General Taylor interrupted. "Sir, there must be coordination and planning. We simply cannot have both the Air Force and the Navy throwing planes at Cuban targets. Unless we're careful, some places will be missed and others will be hit redundantly. We need an overall commander, and, unless you change your mind, that will be me. In the meantime, Admiral Anderson and General LeMay will work with me to coordinate their attacks from Florida while our carriers close in on Cuba. Further, Mr. President, do you really wish to begin an American response on Christmas Day?"
Kennedy winced. "I believe Castro started it, General, although you make a good point. Still, the Cubans are doubtless now disbursing and hiding their men and their weapons. We stand a good chance of getting at least some of them while they're on the move. Let the attacks begin immediately."
General LeMay stood and smiled. This was not like the first Cuban Crisis where fighting was planned but never happened. The gloves were off. At least part of the way. "Then, Mister President, I would like to leave now and get my people started on killing people and breaking things, and wishing a Merry Christmas to Comrade Fidel."
Nikita Khrushchev's always volatile emotions this day ran between anger, fury, and a sense of betrayal. One of his puppets had cut his strings and was trying to walk like a real man. That could not happen. Soviet puppets did nothing on their own was the Kremlin's policy even though that policy was not always obeyed, and today's problem was a huge case in point.
"Damn it," he bellowed, his volcanic temper almost at the breaking point. "Does anyone know what exactly is going on in that pigsty of a country? What the god damn hell does that pig fucker Castro think he is doing?"
Khrushchev was considered a crude man, even by Russian standards. He was always disheveled, and some of his enemies thought he bore a striking resemblance to a hog that was able to walk upright. Although nowhere as ruthless as Josef Stalin — he had stunned the world by daring to criticize the monstrous Soviet leader of World War II — he was still a very deadly adversary. Like most Russian men he was a heavy drinker, which made him even less stable. By this time, Khrushchev had already had several shots of vodka and this did not help his turbulent disposition.
Nor did anyone one else in the room possess enough power to argue with him. It was apparent, however, that there had been a massive intelligence failure. There were forty thousand Red Army personnel in and around Havana, along with a large number of KGB operatives on hand to help Castro keep control of the Cuban population. Also, the Red Army had its own intelligence arm, the GRU, and they too had been silent regarding the Castro's unexpected operation.
Khrushchev accepted that neither the military nor his intelligence units had known anything, and that was most shocking. Either that or that someone had been complicit in this Cuban operation in order to embarrass him and possibly lead the Soviet Union down a new and possibly very dangerous path.
That the attack on Guantanamo had taken place hundreds of miles from the still active fleshpots of Havana where Soviet agents congregated might also have been a factor. Besides, he thought, who the hell would be dumb enough to think that Castro was so crazy that he would try something like this on his own. What did that raggedy-ass Cuban want and what the hell could the Soviet Union do about it?
Khrushchev paced and raged. For the time being, he could do nothing whatsoever about the situation. He had no air assets in Cuba and the Soviet navy was far, far away. He laughed harshly. He could imagine the scrawny, young, and inept John Kennedy in Washington fuming and raging as well and being just as impotent. Khrushchev took another healthy gulp of vodka and calmed himself.
America's impotence would only last for a little while longer. In October, they had gathered a massive invasion force just prior to the end of the previous missile crisis, and would doubtless do so again. Castro would be squashed by overwhelming American power. Or, Khrushchev thought, did the stupid prick in Havana think that Russia would pull his ass out of the fire just because he was a fellow communist? That was something he would have to talk over with his advisors and the members of the Politburo. Was it worth the risk of an all-out war with the United States, and possibly a nuclear one just to save the revolution in Cuba? After all, wasn't Cuba rightfully in the American sphere of influence in the first place?
Perhaps the Soviet Union and the United States could negotiate something other than a complete return of Guantanamo. After all, didn't the Cubans now have a large number of American prisoners?
Unlike Josef Stalin, his unlamented predecessor who had died in 1953, Khrushchev's rule was not absolute. All around him were other high ranking Soviet officials who were constantly jockeying for power and the opportunity to replace him at the top. Leonid Brezhnev and Alexi Kosygin were the two who worried him most. If they managed to topple him, would they let him live, or would his reward be the traditional bullet in the back of the head? They were unhappy with the way the Cuban Missile Crisis had played out; therefore, he must solve this problem and do so decisively.
Khrushchev had another thought and it chilled him. What if Comrade Castro wasn't so dumb and irrational? What if he had something else planned? More vodka, he decided.
Cathy Malone picked her way through the rubble of several destroyed buildings. The devastation on the base appalled her. Especially shocking was the destruction of what had been the homes build for civilian and military families. Cuban and American bodies lay about, giving testimony that the base hadn't fallen easily. Quickly yes, but not easily. The Cubans had been bloodied.
Good, she thought and was surprised at the depth of her feelings. She'd always thought war was horrible and now she knew that it was, but she also wanted to fight one. The Cubans had hurt her and her country.
She was scared, hurt, and angry. He fears were almost too numerous to mention. She was afraid of being seen by Cuban soldiers and captured again. Maybe the next ones wouldn't rape her, but who knew? She would not take the chance. Maybe she'd been lucky that she'd only been raped and not murdered as well. Or gang-raped and murdered. Or mutilated like she'd been threatened.
She was afraid that the Cuban sergeant, Carlos Gomez, she would never forget him or his name, had made her pregnant. That would compound the horror. Had he ejaculated inside her or just on her leg? She shuddered at the thought of the self-examination she'd forced herself to make. She'd been a virgin until Gomez assaulted her, and had always thought she'd remain one until she got married, or really fell in love. And rape was something that was whispered about and always happened to someone else. Or to someone who managed to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, or got so drunk on a date that she wasn't able to stop a guy.
She was realistic enough to not be concerned that her so-called virtue had been compromised. This Gomez pig had forced it from her and she was the victim, not a co-conspirator. She knew some cultures that blamed the victim, and she'd always thought that was utterly stupid.
She remembered Catholic school catechism classes where nuns and priests glorified young girls who chose death over losing their virginity to a rapist. She'd always thought death was a wrong, even stupid, decision under those circumstances. Now she knew she was right. She wanted to live and she wanted to see Carlos Gomez brought to justice, whatever that meant. The thought of her being canonized as Saint Cathy Malone, Virgin and Martyr, was appalling. Her church, she realized, was dead wrong.