In 1962, we got lucky.

In 1962, the world got lucky.  Max Hastings in The Abyss

President Trump's blockade, his euphemisms to avoid calling it a "war" and his  threats to wipe out Iran as a civilization keep reminding me of how close we came to annihilation during the Cuban Missile Crisis and the events on the Soviet nuclear sub B-59. It was as close as I would ever want to get.

The naval “quarantine”/blockade of Cuba during the Cuban Missile Crisis was a high-stakes standoff at sea. The United States Navy set up a ring of ships around Cuba to stop Soviet vessels from delivering more missiles, calling it a “quarantine” instead of a blockade to avoid the legal baggage of an outright act of war. On the surface, it looked like a controlled, almost procedural operation—ships stopping other ships, inspections, radio warnings—but underneath that calm exterior was a ton of tension. Every Soviet vessel approaching the line had the potential to trigger a confrontation, and both sides were constantly trying to signal resolve without actually firing the first shot.

What made things especially dangerous was what was happening below the surface. The Soviet Navy had deployed diesel-powered submarines, some of which were armed with nuclear torpedoes. Meanwhile, U.S. destroyers were actively hunting them, using sonar to track their movements and dropping small “practice” depth charges to force them to surface. From the American perspective, this was just a way to communicate—basically saying, “We know you’re there, come up and identify yourself.” But for the submarine crews, cut off from Moscow and dealing with heat, exhaustion, and failing air systems, those explosions felt a lot like an attack. That disconnect created some of the most dangerous moments of the crisis, where a single misread signal or panicked decision could have escalated into a full-blown nuclear exchange.

To understand the true nature of the crisis that unfolded beneath the waves of the Sargasso Sea in late October 1962, one must first step inside the claustrophobic, sweltering hull of the Soviet submarine B-59. It is easy to view historical flashpoints through the sterile lens of geopolitical strategy—red and blue lines on a map, cold cables exchanged between capitals—but for the crew trapped within that steel cylinder, the Cold War was not an abstract game of chess. It was a physical and psychological endurance test that had reached its terminal breaking point. In the control room of the B-59, there was no room for clean logic. There was only the suffocating reality of a machine failing its men, and men failing their training. Imagine a space where the temperature has climbed to roughly 140°F. in several of the engine and living compartments. The air was thick and viscous, a humid soup of salt, unwashed bodies, and the acrid tang of leaking battery acid. Most critically, the carbon dioxide levels had spiked to a point where every breath felt like a labor, leaving the crew in a state of "foggy exhaustion"—a physiological state where cognitive function degrades into a primal, reactive slurry. This was the pressure cooker in which the command team lived for days, severed from any meaningful communication with Moscow, their world reduced to the dimensions of a hull that felt less like a vessel and more like a tomb.

This environment acted as a volatile catalyst for the ensuing crisis. When you are in that state of sensory deprivation, your relationship with the outside world changes; you no longer interpret data, you react to it. For the B-59, the only data coming from the surface was the rhythmic, terrifying thud of "practice depth charges," or PDCs. These were small explosives, roughly the size of a grenade, dropped by U.S. Navy forces above. From the American perspective, these were mere tactical signals—a "knock on the door" intended to communicate a firm but non-lethal request for the submarine to surface and identify itself. However, to a Soviet crew suffering from heat stroke and hypoxia, hearing these detonations echoing through the hull was not a signal. It was a bombardment. They couldn't see the American destroyers; they could only hear the malice in the metal. The gap between the U.S. Navy’s intention (signaling) and the Soviet perception (aggression) was where the apocalypse almost began. This misinterpretation turned a tactical maneuver into an existential threat, pushing an already frayed command structure toward a decision that would have rewritten the history of the twentieth century in radioactive fire.

As the physical misery intensified, it set the stage for the first of two critical "brinks" where the world teetered on the edge of nuclear conflict. The transition from environmental suffering to a command crisis centered on the unique hierarchy aboard the B-59. In the standard Soviet protocol of the era, the authorization to fire a nuclear weapon required the consensus of two men: the Captain and the Political Officer. However, the B-59 was a structural anomaly. It carried Vasili Arkhipov, the Chief of Staff of the entire submarine flotilla. Because of his senior rank and his role as the flotilla’s operational head, a unique three-officer consensus was required for any "special weapon" release. This was a piece of administrative luck that arguably saved the species. Inside the control room, Captain Valentin Savitsky had reached his breaking point. The relentless pounding of the PDCs, combined with the heat that made men faint at their stations, triggered what can only be described as a "Crimson Tide" outburst. Savitsky was consumed by the belief that a total war had already broken out on the surface while they were submerged. His rhetoric was fueled by a desperate, aggressive sense of naval honor. He reportedly shouted to his officers that they would "blast them now," swearing that they would die but sink every American ship in the vicinity. "We will not become the shame of the fleet," he vowed, his judgment clouded by the psychological horror of the past few days. He gave the order to assemble the "Universal" nuclear torpedo for immediate battle readiness.

It was here that Arkhipov emerged as the essential "lone dissenter." Arkhipov was not just a second officer; his position as Chief of Staff gave him a specific type of authority that allowed him to stand his ground against a furious Captain. While Savitsky and the political officer were swept up in the heat and the perceived necessity of a counter-strike, Arkhipov maintained a startling intellectual clarity. He argued that the American actions were too rhythmic and too localized to be a true attack; they were provocative signals, yes, but they were not intended to kill. He understood that a real depth charge attack would have already crushed them. His refusal to provide the necessary third signature effectively blocked the launch in the darkness of the deep, and more importantly, he managed to pivot the entire mission’s trajectory. Rather than plunging further into the depths to engage in a terminal battle, Arkhipov persuaded Savitsky that the only logical course of action—the only way to truly know if the world was at war—was to surface and seek direct instructions from Moscow.

