Running Out of Alibis (Axis Powers Hetalia, various) [2/2]
Back to Part One.
It’s past curfew, and it’s been a long time since Lithuania last walked through the streets of Warsaw and felt remotely at ease in them, but he winds his way through the alleys and side streets, crouching behind cars and ducking into doorways when he hears footsteps or engines drawing near. Some do, enough to make Lithuania poke his head above the hood of a particularly sleek black car and frown. He scans the windows for blackout curtains: none. The stores are all closed now, yes, but no additional signs are posted on their doors or windows about shorter hours or supplies. Poland’s neighbors, when Lithuania slips into his apartment, seem content to lounge in the stairwells and stand half in their doors and half outside of them, calling back and forth in his language. It’s not relaxed, exactly, nothing’s ever really relaxed these days, but nobody’s eyeing the windows and doors more than usual.
“Jeez, Liet, will you stop skulking around like you’re in the KGB?”
Well, now people are eyeing their doors. Wonderful. More specifically, they’re looking from the one in which he’s framed to the one Poland’s emerged from. Poland leans on the rickety metal banister, a pair of socks dangling from one hand. “Just c’mon up already,” Poland continues. Is he chewing gum? Where did he get-no, best not to ask that out here. “You’re seriously stressing me out. I mean, look at you, you look like you came from a freaking funeral, I’ve told you like a gazillion times that black makes you look sallow,” he adds, and blows the most obnoxiously pink bubble Lithuania’s ever seen. It bursts soon after with an audible pop, but Poland doesn’t seem to mind.
Lithuania takes the steps two at a time until he’s at Poland’s apartment and inside the door. It’s, well, a different kind of disorganization than the kind he’s used to seeing from Poland: the clothes flung over the chairs and table and dresser look as though they’ve been sorted there, and even the shoes scattered over the floor have been paired up. “Poland,” Lithuania asks, “are you aware-”
“Shh!” Poland says, jerking his head to the open door, and kicks it shut. “If you’re gonna play Mister Super-Secret Agent Man, you could try for a little subtlety here.”
“I’m not trying to-” Lithuania starts, then sighs. He might as well pick a battle he stands a chance of winning. “Poland, you do know what’s going on right now, don’t you?”
“Well duh I do,” Poland says, tossing his head back. “Why do you think I’m packing?”
Lithuania blinks. “Is that what this is?”
“No shit. I mean, it’s like at least another month before I have to reorganize my wardrobe for winter, so why else would I haul out all my clothes like this?”
Now that Lithuania’s looking at the clothes, they do seem heavier than the ones he’s got on now: thick knits and lined coats and woolen underthings. “What are you packing for?”
“Nuclear winter. Duh.”
“A nuclear what?”
“Nuuu-cleeeear. Wiiin-teeeer.” Poland stretches out each syllable, which makes Lithuania’s teeth set on edge but which doesn’t do much for his comprehension. “Yanno, if Russia and America finally decide to stop comparing dick sizes and start showing what they can actually do with all that junk?”
Lithuania’s first response is That’s disgusting and his second response is America wouldn’t-, and both of them come out more or less at the same time as “That’s America-no-Poland, that’s-”
“Whatever.” Poland flicks his bangs out of his eyes. “Am I wrong here?”
“No,” he admits, sagging a little; his arguments fly out like air from a punctured balloon. “I don’t suppose you are.”
“Of course I’m not, silly. So anyway, if their little thing gets way way out of control, and ‘cause it’s them it totally will, and if they go all mutually assured destruction on each other, then there’s gonna be all kinds of stuff flying over our heads, right?”
“Hopefully it’s over our heads,” Lithuania mutters. Slightly louder, he adds, “I don’t see what this has to do with…nuclear winter, you called it?”
“So it’s like this.” Poland starts to gather up his stockings, the thick black ones, and pile them at the bottom of his suitcase. “Remember when America bombed the heck outta Japan?”
“We all do.”
“Right. So when he did that, there was this big cloud, right? Of dust and stuff?” Poland grabs a particularly thick sweater and scrunches it up into a sort of mushroom shape. The effect doesn’t quite work, because the sweater’s pink, but Lithuania sees what he’s after.
“I think so.” He doesn’t have a nuclear program, far from it, and he’s not particularly sure he wants one either, so he’s far from an expert on its effects. He mostly knows what Russia’s told him, and what he’s gleaned from the others, and if Russia speaks about the bomb at all he doesn’t do it often in Lithuania’s presence. Nothing more than oblique references, occasional asides about “my project” or “the research” or if he’s feeling particularly open, “weapons development.”
“So if lots of bombs hit,” Poland continues, “then there’s gonna be lots of clouds of dust hanging over lots of cities. And that’s all gonna spread through the atmosphere-” He uncrumples the sweater, starts to stretch it. “Like that. Until there’s this mega-huge cloud of dust that like covers the whole earth and what’s that going to do to the sun, Liet?”
“Block its rays?”
“Yeah! And without the sun, it gets cold. So! Nuclear winter. Get it?” Poland tosses the sweater down and grins broadly, and even thought it’s horribly inappropriate and completely wrong on every conceivable level, Lithuania almost wants to smile with him.
But he doesn’t. “Got it.” It makes a kind of sense, he supposes. It’s certainly not the worst idea Poland’s come up with. There’s one question that still nags him, though. “Poland?”
Poland’s sorting through his sweaters now; maybe the demonstration earlier inspires him. He holds up a red-and-white patterned one to his chest, smoothing out its sleeves. “Uh-huh?”
“If you’re concerned enough that you’re packing for a nuclear winter,” Lithuania asks, “why does everyone seem so-”
“Chill?” Poland supplies, and grins. Lithuania stifles a groan. “Well duh. If I start running around like a chicken with my head cut off like Russia wants me to or whatever, then there’s gonna be bread riots. And milk riots. And probably toilet paper riots or something because people are just going to want to riot. I dunno about you, but I’m kind of over the whole riot thing by now.” He pitches the sweater into the suitcase, and at least three more of them fly in after it. “So I’m just like-yeah. America’s being himself on the other side of the world. No big.”
“But it isn’t just that, is it?” It’s hard to tell, granted, with the kind of information Lithuania’s even able to get these days, but between the lot of them under Russia’s roof right now, they’ve been able to scrape a few things together. Russia turned some of his ships back earlier today, Lithuania heard, and he and America fought in the UN before that (though Lithuania understands that particular situation is far from new), and Ukraine mentioned a few telegrams, which Lithuania supposes is better than nothing even if they have to go through translation and security protocols and all the rest of it. Other than that, he knows what Russia’s televisions tell him: America provoking hostilities with a Nation only interested in its own defense, and violating international waters in his pursuit of capitalist hegemony.
Lithuania’s sick of the phrase capitalist hegemony, and well, America wouldn’t act like that. He just wouldn’t.
It’s been so long since Lithuania saw him last, though.
-Poland’s fingers snap in front of his eyes and jolt him out of that line of speculation. “Liet? Hey, Liet? Earth to Liet?”
“Hm?”
“I was saying no, I guess not, but we’re not going to know until this is all over anyway, are we?”
“Until it’s over,” Lithuania echoes. It sounds strangely flat.
“Yeah. But you wanna know a secret?”
“What?”
“I’ve been wiped off the face of the map before. Like, literally. And you know what?” Poland stretches his arms out wide. “I’m still totally around! And maybe I don’t have all the ponies and vassals and junk I used to, but hey, I am definitely not at all dead.”
“No,” Lithuania has to agree, “you aren’t.”
“What’s this about getting wiped off the face of the map, huh?”
“Oh my god, East, did your mom seriously raise you in a freaking barn?” Poland demands, his hand on his hip as Pru-East Germany saunters in, Hungary behind him. “Close the door, why don’t you.”
“Why, what’re you hiding?” East scans the walls, whistling off-key. “Don’t see anything valuable…”
“Don’t mind him, he’s just being himself,” Hungary cuts in. “Oh, Poland, that vest is adorable!”
“This vest is friggin’ old, is what it is. But seriously, they made stuff to last back then, dontcha think?” Poland slips into the vest, and he’s right, it is old. Lithuania gets lost trying to trace the way the green and gold embroidery intersects and twines together on the black background, forms spiked leaves and curling flowers. “Hey, Liet!”
