Author: Jed Mercurio
Category: Other
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Tonight they dine alone, hardly discussing the speech or the situation, because he’s told her most of it already, and instead they talk about the children and forthcoming engagements. But his anxieties continue unspoken, which she comforts with a hand on his or a brush of his cheek.
After dessert (hers—none for him, on doctors’ orders), she declines a coffee, because she wants an early night. As she stands, she holds her swollen belly, and then they cross the sitting hall to their bedroom.
The President sent the Soviet Premier a copy of the television address via the embassy, Mr. Khrushchev’s reply being cabled to the White House the next day, and the President studies the translation in the Oval Office with his aides.
Dear President Kennedy,
Just imagine, Mr. President, that we had presented you with the conditions of an ultimatum which you have presented us by your action. How would you have reacted to this? I think that you would have been indignant at such a step on our part. You are threatening that if we do not give in to your demands you will use force. No, Mr. President, I cannot agree to this, and I think that in your own heart you recognize that I am correct. I am convinced that in my place you would act the same way.
The Soviet Government considers that the violation of the freedom to use International waters and International air space is an act of aggression which pushes mankind toward the abyss of a world nuclear-missile war. Therefore, the Soviet Government cannot instruct the captains of Soviet vessels bound for Cuba to observe the orders of American naval forces blockading that island. Our instructions to Soviet mariners are to observe strictly the universally accepted norms of navigation in International waters and not to retreat one step from them. And if the American side violates these rules, it must realize what responsibility will rest upon it in that case. Naturally we will not simply be bystanders with regard to piratical acts by American ships on the high seas. We will then be forced on our part to take the measures we consider necessary and adequate in order to protect our rights. We have everything necessary to do so.
Nikita S. Khrushchev
Naturally the Soviet Premier’s response does not cause the President to waver, and the Navy proceeds as ordered to establish a quarantine zone around Cuba, under instruction to intercept and inspect any inbound traffic and to turn back those bearing offensive weapons. In Washington, the President waits for the first encounter between one of our warships and a Soviet vessel, a situation already grimly anticipated by the Ex-Comm, whereby everyone shares the fear that the Soviets would resist being boarded and there would ensue an armed exchange between the two vessels involved, which either side could consider an act of war, and thereafter the two great powers of the planet would pursue a course of apocalyptic escalation.
As he swims that noon, he considers the millions who will perish, and those who’ll never grow up, among them his own children.
The Defense Secretary has arranged a meeting in the Fish Room with the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs and the Air Force Chief of Staff, which the President attends in the afternoon. Between the two Generals sits a man in his late twenties who never meets the President’s eyes even when they shake hands. The Air Force Chief of Staff says, “Our boy John is the best brain we’ve got on nuclear exchange.”
“Game theory,” says the Chairman.
“Explain to the President, John,” says the Air Force Chief of Staff, and John says, “Mr. President, Game Theory attempts to analyze behavior in strategic situations, where an individual’s performance in decision-making depends on the actions of others, such as nuclear war between the United States and the Soviet Union, in which event game theory can help decide the validity of a first strike, second strike and so on. For the purpose of my own analysis, Mr. President, I’ve assumed nuclear war is a zero-sum game.”
“Meaning what, exactly?”
“Meaning, Mr. President, that our success must be at the expense of our enemy, or vice versa, since the two sides can’t both win a nuclear war.”
“We can both lose one,” the President says.
“Not this way, Mr. President,” says the Air Force Chief of Staff. “Tell him, John.”
“Certainly, General. Mr. President, in peacetime, the most mutually successful strategy is cooperation, in which neither side launches a strike, and both survive. However, in war, the most effective game-theoretic model at our disposal is Hawk-Dove, the game informally known as Chicken, and in this case the most mutually beneficial course is an anti-coordination matrix in which the players choose different strategies. In anti-coordination games, the resource—in this case the world—is rivalrous but nonexcludable and sharing comes at a cost, or negative externality. In Chicken, the cost of swerving is to lose the game, but appears preferable to the crash which occurs if neither player swerves; however, in nuclear war, the cost of swerving may be national extinction, a consequence approximately equal to an Internecine full exchange. An unstable situation exists with more than one equilibrium. The evolutionary stable strategy for Chicken is a mixed strategy, that is random polarization between playing Hawk or Dove—in short, unpredictability. The scenario of nuclear war resembles Chicken on a game-theoretic level because it would appear that a rational person would swerve to avoid collision, but a mixed strategy must of necessity include the option not to swerve, that is, to crash, or else the opponent will always win. However, although the evolutionary stable scenario for Chicken is this mixed strategy, I have calculated a superior strategy that I call Daring with Probability. If one side is prepared to engage in a preemptive strike, the probability is that the enemy will suffer enormous losses to its retaliatory capability, as a consequence of loss of population, destruction of infrastructure, electromagnetic pulse and so forth. I have calculated that the probability of victory for the side which executes a preemptive strike is eighty-five to ninety per cent.”
“There it is, Mr. President!” says the Air Force Chief of Staff.
“There’s what, General?”
