The Dangers of Blind Obedience

by Tommy R.

I walk through the busy Pentagon corridor, holding my Folgers coffee and New England Patriots sweatshirt, starting another day being an assistant to the Secretary of Defense, Robert McNamara. I hear the television in the background reporting a scandal involving some Haitian pirates who drove their motorboats into Cuba and took several important people as captives. The story switches to two men who mysteriously died at their jobs, and a third taken to jail, after being discovered to be Soviet spies. This is followed by an advertisement promoting Lucky Strike cigarettes. My co-workers Jason Lynn, Johan Andersson, and Douglas Monroe call me over to their table, but I refuse. I have many urgent documents to look at, as the crisis in Cuba escalates. The Soviets have now placed nuclear missiles in Cuba, provoking hostilities with the United States. As I sit down and throw away my coffee cup, I suddenly hear a twangy Texas accent pluck away at my ears. “Lucius Edwards! Your boss wants to see you!”

The Pentagon, Arlington, Virginia

I rush out of my office and wave my left hand at the short secretary who called my name. Only I can’t raise my hand. I can’t even feel it. I lose my balance and stumble into the bathroom. My chest feels as if I’ve been punched by the boxer Carlos Ortiz, and the colors blur together on the ceiling. And then it all goes black.

As I hear yelling fade, my college memories from NYU flash before my eyes. My friend and co-worker Johan Andersson comes into my vision. “Lucius Edwards, welcome to the NYU Communists. For the Soviet Union!” He steps on a copy of the Bible, reflecting his atheist ways. Then that memory fades away. I see myself in a leather chair, recovering from the lung cancer I had after college, reading about Lenin and Karl Marx. I only became stronger in my devotion to communism after reading their works. That fades, and I see a day almost fifteen years ago, when I agreed to become a spy for the Soviet Union. As the tensions rose in this Cold War, I felt it best to side with my ideology, rather than my country. Soon, that room in Moscow with my employer, Aleksandr Romanov, begins to melt, and I wake up.

I see a fuzzy hospital room, gaining clarity as my eyes open. I am wearing a light green medical garment. My head throbs where it hit the ground in the men’s bathroom at the Pentagon. A doctor comes up to me with a smile on his face, looking on me with pity. “Well, Mr. Edwards, you’ve had a minor heart episode.” He hands me a bottle of opaque yellow pills. “Take three of these a day. If you experience tremors in your hands or blindness, stop taking this medicine, and come into my office. These symptoms may become permanent.” His voice drops to a whisper. “Take this letter. We must continue to bring missiles into Cuba at any cost. For the Soviet Union, for the Motherland.” He puts on his pitiful smile again and leaves the room, saying goodbye.

My co-worker Jason Lynn comes into the room, with a confused expression on his face. “What did that doctor say? I thought I heard him say something about the Soviet Union.”

I stumble for an answer. Ultimately, I throw out a poor excuse. “No, he didn’t.” I grab my clothes, gently folded by some nurse, and go into the bathroom to change.

After walking out of the sordid bathroom, now fully changed, I find my co-worker Johan Andersson outside, smoking a cigar. Johan never smokes. “Why the cigar?” I ask.

Johan replies, “I’m stressed; all this Cuba business has me on the edge of my seat. I guess I gave in. I also haven’t felt well for a while, and I keep getting worse.” His voice falls to a whisper: “Have you received the mission from Romanov? I gave you that doctor for a reason. But I feel disgusting. I started smoking about three days ago, and ever since then, I keep seeing this FBI person… Here is what you must do… You must…”

Halfway through his sentence, Johan stops and exclaims in pain. He stumbles into the bathroom door as I yell for help. I turn around, and a surly FBI agent stands at the door to my hospital room, smugly smiling at me. We make eye contact for a split second, and I know he murdered my friend. Johan falls into a reddish-brown puddle on the bathroom floor, and three flies fly from that disgusting mess and orbit his head. I haul his body, unsure of whether or not he is alive, into the emergency room, and place him onto an empty cot. The doctor I met earlier, along with two nurses, surround him with tubes and sensors. He has no pulse. After two shocks with a defibrillator, the doctor marks the time, and dismisses the two nurses. I check to look for the FBI agent, who is gone. I run to pick up Johan’s extinguished cigar. In the tobacco, I see a sprinkling of a white powder. I show it to the doctor. He inquires, “How long has this man been smoking?”

