Day of the Bomb

by Steve Stroble

  “UFOs?” Bill began to regret his invitation.

  “Uh huh. Only they don’t know how they’re playing with fire. Someday they’re going to get burned.”

  “Huh?”

  “This is totally off the record big daddy. Some cat in L.A. invited me to something he called a gathering. Turned out the cat was a devil worshipper and he was trying to get me to join up.”

  “But what’s that got to do with –”

  Dave held up his hand. “Don’t get up tight, daddy-o. They had their meeting out in the desert somewhere. They blindfolded me on the way there and on the way back to L.A. so that I’m still not sure where it was we were at. Anyway, they drew this giant pentagram in the sand and started chanting all their hocus pocus spells. Pretty soon this great big blob of light comes up out of the sand. After about twenty minutes it took on the shape of a flying saucer and zoomed on off. Must have been going Mach-10 at least.”

  Bill rolled his eyes. “You smoke that marijuana that I read the beatniks like so much?”

  “I have to take the Fifth on that. But I was stone cold sober when I saw it. Scout’s honor.” He held up the three-finger salute. “I never went to another meeting. Not this cat. From what I heard some of those devil worshippers use up all of their nine lives before their time. Scary stuff. The guy who invited me disappeared a few months later. Everything was still in his apartment. The cops are still baffled. They didn’t believe my story either. Say, cool daddy-O, let’s deep six all this cloak and dagger jive. You’re cool even if you are a spook turning over rocks looking for threats to our country. Let’s head on back to my pad and I’ll spin you some really boss jazz.”

  “Uh, maybe some other time.”

  They parted company in the parking lot with Bill saying he needed to “hit the motel and write up my findings.”

  Dave smirked as he watched Bill’s car turn off toward the row of stores and motel outside of the front gate of the base. He steered his 90cc Honda motorcycle toward home, a studio apartment sixteen miles from the base. The recently purchased cycle was his only luxury. Everything he could save from his paychecks went toward his ramshackle cabin in the mountains, his oasis on weekends and holidays and eventual refuge when the bombs started falling. His latest remodeling had included layers of lead attached to the cabin’s inner walls. A warm sensation filled him as he reflected on its superior protective powers compared to the tin foil that had wrapped his body the day the first atomic bomb had exploded. His mind drifted to his favorite scenario.

  They’ll take out L.A. for sure. No loss there. Of course our B-52s and missiles will incinerate them right back. He chuckled. I knew my beatnik act would send Agent Bill whatever his real last name is running for cover.

  ***

  When Bill returned to Washington, D.C., family life tempered his work life. His wife Karen said she had burned her candle at both ends for too many years in that tone of voice that makes husbands finally listen.

  “I feel like I’m burning wick instead of wax,” she said. “I can’t go on.”

  Bill retreated to his sanctuary, a den populated by an aquarium filled with fish, snails, and plants; a cage with a family of parakeets; and a dry aquarium with five lizards that looked more like statues than reptiles. His cat and dog joined him, the former on his lap and the latter at his feet. They nuzzled him as he petted them. He pondered his dilemma for three hours before returning to his wife.

  “I don’t hit retirement age for another six years so I feel stuck.”

  “Can’t you take some job where you don’t have to travel all the time? The kids need you here. They need a full-time father, not some secret agent man who can’t tell them a thing about what he does.”

  Bill remembered an unsolicited job that a former co-worker had offered three weeks earlier: “If you ever get tired of being an agent you can come work for me,” he had said. “It would be a desk job with the Department of Agriculture, a boring routine compared to the DIA.”

  Better bored than having Karen crack up. He stared at her and wondered how many of the wrinkles on her face he had caused.

  “I’m sorry, Bill. But everybody has their breaking point,” she said.

  “I know. I’ll call Jerry about that administrator job, okay?”

  Karen answered with tears and a smile that somehow washed away some of the wrinkles as the seemingly two-ton boulder rolled from her.

  That left one unfinished task at the DIA for Bill, the report detailing his findings after visiting seven military installations throughout Southern California. Before, he had exercised deference in his reports. With nothing to lose, he put his true conclusions to paper for his first and last report for the DIA. It was thorough, twenty pages, but the summary was concise enough that his boss would read at least that much:

  Summary

  While the deficiencies and recommendations detailed in this report are important, a more pressing concern needs to be addressed. It is one that is systemic throughout America’s intelligence operations. For the DIA, the main organizations in which our duties might overlap are the FBI, NSA, and CIA. This is so because while the FBI’s scope is limited to domestic issues, and the NSA’s and CIA’s scope is international, the DIA’s scope is both because we have military stationed in dozens of countries. If one includes the marines assigned to our embassies, the number of countries is well over 100.

