The White House basement was silent, not empty, just silent.
Silent in the way places become when everyone inside knows history is turning against them.
Roosevelt did not convene the full cabinet, not the joint chiefs, not the governors, not even the War Department. Only six men were summoned.
Six men he believed he could still trust, six men who watched him roll in, flanked by two Marines, his face gray with exhaustion, eyes bloodshot, jaw clenched with something more than pain.
Not a president.
A man crushed under the awareness that his country was bleeding out faster than he could lie to it.
He waited until the Marines sealed the door, and did not speak until the last lock slid into place. His voice was hoarse, but steady.
"Gentlemen," he said, "we are no longer planning for victory."
No one breathed, and yet Roosevelt still continued.
"We are planning for survival."