“Hm?”
Poland holds up a coat from the pile near the foot of his bed, a-is that a lime-green parka? Where’d he get a lime-green parka? Lithuania hasn’t seen them available in any kind of vibrant color in years, it seems like. “So this would look completely crappy with my complexion-I mean, it’s gonna be a nuclear winter, I don’t need to look any more radiation sick than I’m already going to be, right?-but! The green would look cute with your eyes.”
“Nuclear winter?” Hungary asks.
“Poland thinks we’ll have one if Russia and America, well, go through with all of this,” Lithuania says. “Don’t ask.”
“That,” East says, “is pretty retarded.”
Poland flings a sock ball at East’s head; he dodges. “Dude, do you even have like a visa to be here?”
“Pff, like it’s ever been hard to get into you.”
The sock ball that Hungary lobs his way after that remark hits him square in the cheek.
“So what do you think’s gonna happen?” Poland asks, yanks a few more hangers out of his closet.
“Fuck if I know,” East says, shrugging. “Kids these days, huh? Figure it’s going to make Our Glorious Leader even more fun to be around, though. Least it’s on the other side of the ocean and not in Berlin, right? Man, I can’t tell you how much that blew. Or didn’t blow, come to think of it. Definitely sucked, though.”
Hungary half-sighs. “What doesn’t, these days?”
“-you really want me to answer that one, Ungarn?” East’s grin must stretch at least as wide as that wall, or that’s the sense Lithuania gets from it. “‘Cause you left yourself wide open there.”
“East, go-”
“Man,” Poland says, twirling a lock of hair around his finger as he and Lithuania watch Hungary tell East to do something that Lithuania doesn’t quite think can be done, not with a tank and a flagpole and a donkey. “Can you imagine spending a nuclear winter with these losers? Lame.”
“Yes,” Lithuania says, and in spite of himself, he’s smiling.
***
“No, I’m not going to launch them,” Cuba says, holding the receiver away a little so he can get a better ear for what’s going on behind him. Not much, seems like, except for the steady thrum of the radar units. No blips or dots have popped up on the speakers or screen, but Russia’s operators are still hunched over their readouts trying to interpret what a whole bunch of nothing’s supposed to mean. Means America hasn’t tried to nuke him or invade yet, as far as Cuba’s concerned, and considering some of the way some people around here have been blustering, Cuba’s glad.
He glances out the window. Clear. Well, except for the ground crews making sure the S-75s are ready to go if they have to be, parking the tractor trailers and hauling the missiles onto the launch platforms and giving them one final buff, because if their missiles don’t shine what’s the point of showing ‘em off? Shit, at this rate, Cuba’s just fine with being inside. When he’s cooped up in command central or whatever Russia’s calling this shack, it’s a lot harder to spot him from a plane.
“We’re just getting ready,” he says, brings the receiver close again. “Look, if America’s serious about getting the missiles outta here, I’m serious about not getting blown up.”
“Of course. None of us desire that outcome,” Russia says.
“You don’t, maybe.” Maybe. Hell, for all Cuba knows, Russia might be thinking Cuba’s been more trouble than he’s worth. You never know with these guys. And Russia’s been waiting this whole time, just sitting around with the missiles and backing off the blockade and waiting, and it’s fucking creepy if you ask Cuba.
Especially since America never waits. Russia remembers that, right?
“None of us do,” Russia repeats. “America will see reason.”
Cuba snorts.
“He cannot continue this forever.”
“Thought he made it pretty clear he’s not going to. You hear he raised his military to DEFCON-2?” Cuba’s not sure how much clearer America can get, unless he starts waving around semaphores from his blockade ships that spell out ditch the missiles or I bomb your ass.
“I have heard. It would appear he is committed, yes?”
“No shit he’s committed.” Him and his whole three-hundred-nuke arsenal. “This isn’t last year, Russia.”
“And yet,” Russia muses, “I wonder if he cannot be reached by-other means.”
“Other means. Uh-huh. Mind telling me what those are?” Cuba scratches the sore spots under his braids. The ground crew’s readying the rails, and the pistons hiss as the missiles get cranked up to the angle where they need to be. He counts three S-75s with their needle-noses stabbing the sky, sleek and cold and whiter than anything else around here. Cuba shakes his head; guess he hasn’t forgotten how to shiver, no matter how hot his house usually is. Okay, man, that’s enough of those things, he decides, and looks back in on the operating crew instead. The radar screen’s issuing the same kind of static that’s coming over the phone. At least Russia’s consistent.
“I shall, when it is relevant.”
“Russia?”
“Yes?”
“It’s pretty fucking relevant right now.” Jesus Christ, Cuba’s known safes that’re locked up a little less tight than Russia. “So what’s going on? You’ve been talking to America?”
“Indirectly, yes.”
Cuba knows all about how that one works. Brazil says he’s sick of passing notes back and forth between Cuba and America, but not like they’ve come up with a better way to do it, and not like they have all that much to talk about these days, except when America decides to play cowboy on Cuba’s front lawn.
Also, Cuba doesn’t care how unprofessional it is, this jacket’s going off. He shifts the receiver to his other ear so he can fling it over his shoulder, and since even the Russians are unbuttoning and draping their coats over their chairs, he figures it’s not too serious a breach. “Indirectly. Yeah, okay.” He lowers his voice, checks out the windows again: clear. “What’s he saying? Hell, what are you saying to him?”
“Several proposals have been made,” Russia says. “You have heard the letter my boss wrote to his, yes?”
“The analogous means deal? Yeah, I heard it. You think he’ll actually pull his shit out of Turkey?”
“I do not know. He has not yet responded.”
Sounds like America. “Well,” he says, “keep me posted, all right, I want to know-”
Blip.
“Spoon Rest detects inbound object,” one of the guys is saying, “altitude 21000 meters, speed six hundred ninety kilometers per hour, bearing-”
Cuba doesn’t even hear the bearings; he’s too busy trying to remember if any of America’s missiles have that cruising height-no, can’t be a missile, it’s too slow, but a plane, hell, a plane carrying a missile-
“Sir,” someone else asks him, or tells him, or checks, “sir, we have orders to fire on any breach of airspace-”
“Yeah, we do,” Cuba says, and forgets to cover the mouthpiece until he hears Russia’s voice crackling over the line, maybe a little higher than normal, saying, “What do we have, Cuba?”
“A situation, what else do we ever have? Hold on, I’m trying to find out more-” he begins, but before Cuba can turn to the little brownnoser and explain that just because you can do something doesn’t mean your fool self should, he’s scampered over to join the rest of his buddies radioing for orders or-shit, is that the launch sequence they’re initiating, ‘cause the screen’s flashing something new at him and Cuba thinks he can make out the word interception.
Shit.
“Cuba,” Russia’s saying, “Cuba, I do not like the sound of this…”
“How the fuck do you think I feel?” Cuba snaps, and slams the receiver down on its cradle. Russia later, this now. Russia’s not here, Cuba is. He marches over to the gaggle forming by the monitor and asks, “What the hell’s going on here?”
“We confirmed the breach of airspace,” says the brownnoser from before, “and we think it’s a U-2.”
“America’s surveillance plane. Right. There some reason you’ve armed the S-75s?”
“It’s a violation of airspace-” someone begins, but it’s been a fucking long week and the week’s not even over yet, technically, and Cuba’s just about had it.
“There’s a difference between America snapping pictures and America firing nukes at us. Goddamn, think before you shoot someone down.”
“It’s still a breach of airspace,” one of Russia’s boys says. They’re all Russia’s boys except for Cuba, technically, but this kid really looks the part. “America won’t respect our declaration unless we show-”
“That we’re serious? Yeah, everyone’s real fucking serious right now. Listen up, Russkie, you think you’re gonna get your little red rear shipped back to the motherland if shit goes down here? No, let me tell you what’s going to go down. America’s going to see we shot down his pilot, America’s gonna call it an attack, America’s going to retaliate, and America’s got enough of an arsenal to turn my house into a slag heap.” Sure, history might vindicate the underdogs. Don’t make the underdogs any less dead. Thanks but no thanks, as far as Cuba’s concerned, and if his boss thinks different-well, Cuba’s not gonna finish that sentence.
