Serial Sunday: The Owl and the Hawk, Part I
By Matthew Kresal.
Part One: A Pretty Bad Fix
19th of October, 1962.
Silence hung over the Cabinet Room for a moment. The white walls that had seen much history over the previous six decades bore witness to it all. A silence that drove home that another historical decision might be imminent.
Or would be if the son of a bitch would make one.
Curtis LeMay, four-star general in the United States Air Force, raised his left hand, putting his burning cigar between his teeth. In the time between words, he gave it a good long puff. The warm tobacco filled as lungs as a sickly sweet taste filled his mouth.
“If we do nothing,” said the president, “then they they have a missile base there. And with it, all the pressure that it brings to bear on the United States.”
The words of the younger man across the table were not lost on LeMay. It was the right sentiment to have, especially in recent days. The U-2s being flown by his pilots under the watch of the National Reconnaissance Office and the CIA had brought home proof of the general’s greatest nightmare: nuclear weapons of a communist power pointed at America from its own backyard. The question confronting the men in the Cabinet Room was what to do about it.
LeMay saw only one solution and wanted to help the President see sense.
“If we don’t do anything to Cuba,” LeMay said with a cloud of smoke, “then they’re going to push on Berlin. And push real hard because they’ve got us on the run.”
LeMay knew that referencing Berlin would have an impact. It was a thorn in both sides of the Cold War divide. For the Soviets, it was a pond of Western freedom in a red land. For the West, as LeMay knew all too well, it was almost indefensible militarily. Since the wall had gone up the previous year, it had become all the more likely as the flashpoint of a war. Or it had been until this Cuban business had come up. The civilians around the table wanted so much to connect the two, but that wasn’t how LeMay saw it.
“If we take military action against Cuba, then I think —”
“What do you think their reply would be?” The president interrupted, suddenly sitting forward in his chair.
LeMay had been cut off but didn’t hesitate to respond. “I don’t think they’re going to make any reply if we tell them the Berlin situation is just like it’s always been. I just don’t see any solution to these missiles in Cuba except a military solution right now.”
“They can’t let us take out their missiles, not after all their statements, General.” President Kennedy shook his head. “We can’t kill a lot of Russians and them not do something, anything in response.”
“History had been, I think, the other way, Mr. President.”
LeMay felt frustration building in his gut. He snuck a quick look to Maxwell Taylor, four-star general in the Army and Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Taylor caught the glance, an unspoken conversation passing down the length of the table. Seeing it, LeMay felt the burning in his gut lessen and he finished his thought.
“Where we have taken a strong stand,” LeMay lifted his smoldering cigar for emphasis, “they have backed off.”
Taylor leaned forward. “I would agree, Mr. President.”
LeMay appreciated the support. Taylor had been Kennedy’s own pick for the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, acting along with Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara as the Kennedy’s men in the Pentagon. If there was a man in uniform whom the President and his whippersnapper younger brother Bobby, the Attorney General, would listen to, it was Max.
Come on Max. LeMay puffed away on his cigar as Taylor made his own case to the President. Get him to let my boys do their job.
President Kennedy was silent for a moment. The same damned contemplative expression crossed his face, hand to his chin. LeMay followed the greenish-gray eyeline, saw them look down the table at Bobby. A silent conversation moved back and forth between them for a moment before they looked away from one another. LeMay felt the bile of frustration burning in his stomach once more
“Well,” the President offered with his attention turned once more to the photographs of the missile sites on the table. “It is a fact that the number of missiles there, I would say that no matter what they put in there we could live under that today if we had to. If they don’t have enough ICBMs today, they’re going to have them in a year or later. Bombing the hell out of them won’t solve anything, will it?”
“A missile is a missile,” McNamara agreed from behind his wire-rim glasses. “This is a political problem, not a military one.”
A groan washed over the room. LeMay made an unconscious fist with his right hand. McNamara held up a hand to quiet the room.
“Hear me out. The introduction of the weapons shown here or shown in these photographs would undoubtedly change the military balance between East and West. Militarily, it changes little but I do believe that this is a politically unacceptable move.”
A murmur of agreement went around the table in that moment. LeMay saw his moment and rose to his feet. “If we let the missiles remains there, it’s a blackmail threat against not only us. It’s a threat against any of the other South American countries they might decide to operate against.”
The general saw the eyes around the table look at him. Bobby, Taylor, Admiral Anderson, McNamara, and more besides. All of whom watched him. He took little notice of that beyond mere recognition of the fact. His attention and gruff voice was focused upon the one man at the table who was not looking at him. The one LeMay knew he had to get to listen.
“There’s one other factor that I didn't mention that’s not quite our field.” LeMay looked down the table at the military brass seated down from him. “But since the Secretary brought it up and you’ve asked us to comment on this matter, I’ll mention it. It’s the political factor.”
LeMay looked back to Kennedy.
“Mr. President, you’ve made pretty strong statements about Cuba, that we would take action against offensive weapons. I think that a blockade and political talk would be considered a pretty weak response to this. And I’m sure a lot of our own citizens would feel that way, too.”