  For whatever reason, there is little to no cooperation among these agencies. Each one conducts surveillance and intelligence gathering but the data collected is not shared or given only sporadically to anyone outside of each agency. Call them empires, kingdoms, whatever, each exists to perpetuate itself by strict protocols against releasing that data. Simply put, the right hand does not know what the left hand is doing.

  Not only is this ineffective, it is dangerous. Needless duplication of efforts is played out while genuine security threats to our nation go undetected. Thus far, we have dodged the bullet. But with more nations obtaining the atomic bomb and developing biological and chemical agents, we must change the way we operate. I recommend that liaisons be established between these agencies at every level so that a sharing of data can be continually maintained. If we do not, at some point we will sow the wind and reap the whirlwind.

  Bill placed his report on his boss’ desk before lunch on a Friday and left the building, never to return. Attached to the report was his letter of resignation “due to family matters.” As was his habit, the agent in charge tossed the foot high stack of paper from his in basket into his briefcase and took it home. By 10:30 p.m. Saturday night he had reached and finished Bill’s report and sighed as he read the attached letter.

  Instinctively he knew Bill’s summary was correct. But passing it on up the line would only create waves. As a mid-level administrator he daily had to “get with the program” and “go along to get along.” Otherwise there would be no further promotions and he would languish where he was or perhaps be shipped off to some remote location as punishment. He detached the summary from the report, shredded it, and then used the long thin strips to start a fire under the cherry and oak logs sitting in the five-foot wide fireplace. He picked up that day’s copy of the Washington Post.

  Damn it all, they sure screwed up on that Bay of Pigs invasion. There are still stories about it months later. I bet heads are still rolling over at the Agency.

  Chapter 24

  Summer of 1962 offered hope. JFK had rebounded after deserting the invaders of Cuba. Now he had the country looking at the Moon and beyond. A pragmatist, he called for tax cuts in the belief that they would ultimately result in more tax revenues as the economy grew. Wall Street and Main Street got on board. Ike might have given security and started an interstate highway system that was connecting the nation; JFK presented Camelot, complete with beautiful wife Jackie and cute kids Caroline and John John. An understanding media swept any dark side under the rug, such as his sleeping with Hollywood starlets and gangster’s molls.

  Fan
tasy was also readily available to the masses via television. Walt Disney’s Wonderful World of Color beamed it weekly into homes. Jason joked that for the Dalrumples it was the wonderful world of color in black and white. He fended off any requests for upgrades. “I’ll buy us a color TV when they cost the same as black and white ones.”

  But seeing the Magic Kingdom in person was doable, Jason decided. To fund the trip, the Dalrumples had skipped vacations for three years. The money saved went in to a bank account they called Disneyland or Bust. When Stanley stepped up his soda bottle redemption efforts to contribute to the account, Jason decided to reward him.

  “You can pick one friend to come on along with us to Disneyland, son.”

  “Really?” Now fifteen and possessing the body of a man but the mind of a ten-year old, Stanley appreciated any decision making delegated to him. “I want Dan to go along! Can I go tell him? Huh? Can I?”

  “Sure.”

  Sally Richmond was unsure of the offer. Dan was fourteen and reminded her of Elvis’ sneer and James Dean’s cockiness. First she lay down expectations of perfect behavior from Dan. Then she talked to Thelma.

  “You know I think Dan would be in reform school by now if it hadn’t been for Jason being like a father for him since Fred died.”

  “Truth be told, I think Dan has helped Stanley be more than we ever expected. He’s the only kid in Madisin that treats him like he’s normal. He even makes Stanley forget he’s retarded.”

  ***

  The Mother Road that stretched from Chicago to L.A. was no longer the most direct route for them to go to Disneyland. But it was the most scenic. They started to get their kicks on Route 66 when they turned south at Baxter Springs, Kansas.

  Sometimes two lanes, sometimes four, the highway was being overshadowed and at times replaced by the interstates bit by bit. Because there were a lot of architectural oddities and scenery along Route 66 Mr. and Mrs. Dalrumple were entertained. Not so their son.