“Sir?” the guy pipes up once everything else hushes, everything but the static and the blip blip blipping of the radar. “The commander already authorized the launch.”
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
“He thought the intrusion-”
“He can tell it to his boss,” Cuba snaps, and spends about half a minute hailing down curses on everyone and everything he can think of, from himself to Russia to those American kids who invented the airplane to combustion engines, and he’s barely flung himself out of his chair and started to sprint to the phone before the pistons fire.
It’s like a gunshot, but louder.
***
“But the President and EXCOMM agreed-”
“I know what they agreed on, I was there,” America says, grinds his teeth together. The sound’s like glass being scraped raw. “And now the president’s telling you to stand down, and I agree with him.”
“Sir, in the face of a surface-to-air-missile attack-”
“One plane, General. That’s not a concentrated attack. Not yet, anyway. One plane shot down sounds like an accident-look, it’s like the President said, there’s always some son-of-a-bitch who doesn’t get the word. We’ve got them over here.” Like that U-2 pilot earlier today who decided to wander into Soviet airspace, and thank god Russia hasn’t said anything about that. “Why shouldn’t Russia have a few?”
“Sir. If another SAM site makes an attack, what-”
“We’ll deal with that when we deal with that. It’s been a few hours and the skies’ve been quiet so far, and I want to keep them that way.” America’s temples pound. “So stand down. Don’t send anything with any kind of weapons capabilities into Cuban airspace, and if you have to do any more photoreconnaissance, pretend like the kids piloting those planes are your sons before you give them any orders. Got it?”
“Understood, sir.”
“Good.” America bangs the phone down into his cradle. Christ, you’d think the joint chiefs wanted to blow up the world. Well, maybe they do. But between them clamoring for retaliation and the press buzzing over each new development and Russia sending mixed message after mixed message, seriously, how the hell can you tell what that guy’s really thinking-it’s a hell of a lot. And he’s not just juggling balls here, he’s juggling china plates.
And speaking of balancing acts, here comes Turkey right now. He doesn’t bother knocking, just flings the door open, and America could’ve sworn he locked it but guess not.
“So you heard Russia’s broadcast,” he guesses.
“Over at the UN. There some reason you ain’t there?”
“Russia and I are trying to work this out on our own,” he says.
“Uh-huh,” Turkey says, and he doesn’t add bullshit but he doesn’t have to, not with the way he leans against the wall and crosses his arms, snorting. “Whatcha got so far? Some kinda brilliant plan the rest of us don’t get to find out about until mushroom clouds start popping out all over?”
“It’s complicated.”
“‘M listening. I’m listening real good.”
“Are you really,” America asks, “or are you just going to yell at me about the Jupiters?”
“Little bit of both,” Turkey says, pushes off the wall and shoves his hands into his pockets and starts prowling around America’s office, looking under the chairs like he’s checking for Reds or listening devices or something. “I don’t wanna leave my ass hanging out in the wind for Russia to shoot at, not any more’n you do.”
“That’s not what I’m doing,” America retorts, slams the heels of his hands into his desk drawer. “I know I can’t do the trade the way he wants me to, not after everything else, I’m not stupid.”
“So you’re not takin’ the Jupiters away.”
“Maybe.” More china plates. Jesus. He roots around in his desk for an aspirin, he needs one if this conversation’s going to go on any longer. “There were two letters.”
“Two? How’s there two?” The mask on Turkey’s face rises a little higher. “Could’ve sworn the bastard only sent us one.”
“His boss sent mine another one.” There it is; America pops two and swallows them dry. “You weren’t in that. Just stuff about how I had to withdraw my navy and pledge that I wouldn’t invade Cuba, if I wanted the missiles gone.”
Turkey stops pacing and flings himself into the chair to the right of America’s desk, taps his fingers against the armrest and sprawls his legs out like it’s his living room. “And then he fucked with it, huh?”
“And then he fucked with it,” America confirms.
“Can’t say I’m all that surprised. You gonna pussyfoot along with him, or are you gonna do what you said?”
“I always do what I say I will, okay?” he shoots back. “Just let me think.” Can’t let Russia come out ahead, can’t let any more of his pilots get shot down, can’t get caught unprepared if they do or he’ll look ripe for the picking, can’t strike first or he’ll look like the warmongering imperialist Russia says he is. Can’t ignore Russia’s proposal, can’t accept it as-is. Jesus, what can he do? It’s got to be something, everyone’s watching.
It’s impossible to think while he’s sitting still, so America gets up, paces the length of his desk and back again and back again, gets his blood and mind moving. Come on, he’s America, doing what can’t be done is how he lives; this isn’t impossible, he just has to take the situation apart, he has the answer locked up somewhere in his head, somewhere…
He has two letters. That’s important. And Russia’s only expecting one response.
“So we’ll answer the first one.”
He doesn’t realize he’s spoken that last thought aloud until Turkey says, “Great. What the fuck’s it mean?”
“I agree to his terms. The first ones he offered. I forget the second letter was ever written. Don’t mention it anywhere, and don’t mention you.”
“Never heard of anyone trying to ignore Russia away before,” Turkey says, “but that’s why they call you the Great Innovator, innit?”
America glares. “Don’t interrupt yet-oh, and I release the letter to the press,” he adds, “I’m not going to let him fake that it’s been delayed.”
“So what you’re saying’s that I get to keep the Jupiters?”
“Jesus, is that all you care about?”
“Don’t give much of a damn about Jesus.” Turkey stretches his arms behind his head; America hears his shoulders pop. “Do give a damn about keeping my house from getting a little too red. Hell, you’ve seen my neighbors.” He snorts. “And the ones who ain’t pacting things up with my neighbor from the north-fuck, let’s not even go there.”
“They’re my missiles, anyway,” America says, slaps his hands back down on the desk, thinks. Put the ball back in Russia’s court. Extend the hand of peace. Get what he said he wanted in the first place. It sounds good so far. Whether or not Russia goes for it’s something else, and god knows how that brain of his works, anyway, but maybe-but maybe if it’s Bobby and Dobrynin talking Turkey, and not Kennedy and Khrushchev. A meeting over dinner. Heck, even if they have to do business at the Department of Justice now, America can have one of the delis send something in. No conference tables, though, no portfolios or signatures or briefcases and no soundproof rooms-well, he might need the soundproof room, but maybe a homey soundproof room. America can see the scene now: no raised voices, no open threats, no hurling napkins or drinks or anything, just a talk over dinner. That’s how it should look.
And if it doesn’t work this time, well, America’s already got his boys on DEFCON-2.
Turkey’s got to buy it first, though, so America looks him straight on. “What if I swapped out the Jupiters for Polarises?”
“No. No fuckin’ way. Thought you weren’t gonna back down. What the hell happened to that, huh?”
“No I-listen, will you, I’m still working this out in my head.” He pushes off the desk and peers out the window, looks for ideas there. DC looks how it’s supposed to, mostly. Hell, if anything, the traffic’s less snarled than usual. More people staying at home this weekend, he guesses, or nobody’s had time to leave the office at all.
America rubs the sore spots under his eyes. He can feel the skin sag there, and it’s just as gross as it sounds. “You’ll be safer with them gone.”
“How the hell does that work?”
“Russia doesn’t have an excuse to attack you.” Preventing a Soviet military attack on a NATO member nation, that sounds good. America should word it like that.
“Like you’ve got an excuse to invade Cuba, right.”
He whips away from the window. “I haven’t even invaded-Jesus.”
“You going to?”
“Not now. Maybe. I don’t know, it depends on what Russia does. If he responds to the letter, if he shoots down any more of my pilots-I mean, I can take Cuba if I really put my mind to it, or even just part of my mind, it’s Cuba for chrissakes.” And why he’s even telling Turkey all of this, he has no idea, but Canada’s only answering the phone about every third time America calls and England and France resolutely refuse to get it and they’d try to muscle their way into having a say in all of this, and, well, the Jupiters are in Turkey. “I have to talk to him. Privately. I thought I’d let you know in advance, that’s all. Just in case.”
“Just in case Russia hits me and I can’t hit back.”
“He’d go after Berlin first. Probably.”
“Don’t know if I should be grateful or offended,” Turkey says, scratches the side of his nose.
“Don’t be anything just yet. Wait, okay? I’m waiting, too.”