Yet, as any seasoned strategist knows, the moment of surfacing is often more dangerous than the period of submerged isolation. When the B-59 finally broke the surface at approximately 8:52 PM, the crew was not met with the quiet of the Atlantic night, but with a sensory assault that mimicked the very war they feared. It was a scene of pure, unadulterated chaos. U.S. destroyers pinned the submarine in the glare of blinding, high-intensity searchlights, turning the night into an artificial, terrifying day. Overhead, P2V Neptune aircraft performed aggressive, low-level passes, the roar of their engines vibrating through the sailors' teeth. The most dangerous moment occurred when one of these aircraft dropped a series of incendiary flares. To the Russian sailors on the deck and in the conning tower, eyes still adjusting after days of dim red light, the brilliant magnesium flashes and sharp reports of these flares were indistinguishable from aerial bombardment. Panic flared instantly. Captain Savitsky, believing he had been lured to the surface only to be executed, pivoted back toward aggression. He ordered an "urgent dive" and instructed the crew to prepare the nuclear torpedo in tube number one for a second time.

History, however, is often decided by the most mundane of physical realities—what we in the trade call "physical and tactical delays." In the frantic rush to execute the dive, a signaling officer carrying heavy, cumbersome communication equipment accidentally became wedged in the narrow, vertical ladder leading from the conning tower down to the control room. This physical bottleneck—a man stuck in a hole with a heavy radio—blocked Savitsky’s own descent. It created a brief but vital window of perhaps twenty or thirty seconds. In those seconds, Arkhipov, who was also on the bridge, was able to look past the glare of the searchlights. He observed that the American planes were firing "past and along" the boat rather than directly at the hull. He saw the geometry of the tracers and realized this was harassment, not an execution. He grabbed Savitsky, signaled him to wait, and the command to dive was countermanded. The nuclear torpedo remained in its tube, not because of a grand diplomatic breakthrough, but because a signaling officer tripped on a ladder.

As we look back on these events, it is necessary to apply a layer of technical and historical skepticism to the popular "man who saved the world" narrative. While the drama of the ladder and the shouting matches is well-documented in oral histories, the technical realities of Soviet weaponry suggest that a nuclear launch might have been much harder to achieve than a simple verbal order from a panicked captain. The B-59 was armed with the "Universal" nuclear torpedo, but these were not "plug-and-play" systems. To ensure safety and prevent accidental discharge, the nuclear warheads were stored separately from the torpedo bodies. Mating the two was a complex, time-consuming technical assembly process that required precision work in a specialized compartment. Now, consider the environment: 140-degree heat, high CO2, and a crew so physically depleted they were collapsing from exhaustion. Some historians argue that this technical assembly might never have even been started, or if it had, it could not have been completed in the timeframes described. There is a strong case to be made that the weapon was technically inert throughout the most frantic moments of the standoff.

Furthermore, we must evaluate the "tactical impossibility" of what Savitsky was proposing. At the time of the surface confrontation, the B-59 was less than 300 feet from the nearest U.S. destroyers. Firing a nuclear weapon at that range is not a tactical decision; it is a suicide pact. The blast radius of a nuclear torpedo would have vaporized the B-59 as surely as it would have destroyed the American task force. This raises an analytical question: Was Savitsky truly insane, or was he performing a calculated, desperate act of "symbolic violence"? In the high-stakes world of nuclear brinkmanship, aiming a weapon is often a "slap on the cheek"—a way to assert dignity and sovereign power when you have been humiliated. Savitsky may have been signaling his willingness to die rather than his intent to start a war. This skepticism is further bolstered by the absence of the incident in the 2022 declassified Russian Ministry of Defense records. The official after-action reports from the era do not mention Arkhipov’s intervention or the near-launch of a nuclear weapon. This suggests that the story we have come to know relies heavily on oral testimonies provided by the crew decades later—testimonies that may have polished the edges of a much more muddled, technically inhibited reality where the threat was more symbolic than functional.

Despite these technical caveats, the B-59 incident remains a profound cautionary tale regarding the human element in military crisis management. It serves as a reminder that the most volatile variable in any nuclear equation is not the yield of the warhead or the range of the missile, but the psychological state of the person with their hand on the trigger. The failure points of the B-59—the total breakdown in communication with Moscow, the environmental stress that degraded rational thought, and the catastrophic misinterpretation of signaling protocols—are all issues we face in modern conflict zones today. The "Arkhipov factor" teaches us that structural safeguards, such as the requirement for consensus and the presence of dissenting voices, are not just bureaucratic hurdles; they are the thin line between a managed crisis and an accidental apocalypse.

When technology fails and the radios go silent, we are left with nothing but individual judgment. The lesson of the Sargasso Sea is the desperate need for clear, unambiguous signaling that cannot be mistaken for aggression, even by an exhausted and overheated adversary. We must recognize that in the heat of a crisis, "signals" like practice depth charges or incendiary flares are inherently dangerous because they rely on the recipient’s ability to remain calm under fire. If there is a final thought to be shared over this metaphorical coffee, it is this: the world did not survive 1962 because of the perfection of our systems. It survived because, in a crowded, sweltering control room at the bottom of the Atlantic, one man looked at the flashes on the horizon and decided to wait just a few seconds longer. We are still living in those seconds. The absence of the event in official Russian records only underscores how much of our history is built on the quiet, unrecorded choices of individuals who decide not to fire. In the end, the fate of the world rests not on grand strategies, but on the ability of a human being to perceive a "knock on the door" for what it is, rather than the sound of the end of the world.

