Dreams and Missiles
By Aaron Zhao
It was October 22, 1962, and Rares Ward was nervous. When he stepped out of the grand doors of
the university he taught in, something felt oddly familiar about the urban scene that greeted him. His
worn-down briefcase bobbed up and down as he made his way to the subway station a few blocks
down, glancing at people whose faces were just as distinctly familiar as the cars that slowly passed
him. For more than a decade, Rares had taken the same route home after dismissing his students. He
had taken it so many times that even if someone had blindfolded him, he would likely have made it
back home, unscratched. But, today’s trip felt different.
Rares felt as though he was reliving a memory as he walked on the sidewalk dotted by
crimson and yellow leaves. The way the cars were arranged beside the sidewalk, the clouds in the
sky, the black graffiti on the rusty stop sign... It was all too familiar.
In the distance, he saw a multitude of businessmen climb up the stairs from the subway
station like ants popping up from an ant mound, with frightened expressions stuck to their faces as
their hands clutched newspapers. Curious and a little worried, he slowed down and bent over to look
inside the newspaper box. To his disappointment, there were none left, but somewhere in his mind,
he had already anticipated that it would be empty.
What is wrong with my mind today? ​Nervousness was building inside him.
As he stepped down the stairs, he noticed a soggy newspaper that someone in the crowd must
have dropped while climbing up. Picking it up, he read the title and horror immediately plastered
itself onto his face. His briefcase fell from his frozen hand, crashing down the steps and leaving a
flurry of paper flying behind it.
The headline read, “​ BREAKING: Major Richard Heyser spotted Soviet missiles from
U-2 spy plane last week, revealed by President Kennedy today.​”
He finally understood where the familiarity of everything came from: his dream from last
week that he had just recalled. Rares violently stuffed the papers into his briefcase and darted into the
subway train, his heart racing. He needed to explain this to his wife.
“Anne, I think-.”
“I think you’re delusional,” interrupted his wife as they sat down to eat dinner.
“C’mon, there is no way that this is a coincide-”
“Okay, so here’s what your crazy self has told me. A week ago, you dreamt that you were
Heyser who took the exact same route that you take everyday to get home, only to arrive at a U-2 spy
plane. And then, you went flying around and found some missiles lying on the ground.”
“Look, you need to believe me,” Rares pleaded.
“My goodness, you have a wild imagination.” Anne chuckled at her husband. “Alright Mr.
Dream, it all sounds VERY convincing.”
“I’m telling you, it was a foretelling! I was in control of Heyser. If I didn’t climb into that
plane last week, he wouldn’t have discovered the missiles,” Rares argued, adamantly. “Also, what if
I didn’t see the sites while I was up in the air? America would have remained ignorant of what those
Soviets were up to.”
“Hon’, I think you’re just tired. Did you take your medicine this morning?”
That night, Rares laid in his bed next to his wife, staring at the frowning moon whose cold
radiance flooded the room. He wasn’t delusional. Coincidences couldn’t be this precise.
Also, did this mean he could control the future? He needed more proof.
Soon, Rares drifted off into the abyss of dream and dreamt that he was a member of a
meeting, observing quietly as other suited men angrily shouted over each other before President
Kennedy like a group of agitated monkeys over how to react to the Soviet missiles. Rares suggested
that they should issue a blockade to buy some time, and the rest grumbled in concord. The very next
day, the newspaper headlines read, “Kennedy’s blockade dressed as quarantine?”
Rares told Anne about what he had said in his dream to President Kennedy hoping that she
would be convinced, but still, she remained​ ​unwavered. At least he knew the answer to his own
question last night: yes, he could control the future and it didn’t make him feel any better. Rares
Ward was just an old international relations professor who asked for nothing but a serene life of
teaching and relaxation. Now, the future of the world was upon his shoulders.
October 24, 1962. ​Rares dreamt that he was an American ambassador in a UN meeting
showing photographs of the Cuban missiles to his Soviet counterpart. Rares thought this would
persuade the other ambassadors, and it did... kind of. Honestly, no one wanted to get caught up in the
mess. The media covered the exact same UN meeting the next day.
October 25, 1962. ​Rares was someone on the Soviet side, reading a letter from Prime
Minister Castro of Cuba who encouraged him to launch missiles towards the US. Rares froze in fear
at such extreme information. He knew that to prevent the Soviets from actually considering Castro’s
absurdity, he had to hide and forget about the letter before his physical body woke up. Looking
around, he spotted a fireplace and tossed the letter into the fire, desperately hoping he could watch it
burn up completely before waking up.
At this time, everyone was on edge. Missile strike drills were conducted everywhere,
including Rares’ university. Subway stations were silent. Roads were empty. Malls were deserts,
barren of life. Everyone knew one thing: catastrophe was imminent.
Rares left work early that day because of a severe headache. Paranoia tormented his mind,
and anxiety only aggravated his pain. Tears trickled from his eyes as he sat in the subway car, staring
lifelessly out of the window. His fingers shuddered violently and goosebumps covered his body.
Judging from the tension in yesterday’s dream and what the news media had reported, tomorrow
would either be the beginning or the end of the world. The tension between the US and USSR had
peaked, and Rares did not want to be held accountable for any of their decisions.
