Pacing around the room, arms crossed below his chest, the man struggles to hear everything going on in the tightly packed room around him. The long table that is the centerpiece to the room is surrounded by more than a dozen men, some talking to each other, more than one trying to talk to everyone at once. Stacks of papers are piled all across the table, pens strewn about like driftwood on the lakeshore. Even in all the noise, he can still follow most of the conversations, a gift or a curse depending on how he felt at the moment.
“…our action might undermine our alliance. On September the 4th you said: “There is no evidence of any organized combat force”…”
The man looks up as his recent words, words that have haunted his dreams, are tossed carelessly about. Pausing at the fireplace, he absentmindedly toys with the model of a ship, one of several in the room.
“…these plans are based on one very important assumption: that we would attack with conventional weapons against an enemy who is not equipped with nuclear weapons. If there is any possibility the enemy is equipped with operational nuclear weapons…very limited air strikes against very limited targets would be quite inconclusive…”
Leaning over the back of a chair, the consequences of these actions sink in, weighing heavily on his soul. He starts pacing again almost immediately, hoping the slight physical effort will provide some distraction.
“…argument against the blockade, is that it’s a very slow death. It builds up over a period of months and during that period of time you get all these people yelling and screaming…”
This prompts an immediate response from the man to the room. “A blockade wouldn’t be sufficient, he could go on developing the things he’s got there. And we don’t know how much he’s got there.”
Silence engulfs the room. Pensive stares grow from each person’s eyes, passing slowly across the faces of the others seated at the table. They all know the truth of this statement, and the finality of the results.
“…a strike, without preliminary discussion…”
Disastrous, the man thinks. There can’t be any good way to manage this, but deep down he still feels as if diplomacy should be explored more. It’s in his nature.
“…I think that the price is going to be high. It may still be worth paying to eliminate the missiles. But I think we must assume it is going to be high…”
Deep in conversation, his brother looks up and gives him a sympathetic glance, knowing that the decisions made at this table tonight have the potential to change the face of the world. Continuing on his trip around the room, the man answers questions, asks his own, and struggles with putting it all together. As if timed for just that moment, the room falls silent as he stops at the head of the table. All eyes turn on him, expectantly. The only noise in the room is the hum of the air conditioner and, probably imagined, the clicking of the reels from the tape recorder only two men knew to be running.
“Gentlemen,” he says. “Legally the only way we can proceed with any of these actions is with a declaration of war. Our allies will not stand for it otherwise. Therefore I find that I must agree with the Joint Chiefs of Staff and push for a full-scale invasion of Cuba and the overthrow of Castro. May God have mercy on my soul.”