Sources:

Fursenko, A., & Naftali, T. (1997). "One hell of a gamble": Khrushchev, Castro, and Kennedy, 1958-1964. W. W. Norton & Company.

Morgan, William M. The Cuban Missile Crisis at Sixty. Where do We Stand? (2020)  Marine Corps History, V. 9, No. 1 https://www.usmcu.edu/Portals/218/Marine%20Corps%20History_9_1_Summer%202023_Morgan_web.pdf Excellent summary and analysis of events.

Paché, G. (2025). Aboard the Soviet Submarine B-59: The Crucial Role of Human Judgment During the 1962 Cuban Missile Crisis. European Journal of Applied Sciences, Vol - 13(01). 409-418.   https://doi.org/10.14738/aivp.1301.18321 

This   article makes the case that AI would have failed to avoid war in this instance because it cannot measure or analyze the emotional element. Whether AI from a purely an analytical and data driven point of view would trump Trump's emotional instability in the current crisis is, of course, more than academic interest. The sociobiologist E. O. Wilson described the central problem of humanity this way: “We have Paleolithic emotions, medieval institutions, and godlike technology.” The main challenge of the 80 years since the Trinity atomic test has been that we do not possess the cognitive, spiritual, and emotional capabilities necessary to successfully manage nuclear weapons without the risk of catastrophic failure.

Soviet submarine B-59. (2026, March 6). Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia. Retrieved May 6, 2026, from https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Soviet_submarine_B-59

The submarines of October: Chronology. (n.d.). The National Security Archive. https://nsarchive2.gwu.edu/NSAEBB/NSAEBB75/subchron.htm

Voorhees, Theodore (2023) "The Cuban Missile Crisis at Sea—Avoidance of Nuclear War Not Left to Chance," Naval War College Review: Vol. 76: No. 2, Article 8.  https://digital-commons.usnwc.edu/nwc-review/vol76/iss2/8

 

Too Good to Pass Up.

Next time you hear the president's name, perhaps you can enjoy a chuckle. I did a little etymological research. 

The British ship charmingly (or disastrously, depending on your sense of humor) named Trump is one of those historical tidbits that feels like it wandered in from a comedy sketch. Back in the 1600s, it started life as a Dutch vessel before being nabbed by the English in 1652 during the First Anglo-Dutch War—basically the maritime version of “finders keepers.” Armed with a modest six guns (hardly terrifying unless you’re a seagull), it served briefly in the Commonwealth Navy before being sold off in 1658, presumably to pursue a quieter life away from awkward introductions. Its name likely comes from the Dutch tromp (trumpet), a nod to the famed Admiral Maarten Tromp—a man whose reputation was considerably more formidable than the ship’s firepower.

Now, linguistically, things get… less dignified. In Britain, “to trump” doesn’t conjure images of victory or card games—it means, quite simply, to let one rip. Yes, a good old-fashioned toot. The word traces back to Old French tromper (to blow a horn), which is exactly the kind of historical poetry that makes etymologists quietly proud and schoolchildren absolutely delighted. It’s what the British call “nursery slang”: not quite rude, but definitely giggle-worthy. So whenever the word pops up in serious contexts, there’s always a faint, invisible chorus of suppressed snickers.

Fast forward a few centuries, and this delightfully unfortunate name resurfaces in high diplomacy. In April 2026, Charles III presented a brass bell from HMS Trump to the American president during a state visit. Nothing says “enduring alliance” quite like a ceremonial object from a long-retired vessel with a name that doubles as playground humor. The submarine itself had a respectable career—eventually upgraded into a “Super T” class and serving until 1969—but let’s be honest, the name is doing most of the heavy lifting in modern memory. For the King, it was a gesture of shared history; for everyone else, it was also a perfectly polished example of dry British wit sneaking into formal occasions.

Then came the King’s address to Congress, which felt a bit like history deciding to have a sense of humor. Here was a monarch—yes, a literal king—offering thoughtful commentary on democracy, checks and balances, and the dangers of political infighting. He spoke of these principles as a “sacred trust,” gently reminding lawmakers that even great systems can wobble if people treat them like a suggestion rather than a rule-book. The irony of the situation wasn’t exactly subtle.

Things got even more entertaining when he turned to trade, particularly the modern “Tea Party” tariffs. With impeccable politeness, he pointed out the historical oddity: a movement named after a rebellion against British taxes now championing tariffs that affected British goods. Somewhere, a historian probably spilled their tea. He then highlighted the recent lifting of tariffs on Scotch whisky—because if anything can smooth international relations, it’s a well-aged single malt.

By the end, the whole scene had a wonderfully topsy-turvy feel. Once upon a time, the British crown was the villain of American trade disputes; now it was standing at the podium, gently advocating cooperation and open markets. The message, wrapped in eloquence and a dash of irony, was clear: history doesn’t just repeat itself—it occasionally winks, raises an eyebrow, and tells a very good joke.

