Thirteen Days Page #5

BOBBY:

It'll be the principals, a couple of the

key guys from each department: the

Executive Committee of the National

Security Council. We'll call it EXCOM.

Kenny snorts a laugh. Bobby shoots him a cross look.

KENNY:

EXCOM. Has a ring to it. Like F-Troop.

The President stops. Bobby and Kenny stop, too.

THE PRESIDENT:

Okay. Kenny and I only show for the

meetings you call us into. Impress us.

And do it fast.

(to Kenny)

You're in charge of keeping this quiet.

If word gets out before we know what

we're going to do, there'll be panic.

And it'll ruin any chance of surprise if

we decide to hit them.

KENNY:

Then we need to do a few things right

away. No Pierre. He knows, the press

knows.

You're going to have to keep up your

schedule - your movements are followed

too closely. And we need to get these

guys out of the White House. George

Ball's got a conference room at State.

(to Bobby)

Reconvene over there this afternoon,

come back here tonight.

Bobby nods.

BOBBY:

I think we should bring in Dean Acheson.

He was fighting Soviets while we were

still working the wards in Boston.

The President nods his approval. Looks at Kenny.

THE PRESIDENT:

Find him, Kenny. We're going to need

all the help we can get.

INT. WEST WING - HALL OUTSIDE PRESS OFFICE - DAY

Kenny moves hard and fast through the twisting warren of

hallways and tiny offices which is the West Wing. Suddenly,

Scotty Reston pops out of a doorway behind Kenny.

RESTON:

Hey, Kenny! Who died?

Kenny glances over his shoulder at Scotty who points to a

window. A beat, then Kenny returns to look out the window.

Outside, the West Wing Drive is FILLED WITH LIMOUSINES.

A flash of dismay, but Kenny covers fast.

KENNY:

Way it's going, the Democratic Party.

DNC strategy session. If you can call

it that.

Scotty chuckles. Kenny moves off, leading him away. Kenny's

assistant runs up behind him, holding out a slip of paper.

ASSISTANT:

Sir?

Kenny tries to look him away.

RESTON:

It's Tuesday. You said to call. When

do I get my 45 minutes?

KENNY:

Tell you what. We're in Connecticut

tomorrow for Ribicoff. I'll get you up

front with him during the flight.

RESTON:

Deal.

ASSISTANT:

Sir.

Kenny turns, harsh

KENNY:

What is it?

The Assistant eyes Scotty, holds his tongue. Kenny takes the

slips.

ASSISTANT:

The number you asked for.

KENNY:

I ask for a lot of 'em. Whose is it?

ASSISTANT:

Dean Acheson's, sir.

That shuts Kenny up. Reston eyes the slip, then looks to

Kenny's face. And he knows something isn't right here.

KENNY:

Gotta go, Scotty. See you tomorrow.

INT. TREASURY BUILDING GARAGE - NIGHT

A car jolts to a stop. The CAMERA PANS up over the sagging

suspension, the government plates, the hood ornament

revealing half of EXCOM inside. Kenny stands nearby waiting

for them.

The doors open, and out they pile like a bunch of clowns:

Bobby, McNamara, Rusk, Ball, Martin, Dioptric, Sorensen,

Stevenson, and Nitze. They're sitting in each others' laps,

banging their heads on the roof, joking, but tense.

BOBBY:

Screw secrecy. You try having that fat

ass sit on your lap all the way from

Foggy Bottom.

MCNAMARA:

You were excited. I say no more.

The gang falls in behind Kenny, trails him out of the garage.

INT. TUNNEL TO WHITE HOUSE - NIGHT

A steel door unlocks, swings open, and Kenny marches at the

head of the wedge of men into a long tunnel. It's the

infamous old passage from the Treasury to the White House.

Kenny and Bobby get a little ahead of the others.

BOBBY:

Everybody agrees the diplomatic route is

out. It's too slow, and they'll have

the missiles finished.

Kenny looks at him. Then there's only one alternative. The

CAMERA wipes through the ceiling to:

EXT. WHITE HOUSE - NIGHT

GROUND LEVEL. Where the brilliantly-lit flag flutters over

the spotlit White House: their destination.

INT. CABINET ROOM - NIGHT

GENERAL WALTER 'CAM' SWEENEY, head of Tactical Air Command,

stands at the head of the table with a presentation board.

The men of EXCOM gather around Sweeney in their rumpled

shirts, nursing coffee and cigarettes.

GENERAL SWEENEY:

We have 850 planes assembling at

Homestead, Eglin, Opa Locka, MacDill,

Patrick, Pensacola and Key West.

SMASH CUT TO:

EXT. HOMESTEAD AFB - FLORIDA - NIGHT

An F-100 Super Sabre stands under lights on a taxiway. The

CAMERA DESCENDS FROM ITS OVERHEAD SHOT, discovering the

aircraft's sleek cockpit, menacing tiger-jaw paint job, the

four 20mm cannons on its nose.

GENERAL SWEENEY (V.O.)

Due to the tropical foliage, the OPLAN

calls for high-explosive and napalm

loadouts for our ground attack sorties.

PULL BACK TO REVEAL:

The FLIGHT LINE where a full strike wing stands beyond this

plane, pylons laden with weapons, GROUND CREW servicing them.

INT. CABINET ROOM - CONTINUOUS

Other EXCOM members draw near the board, its order of battle,

strike maps. They're grim, but fascinated. Empowering.

Intoxicating. Sexy. Kenny sees it in the faces, even the

President's. Adlai does too, is upset.

ADLAI:

I still think there are diplomatic

approaches we haven't considered yet.

Kenny looks at Adlai. The others around the room,

embarrassed, don't respond. The group has moved on and

Stevenson hasn't.

GENERAL TAYLOR:

We have high confidence in the expanded

air strike option.

(beat)

The problem, Mr. President, is that it's

a short-term solution. Khruschev can

send more missiles next month. The

Chiefs and I believe we should follow up

the air strikes with the full version of

OPLAN 316.

THE PRESIDENT:

An invasion...

GENERAL TAYLOR:

Yes, sir. We can be sure we get all the

missiles, and we remove Castro so this

can never happen again.

Kenny looks around the room at the men, the murmurs of

general agreement, senses the consensus building and is

agitated.

THE PRESIDENT:

Is this the Chiefs' recommendation?

GENERAL TAYLOR:

Yes, sir. Our best option is to

commence the strikes before the missiles

are operational. The invasion happens

eight days later.

The President leans back in his chair, turns to the man at

the far end of the table: DEAN ACHESON, 60s, former Secretary

of State. He sits silent, like some revered oracle, the

architect of the American Cold War strategy of containment.

THE PRESIDENT:

Dean. What do you think?

Acheson arches an eyebrow, and when he speaks, his voice

resonates throughout the room, powerful, smooth, hypnotic.

ACHESON:

Mr. President, you have rightly

dismissed the diplomatic option. The

Soviet will only tie you down in

negotiation, and leave us short of our

goal, the removal of the missiles.

Negotiating will do nothing more than

give them time to make the missiles

operational, complicating the necessary

military task we have at hand.

Everyone in the room listens to him with rapt attention, his

presence overshadowing the room, oracular:

ACHESON (CONT'D)

For the last fifteen years, I have

fought here at this table along side

your predecessors in the struggle

against the Soviet. Gentlemen, I do not

wish to seem melodramatic, but I do wish

to impress upon you one observation with

all conceivable sincerity. A lesson I

have learned with bitter tears and great

sacrifice.

(beat)

The Soviet understands only one

language:
action. It respects only one

word:
force.

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