“Three days,” I reply.

“This man was poisoned with ricin. They are on to you. Stay low.” Then the loudest silence follows as I look at the body of my poisoned comrade.

After taking a sick day to recover from my heart episode and the murder of Johan, I review the letter from the doctor. Inside, there are instructions as to what I must do:

Lucius Edwards, I have enclosed a phone number for a group of Haitian pirates. I know your skills at negotiation will aid our nation. You must bring the nuclear warheads I have loaded through the American blockade. The small speedboat I have loaded them on will not be detected by the capitalist pigs. This operation is to be known as operation Tropical Vacation.

Your employer, Aleksandr Romanov

I pick up my phone, and call the number. I tell myself to act naturally. A man with a thick accent comes on the other line. “Alec Duboe. I am the leader of those pirates you have no doubt heard of. How may I help you?”

I respond: “Alec, I need to get some missiles into Cuba. I represent the Soviet Union. You must help.”

I hear a chortle on the other side of the line. “You will have to pay me much money. My men look for wealth and now grow restless. I normally refuse to do large-scale operations with you commies, but some loose change might help persuade me. Those men I kidnapped in Cuba -- they were your kind. Only if you offer a great price will I participate in your little adventure, and maybe release these communist captives.”

I take hold of the conversation. I try to channel my intense rage and not scream, but the way he insulted my Motherland causes me to lash out. “I represent the interests of the most powerful nation on the planet! There is no time for you to play this game with me. These missiles will be in Cuba tomorrow. You were foolish to tell me of the captives. We have a grand navy, and you have ten speedboats! Cease this insolence! Deliver these missiles immediately and release the captives, or your operation crumbles under the boot of the Soviet Union!”

He caves into his fear, and agrees to bring the missiles into Cuba. I sigh with relief, not having to hear that man spit those words that insult me and my nation. Tomorrow, the missiles will be on Cuban soil. I have changed the course of history. A pale, dark grin makes its way onto my face as the red light above surrounds me, like a cloak.

Two days later, I am at my office, and the phone rings. I shudder, as I believe the Haitian pirates are calling. My fears are confirmed, and my sharp fingernails dig through the limestone desk in front of me. I can feel my eyes becoming red with fury.

Alec Duboe speaks first. “You may have thought you had the upper hand. But you will now play on my rules for my services. You will never find us. The captives are dead. And your foolish leader gave us nuclear warheads! You are a disgrace to your people and country, you fatuous commie!”

I cannot stand this man, who insults my very being, and steals what belongs to my country! I once more lash out at him: “No -- listen! I am not playing your game, but you are playing mine! Turn around and bring those missiles into Cuba! To save yourselves, you will help the Soviet Union, or--” I stop myself as I realize what I yelled, but comfort myself, because nobody besides Duboe was listening. My co-workers each have their heads dug into whatever random task they have been assigned. Meanwhile, I slam the phone so hard into the phone hook that the plastic shelling breaks, and I can see wire. I transfer my anger into my hand, and clench my fist so tightly my nails cut into my palm and blood leaks out.

Suddenly, I freeze in horror. On the ground is a small, brown box, no bigger than a golf ball -- which I know is a bug. I see Jason Lynn through my window into the hallway. He is speaking with visible urgency in his voice, to large men with attack rifles and “FBI” written on their bulletproof vests. I stomp on the no longer covert listening device, and run to my car. Jason and I briefly make eye-contact, and his expression cuts my soul in two. I have never been faster than Jason, but now he falls back, spitting curses and insults at me between gasps. The clatter and clang of falling office supplies produces a noise so loud that the hallway trembles beneath my feet. I see the door, and I almost burst out. In front of me stands the FBI agent I saw at Johan’s murder. He wears the same smug smile I saw at the hospital. I cut him into pieces with my expression. Jason and his men stand behind me, but this man in front of me has a heavy machine gun pointed at my forehead, now covered in sweat. My hands find their way behind my head, and my knees fall to the floor. This moment is a great loss for communism and the Soviet Union.