 

Learning from Failure

I’ve always been interested in engineering failures, especially after reading Henry Petroski, who argues that we often learn more from failures than from successes. Dams made of earth have always seemed risky to me, so when I watched a detailed video about the Teton Dam collapse by the YouTube channel Practical Engineering, I wanted to learn more. That led me to another disaster—the failure of the Taum Sauk Dam. Both dams had actually won awards for their design, yet both still failed. In the end, these events showed how important it is to truly understand the ground beneath a structure. It’s hard not to think of the RMS Titanic sinking as another example of overconfidence leading to catastrophe.

There isn’t a lot of easy-to-find information about these failures beyond firsthand accounts and long government reports. Still, what is clear is that these disasters were not random accidents. They were caused by human mistakes—lack of knowledge, poor judgment, and sometimes carelessness. Rather than disproving the idea that we learn from failure, they actually support it. Success can make people overconfident, which can lead to failure. But once a failure happens and people study it, they often improve and do better next time.

The history of civil engineering is full of stories like this. Often, major advances come only after something goes terribly wrong. The collapse of the Teton Dam in 1976 and the failure of the Taum Sauk reservoir in 2005 are two examples. They happened in very different places—Idaho and Missouri—and nearly 30 years apart, but they share a key similarity: both failures came from a misunderstanding of the land they were built on, combined with pressure to move forward despite warning signs.

At Teton, political pressure during the Cold War era pushed the project forward, and engineers trusted their usual design methods too much. At Taum Sauk, the problem came from a modern push for profits in the energy market, along with growing neglect of maintenance systems. In both cases, safety concerns were overlooked.

These disasters show that failure usually isn’t caused by just one mistake. Instead, it’s the result of several problems happening at once—wrong assumptions, financial pressures, and ignored warnings all lining up. Even though the exact technical causes were different, the bigger issue was the same: poor oversight and a false sense of confidence.

A major problem in both cases was misunderstanding the ground beneath the dams. At Taum Sauk, the rock looked extremely strong, which gave engineers a sense of security. But beneath the surface were weaker, weathered layers that weren’t properly removed during construction. Over time, this caused the structure to shift and settle in dangerous ways.

Something similar happened at Teton. Engineers built the dam on porous volcanic rock that allowed water to move through it. They believed their design could handle it, but they underestimated how easily water could seep through and weaken the structure. In both cases, engineers trusted their designs more than they respected the natural conditions of the site.

There were also organizational problems. At Teton, the design team and construction team didn’t communicate well, leading to a design that didn’t match real conditions. At Taum Sauk, warning signs—like ongoing water leaks—were treated as normal operating issues instead of serious problems. In both cases, efficiency and cost-saving took priority over safety.

The way the dams were operated also made things worse. At Taum Sauk, demand for electricity led to the reservoir being used far more often than originally planned. Monitoring systems were unreliable, but repairs were delayed. At Teton, the reservoir was filled much faster than recommended, even though the dam hadn’t been fully tested.

Political and financial pressures played a big role too. The Teton Dam project was tied to political campaigns and funding battles, which led to rushed decisions. At Taum Sauk, company profits depended on keeping the facility running at high capacity, which encouraged risky behavior.

When the failures finally happened, they unfolded quickly and dramatically. At Teton, water began leaking through the dam and eroding it from the inside. Within hours, the structure collapsed, sending a massive flood downstream. At Taum Sauk, water spilled over the top of the dam, rapidly washing away the structure in just minutes.

The consequences were severe. The Teton collapse killed people, destroyed homes, and caused billions of dollars in damage. The Taum Sauk failure caused massive environmental damage but, fortunately, resulted in far fewer injuries due to the timing and location.

Afterward, both disasters led to important changes. Regulations became stricter, and safety oversight improved. At Taum Sauk, for example, authorities imposed heavy fines and required stronger safety systems. The dam was rebuilt using a more solid design that reduced the risks seen in the original structure.

Today, these events serve as powerful reminders. Engineering can accomplish incredible things, but it must always respect the limits set by nature. These failures weren’t just about materials or design—they were also about communication, decision-making, and the willingness to listen to warnings.

In the end, the lesson is simple: no matter how advanced our technology becomes, success depends on understanding the world we build on. If we ignore that, failure is only a matter of time.

References:

[1] Petroski, H. (1994). To engineer is human: The role of failure in successful design. My review from 2008: https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/39682053

[2] Practical Engineering. The Wild Story of the Teton Dam Failure. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J7ieKmP96Hc

[3] East Idaho News. Remembering the Teton Dam collapse: Inside the failure and fight to rebuild. (n.d.). YouTube. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W90TNxd8g54&t=5s

Hilf, J. W. (1987). The wet seam and the Teton dam failure. Engineering Geology, 24(1-4), 265-281. https://doi.org/10.1016/0013-7952(87)90067-6

[4] Petroski, H. (2018). Success through failure: The paradox of design. Princeton University Press.

[5] Practical Engineering. The Wild Story of the Taum Sauk Dam Failure. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zRM2AnwNY20

Rogers, J. David. The 2005 upper Taum Sauk Dam failure: A case history. September 2010 Environmental and Engineering Geoscience 16(3):257-289 DOI:10.2113/gseegeosci.16.3.257

Sherard, J. L. (1987). Lessons from the Teton dam failure. Engineering Geology, 24(1-4), 239-256. https://doi.org/10.1016/0013-7952(87)90064-0

Watkins, Conor M. "Overview of the Taum Sauk Pumped Storage Power Plant Upper Reservoir Failure." https://damfailures.org/sites/default/files/wp-content/uploads/2015/07/087_Overview-of-the-Taum-Sauk-Pumped-Storage-Power-Plant-Upper-Reservoir-Failure.pdf

 

 

The "Madman Theory"