Turkey hauls himself up out of the chair, rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck. “Problem is, Russia’s a shitton better at waiting than you are.”
***
“Call it what you like,” China says. It is capitulation, and he will call it by its true name even if Russia will not.
“We shall both make steps towards peace,” Russia says, extends his arms as though he wants to enfold China in them. China steps back before he has the chance to, and though Russia hardly shrinks, some small part of him seems to collapse in on itself, so that his arms waver as he lowers them.
“America,” China says, “will give you nothing.”
“He has indicated he will be removing the missiles from Turkey.”
China’s lip curls. “He said this publicly?”
“Privately, but it is still his word.” Russia’s smile remains fixed, though the corners of his eyes droop. Inwardly, China sighs. Let him pout; it doesn’t alter the truth of the matter.
“You believe him.” You must never trust the words of a capitalist, Russia said to him once, not so long ago, for they care only for profit, not for truth. And what, then, does Russia care for?
“I know he will do what he promises, China.”
“How?” China asks him; he doesn’t raise his voice, but lowers it instead to a near hiss.
“I have a good many friends.” Russia broadens his smile. “And we will both accomplish what we have meant to, yes? You will stop India’s forward policy in the mountains; I will stop America’s designs on Cuba.”
“Yes,” China says, his lips drawing thin. India is not cooperative yet, but India will listen, and China will have the borders placed where it is right for them to be. The contrast is clear enough; China hardly needs to draw further attention to it. Overstatement is ultimately unflattering. Such has it always been, though there are times when China must look at his own posters and books and rallies and wonder…
“And no one will have died,” Russia continues. “I think that is almost a victory.”
So this is what Russia’s ambitions have come to.
“Withdrawal is no victory,” China says.
Russia’s smile falters, then fades. He toys with the ends of his scarf, fiddles with the loose threads on its fringe, and the gesture is far too young for him. China has no patience with it. “I will keep Cuba safe.”
“America will not be weakened.”
“America will not invade Cuba.” Russia reaches for China again, to stroke his hair, but China turns to the side and Russia’s hand hovers by him, suspended, until he lowers it. He blinks slowly, as though he’s surprised that he doesn’t hold China in his grasp now. He should not be.
The riot of red on the walls makes China’s blood quicken, so he looks out the window instead. The Red Square is, at least, a different color. “He will give his word?”
“He will make a pledge, China. A formal one.”
More words, more assurances, more rhetoric. China has attempted to subside on them for long enough, and they have left him hungry. “That,” China says, and clutches the windowsill until the color drains from his knuckles, “has never stopped any of you.”
“I see,” Russia says. If there’s warmth in his voice, the heaviness in his tone suffocates it. “I should, I think, see to my people.”
“That would be wise.”
“They will have been frightened. I shall comfort them.”
China does not dispute either, now. “Yes.”
“I wish you luck with India.”
He almost bows in farewell, before he remembers that the gesture’s proscribed; still, no matter how sharp his salute, there’s a certain inflection it lacks. “Your words are appreciated.”
***
“You’re a devil to get a hold of, you know that?”
“I have been told as much.”
“Yeah. So. These missiles have to go.”
“I have said that I will remove them, America.”
“I know what you’ve said. Will you do it?”
“I have, I think, made my conditions clear.”
“And I replied.”
“I am receiving it as we speak.”
“Good. Nothing lost in translation?”
“I do not think so, no.”
“…so.”
“I am thinking of what to say.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“There are a good many things to think about, yes?”
“Don’t take too long. I need to know by tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow, you say.”
“I do. Hard deadline.”
“You make your argument very forcefully.”
“Thanks.”
“…it is-interesting, shall we say? Yes. Interesting. Very interesting, this letter you are sending me. You speak of Cuba, but say nothing of Turkey. Has that part not been sent?”
“I’m sending it now. That’s why I called.”
“I see.”
“I’ve been thinking about the Jupiters for a while now, you know.”
“Ah, have you now.”
“Yeah. I’ve been thinking-it’s not right to leave an ally in danger.”
“It is not very heroic.”
“No. So I’ve been thinking-for a while-that I’d move the missiles out once this all settled down. Take them back home. They’re safer there, Turkey’s safer with them there, everyone wins.”
“So it would seem.”
“But this has to settle down first. Tell your boss that.”
“Of course. This could not be included in the letter?”
“Well, it’s different. The letter’s what my boss is offering.”
“…I see.”
“Good.”
“So I’ll hear from you tomorrow?”
“I expect that you will.”
“Okay. I’ll be waiting.”
“Many people will be, America.”
***
They have not rebroadcast Russia’s boss’s speech over the radio, but they do not need to, for every station Russia turns to discusses it and America’s response, and celebrates the blow to American imperialism that has just been dealt, applauds the steadfast courage of their brothers in Cuba and paints pictures of American ships sailing home in disgrace. They talk about these things very loudly, so loudly that Russia winces to hear them, at first.
He turns down the volume of his radio and pours himself a drink, a very small one. Perhaps he should invite Lithuania to join him, or Latvia and Estonia, or East Germany, or even his sisters? He strokes his phone slowly, runs his fingers over the bridge connecting earpiece and mouthpiece. He could also call Cuba to congratulate him, though he cannot invite Cuba to join him yet; America will not lift the quarantine for a while longer. And he should ask Cuba if he is truly as displeased as he seems, for when Russia called him earlier to tell him the news, Cuba shouted so loudly into the phone that Russia feared the speakers would be damaged. The crisis is over, and Cuba is whole, and Cuba is safe, because Russia made the best decision for Cuba that he could. What is displeasing about that? Russia shakes his head.
But there is no war, not today, and that is for the best. And there are many Nations he can call on, now, and surely they must also want to celebrate that.
There should be a celebration, yes? Even if it is not a big one. Russia has not had a truly grand party in, oh, years-his Party is not quite the same thing. It is a good little joke, and Russia smiles to himself. Well, perhaps now is not the time for celebration, for there is still work to be done. He and America have that hotline to establish, and of course they will need to meet at the United Nations and hammer out the finer points of their little arrangement. When America will lift his quarantine, and when Russia will remove his missiles, though both things will be done, Russia is sure of that. And afterwards-
Ah, there is always something to be done afterwards. Perhaps that is why Russia so rarely celebrates now; his work will not be finished for a very long time. His glass is empty again-there, Russia has it, he will celebrate by pouring himself another. The drink sears his throat going down, and for a moment he can imagine flames pooling in his stomach.
Yes, he decides, he will call the others and gather them to him. And he will be the most gracious of hosts when they arrive. He would not want them to be alone on a night such as this, in a world such as this.
---
--
In October 1962, President John F. Kennedy announced to the world that the Soviet Union had placed ballistic missiles in Cuba, a fact he’d been notified of a week before. America placed a naval quarantine around Cuba and prepared to destroy the missile sites with military force, if necessary; the Soviet Union seemed poised to reject America’s demands, and threatened that if America took military action, they’d retaliate in kind. Six days after the announcement, just before all hope of a diplomatic resolution to the crisis gave out, Kennedy and Khrushchev reached an agreement: the Soviet Union would remove the missiles in exchange for America lifting the quarantine and pledging not to invade Cuba. To date, the Cuban Missile Crisis is the closest the world has come to nuclear war. Check out this site for more information.
International reactions to the crisis varied, and I’ve done my best to display them based on the overall diplomatic and popular stances documented in each country during the time of the crisis. (Poland really did downplay it to avoid bread riots; Germany was relieved that America seemed to be taking up the offensive in the Cold War). I’ve taken most of the material about Russia and China’s cooling marital relations, and the bits about the Sino-Indian War from The Sino-Soviet Split by Lorenz M. Luthi, which is probably the best documentation of the Split published in English.
>>Running Out of Alibis: The Mix<<
(Note that these songs aren't so much a soundtrack to the fic as they are a compliation of the stuff I kept listening to while writing it. If you all like this kind of thing, I might do it in the future for other things I write, because music DOES influence me.)
Track List:
Placebo - The Bitter End
The Dandy Warhols - Everyone is Totally Insane
RJD2 - 1976
The White Stripes - My Doorbell
Gorillaz - Dare
Dream Theater - Pull Me Under
Thomas Borchert - Hell to Your Doorstep
.