“Well, what else, Mr. President?—the argument for striking first, before the Soviets do.”
“My worry, Mr. President,” says the Defense Secretary, “is the Soviets may already be thinking along the same lines.”
“They don’t have the math we have!” says the Air Force Chief of Staff, and pats John on the back.
“Gentlemen,” says the President, “our national game is baseball. I believe theirs is chess.”
“But this is the clincher, Mr. President,” says the Air Force Chief of Staff.
“And what would that ‘clincher’ be, General?”
“Why, Mr. President, mathematical proof, of course!”
The President thanks them and dismisses them. The next day, his aides announce that the Cuban missiles appear to have become operational. The President spends a half-hour in the head, having overdosed on Lomotil to control his diarrhea, precipitating rebound constipation. He feels bloated enough to explode.
He sits over the pan studying the Game Theorist’s calculations of the end of the world based on some obscure rules of probability. Next the President reads another report in which physicists have been polled to predict the weapons used in the Third World War, to which one responds that he doesn’t know, but he can be sure in the Fourth we’ll use stones.
That night, his wife and children sleep, but he doesn’t. He stays up in the Oval Office discussing strategy. By dawn he suffers a nagging headache and it is only then, having been so absorbed in the crisis of Cuba Two, that he counts the days.
The President takes a couple of aspirin to kill the headache, but they don’t touch it and have the side effect of inflaming his peptic ulcers so that, when he finally manages to squeeze out a motion after breakfast, it’s black with digested blood.
In desperation, the President orders the Beard to borrow one of the secretaries’ swimming costumes so the Intern can join him in the pool.
She’s nervous as the Beard ushers her from the changing room, but the President beckons f
rom the water, and she descends the ladder.
“It’s so warm, Mr. President,” she says.
“Some like it hot,” he says.
“No, sir, I— It’s pleasant. Only I expected to feel cold.”
“It’s a good way to start the day, don’t you think?”
“Yes, sir, thank you, Mr. President.”
“Let’s swim,” he says, waving to the Beard so he lays out some towels before disappearing discreetly.
The President and the Intern go a couple of laps and then at the edge she stands up to sweep her wet hair off her face.
“So how are you enjoying the White House?” he says.
“It’s such a wonderful opportunity for me. I’m so deeply grateful, Mr. President.”
He feels blood pounding in his head and a throb prodding his temples, and he looks at this girl whom another man might be nervous of corrupting, but a philanderer must seize women as empires seize countries. He closes on an intercept course with clear intention to board, when the Beard returns at a trot.
“I’m very sorry, sir, but there’s an urgent call from the Department of Defense.”
He says, “Convene the Ex-Comm,” and leaves at once. The Intern remains in the pool, disconcerted, but the Beard will arrange for her to go back up to the West Wing, while the President towels off quickly and dresses, helped into his back brace by his valet, and then he hurries up to the Cabinet Room, where they tell him that Soviet troops are moving on Berlin.
“They’re on a war footing,” says the Secretary of Defense. “If we hit Cuba, they’ll take Berlin.”
Later the President finds out that, as soon as he heard the news, the Chief of Staff moved the Air Force to DEFCON 2 for the first time in its history. Missiles and bombers were put on high alert without the President’s knowledge from a decision made by generals bunkered underground in Omaha. In a flux of fear and fury, the President telephones the Defense Secretary and orders him to make it plain to the military commanders that only the President has the right to declare war, no matter how eager they are to start one, but he knows they’ve gone behind his back because some of them think he lacks the balls for this job; they believe it takes courage to ordain death and destruction.
During the President’s final meeting of the day, Adm. B. sits outside in the hall with the men coveting the Football, and, when the presidential advisors disperse in the early hours, the Admiral carries out a short physical to assess his patient’s heart and blood pressure, etc., during which the President expounds his various dyspeptic symptoms, and then the Admiral administers some painkillers and muscle relaxants and hormone replacements.
“We need you in shape for war, sir,” he says before he goes. The President goes to his wife and children in their quarters, finding them all sound asleep. He kisses them and then retires to the Lincoln Bedroom, where the Beard has prepared a late supper of cheese sandwiches, which the President eats with an extra dose of aspirin to fight his headache. Mary got back to town tonight, at last, and the President, virtually blinded by a migraine, has ordered the Beard to escort her to the White House.
“Are the First Lady and the children going out of town early this week?” the Beard asked.
“No, they’re here.” “But …”
“I know, Dave.”
“You want me to bring Mrs. Meyer to the Residence?”
“I do, Dave,” the President said.
“Aye, aye, skipper,” said the Beard.
Despite his crisis, the President is still thinking with the clarity of a practiced philanderer. He does not call his wife via the internal switchboard and, say, inform her he’s going to take a nap in the Lincoln Bedroom before the next session of the Ex-Comm. Instead he strolls through the East Sitting Hall calm in the knowledge the family bedrooms lie at the far end of the Residence, interconnecting with the West Hall, and if his wife happens to see him, he will wave and call “Hi” but vanish through the door without further explanation.