The latest issue of the New York Review of Books has an essay by Fintan O'Toole discussing the Madman Theory as it pertains to Trump. During his first term, Donald Trump revitalized the Madman theory—a strategic tactic originally associated with the Nixon era—to disrupt the long-standing nuclear stalemate with North Korea. By projecting a persona of volatility through "Fire and Fury" rhetoric and "Little Rocket Man" jabs on social media, he sought to convince Kim Jong Un that the United States was no longer bound by traditional diplomatic restraint. The goal was to create a sense of unpredictability that would unnerve Pyongyang, forcing them to the negotiating table out of fear that the U.S. might actually pivot to military action. This high-stakes psychological game ultimately replaced the previous policy of "strategic patience" and paved the way for the unprecedented direct summits between the two leaders.  Whether it was deliberate or not, and how it applies to the current situation with Iran, got me thinking about the history of the theory and led me down another rabbit hole.

O’Toole posits that Donald Trump has weaponized a chaotic iteration of the Madman Theory—the strategic display of irrationality famously articulated by Nixon to Haldeman. ** However, I suspect this was more of a Nixonian post-hoc justification than a viable strategy for ending the Vietnam War. Trump, by contrast, uses it to dismantle traditional diplomacy in an attempt to gain leverage over adversaries like North Korea and Iran.  If that was indeed his strategy in North Korea, it worked. I suspect Iran's leaders, whomever they may be, regard him very differently.

While Trump explicitly coached associates like Nikki Haley and William Barr in the first term on projecting "just the right amount of crazy" as a shrewd negotiating tactic. O'Toole cites several incidents where Trump (all in his first term) expressed to Cabinet members that his tweets were deliberately intended to display a craziness. He told William Barr, "“Do you know what the secret is of a really good tweet?” he asked, looking at each of us one by one. We all looked blank. “Just the right amount of crazy,” he said."

O’Toole suggests the line between performative theater and genuine psychological instability has effectively dissolved. This reality is obvious to most observers, yet remains a blind spot for much of the mainstream media.

Drawing on testimonies from former cabinet members who witnessed non-performative rages, a disconnect from objective reality, and kaleidoscopic shifts in policy, the author contends that Trump’s behavior has evolved from a controlled "act" into a dangerous, structural form of governance. Ultimately, by broadcasting this perceived psychosis to the public and allies alike, Trump abandons the traditional constraints of the theory, replacing diplomatic cooperation with a volatile, unpredictable hegemony.

Nixon didn't invent the theory. Apparently, Kissinger, that evil genius, came up with it for a speech in 1962, and we all know how tight Kissinger and Nixon were. The dissertation by Campbell-Seremetis examines the validity of the theory as a strategy. He points out that "particularly in democracies, elites are subject to political pressure from the public, whose attitudes towards diplomacy and force are ...  heavily influenced by beliefs about the objectivity and competence of adversary leaders." (I am reminded of Karl Kraus' observation that politicians lie to the press and then believe what they read.*)

Campbell-Seremetis argues that labeling a foreign leader as "irrational" or a "Madman" fundamentally shifts public support toward more aggressive and less diplomatic policy options. It carries several risks:

1.) When an adversary is perceived as a "Madman," the public is significantly more likely to support hostile measures—such as sanctions or military force—before diplomatic dialogue has been exhausted.

2.) Perceived bias in a foreign leader makes the public pessimistic about the effectiveness of rational dialogue, leading them to view military methods as more effective than diplomatic ones.

3.) Interestingly, the public is more likely to advocate for concessions to an "unreasonable" or "crazy" adversary if they also believe that leader is highly competent.

But it works both ways. In the current situation, Trump may find himself more in the role of the public than the leader in his perceptions of the craziness or instability of the Iranians. Or, maybe he's just bored. Leaders may intentionally brand a rising adversary as irrational to manipulate the public into supporting costly alternatives to diplomacy, such as the "Saddam the Madman" narrative used by the George W. Bush administration. Conversely, a sustained campaign to convince the public that an adversary is "objective" can create the necessary political space for diplomacy. For example, characterizing Mikhail Gorbachev as "a man we can do business with" helped pivot the US public away from seeing Soviet leaders as purely irrational ideologues.

In the Korean War case study, the Truman administration was restricted by an American public that viewed the Soviets as "Fanatics" due to red-scare rhetoric. This gap between elite and public preferences forced the government to rely on back-channels for dialogue to avoid domestic political backlash. That assumes professionals are available. I'm not sure how much trust we should have in Kushner et al, especially given their financial stakes in the outcome.

Frank Zagare posits that the "Madman Theory" fails as a reliable strategic strategy because a truly rational adversary will recognize that a perceived "madman" is either bluffing or is so unpredictable that they cannot be manipulated by conventional means anyway.

Joshua Scwartz's study shows that the success of the Madman Strategy depends on a delicate balance between external gains and internal stability. Schwartz highlights that the strategy is most effective when the domestic costs can be mitigated or when the international stakes are high enough to justify the political risk. However, the consistent finding is that the public generally prefers "rational" leadership, making the Madman Strategy a high-stakes gamble that risks long-term domestic legitimacy for short-term diplomatic concessions. This tension explains why the strategy is relatively rare in history despite its theoretical potential for coercive success.

Even assuming it's a valid Trump strategy, he has lost (if he ever had) the ability to apply it strategically, especially when surrounded by rank amateurs. But then. Kissinger admitted it would never work in a democracy anyway.

Something none of these authors even hinted at is dementia.