With a large gun held to the back of my head, I am forced into one of the FBI cars. The FBI agent who killed my friend sits in the driver’s seat, and I watch as the crowd of angry capitalists fades away behind me. He begins talking, saying, “Your ‘employer,’ Aleksandr Romanov, is a traitor to the Soviet Union. You, Johan, and many more Soviet moles worked under him. Operation Tropical Vacation was just a ruse to start the next world war. You were always able to convince others to communism. We have very powerful partners, who control a great deal of weaponry. We have agreed to split the profits that would come from the arms in the event of another world war. Each mole had a specific task to complete in order to start the war. You had the last task, but you failed it. We had to kill each mole, as they became loose ends could destroy our whole operation. If you had achieved success, you would have found some ricin in your precious Folgers. You were dead from the start, and I lost fifteen million dollars because of you!”

His hands bang against the dashboard repeatedly. I sit, locked in the back of the FBI car, realizing my life and my devotion to the Soviet cause has been a great lie. Johan, and all the other Soviet moles, died for nothing. I eventually cease paying attention to my own thoughts as I watch as the sky’s grey hue steadily making room for one of bright blue. We drive for many hours, and I am locked in a combination of fear and hate. I look at my cut palm, still stinging. Most of my right hand is caked in a thin, red layer, cracking when I touch it. I barely notice when the car pulls to a stop, next to an obvious maximum-security prison. A few drops of rain still manage to hit me in the head. The false FBI agent shoves me over to a guard, who in turn kicks me into a cell with a uniform, and locks me in.

A small light hangs in the center of the cell, flickering on and off. A crack in the roof drips water onto the hard, cement flooring. I stumble over to my bed and fall asleep, looking out the window. An obviously broken security camera hangs in the upper-right corner of the room. That fact alone tells me I will soon die in this disgusting cell -- nobody can see my murder. A small tear navigates its way down my cheek. Blind faith killed me. I listened to a greedy traitor. I loved my true country so much, I did not think twice about what I had led myself into, all those years ago. How was I unable to see the ruse? I ultimately find myself asking useless questions until my eyes shut, and I fall asleep.

I wake up in a cold sweat for the fifth time that night, seeing a starry sky through the barred window. Finding it hard to go to sleep now, I look for something to do, to take my mind off my imprisonment. I can reach the broken security camera from my bed, and inside is a piece of paper, covered in wire and cobwebs. I unfold it, and in scrawled writing, I read,

Traitors involved in intentionally provoking hostilities between the Soviet Union and the United States for money: Soviet spy leader Aleksandr Romanov, FBI agent Carl Mixton. . . . .

There are eight more names on the list, but they are not familiar to me. Through my barred window, I throw the hidden list into the artificial grass-covered courtyard. I hope that someone will find this list.  My mind returns to why I am here. Through my time of thought tonight, I have realized that communism and democracy may come and go, but the greed of humanity will always remain. I then hear a small beeping noise go off, and my door opens. I leap out of my bed, into the wet puddle on the ground. A guard comes into my room and sits on the plastic chair in the corner as the door grinds to a close. “Lucius Edwards. I admired your devotion to your communist country. It is a shame that you never worked for the true Soviet Union. You have the power to destroy the reputation of Aleksandr and his allies.”

I am handed a brown pill coated in rubber. My assassin wears an expression of pity. “Lucius, bite down on the pill. Otherwise you will be put to death by torture, and my people cannot risk the huge security leak that would come if you were to crack under pressure. This is a cruel kindness Aleksandr gives his most devoted agent in the field.”

My hands tremble, and I have a hard time even holding the pill, but my grip soon steadies. I take the round pill and crush it with my teeth. Foam streams from my mouth as the colors blur together on the ceiling. And then it all goes red.

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