It’s past curfew, and it’s been a long time since Lithuania last walked through the streets of Warsaw and felt remotely at ease in them, but he winds his way through the alleys and side streets, crouching behind cars and ducking into doorways when he hears footsteps or engines drawing near. Some do, enough to make Lithuania poke his head above the hood of a particularly sleek black car and frown. He scans the windows for blackout curtains: none. The stores are all closed now, yes, but no additional signs are posted on their doors or windows about shorter hours or supplies. Poland’s neighbors, when Lithuania slips into his apartment, seem content to lounge in the stairwells and stand half in their doors and half outside of them, calling back and forth in his language. It’s not relaxed, exactly, nothing’s ever really relaxed these days, but nobody’s eyeing the windows and doors more than usual.
“Jeez, Liet, will you stop skulking around like you’re in the KGB?”
Well, now people are eyeing their doors. Wonderful. More specifically, they’re looking from the one in which he’s framed to the one Poland’s emerged from. Poland leans on the rickety metal banister, a pair of socks dangling from one hand. “Just c’mon up already,” Poland continues. Is he chewing gum? Where did he get-no, best not to ask that out here. “You’re seriously stressing me out. I mean, look at you, you look like you came from a freaking funeral, I’ve told you like a gazillion times that black makes you look sallow,” he adds, and blows the most obnoxiously pink bubble Lithuania’s ever seen. It bursts soon after with an audible pop, but Poland doesn’t seem to mind.
Lithuania takes the steps two at a time until he’s at Poland’s apartment and inside the door. It’s, well, a different kind of disorganization than the kind he’s used to seeing from Poland: the clothes flung over the chairs and table and dresser look as though they’ve been sorted there, and even the shoes scattered over the floor have been paired up. “Poland,” Lithuania asks, “are you aware-”
“Shh!” Poland says, jerking his head to the open door, and kicks it shut. “If you’re gonna play Mister Super-Secret Agent Man, you could try for a little subtlety here.”
“I’m not trying to-” Lithuania starts, then sighs. He might as well pick a battle he stands a chance of winning. “Poland, you do know what’s going on right now, don’t you?”
“Well duh I do,” Poland says, tossing his head back. “Why do you think I’m packing?”
Lithuania blinks. “Is that what this is?”
“No shit. I mean, it’s like at least another month before I have to reorganize my wardrobe for winter, so why else would I haul out all my clothes like this?”
Now that Lithuania’s looking at the clothes, they do seem heavier than the ones he’s got on now: thick knits and lined coats and woolen underthings. “What are you packing for?”
“Nuclear winter. Duh.”
“A nuclear what?”
“Nuuu-cleeeear. Wiiin-teeeer.” Poland stretches out each syllable, which makes Lithuania’s teeth set on edge but which doesn’t do much for his comprehension. “Yanno, if Russia and America finally decide to stop comparing dick sizes and start showing what they can actually do with all that junk?”
Lithuania’s first response is That’s disgusting and his second response is America wouldn’t-, and both of them come out more or less at the same time as “That’s America-no-Poland, that’s-”
“Whatever.” Poland flicks his bangs out of his eyes. “Am I wrong here?”
“No,” he admits, sagging a little; his arguments fly out like air from a punctured balloon. “I don’t suppose you are.”
“Of course I’m not, silly. So anyway, if their little thing gets way way out of control, and ‘cause it’s them it totally will, and if they go all mutually assured destruction on each other, then there’s gonna be all kinds of stuff flying over our heads, right?”
“Hopefully it’s over our heads,” Lithuania mutters. Slightly louder, he adds, “I don’t see what this has to do with…nuclear winter, you called it?”
“So it’s like this.” Poland starts to gather up his stockings, the thick black ones, and pile them at the bottom of his suitcase. “Remember when America bombed the heck outta Japan?”
“We all do.”
“Right. So when he did that, there was this big cloud, right? Of dust and stuff?” Poland grabs a particularly thick sweater and scrunches it up into a sort of mushroom shape. The effect doesn’t quite work, because the sweater’s pink, but Lithuania sees what he’s after.
“I think so.” He doesn’t have a nuclear program, far from it, and he’s not particularly sure he wants one either, so he’s far from an expert on its effects. He mostly knows what Russia’s told him, and what he’s gleaned from the others, and if Russia speaks about the bomb at all he doesn’t do it often in Lithuania’s presence. Nothing more than oblique references, occasional asides about “my project” or “the research” or if he’s feeling particularly open, “weapons development.”
“So if lots of bombs hit,” Poland continues, “then there’s gonna be lots of clouds of dust hanging over lots of cities. And that’s all gonna spread through the atmosphere-” He uncrumples the sweater, starts to stretch it. “Like that. Until there’s this mega-huge cloud of dust that like covers the whole earth and what’s that going to do to the sun, Liet?”
“Block its rays?”
“Yeah! And without the sun, it gets cold. So! Nuclear winter. Get it?” Poland tosses the sweater down and grins broadly, and even thought it’s horribly inappropriate and completely wrong on every conceivable level, Lithuania almost wants to smile with him.
But he doesn’t. “Got it.” It makes a kind of sense, he supposes. It’s certainly not the worst idea Poland’s come up with. There’s one question that still nags him, though. “Poland?”
Poland’s sorting through his sweaters now; maybe the demonstration earlier inspires him. He holds up a red-and-white patterned one to his chest, smoothing out its sleeves. “Uh-huh?”
“If you’re concerned enough that you’re packing for a nuclear winter,” Lithuania asks, “why does everyone seem so-”
“Chill?” Poland supplies, and grins. Lithuania stifles a groan. “Well duh. If I start running around like a chicken with my head cut off like Russia wants me to or whatever, then there’s gonna be bread riots. And milk riots. And probably toilet paper riots or something because people are just going to want to riot. I dunno about you, but I’m kind of over the whole riot thing by now.” He pitches the sweater into the suitcase, and at least three more of them fly in after it. “So I’m just like-yeah. America’s being himself on the other side of the world. No big.”
“But it isn’t just that, is it?” It’s hard to tell, granted, with the kind of information Lithuania’s even able to get these days, but between the lot of them under Russia’s roof right now, they’ve been able to scrape a few things together. Russia turned some of his ships back earlier today, Lithuania heard, and he and America fought in the UN before that (though Lithuania understands that particular situation is far from new), and Ukraine mentioned a few telegrams, which Lithuania supposes is better than nothing even if they have to go through translation and security protocols and all the rest of it. Other than that, he knows what Russia’s televisions tell him: America provoking hostilities with a Nation only interested in its own defense, and violating international waters in his pursuit of capitalist hegemony.
Lithuania’s sick of the phrase capitalist hegemony, and well, America wouldn’t act like that. He just wouldn’t.
It’s been so long since Lithuania saw him last, though.
-Poland’s fingers snap in front of his eyes and jolt him out of that line of speculation. “Liet? Hey, Liet? Earth to Liet?”
“Hm?”
“I was saying no, I guess not, but we’re not going to know until this is all over anyway, are we?”
“Until it’s over,” Lithuania echoes. It sounds strangely flat.
“Yeah. But you wanna know a secret?”
“What?”
“I’ve been wiped off the face of the map before. Like, literally. And you know what?” Poland stretches his arms out wide. “I’m still totally around! And maybe I don’t have all the ponies and vassals and junk I used to, but hey, I am definitely not at all dead.”
“No,” Lithuania has to agree, “you aren’t.”
“What’s this about getting wiped off the face of the map, huh?”
“Oh my god, East, did your mom seriously raise you in a freaking barn?” Poland demands, his hand on his hip as Pru-East Germany saunters in, Hungary behind him. “Close the door, why don’t you.”
“Why, what’re you hiding?” East scans the walls, whistling off-key. “Don’t see anything valuable…”
“Don’t mind him, he’s just being himself,” Hungary cuts in. “Oh, Poland, that vest is adorable!”
“This vest is friggin’ old, is what it is. But seriously, they made stuff to last back then, dontcha think?” Poland slips into the vest, and he’s right, it is old. Lithuania gets lost trying to trace the way the green and gold embroidery intersects and twines together on the black background, forms spiked leaves and curling flowers. “Hey, Liet!”
