The military men might even be correct.
Nonetheless, Sorensen hoped above hope that the President had called it right when he had refused to be bullied into a second strike by the Chiefs of Staff. With every passing minute JFK’s singular moment of high moral courage and rectitude seemed ever more prescient.
It was several hours since the last ICBM had tracked over the Arctic and fallen towards an American city. All of the Soviet bombers entering Canadian airspace had been shot down or turned tail and run for home. Fighting was still going on in Europe; occasional pot shots with nuclear artillery or short-range tactical missiles. The British were back in communication with Washington; somebody had told Ted Sorensen that the Brits had only been informed what was going on after the first Minutemen, Atlas and Titan ICBMs had launched from their pads and silos in the Mid-West but he had discounted that. That sounded too crazy, the British V-Bomber Force was supposed to be an integral part of War Plan Alpha. If the Brits had not gone in at low level to suppress the massive air defences of Western Russia — a virtually impregnable aerial killing ground stretching from the West German border all the way east to Moscow, comprising layer upon layer of radars, surface-to-air missile batteries, and hundreds, perhaps thousands of MiG interceptors — Curtis LeMay’s bombers would have been cut to shreds…
Without quite knowing why Ted Sorensen moved through the crowd and walked around behind the President’s desk. He noticed Jack Kennedy’s hands were shaking.
“Is there anything I can do for you, sir?”
The haggard man seated at the desk in the glare of the television lights sighed, looked up at the friend who was his most devoted and eloquent lieutenant, the man without whom he could never have delivered the instantly memorable speeches and countless one-liners that had so caught the imagination of millions of Americans and eventually carried him to the White House in 1960.
“Is it a good speech, Ted?”
“It is a good speech, Mister President,” Sorensen said. “A JFK speech. The one that everybody will remember for all time. A speech that only you can carry off. After this nobody will remember the ‘ask not what your country can do for you’ line.”
“That would be sad. That was a hell of a line, Ted.”
“Yes, sir. It was. But only you could have delivered it.”
Chapter 27
Molly Fleischer had come into the room at the top of the old 1930s town house built very nearly on the highest point of one of the seven original ‘hills’ of San Francisco. Over the years as the city had grown it had acquired more ‘hills’, currently the tally stood at around forty but Nob Hill was high above the Bay in the old, fashionable part of the Golden Gate City and the Fleischers’ big, uncluttered home had long ago become a place of tranquillity and safety for Miranda Sullivan.
Miranda’s ‘Aunt’ Molly pulled the blinds and turned on the radio as the younger woman groaned and shielded her eyes from the blinding, dazzling light of what was actually, a grimly overcast fall day. Miranda’s head throbbed mercilessly; she was hungry and nauseous at the same time, trembling a little from head to foot as if she was very cold despite the balmy warmth of the room.
“The President’s speech has been playing every half-an-hour, petal,” the older woman said, adopting the maternal no nonsense tone she had had occasion to periodically employ with her favourite ‘niece’ ever since the girl was a skinny teenager. Privately, Molly thought that if Miranda’s parents had taken a firmer, more tactile approach to coping with their daughter’s waywardness they would have saved themselves, and Miranda, a lot of trouble. However, it was not her business to tell other people how to bring up their kids — it was not as if she had any of her own — and neither she or Harvey, her husband, wanted to do anything to damage their long, close and genuinely fond personal friendships and business partnerships, with Miranda’s mother and father. Besides, a falling out between members of the older generation, no matter how short-lived, was not going to help Miranda. “You must listen to the President. Things aren’t as bad as they could have been.”
Miranda sat up, blinking. She ran her fingers through her hair. Her Aunt must have washed the puke out of it and cleaned her up. She remembered nothing. She winced as she tried to wriggle into a more upright posture. Wayne, the black guy had been very big and she had goaded him mercilessly…
“I’m sorry,” she muttered.
Molly Fleischer instantly enveloped the young woman in a protective bear hung, clasping her to her ample warm bosom, stroking her head.
“No harm done, petal,” she cooed. “Harvey went down to City Hall and talked to the Commissioner. Your folks don’t need to know about anything that happened last night…”
The stentorian tones of the announcer came over the air.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the man announced gravely, ‘the President of the United States of America.”
There was a gap, a silence of two to three seconds which seemed much longer, an age of breathless troubled waiting.
“My fellow Americans,” said the familiar voice that reached out into homes and resonated about hearths like no other since his legendary predecessor Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s death in 1945. It was a voice that had always spoken to the hopes and fears of all generations; a voice that had divided and yet retained the power to beguile, momentarily, unconsciously even his most virulent detractors. It was also the most familiar voice in the World, the voice of a man — who despite everything that had happened — sincerely believed that he, truly and rightfully spoke for the free World. What was left of it, anyway. “My fellow Americans,” the voice said again, “and to this great nation’s friends, wherever they may be, near and far,” the voice was stilled for an instant, for dramatic effect, “may God be with you in this time of trial.”
Molly Fleischer sat on the bed, her arm protectively extended around her ‘niece’s’ shivering shoulders.
“I will not lie to you,” the President promised. “A terrible thing has happened. That I had no choice but to order the Armed Forces of the United States to attack the Soviet Union makes the tragedy of the last twenty-four hours no less tragic. To be forced to do terrible things by one’s enemies in time of war is the great tragedy of war.”
The women looked at each other for reassurance.
“The Soviet Union has not launched a fresh attack against the North American Continent for several hours. It may be that we have destroyed the enemy’s capacity to wage nuclear war against us but the Army, the Navy and the Air Force remain vigilant and at the highest state of readiness to repel further attacks, should they come.”
Oh God!
It might not be over!
“Yesterday, nuclear strikes were launched from the island of Cuba. Many thousands of Americans perished and were injured in Houston, Texas City, Galveston and in Florida. I make no apology for ordering a massive retaliation against the regime in Cuba which initiated that cowardly sneak attack. It was not my Administration’s wish or purpose to make war on the Soviet Union other than as a last resort in the event that the survival of the American people was at issue. However, confronted by an implacable foe, I was faced with no choice but to fight to preserve America, to preserve the lives of as many Americans as possible, and to vanquish those who would do us harm forever.”