Today is October 26, 1962, and tonight, I will not dream. R
​ ares shivered as he passed his
own station. ​The responsibility is too much for me.
“Anne, do we have coffee?” Panic filled his voice as he dug through the cupboards like a
psychopath upon arriving at home that evening. “Any sugary snacks?”
“Are you okay?” Anne inquired with deep concern. “You came home really late today. And
no, we don’t. Doctor Bowman specifically told you to not have caffeine or-”
“Anne. I must not fall asleep tonight. I don’t want to mess it all up,” Rares whispered weakly,
his red eyes fighting to stay open as he leaned against the kitchen counter.
“Mess what up? My goodness, look at you! You need to rest. Now.”
“No, no, please, Anne.” Rares broke down. “Please, keep me awake tonight.”
“Are you kidding me? I’m taking you to bed.”
“No, no, no!” Rares cried as his wife forcefully led him upstairs. “You don’t understand!”
The stairs groaned in pain, and so did he.
She laid him down, shut the blinds and lights, and gently closed the door. Rares was too
fatigued to rebel or even stand up. After all, he was an old man and fatigue wasn’t unexpected,
considering what he had been through in the past few days. He tried fighting the sleepiness, despite
his eyelids becoming heavy like iron and his mind screaming in pain. The word “dream” tormented
him as he lay there, coldness emanating from every part of his body, but in the end, it was all too
much for an old man to handle. Soon enough, sleep conquered his consciousness.
This was it. This was the endgame, and there was no room for self-doubt. He was dreaming
once again, and Rares knew he had to do what was needed to be done before his body decided to
wake up. Whatever and whenever that was.
Rares looked around, the blurry scene slowly becoming clearer like a camera lens focusing.
A dim light bulb casted a faint, yellow glow on strange, enormous cylinders that were like monsters,
swallowing him from both sides. Pipes slithered like snakes across the rounded ceiling, with rusty,
red valves everywhere. A shiny, metallic grey filled his vision, and the smell of lube oil and
chemicals spread around the room. The environment was oddly humid, almost too humid for any
place to be, besides a rainforest. Then, he realized.
He was in the torpedo bay of a submarine, and the torpedoes weren’t American. He knew two
other things: his name was Vasili Arkhipov and he was nervous, too.
“Arkhipov, Иди сюда,” a man’s muffled voice rang from above. “Get over here.”
It was the captain’s voice. Scrambling up the ladder, he walked down a hallway, finding two
burly men gathered around a table.
“​We’re gonna blast them now! We will die, but we will sink them all – we will not become
the shame of the fleet​,” the captain exclaimed suddenly. The other man cheered.
Arkhipov’s heart stopped beating for a second. Rares’ heart did too.
“​Что​?” Arkhipov’s voice wavered. “What?”
“Простите, was I not clear enough?” The captain’s question was filled with elated sarcasm.
“We're. Gonna. Blast. Them. Now!”
Arkhipov stood, frozen and flustered. ​Be confident, Arkhipov. C’mon, confidence.
“Captain, world war is going to start because of your irrationali-.” Arkhipov stopped. “Your
choice.”
There was a silent pause, then the captain rose, fuming.
“YOU’RE A FAKE SOVIET,” he roared. “THE OPPORTUNITY FOR US TO GIVE THE
AMERICANS WHAT THEY DESERVE IS HERE, AND YOU REJECT IT?”
Arkhipov’s vision suddenly blurred, then refocused.
No, no, no,​ Rares thought, his mind tensing up. ​Don’t wake up, Rares.​ ​Please,​ ​not yet.
The captain rammed past him and started walking down the hall. Arkhipov looked over his
back and saw the control room. There was a button covered by a glass panel.
“Captain.” Arkhipov swiftly trailed him, his legs still trembling. “Captain, you need to
reconsider what you’re doing here. This isn’t about revenge.”
Thump. Thump. Thump.​ The captain’s footsteps were heavy with each step. They were 16
feet away from the button. 8 feet. 4 feet. 2 feet. Arkhipov’s vision blurred again as the captain slowly
lifted the panel. Rares desperately held on to the dream by his pinky finger.
“Captain, you need everyone’s approval to launch.” Arkhipov’s voice quivered, though it was
clear his confidence was rising.
“Does it look like I care?” the captain breathed, his right hand slowly rising.
“Yes, you’re just angry. That button doesn’t just launch a missile. Captain, it launches the
third world war. One click, and your family, along with every Soviet is going to be vaporized within
the next hour. You know Americans react fast.” Arkhipov was racing against Rares’ biological clock.
“You’re going to blow up the world. Is that what you want?”
The world became blurry, and this time, it remained blurry. Everything was silent and
unmoving, as if someone hit pause on the dream. Arkhipov and Rares watched in silent dread as the
faint outline of a man’s finger hovered an inch over the button for what felt like an eternity. At the
same time, he felt himself fading away. A suspenseful moment later, the captain closed the panel and
sat down on a chair, letting out a deep sigh of defeat.
Rares suddenly woke up to a dawning sun, his heart still racing. He did it. Perhaps, he had
underestimated his own strength all along... He wasn’t just an old international relations professor.
He was a hero, a saviour, and a guardian of the world. With that thought in mind, he watched the
golden orb rise, marking the beginning of a new day and era.
Rares Ward smiled.