“Hm?”
Poland holds up a coat from the pile near the foot of his bed, a-is that a lime-green parka? Where’d he get a lime-green parka? Lithuania hasn’t seen them available in any kind of vibrant color in years, it seems like. “So this would look completely crappy with my complexion-I mean, it’s gonna be a nuclear winter, I don’t need to look any more radiation sick than I’m already going to be, right?-but! The green would look cute with your eyes.”
“Nuclear winter?” Hungary asks.
“Poland thinks we’ll have one if Russia and America, well, go through with all of this,” Lithuania says. “Don’t ask.”
“That,” East says, “is pretty retarded.”
Poland flings a sock ball at East’s head; he dodges. “Dude, do you even have like a visa to be here?”
“Pff, like it’s ever been hard to get into you.”
The sock ball that Hungary lobs his way after that remark hits him square in the cheek.
“So what do you think’s gonna happen?” Poland asks, yanks a few more hangers out of his closet.
“Fuck if I know,” East says, shrugging. “Kids these days, huh? Figure it’s going to make Our Glorious Leader even more fun to be around, though. Least it’s on the other side of the ocean and not in Berlin, right? Man, I can’t tell you how much that blew. Or didn’t blow, come to think of it. Definitely sucked, though.”
Hungary half-sighs. “What doesn’t, these days?”
“-you really want me to answer that one, Ungarn?” East’s grin must stretch at least as wide as that wall, or that’s the sense Lithuania gets from it. “‘Cause you left yourself wide open there.”
“East, go-”
“Man,” Poland says, twirling a lock of hair around his finger as he and Lithuania watch Hungary tell East to do something that Lithuania doesn’t quite think can be done, not with a tank and a flagpole and a donkey. “Can you imagine spending a nuclear winter with these losers? Lame.”
“Yes,” Lithuania says, and in spite of himself, he’s smiling.
***
“No, I’m not going to launch them,” Cuba says, holding the receiver away a little so he can get a better ear for what’s going on behind him. Not much, seems like, except for the steady thrum of the radar units. No blips or dots have popped up on the speakers or screen, but Russia’s operators are still hunched over their readouts trying to interpret what a whole bunch of nothing’s supposed to mean. Means America hasn’t tried to nuke him or invade yet, as far as Cuba’s concerned, and considering some of the way some people around here have been blustering, Cuba’s glad.
He glances out the window. Clear. Well, except for the ground crews making sure the S-75s are ready to go if they have to be, parking the tractor trailers and hauling the missiles onto the launch platforms and giving them one final buff, because if their missiles don’t shine what’s the point of showing ‘em off? Shit, at this rate, Cuba’s just fine with being inside. When he’s cooped up in command central or whatever Russia’s calling this shack, it’s a lot harder to spot him from a plane.
“We’re just getting ready,” he says, brings the receiver close again. “Look, if America’s serious about getting the missiles outta here, I’m serious about not getting blown up.”
“Of course. None of us desire that outcome,” Russia says.
“You don’t, maybe.” Maybe. Hell, for all Cuba knows, Russia might be thinking Cuba’s been more trouble than he’s worth. You never know with these guys. And Russia’s been waiting this whole time, just sitting around with the missiles and backing off the blockade and waiting, and it’s fucking creepy if you ask Cuba.
Especially since America never waits. Russia remembers that, right?
“None of us do,” Russia repeats. “America will see reason.”
Cuba snorts.
“He cannot continue this forever.”
“Thought he made it pretty clear he’s not going to. You hear he raised his military to DEFCON-2?” Cuba’s not sure how much clearer America can get, unless he starts waving around semaphores from his blockade ships that spell out ditch the missiles or I bomb your ass.
“I have heard. It would appear he is committed, yes?”
“No shit he’s committed.” Him and his whole three-hundred-nuke arsenal. “This isn’t last year, Russia.”
“And yet,” Russia muses, “I wonder if he cannot be reached by-other means.”
“Other means. Uh-huh. Mind telling me what those are?” Cuba scratches the sore spots under his braids. The ground crew’s readying the rails, and the pistons hiss as the missiles get cranked up to the angle where they need to be. He counts three S-75s with their needle-noses stabbing the sky, sleek and cold and whiter than anything else around here. Cuba shakes his head; guess he hasn’t forgotten how to shiver, no matter how hot his house usually is. Okay, man, that’s enough of those things, he decides, and looks back in on the operating crew instead. The radar screen’s issuing the same kind of static that’s coming over the phone. At least Russia’s consistent.
“I shall, when it is relevant.”
“Russia?”
“Yes?”
“It’s pretty fucking relevant right now.” Jesus Christ, Cuba’s known safes that’re locked up a little less tight than Russia. “So what’s going on? You’ve been talking to America?”
“Indirectly, yes.”
Cuba knows all about how that one works. Brazil says he’s sick of passing notes back and forth between Cuba and America, but not like they’ve come up with a better way to do it, and not like they have all that much to talk about these days, except when America decides to play cowboy on Cuba’s front lawn.
Also, Cuba doesn’t care how unprofessional it is, this jacket’s going off. He shifts the receiver to his other ear so he can fling it over his shoulder, and since even the Russians are unbuttoning and draping their coats over their chairs, he figures it’s not too serious a breach. “Indirectly. Yeah, okay.” He lowers his voice, checks out the windows again: clear. “What’s he saying? Hell, what are you saying to him?”
“Several proposals have been made,” Russia says. “You have heard the letter my boss wrote to his, yes?”
“The analogous means deal? Yeah, I heard it. You think he’ll actually pull his shit out of Turkey?”
“I do not know. He has not yet responded.”
Sounds like America. “Well,” he says, “keep me posted, all right, I want to know-”
Blip.
“Spoon Rest detects inbound object,” one of the guys is saying, “altitude 21000 meters, speed six hundred ninety kilometers per hour, bearing-”
Cuba doesn’t even hear the bearings; he’s too busy trying to remember if any of America’s missiles have that cruising height-no, can’t be a missile, it’s too slow, but a plane, hell, a plane carrying a missile-
“Sir,” someone else asks him, or tells him, or checks, “sir, we have orders to fire on any breach of airspace-”
“Yeah, we do,” Cuba says, and forgets to cover the mouthpiece until he hears Russia’s voice crackling over the line, maybe a little higher than normal, saying, “What do we have, Cuba?”
“A situation, what else do we ever have? Hold on, I’m trying to find out more-” he begins, but before Cuba can turn to the little brownnoser and explain that just because you can do something doesn’t mean your fool self should, he’s scampered over to join the rest of his buddies radioing for orders or-shit, is that the launch sequence they’re initiating, ‘cause the screen’s flashing something new at him and Cuba thinks he can make out the word interception.
Shit.
“Cuba,” Russia’s saying, “Cuba, I do not like the sound of this…”
“How the fuck do you think I feel?” Cuba snaps, and slams the receiver down on its cradle. Russia later, this now. Russia’s not here, Cuba is. He marches over to the gaggle forming by the monitor and asks, “What the hell’s going on here?”
“We confirmed the breach of airspace,” says the brownnoser from before, “and we think it’s a U-2.”
“America’s surveillance plane. Right. There some reason you’ve armed the S-75s?”
“It’s a violation of airspace-” someone begins, but it’s been a fucking long week and the week’s not even over yet, technically, and Cuba’s just about had it.
“There’s a difference between America snapping pictures and America firing nukes at us. Goddamn, think before you shoot someone down.”
“It’s still a breach of airspace,” one of Russia’s boys says. They’re all Russia’s boys except for Cuba, technically, but this kid really looks the part. “America won’t respect our declaration unless we show-”
“That we’re serious? Yeah, everyone’s real fucking serious right now. Listen up, Russkie, you think you’re gonna get your little red rear shipped back to the motherland if shit goes down here? No, let me tell you what’s going to go down. America’s going to see we shot down his pilot, America’s gonna call it an attack, America’s going to retaliate, and America’s got enough of an arsenal to turn my house into a slag heap.” Sure, history might vindicate the underdogs. Don’t make the underdogs any less dead. Thanks but no thanks, as far as Cuba’s concerned, and if his boss thinks different-well, Cuba’s not gonna finish that sentence.