An agent mans the entrance, with orders that the President is not to be disturbed. The Beard appears a few minutes later and, having confirmed the coast is clear, slips Mary into the room.
“My God, Jack,” she says, seeing the President prostrate on the bed, but he doesn’t want to explain the problem, only for her to cure it.
Afterward she smokes, and they talk. He ought to worry about his wife at the end of the hall, in case she comes looking, but he’s in such a state of blissful torpor he won’t even need sleeping pills tonight.
“It was a hell of a risk,” Mary says.
He says, “Sex is rivalrous but nonexcludable.”
She dresses in the window, gazing out across the capital. “I keep fearing I’ll see rockets,” she says.
“I hope my phone would ring first,” he says.
“Is it inevitable, one day?” she says.
“Everything ends,” he says.
“Well,” she says, “if the world’s got to end, this is the way to go.”
She smiles her ethereal smile, but she knows he wouldn’t be with her then; he’d be with the woman along the hall, their children huddled in their arms.
When she goes, he slumps into sleep. One of the conditions of the defense alert is that nearly two hundred bombers stay airborne constantly, flying a course toward the Soviet Union loaded with thermonuclear bombs—to allow our forces a second-strike capability, so we can still inflict an apocalyptic retaliatory blow even if the homeland has already been obliterated—and those bombers keep on flying till they receive an order to come home, or else they will press on and deliver their holocaust to Soviet cities. But when the Defense Secretary asked the President if he wanted to ground the bombers, he ordered them to stay up, so his Soviet counterpart will know, whatever the mathematics of a preemptive strike, he’ll burn in hell just the same, though, as the room goes dark, the President wonders if he too sees those bombers crossing the sky like a thousand metal crosses on the grave of each million dead.
Loud knocking wakes the President. Initially disorientated, he can’t remember if Mary is still here. “I want to see my husband,” he hears the First Lady demanding, and the door swings open. The Beard peers in fearfully while the agent adopts a gaze neutral to the President’s fate if his wife catches him cheating.
“Jack, I was worried,” she says, her eyes scanning the room.
“I needed a nap,” he says, rapidly becoming wakeful, seeing his date has vanished without a trace.
“I was worried,” his wife repeats, and he forces a smile, thankful color never drains from his pathologically tanned face.
THE LETTERS
Soviet vessels approach our warships. The moment of collision will inevitably arrive, unless one or the other decides to swerve. The arcane ramblings of game theory spin through the President’s mind as he descends to the basement under the West Wing of the White House, where military and intelligence staff have assembled in the wood-paneled Situation Room to co-ordinate naval action. They stand as the President arrives and he orders them to continue at their posts, and, while he takes his seat, he imagines his counterpart in some bunker under the Kremlin confronting the same terror. The President must imagine him to be sane, if only so that he may make sane decisions himself, for if the Premier is a madman, then we’re all doomed.
This morning, the President read further reports commending the advantage of a preemptive nuclear strike against Cuba and the Soviet Union simultaneously, and he wonders if Mr. Khrushchev is receiving identical counsel from his generals, men in the autumn of life who no longer dread death.
The Chief of Naval Operations reports, “Some of the Soviet traffic has slowed down or changed course, Mr. President, but some shipping continues to sail toward the quarantine, and, in accordance with our rules of engagement, the Essex and the Gearing are now under orders to intercept.”
The President keeps silent as he observes the encounter unfold through the R/T of the naval commanders, in which with each passing minute they report r
anges closing, until the point nears where the Gearing and the Essex position to fire upon the Soviet vessel. He stands to stretch his back, pacing the room. This time, none of the officers stand in deference.
The Chief of Naval Operations says, “Perhaps you’d be more comfortable upstairs, Mr. President,” but the President shakes his head and retakes his seat, to the CNO’s evident chagrin.
A few moments later, the President hears a naval officer report that both our ships are in visual contact with the Soviet vessel and awaiting orders to inspect it. The Chief of Naval Operations is about to give the order.
“Wait, would you, Fleet Admiral?” says the President.
“Mr. President?”
“Wait.”
The Chief of Naval Operations glares.
“Ask the Soviet ship to identify itself,” the President says.
“Mr.—”
“Ask it, Fleet Admiral.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
The message passes to the ships, who in turn challenge the Soviet vessel. The Soviet Premier, if he is not a madman, if he is a man who values life as the President does, will have ensured his captains are under orders to respect the quarantine insofar as the etiquette of the high seas. While interception and boarding remain a different matter, there is no loss of national prestige involved in a vessel identifying itself.
The President’s fingers drum on the armrest of his chair. His teeth grind. He feels a lurch in his gut that would ordinarily send him scurrying to the head but now, in this crisis, he endures the spasm that pulls taut lines on his brow. He has endured days of stomach pains and Spartan meals and feels ready to faint, but it passes, and one of the officers relays the message: “It’s the Bucharest.”
“A tanker,” says the Chief of Naval Operations. “Mr. President, we must act with decisive force. I shall order our ships to board and search the Bucharest, and, if they are met with resistance, to respond accordingly.”