A naval blockade of Cuba was an idea being floated around by McNamara and Bobby. LeMay hated it. Hell, all of the Joint Chiefs did. Even Admiral Anderson, Chief of Naval Operations, whose service would benefit the most from carrying it out. There was no way it would ever work, not at getting the missiles out anyway. Nor did it solve the wider problem of a Red Cuba and a Soviet base in America’s backyard.
Christ! LeMay wanted to shout at the indecisive man across the table. Don’t you see the opportunity we’ve been handed?
LeMay thought he saw how to get the young President’s attention. Something that would drive home that there only one solution to the crisis at hand. That he had to shoot first.
“You’re in a pretty bad fix, Mr. President.”
President Kennedy blinked. His gaze looked up from the table and the stack of photographs. LeMay found himself locking eyes with his Commander in Chief. He’d hoped to see determination and acceptance. Strangely, LeMay saw there was frustration in them instead.
“What did you say?”
There was restrained anger in the question. Another man might have apologized for the remark or sought to qualify it. LeMay instead took a puff on his cigar and repeated it.
“You’re in a pretty bad fix.”
The President raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you’re in there with me.”
A soft ripple of forced laughter washed over the Cabinet Room. President Kennedy cocked a half smile back at LeMay. A reminder that four stars might sit on each of the general’s shoulders, but the man who’d been a lieutenant in a PT Boat twenty years earlier was his Commander in Chief.
And God help us for that.
LeMay found himself forcing a smile through the Bell's palsy that made half his face scowl. Taylor changed the subject a moment later, with hum and Anderson talking about the damn blockade again. LeMay sunk into his chair, finding himself with little to say. He told himself that it would be alright. After all, it would be another two days at the earliest before his boys would be ready to launch strikes against Cuba, four days ideally. He had patience for that.
A dressing down by the President of the United States would be harder to forgive or forget.
***
The President, Bobby, McNamara, and the civilians left the Cabinet Room some minutes later. Most of the military brass soon followed suit, leaving LeMay alone with General Shoup. The Commandant of the Marine Corps came up behind LeMay and clapped him on the shoulders, one old warrior to another.
“You pulled the rug right out from under him.”
LeMay couldn’t help but chuckle. Shoup was an old Marine, commanding troops on the ground when LeMay had been leading B-17s and B-24s in the skies over Europe. Shoup had fought the Japs long before LeMay had made it to the Pacific theater, earning a Medal of Honor with his Marines on Bloody Tarawa, making it possible to build the airbase there from which planes had eventually struck against the Japs in the war’s closing act.
“What do you mean?” he asked, curious to hear Shoup’s thoughts.
“That I agree with what you said, a hundred percent. Somebody’s got to help them from doing this damn thing piecemeal. That’s our problem.”
“Yeah,” LeMay nodded as he stood up. Shoup stood next to him, arms folded across his chest.
“We’ve go in there and friggin’ take out the missiles. Otherwise, we’re screwed.”
“That’s right.”
So there was someone at the table who understood what needing done. LeMay thanked Stoup and let him leave, but a thought was on his mind as he walked out of the Cabinet Room. A two-word phrase…
“How’d it go, General?”
LeMay was pulled from his thoughts by Colonel Richards, his aide who’d come over from the Pentagon with him. Standing in the corridor in his blue uniform, Richards was clean cut and still had no sign of gray in his dark brown hair. The perfect example of the men LeMay prided in having in his Air Force. Not to mention a sympathetic ear when he needed one.
They walked through the West Wing, heading toward the lobby. LeMay could barely contain his frustration as they talked. If they had been at the Pentagon behind closed doors, he’d had been even more vocal. Thirty-two years of military service had taught him better than to yell too loudly within these walls. But LeMay knew from Richards’ silence that the colonel was just as mad as he was.
“It’s a shame, General. A damn shame.”
“Yeah,” LeMay offered in a huff. “That damn Kennedy will destroy this country if he isn’t careful.”
“Or if someone doesn’t stop him.”
LeMay nodded in agreement. He didn’t stop moving, but LeMay half turned toward Richards as they walked. The colonel and the general shared a look, their pace never faltering.
“Star Drop?” LeMay inquired as quietly as he could.
Colonel Richards glanced from side to side along the white walled corridor. Seeing no one, Richards gave an affirming nod.
“It’s part of why it was developed, sir. Not for this exact situation but a contingency very close to this.”
“I know,” LeMay sighed as they came to an intersection. The craving for another cigar was making itself felt. He would wait until they got into the limo back across the river where he could enjoy it in peace. One he’d considered this, at any rate.
“Could Star Drop be made operational in time?”
“I can inquire with Fort Bragg.” Richard offered a thin smile. “Colonel Bilke could answer that question better than I can.”
“See what he says when we get back then. We might need to activate Star Drop if things continue down this path. And sooner rather than later.”
LeMay felt his mood lighten. Him and Colonel Richards said little else or paid much attention to their surroundings. They failed to notice the red-haired woman at the tail end of her thirties that they had come mere moments from bumping into at the corridor intersection.
Something which left Wyst McDougal wonder what on Earth this Star Drop was.
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Matthew Kresal is, among other things, the author of the SLP book Our Man on the Hill and short stories in the anthologies AlloAmericana, The Emerald Isles, and The Scottish Anthology.
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