“Sir?” the guy pipes up once everything else hushes, everything but the static and the blip blip blipping of the radar. “The commander already authorized the launch.”
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
“He thought the intrusion-”
“He can tell it to his boss,” Cuba snaps, and spends about half a minute hailing down curses on everyone and everything he can think of, from himself to Russia to those American kids who invented the airplane to combustion engines, and he’s barely flung himself out of his chair and started to sprint to the phone before the pistons fire.
It’s like a gunshot, but louder.
***
“But the President and EXCOMM agreed-”
“I know what they agreed on, I was there,” America says, grinds his teeth together. The sound’s like glass being scraped raw. “And now the president’s telling you to stand down, and I agree with him.”
“Sir, in the face of a surface-to-air-missile attack-”
“One plane, General. That’s not a concentrated attack. Not yet, anyway. One plane shot down sounds like an accident-look, it’s like the President said, there’s always some son-of-a-bitch who doesn’t get the word. We’ve got them over here.” Like that U-2 pilot earlier today who decided to wander into Soviet airspace, and thank god Russia hasn’t said anything about that. “Why shouldn’t Russia have a few?”
“Sir. If another SAM site makes an attack, what-”
“We’ll deal with that when we deal with that. It’s been a few hours and the skies’ve been quiet so far, and I want to keep them that way.” America’s temples pound. “So stand down. Don’t send anything with any kind of weapons capabilities into Cuban airspace, and if you have to do any more photoreconnaissance, pretend like the kids piloting those planes are your sons before you give them any orders. Got it?”
“Understood, sir.”
“Good.” America bangs the phone down into his cradle. Christ, you’d think the joint chiefs wanted to blow up the world. Well, maybe they do. But between them clamoring for retaliation and the press buzzing over each new development and Russia sending mixed message after mixed message, seriously, how the hell can you tell what that guy’s really thinking-it’s a hell of a lot. And he’s not just juggling balls here, he’s juggling china plates.
And speaking of balancing acts, here comes Turkey right now. He doesn’t bother knocking, just flings the door open, and America could’ve sworn he locked it but guess not.
“So you heard Russia’s broadcast,” he guesses.
“Over at the UN. There some reason you ain’t there?”
“Russia and I are trying to work this out on our own,” he says.
“Uh-huh,” Turkey says, and he doesn’t add bullshit but he doesn’t have to, not with the way he leans against the wall and crosses his arms, snorting. “Whatcha got so far? Some kinda brilliant plan the rest of us don’t get to find out about until mushroom clouds start popping out all over?”
“It’s complicated.”
“‘M listening. I’m listening real good.”
“Are you really,” America asks, “or are you just going to yell at me about the Jupiters?”
“Little bit of both,” Turkey says, pushes off the wall and shoves his hands into his pockets and starts prowling around America’s office, looking under the chairs like he’s checking for Reds or listening devices or something. “I don’t wanna leave my ass hanging out in the wind for Russia to shoot at, not any more’n you do.”
“That’s not what I’m doing,” America retorts, slams the heels of his hands into his desk drawer. “I know I can’t do the trade the way he wants me to, not after everything else, I’m not stupid.”
“So you’re not takin’ the Jupiters away.”
“Maybe.” More china plates. Jesus. He roots around in his desk for an aspirin, he needs one if this conversation’s going to go on any longer. “There were two letters.”
“Two? How’s there two?” The mask on Turkey’s face rises a little higher. “Could’ve sworn the bastard only sent us one.”
“His boss sent mine another one.” There it is; America pops two and swallows them dry. “You weren’t in that. Just stuff about how I had to withdraw my navy and pledge that I wouldn’t invade Cuba, if I wanted the missiles gone.”
Turkey stops pacing and flings himself into the chair to the right of America’s desk, taps his fingers against the armrest and sprawls his legs out like it’s his living room. “And then he fucked with it, huh?”
“And then he fucked with it,” America confirms.
“Can’t say I’m all that surprised. You gonna pussyfoot along with him, or are you gonna do what you said?”
“I always do what I say I will, okay?” he shoots back. “Just let me think.” Can’t let Russia come out ahead, can’t let any more of his pilots get shot down, can’t get caught unprepared if they do or he’ll look ripe for the picking, can’t strike first or he’ll look like the warmongering imperialist Russia says he is. Can’t ignore Russia’s proposal, can’t accept it as-is. Jesus, what can he do? It’s got to be something, everyone’s watching.
It’s impossible to think while he’s sitting still, so America gets up, paces the length of his desk and back again and back again, gets his blood and mind moving. Come on, he’s America, doing what can’t be done is how he lives; this isn’t impossible, he just has to take the situation apart, he has the answer locked up somewhere in his head, somewhere…
He has two letters. That’s important. And Russia’s only expecting one response.
“So we’ll answer the first one.”
He doesn’t realize he’s spoken that last thought aloud until Turkey says, “Great. What the fuck’s it mean?”
“I agree to his terms. The first ones he offered. I forget the second letter was ever written. Don’t mention it anywhere, and don’t mention you.”
“Never heard of anyone trying to ignore Russia away before,” Turkey says, “but that’s why they call you the Great Innovator, innit?”
America glares. “Don’t interrupt yet-oh, and I release the letter to the press,” he adds, “I’m not going to let him fake that it’s been delayed.”
“So what you’re saying’s that I get to keep the Jupiters?”
“Jesus, is that all you care about?”
“Don’t give much of a damn about Jesus.” Turkey stretches his arms behind his head; America hears his shoulders pop. “Do give a damn about keeping my house from getting a little too red. Hell, you’ve seen my neighbors.” He snorts. “And the ones who ain’t pacting things up with my neighbor from the north-fuck, let’s not even go there.”
“They’re my missiles, anyway,” America says, slaps his hands back down on the desk, thinks. Put the ball back in Russia’s court. Extend the hand of peace. Get what he said he wanted in the first place. It sounds good so far. Whether or not Russia goes for it’s something else, and god knows how that brain of his works, anyway, but maybe-but maybe if it’s Bobby and Dobrynin talking Turkey, and not Kennedy and Khrushchev. A meeting over dinner. Heck, even if they have to do business at the Department of Justice now, America can have one of the delis send something in. No conference tables, though, no portfolios or signatures or briefcases and no soundproof rooms-well, he might need the soundproof room, but maybe a homey soundproof room. America can see the scene now: no raised voices, no open threats, no hurling napkins or drinks or anything, just a talk over dinner. That’s how it should look.
And if it doesn’t work this time, well, America’s already got his boys on DEFCON-2.
Turkey’s got to buy it first, though, so America looks him straight on. “What if I swapped out the Jupiters for Polarises?”
“No. No fuckin’ way. Thought you weren’t gonna back down. What the hell happened to that, huh?”
“No I-listen, will you, I’m still working this out in my head.” He pushes off the desk and peers out the window, looks for ideas there. DC looks how it’s supposed to, mostly. Hell, if anything, the traffic’s less snarled than usual. More people staying at home this weekend, he guesses, or nobody’s had time to leave the office at all.
America rubs the sore spots under his eyes. He can feel the skin sag there, and it’s just as gross as it sounds. “You’ll be safer with them gone.”
“How the hell does that work?”
“Russia doesn’t have an excuse to attack you.” Preventing a Soviet military attack on a NATO member nation, that sounds good. America should word it like that.
“Like you’ve got an excuse to invade Cuba, right.”
He whips away from the window. “I haven’t even invaded-Jesus.”
“You going to?”
“Not now. Maybe. I don’t know, it depends on what Russia does. If he responds to the letter, if he shoots down any more of my pilots-I mean, I can take Cuba if I really put my mind to it, or even just part of my mind, it’s Cuba for chrissakes.” And why he’s even telling Turkey all of this, he has no idea, but Canada’s only answering the phone about every third time America calls and England and France resolutely refuse to get it and they’d try to muscle their way into having a say in all of this, and, well, the Jupiters are in Turkey. “I have to talk to him. Privately. I thought I’d let you know in advance, that’s all. Just in case.”
“Just in case Russia hits me and I can’t hit back.”
“He’d go after Berlin first. Probably.”
“Don’t know if I should be grateful or offended,” Turkey says, scratches the side of his nose.
“Don’t be anything just yet. Wait, okay? I’m waiting, too.”