*Diplomats tell lies to journalists and believe them when they see them in print”.  The original "Wie wird die Welt regiert und in den Krieg geführt? Diplomaten belügen Journalisten und glauben es, wenn sie’s lesen, which I bastardized slightly, is from his book of aphorisms, Nachts. (1918)

**What Nixon said to Haldeman, 

I call it the Madman Theory, Bob. I want the North Vietnamese to believe I’ve reached the point where I might do anything to stop the war. We’ll just slip the word to them that “for God’s sake, you know Nixon is obsessed about Communism. We can’t restrain him when he’s angry—and he has his hand on the nuclear button”—and Ho Chi Minh himself will be in Paris in two days begging for peace

Sources:

Devanny, Joe (2022) ‘Madman Theory’ or ‘Persistent Engagement’? The Coherence of US Cyber Strategy under Trump, Journal of Applied Security Research, 17:3, 282-309, DOI: 10.1080/19361610.2021.1872359

Kissinger, H. A. (2023, December 7). The unsolved problems of European defense. Foreign Affairs. https://www.foreignaffairs.com/articles/europe/1962-07-01/unsolved-problems-european-defense   also http://www.jstor.org/stable/20029577?origin=JSTOR-pdf 

 O’Toole, F. (2026, May 14). ‘The right amount of crazy’. The New York Review of Books https://www.nybooks.com/articles/2026/05/14/the-right-amount-of-crazy-fintan-otoole/

Schwartz, Joshua A. "Madman or Mad Genius? The International Benefits and Domestic Costs of the Madman Strategy." Security Studies, (2023). https://www.tandfonline.com/doi/full/10.1080/09636412.2023.2197619

Zagare, Frank . Rationality and Deterrence.     (n.d.). Personal Websites - University at Buffalo. https://www.acsu.buffalo.edu/~fczagare/Articles/Rationality%20and%20Deterrence.pdf

 

The Pro-Slavery Constitution, Fugitive Slave Acts, Prigg and Ableman, and Upside down States-Rights

The U.S. Constitution is a masterclass in euphemisms, carefully embedding protections for enslavement while scrubbing the text of the specific word for the practice. By framing those in bondage as "persons held to service or labour"[sic] or "all other persons," the Framers prioritized a legalistic definition of property that superseded individual liberty. This emphasis on property rights is most starkly evident in the clause of Article IV, which functioned as a constitutional mandate for the return of those who escaped their condition.:

Article IV, Section 2, Clause 3:  No Person held to Service or Labour in one State, under the Laws thereof, escaping into another, shall, in Consequence of any Law or Regulation therein, be discharged from such Service or Labour, but shall be delivered up on Claim of the Party to whom such Service or Labour may be due. *

This provision effectively nationalized the enforcement of property interests, stripping "free" states of the power to liberate those who crossed their borders. Instead, it dictated that such persons must be "delivered up" to the claimant, ensuring that the economic assets of the owner were constitutionally shielded even in jurisdictions where the institution itself did not exist. Through this euphemistic framework, the document created a paradox where the protection of "property" necessitated the systematic dehumanization of the individual.

Several southern states wanted that provision codified. This clause was enforced by an act of Congress passed February 12, 1793, and signed by President Washington. It was the first fugitive slave law, and remained a part of the law for fifty-seven years. The first part of the act had to do with fugitives from justice. The last part was concerned with run-away slaves.  Its provisions were reinforced by the Prigg decision that specified the federal role.

In the decades preceding the American Civil War, the federal government underwent a profound metamorphosis, shifting from neutrality toward becoming an "enforcement agent" for slaveholding interests. This transformation took place within a  landscape characterized by the  friction between the "presumption of freedom"—a cornerstone of Northern state law—and an increasingly aggressive federal mandate to protect Southern property rights in persons. As Northern jurisdictions attempted to safeguard their citizens through local due process, federal authorities prioritized the extra-territorial security of the slave system, effectively subordinating local sovereignty to the needs of the slave power.  Prigg v. Pennsylvania (1842)  effectively nationalized the law of slavery. By asserting exclusive federal jurisdiction over the return of fugitives, the American state reshaped the constitutional order, laying the institutional foundations for a federal sponsorship of slavery that would ultimately destabilize the Union it sought to preserve.

As noted by the historian Don Fehrenbacher, the transition was cemented by federal policy in the District of Columbia, where Congress maintained existing slave codes, and in the Western territories, where federally appointed officials frequently encouraged quasi-slavery systems. This infrastructure ensured that slavery was not a "peculiar" local exception but a federally endorsed national reality.

The constitutional crisis in Prigg was catalyzed by the 1837 seizure of Margaret Morgan, an incident that exposed the tragic human cost of legal ambiguity. The facts of the case challenged Pennsylvania’s 1826 Personal Liberty Law, revealing how the state's efforts to provide due process were systematically dismantled by federal interests.

Margaret Morgan’s parents were the slaves of a master named Ashmore, who, while never formally emancipating them, allowed them to live as free people beginning sometime before 1812. Ashmore "constantly declared he had set them free," and Margaret was born after this informal grant of liberty. In 1832, Margaret married Jerry Morgan, a free Black man, and the couple moved to Pennsylvania. During their residence there, they had several children who, as "begotten and born" on Pennsylvania soil, were free-born citizens under Commonwealth law.

