidel and his men, and they had actually met the tall and bearded charismatic leader. Manuel had been transfixed by the power of the Fidel's personality and believed his promises of a better life in the future. Manuel vowed to serve Castro and Cuba, in that order.
When Castro came to power, he began to make good on his promises to the poor of Cuba. Medical services were beginning to be provided and there were promises of electricity. With electricity, Manuel had hopes of getting television. He'd seen it only a couple of times, and had been transfixed by the vague and fuzzy black and white pictures.
Castro had been heavily supported by the citizens of Santiago, and Marinda and Manuel had gone there a number of times for joyous celebrations. Once Castro himself had been there and they had been close enough for the big man to recognize them. He had singled them out and publicly praised them for their courage in bringing food to his men, taking care to say that many others had done so as well.
Manuel thought he would burst with pride.
Castro then said he was a communist, a term that meant little to either Marinda or Manuel. Later, they both understood that it meant that they would get their fair share of the wealth hoarded by the rich and powerful families that had kept them in poverty. Their hovel north of Guantanamo had a roof that leaked, packed dirt for their floor, and anywhere outside for a toilet, while the rich lived in mansions. That was unfair and unjust. Wealth should be shared equally.
They'd been puzzled when Castro had allied Cuba with Russia, a nation about which they knew very little, except that it was inhabited by white men who looked a lot like Americans. Neither Manual nor Marinda had ever seen a Russian, but they were friends of Castro and, therefore, friends of Cuba.
Like many Cubans, they'd been outraged when the Americans had backed an invasion to the west, near Havana, at a place called the Bay of Pigs, and they'd rejoiced when the interlopers had been squashed. Sadly, Manuel's father been killed fighting for the Revolution against the American and CIA backed thugs. He was proclaimed a hero, but that didn't bring him back.
Thus, they listened with unbridled joy as the Americans were being humbled. Earlier they'd watched in happy disbelief as long columns of tanks and trucks filled with soldiers had gathered near their home. They'd been told by happy soldiers that they were going to liberate Guantanamo, but didn't believe it until now.
A large, flaming explosion lit the night to their south. "I want to go and see," said Manuel.
Marinda thought about saying no, but her nephew was almost a man, even though he was skinny and wore glasses, and he might just go towards the fighting on his own. "So do I. Go put on something that doesn't look like a uniform so we don't get shot at."
Getting onto the once well guarded base was now ridiculously easy. The gates had been blown or smashed and they simply walked in. The fighting appeared to be several miles in front of them and moving away, although they did see several clusters of frightened and shaken American civilians gathered together and doubtless wondering just what had happened to their safe little world. Marinda wanted to curse at them, but decided against it. Americans had a habit of carrying guns and would certainly be on edge.
Manuel gasped. A dead body lay in the street. It was a Cuban soldier and he'd been shot a number of times. Marinda started to reach down and feel his pulse, but realized from the huge amount of blood that had poured from his many wounds that it would be an exercise in futility.
"We will continue on," she said grimly.
In a short while, they heard the sounds of cheering. Groups of Cuban soldiers ran by. "The Americans have surrendered," one of them yelled, and they joined in the shouting. Rifles were fired in the air until officers made the soldiers stop.
Manuel and Marinda continued on to the place where fighting had clearly raged. Burned trucks and a charred tank still smoldered. A column of beaten and weary Americans was being moved away from a badly damaged building.
Manuel announced that he would be joining the militia, which saddened Marinda but she recognized the inevitability. She realized that the taking of the base might just be the first step in what could easily be a long war. Would the United States simply roll over and leave them alone because they'd lost Guantanamo, or would they counter-attack? She thought she knew the answer and it saddened her.