Turkey hauls himself up out of the chair, rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck. “Problem is, Russia’s a shitton better at waiting than you are.”
***
“Call it what you like,” China says. It is capitulation, and he will call it by its true name even if Russia will not.
“We shall both make steps towards peace,” Russia says, extends his arms as though he wants to enfold China in them. China steps back before he has the chance to, and though Russia hardly shrinks, some small part of him seems to collapse in on itself, so that his arms waver as he lowers them.
“America,” China says, “will give you nothing.”
“He has indicated he will be removing the missiles from Turkey.”
China’s lip curls. “He said this publicly?”
“Privately, but it is still his word.” Russia’s smile remains fixed, though the corners of his eyes droop. Inwardly, China sighs. Let him pout; it doesn’t alter the truth of the matter.
“You believe him.” You must never trust the words of a capitalist, Russia said to him once, not so long ago, for they care only for profit, not for truth. And what, then, does Russia care for?
“I know he will do what he promises, China.”
“How?” China asks him; he doesn’t raise his voice, but lowers it instead to a near hiss.
“I have a good many friends.” Russia broadens his smile. “And we will both accomplish what we have meant to, yes? You will stop India’s forward policy in the mountains; I will stop America’s designs on Cuba.”
“Yes,” China says, his lips drawing thin. India is not cooperative yet, but India will listen, and China will have the borders placed where it is right for them to be. The contrast is clear enough; China hardly needs to draw further attention to it. Overstatement is ultimately unflattering. Such has it always been, though there are times when China must look at his own posters and books and rallies and wonder…
“And no one will have died,” Russia continues. “I think that is almost a victory.”
So this is what Russia’s ambitions have come to.
“Withdrawal is no victory,” China says.
Russia’s smile falters, then fades. He toys with the ends of his scarf, fiddles with the loose threads on its fringe, and the gesture is far too young for him. China has no patience with it. “I will keep Cuba safe.”
“America will not be weakened.”
“America will not invade Cuba.” Russia reaches for China again, to stroke his hair, but China turns to the side and Russia’s hand hovers by him, suspended, until he lowers it. He blinks slowly, as though he’s surprised that he doesn’t hold China in his grasp now. He should not be.
The riot of red on the walls makes China’s blood quicken, so he looks out the window instead. The Red Square is, at least, a different color. “He will give his word?”
“He will make a pledge, China. A formal one.”
More words, more assurances, more rhetoric. China has attempted to subside on them for long enough, and they have left him hungry. “That,” China says, and clutches the windowsill until the color drains from his knuckles, “has never stopped any of you.”
“I see,” Russia says. If there’s warmth in his voice, the heaviness in his tone suffocates it. “I should, I think, see to my people.”
“That would be wise.”
“They will have been frightened. I shall comfort them.”
China does not dispute either, now. “Yes.”
“I wish you luck with India.”
He almost bows in farewell, before he remembers that the gesture’s proscribed; still, no matter how sharp his salute, there’s a certain inflection it lacks. “Your words are appreciated.”
***
“You’re a devil to get a hold of, you know that?”
“I have been told as much.”
“Yeah. So. These missiles have to go.”
“I have said that I will remove them, America.”
“I know what you’ve said. Will you do it?”
“I have, I think, made my conditions clear.”
“And I replied.”
“I am receiving it as we speak.”
“Good. Nothing lost in translation?”
“I do not think so, no.”
“…so.”
“I am thinking of what to say.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“There are a good many things to think about, yes?”
“Don’t take too long. I need to know by tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow, you say.”
“I do. Hard deadline.”
“You make your argument very forcefully.”
“Thanks.”
“…it is-interesting, shall we say? Yes. Interesting. Very interesting, this letter you are sending me. You speak of Cuba, but say nothing of Turkey. Has that part not been sent?”
“I’m sending it now. That’s why I called.”
“I see.”
“I’ve been thinking about the Jupiters for a while now, you know.”
“Ah, have you now.”
“Yeah. I’ve been thinking-it’s not right to leave an ally in danger.”
“It is not very heroic.”
“No. So I’ve been thinking-for a while-that I’d move the missiles out once this all settled down. Take them back home. They’re safer there, Turkey’s safer with them there, everyone wins.”
“So it would seem.”
“But this has to settle down first. Tell your boss that.”
“Of course. This could not be included in the letter?”
“Well, it’s different. The letter’s what my boss is offering.”
“…I see.”
“Good.”
“So I’ll hear from you tomorrow?”
“I expect that you will.”
“Okay. I’ll be waiting.”
“Many people will be, America.”
***
They have not rebroadcast Russia’s boss’s speech over the radio, but they do not need to, for every station Russia turns to discusses it and America’s response, and celebrates the blow to American imperialism that has just been dealt, applauds the steadfast courage of their brothers in Cuba and paints pictures of American ships sailing home in disgrace. They talk about these things very loudly, so loudly that Russia winces to hear them, at first.
He turns down the volume of his radio and pours himself a drink, a very small one. Perhaps he should invite Lithuania to join him, or Latvia and Estonia, or East Germany, or even his sisters? He strokes his phone slowly, runs his fingers over the bridge connecting earpiece and mouthpiece. He could also call Cuba to congratulate him, though he cannot invite Cuba to join him yet; America will not lift the quarantine for a while longer. And he should ask Cuba if he is truly as displeased as he seems, for when Russia called him earlier to tell him the news, Cuba shouted so loudly into the phone that Russia feared the speakers would be damaged. The crisis is over, and Cuba is whole, and Cuba is safe, because Russia made the best decision for Cuba that he could. What is displeasing about that? Russia shakes his head.
But there is no war, not today, and that is for the best. And there are many Nations he can call on, now, and surely they must also want to celebrate that.
There should be a celebration, yes? Even if it is not a big one. Russia has not had a truly grand party in, oh, years-his Party is not quite the same thing. It is a good little joke, and Russia smiles to himself. Well, perhaps now is not the time for celebration, for there is still work to be done. He and America have that hotline to establish, and of course they will need to meet at the United Nations and hammer out the finer points of their little arrangement. When America will lift his quarantine, and when Russia will remove his missiles, though both things will be done, Russia is sure of that. And afterwards-
Ah, there is always something to be done afterwards. Perhaps that is why Russia so rarely celebrates now; his work will not be finished for a very long time. His glass is empty again-there, Russia has it, he will celebrate by pouring himself another. The drink sears his throat going down, and for a moment he can imagine flames pooling in his stomach.
Yes, he decides, he will call the others and gather them to him. And he will be the most gracious of hosts when they arrive. He would not want them to be alone on a night such as this, in a world such as this.
---
--
In October 1962, President John F. Kennedy announced to the world that the Soviet Union had placed ballistic missiles in Cuba, a fact he’d been notified of a week before. America placed a naval quarantine around Cuba and prepared to destroy the missile sites with military force, if necessary; the Soviet Union seemed poised to reject America’s demands, and threatened that if America took military action, they’d retaliate in kind. Six days after the announcement, just before all hope of a diplomatic resolution to the crisis gave out, Kennedy and Khrushchev reached an agreement: the Soviet Union would remove the missiles in exchange for America lifting the quarantine and pledging not to invade Cuba. To date, the Cuban Missile Crisis is the closest the world has come to nuclear war. Check out this site for more information.
International reactions to the crisis varied, and I’ve done my best to display them based on the overall diplomatic and popular stances documented in each country during the time of the crisis. (Poland really did downplay it to avoid bread riots; Germany was relieved that America seemed to be taking up the offensive in the Cold War). I’ve taken most of the material about Russia and China’s cooling marital relations, and the bits about the Sino-Indian War from The Sino-Soviet Split by Lorenz M. Luthi, which is probably the best documentation of the Split published in English.
>>Running Out of Alibis: The Mix<<
(Note that these songs aren't so much a soundtrack to the fic as they are a compliation of the stuff I kept listening to while writing it. If you all like this kind of thing, I might do it in the future for other things I write, because music DOES influence me.)
Track List:
Placebo - The Bitter End
The Dandy Warhols - Everyone is Totally Insane
RJD2 - 1976
The White Stripes - My Doorbell
Gorillaz - Dare
Dream Theater - Pull Me Under
Thomas Borchert - Hell to Your Doorstep
.