Following Ashmore’s death, his estate passed to his niece, whose husband, Nathan Bemis, sought to reclaim Margaret. In February 1837, Bemis and Edward Prigg—a professional slave-catcher—traveled to Pennsylvania and seized Margaret and her family. While they initially sought a warrant from a local Justice of the Peace, Thomas Henderson, they were stymied when Henderson refused to issue the final removal papers, concluding he lacked jurisdiction. Henderson likely recognized that Margaret had entered Pennsylvania with her master's implicit permission and that her children were free-born. Disregarding the law, Prigg and his associates forcibly took the family to Maryland, where they were sold to a trader and shipped to the Deep South. In a tragic postscript, Jerry Morgan was killed while returning from a visit to the Pennsylvania Governor in a desperate, failed attempt to secure his family’s return.

Edward Prigg was subsequently indicted and convicted of kidnapping. However, through a "friendly" legal compromise between Maryland and Pennsylvania, both states agreed to expedite the case to the U.S. Supreme Court to resolve the constitutionality of the 1826 law. This single family’s tragedy—and the death of a father seeking justice—became the cold vehicle for Justice Story's  sweeping nationalistic legal opinion that prioritized the  judicial doctrine over the preservation of human liberty. It's also emblematic of the tension between originalism and living constitutionalism as one could argue that Story had no choice given the clear mandate to return fugitive slaves in the Constitution and tension between federal and states rights, i.e. northern personal liberty laws designed precisely to thwart the return of fugitive slaves and the federal constitutional obligation.

Justice Joseph Story occupied a fraught position as a "nationalist" jurist who personally loathed the institution of slavery while feeling legally bound to uphold its constitutional protections. Story frequently condemned the slave trade in his private correspondence and jury charges as a "monstrous" violation of natural law and justice. However, his judicial philosophy centered on the belief that the Constitution was a binding contract whose survival depended on strict adherence to its compromises. This tension is obvious in Prigg  where he characterized the Fugitive Slave Clause as a "fundamental article" of the national compact, essential to the preservation of the Union. While he attempted to mitigate the impact of this ruling by suggesting that state officials were not required to assist in federal captures—giving rise to the "personal liberty laws" and providing an enormous loophole leading to the Fugitive Slave Act of 1850, more on that later—his ruling ultimately reinforced the federal government’s exclusive power to protect human property, illustrating a career-long struggle between personal morality and judicial duty.

The establishment of a "common-law right of self-help" effectively exported the law of the South into the jurisprudence of the North. By authorizing recapture "anywhere in the Union," the Court created a jurisdictional vacuum where state-level due process was replaced by private vigilante action. This rendered Northern states powerless to prevent the kidnapping of their own free Black citizens, as seen in the facts of the case where Margaret Morgan’s children, born free on Pennsylvania soil, were seized and carried into bondage. The decision effectively nationalized the Southern presumption of slave status, transforming the North into a hunting ground for the Southern master.

Despite the majority ruling, the Court was fractured by a strategic disagreement between the proponents of "federal exclusivity" and "concurrent power," and resulted in  seven concurrent and dissenting opinions, unheard of in the early 19th century. (The decision itself was 8-1 with only Justice McClean dissenting.) Proslavery justices, including Roger B. Taney, Smith Thompson, and Peter V. Daniel, expressed profound apprehension that Story’s nationalist doctrine would make the 1793 Act a "dead letter" by allowing Northern states to withdraw their administrative cooperation. They argued instead for a concurrent state power that would permit Northern officials to assist masters in their claims.

Justice John McLean, however, issued a lone and vigorous dissent that prioritized the "Presumption of Freedom." "In a non-slaveholding state, every person is presumed to be free, regardless of color. This presumption stands until it is legally rebutted by the proof required under the Act of 1793" and he made the argument for state sovereignty and due process (I'm sure John Bingham was very familiar with this dissent and it showed in the 14th Amendment). McLean contended that while a master had a constitutional right to his property, he was bound to pursue the specific legal remedy provided by Congress rather than relying on extra-legal force.

Story's son, and Professor Goldstein tried to exonerate Story from history's backlash to the decision by arguing that Story sought to preserve the Union by limiting slaveholders to the "express bargains" of the Constitution. He defined slavery as a "mere municipal regulation" with no basis in natural law to limit its expansion beyond specific statutes. Yet, as H. Robert Baker suggests, Story may have been "fencing" with radical Southern constitutionalists. By establishing federal exclusivity, Story denied Southerners the right to claim slavery as a "natural property right" that the federal government was obligated to protect everywhere. He hoped that by centralizing the issue, a future Northern-led federal government could "remodel" the law to include habeas corpus and trial by jury.

Finkelman says, "nonsense."  Story sought to nationalize the law of slavery to facilitate the recapture of fugitives and aggrandize federal power. He ignored the fact that Margaret Morgan's children were born free, sacrificing individual liberty for a nationalist victory. Story’s "secret" letter to Senator Berrien proposed a federal commissioner system to streamline slave capture.  Story's children tried to suppress that letter.

Regardless of his motives, the result of Prigg was increased tensions between north and south as the northern states used the loophole to harass and thwart southern slave catchers, resulting in the Fugitive Slave Act of 1850.

The 1850 version was a radical expansion of federal power that fundamentally altered the legal landscape of the United States. While the 1793 act had been largely symbolic and difficult to enforce, the 1850 statute turned the federal government into an active agent for the recovery of human property.

The Act bypassed traditional courts by creating a new class of federal officers called Commissioners. These individuals had the power to grant certificates for the removal of a "fugitive" back to the South. This removed these cases from the jurisdiction of local judges who might be sympathetic to the accused.  

