“What the CIA have got, Mr President,” he replied, respectfully cool, “will make a little more sense to you once Dean’s briefed you on the British note.”
Jack Kennedy’s attention snapped back to Dean Rusk.
“What note, Dean?”
Out of the corner of his eye the President had seen his younger brother, Bobby, and General Earle Wheeler, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff edge forward in their chairs.
“Things have been,” Dean Rusk prefaced, running a hand across his balding pate in a gesture of mild irritation, “tense, lately. Not helped by having a placeman like LB Westheimer in place over there as Ambassador.” He’d wanted a professional diplomat installed in England, somebody who understood their old allies. “Nevertheless, at State we took the view that so long as we let the British get on with things, you know, Operation Manna and their independent survey, diplomatic and political expeditions in the north European sphere that sooner or later we, and they, would return to something like a normal, business as usual footing. With this in mind State was, of course, opposed to initiatives like the building of the CIA compound outside Dublin and, as you recollect, against the pro-active re-establishment of military lines of supply and communication with the regimes in Spain, Portugal, Italy and Greece, all of which were likely, sooner or later, to impinge upon the vital strategic interests of our allies, or rather, our former allies, the British in areas which traditionally, they have regarded their rightful sphere of influence. The British note is confirmation that the ill-judged meddling of our military and intelligence communities in matters of economic policy and post-war diplomacy has now created a situation where, for all I know, we are effectively at war with the United Kingdom and possibly, several of its Commonwealth allies. The South African, the Australian and the New Zealand Governments have delivered notes to the State Department in the last forty-eight hours protesting about the trading practices of US companies on their soil, and reaffirmed two hundred mile territorial limits around their coasts…”
Jack Kennedy stared at the mild looking man in the armchair six feet away as if his Secretary of State had just proposed the slaying of all new born children. While he registered the words; their meaning completely eluded him in that awful moment when he realised that his worst fears were as nothing to the nightmare that was about to envelope his country. In desperation he turned to John McCone.
“The Dublin compound was supposed to show the Irish we hadn’t forgotten about them. A way to get humanitarian and industrial development funding past Congress. Surely the British knew that all along?”
“The Brits are paranoid about this kind of stuff, Jack,” Bobby Kennedy declared before he’d given his brain a chance to digest what Dean Rusk had just told the meeting. Unlike his elder brother he’d never shaken off his inherited mistrust of British motives and never questioned the perfidy of all British governments through history towards the downtrodden Irish.
The President’s stare slashed through the air.
“They lost over twelve million people in the October War, Bobby!” He rasped angrily. “Don’t you think they’ve got a right to be paranoid?”
“Well, yes, but…”
“The British, specifically the United Kingdom Interim Emergency Administration led by Premier Heath,” Dean Rusk announced, rejoining the fray feeling more confident now that the braying of the Attorney General had been briefly stilled. Practically everybody in DC thought Bobby Kennedy had too much influence over his brother. Dean Rusk wasn’t alone in thinking that lately, Bobby Kennedy had forgotten that the war had only happened because he’d failed to broker a deal with the Soviets over Cuba. The Secretary of State wasn’t the only Cabinet member irked by the fact that, scarcely more than a year on from the cataclysm, the Attorney General had recovered much of his pre-war confidence and his arrogance and started again undercutting each and every other senior member of the Administration. That was a Kennedy thing, something in their blood. None of them could stop themselves interfering. “The British,” Dean Rusk continued, daring Bobby Kennedy to interrupt, “think that organs of the US Government were involved in the assassination attempt on the lives of the Royal Family in Scotland…”
Jack Kennedy exploded.
“What the fuck are you talking about Dean?” He demanded. Around the Oval Office eyes studied the carpet.
“Four Royal Air Force fighter bombers attacked Queen Elizabeth’s official residence in Scotland at Balmoral. At the time of the attack Premier Heath and several senior members of the UKIEA were also present. The Queen’s youngest son, Prince Andrew was killed, as was the British Foreign Secretary, Sir Alec Douglas-Home. There were also heavy casualties among the troops defending the castle…”
The President waited until John McCone braved his blazing glare.
“Were we involved, Mr Director?”
“I don’t know,” the older man returned. “The Brits might be right. I don’t know. My people don’t have hundred percent oversight over the Irish compound. If you remember, Mister President,” the older man growled, “it was set up to placate certain Irish-American Democratic Party interest groups as a joint CIA, Pentagon and National Security Council project to hide the audit trail from prying Congressional eyes.”
Jack Kennedy didn’t like being reminded that he’d been warned the ‘whole thing will probably end in tears’ any more than the next man. He scowled at the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency.
Dean Rusk hadn’t finished.
“The British also believe we are behind the recent bellicose foreign policy initiatives of the Franco regime in Spain…”
“Bellicose!” John McCone scoffed. “Mr President,” the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency said, aware for the first time exactly how disastrously out of contact the most powerful man in the free world had become in the last ten days. Pausing only to hurl an angry glance at the Attorney General, he went on: “Are we to assume that you’ve not received a full briefing on international developments for some days?”
Bobby Kennedy protested.
“The situation was under control. There was no need to…”
It was President Kennedy, not ‘Jack’ who silenced his younger brother with a single dismissive wave of his right hand.
“The Spanish mined the approaches to Gibraltar,” John McCone reported grimly. “A British carrier was badly damaged and a destroyer sunk. The Spanish have also shelled the runway of the airport at Gibraltar and moved troops up to the border with the colony. The British retaliated by shelling Santander and Cadiz, and,” he hesitated, “cratered the runways of the three air bases we share with the Spanish Air Force.”
The President’s eyes must have been as wide as saucers.
General Wheeler, who’d thus far patiently observed the proceedings with a respectful aloofness, cleared his throat.
“No US personnel or assets were harmed in the British raids. Our preliminary assessment is that they were very careful about that. When I was informed of events in the Iberian Peninsula I conferred with the Chief of Staff of the Air Force, General Lemay and informed him that until such time as I received a direct order to the contrary from the Commander-in-Chief, United States forces based in Spain should immediately stand down and cease to offer tactical and technical support to the Spanish authorities. I asked General LeMay to confirm to me that he understood this order to mean that all US aircraft in Spain were grounded during the current emergency and he confirmed that this was indeed, his understanding of matters.”