In one of the most controversial sections of the law, Commissioners were paid $10 if they ruled in favor of the claimant (the owner) but only $5 if they ruled in favor of the accused. The official justification was that more paperwork was required for a removal certificate, but abolitionists pointed to this as a blatant federal bribe to ensure the return of individuals into bondage.

The law stripped the accused of nearly every legal protection: No Jury Trial: The Commissioner alone decided the person’s fate; No Right to Testify: The individual being claimed was legally prohibited from testifying on their own behalf;  Cases were often decided based solely on an affidavit provided by the claimant, which the accused had no power to challenge.

The Act compelled ordinary citizens to participate in the capture of "fugitives." Federal marshals were authorized to "summon and call to their aid the bystanders" or a posse comitatus. Any citizen who refused to assist a marshal, or who helped an individual escape, faced a fine of $1,000 (a massive sum in 1850) and up to six months in prison.

By making the recovery of "property" a federal responsibility, the law effectively invalidated the "free" status of Northern states. It mandated that federal warrants be honored everywhere, meaning that an individual's legal status was no longer determined by the laws of the state where they lived, but by the laws of the state from which they had allegedly fled.

These provisions outraged free states. Resistance to the 1850 statute transformed from quiet defiance into organized, often militant, confrontation, as many Northerners viewed the law as a direct assault on their state sovereignty and moral conscience. The "Vigilance Committees" of cities like Boston and Philadelphia became the nerve centers of this movement, providing legal counsel, financial aid, and safe passage for those targeted by federal marshals. It provided justification for an expansion of the Underground Railroad.

Resistance frequently turned physical; in the Christiana Riot of 1851 and the rescue of Joshua Glover in Wisconsin, interracial crowds of abolitionists used force to liberate captives from federal custody, openly daring the government to enforce the "Bloodhound Law." By turning the act of capture into a public spectacle of violence and injustice, resistors successfully radicalized a previously moderate Northern public, shifting the debate from a legal dispute over property into a moral crisis that rendered the law virtually unenforceable in many regions. In addition, In response to the 1850 Act, several states passed new, even stricter laws that effectively made it a state crime for anyone—including private citizens—to assist in a federal capture.

In the 1859 decision of Ableman v. Booth, the Supreme Court issued a forceful defense of federal supremacy against state-level judicial resistance. The case arose after the Wisconsin Supreme Court declared the Fugitive Slave Act of 1850 unconstitutional and issued a writ of habeas corpus to release Sherman Booth, an abolitionist editor who had helped rescue a fugitive from federal custody. Chief Justice Roger B. Taney, writing for a unanimous Court, reversed the state’s decision, asserting that state courts have no authority to interfere with federal prisoners or overturn federal statutes. The ruling established a critical precedent for the hierarchy of the American legal system: while states are sovereign in their own sphere, they cannot use their judicial power to "nullify" federal law or obstruct the execution of federal warrants. It's also ironic in that this case  is a rare instance where Northern states argued for "States' Rights" while the Taney Court—usually associated with Southern interests—insisted on absolute Federal Supremacy to protect the Fugitive Slave Act.

The legal developments of the antebellum era reveal a federal government that functioned consistently as an "extrajurisdictional agent" for the South. Through the jurisprudence of Prigg v. Pennsylvania, the Supreme Court effectively erased the personhood of those seized, replacing state-level protections with a nationalized "vigilante’s license." Justice Story’s brand of judicial nationalism attempted to "preserve the Union" by centralizing the issue of slavery, yet in doing so, he removed the safety valves of state sovereignty that protected free Black citizens.

By stripping Northern states of their power to uphold the presumption of freedom and subordinating "Revolutionary idealism" to the protection of property, the federal government did not save the Union—it accelerated its fracturing. The prioritization of slaveholding interests over individual liberty ensured that the conflict could no longer be contained within the sterile halls of the Court. In seeking to build a federal shield for slavery, the judiciary and the executive branch instead forged the very weapons that would eventually dismantle the constitutional order they sought to protect.

* The original Constitution used the traditional British spellings. 

Sources:

Ableman v. Booth, 62 U.S. 506 (1858)

Baker, H. R. (2014). A better story in Prigg v. Pennsylvania? Journal of Supreme Court History, 39(2), 169-189. https://doi.org/10.1353/sch.2014.0011

Coles, N. A., & Masurek, S. J. (2014). An analysis of the Fugitive Slave Act: When Congress passed on act that violated the American constitution.

Fehrenbacher, D. E. (1978). The Dred Scott case: Its significance in American law and politics.  (Chapter on Prigg)

Finkelman, P. (1997). Prigg v. Pennsylvania understanding justice story's Proslavery nationalism. Journal of Supreme Court History, 22(2), 51-64. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1540-5818.1997.tb00111.x

Goldstein, L. F. (2011). A "Triumph of Freedom" After All? Prigg v. Pennsylvania Re-examined. Law and History Review, 29(3), 763–796.

Maltz, E. M. (2010). Fugitive slave on trial: The Anthony burns case and abolitionist outrage.

(n.d.). New York State Parks, Recreation & Historic Preservation. https://parks.ny.gov/sites/default/files/FugitiveSlaveAct1793.pdf

Prigg v. Pennsylvania, 41 U.S. 539 (1842) https://supreme.justia.com/cases/federal/us/41/539/

Prigg v. Pennsylvania and the Fugitive Slave Act of 1850. (2024). Fugitive Slave on Trial, 15-29. https://doi.org/10.2307/jj.13168062.6

Waldstreicher, D. (2010). Slavery's constitution: From revolution to ratification. Macmillan.