  “Are we almost there yet?” became Stanley’s refrain every ten miles until Texas. By then, Jason’s exasperation had inspired Dan to invent games to distract Stanley from the never-ending road.

  “Okay, now that we’re in Texas we’re going to count license plates from any other state, Stanley.”

  “Why?”

  “For something to do instead of bugging your dad. Whoever counts up the most by the time we get to New Mexico wins.”

  “Okay.” Seated on the left side of the rear seat, Stanley could usually spot the plates from oncoming traffic first. “California plate, one. Arizona plate, two.”

  Jason turned up the ball game on the radio to drown out his son’s count. By the time they reached Kingman, Arizona the next day, Stanley was at 782 non-Arizona license plates. Dan lagged behind at 351.

  “You see any motels you like?” Jason asked.

  “They all remind me of the one we spent our honeymoon in. The roach motel.” Thelma squirmed.

  “Las Vegas is only a couple hours north of here.” Jason elbowed her. “What do you say?”

  Thelma studied a map. “But it’s a hundred miles out of the way.”

  “It’ll be our second honeymoon, without roaches. Come on. You only live once.”

  She shrugged, Jason smiled and steered the car northward. Stanley nodded off at plate number 795 as the sun set.

  Their Las Vegas motel was on the strip, close enough to the big casinos that Jason could reach them on foot. He left the others to the pool and air conditioned room, welcome relief from the still warm air. At each casino, Jason walked to the blackjack tables and studied the faces of the dealers. In the fourth casino he found the one who had dealt him so many winning hands at sea during wartime. The ex-sergeant looked the same except for thinner and grayer hair and a paunch created by the alcohol drunk before and after every shift to calm his nerves and steady his dealing motion. Jason had grown a beard for two months and dyed his hair from blond to black the night before leaving Madisin.

  “Have to look handsome for all those California gals,” he had explained to Thelma. “Especially those movie stars.”

  She had laughed until tears formed. “A mask would work better.”

  Jason studied the players until a seat opened up for him after one of them ran out of chips. It took five hands before the Professor’s Method kicked in and he began to win. The dealer pretended to not notice. As long as this guy’s losing hands eventually outnumbered the winning ones, who cared? The other four players called out their requests after receiving their next two cards, one face down and the other face up.

  “Hit me.”

  “I’ll stay.”

  “Hit me.”

  “Hit me.”

  Seated at the end of the table, Jason mechanically counted off the value of the exposed cards according to the Method. “I’m good.”

  When Jason’s hand of sixteen won the dealer started to squirm. He began to sweat when Jason shoved his entire pile of chips forward as a bet on his next hand. “The man is hot. Someone pour water on this guy. He’s red hot.”

  Jason noticed the glance the dealer snuck at the player in the middle. He sighed. Some things never change.

  Within a half hour, Jason’s pile of chips was so large that he dropped half of them into his coat pocket. A small crowd gathered around the table and cheered each time he won. Finally, the dealer slammed the deck on the table.

  “You’re cheating!” He wagged his finger in Jason’s face. “I’ve only seen one other guy ever win that many hands. “He…he…” The dealer bent forward until his eyes were five inches from Jason’s. “It’s you. I should’ve known. Security!”

  The shouted command brought two beefy men in green blazers to the table. “What’s the problem?” one asked.

  “He’s cheating.” The dealer pointed at Jason.

  “Actually, sirs, the dealer is dealing off the bottom of the deck to his partner.” Jason pointed at the player in a baggy suit and half knotted tie. The accusation brought forth his stutter.

  “I tol… told you to…to…to…to be ca…care…careful!” He stood and bolted for an exit.

  One of the guards, a third-string tackle for the Los Angeles Rams who worked the casinos during the off seasons, tackled him halfway through the door. They tumbled onto the sidewalk. The second guard grabbed the cheater by the arm and dragged him toward an office. A pit boss motioned for the partner in crime to leave the table with him.

  “Sorry folks. This table’s temporarily closed down.” He took the dealer for interrogation by the casino managers.

  “The guy’s a cheater!” The dealer yelled. “He cleaned me out on a troop ship during the war. I thought he was dead.”

  “Tell it to the boss.”

  Jason divided up his chips still on the table among the remaining three players. “Those two were taking you for a ride before I sat down. This should cover part of your losses because of those crooks.”

  As Jason walked away to cash in the chips in his pocket the growing crowd cheered and thanked him. His winnings totaled $372. He calculated that after factoring for inflation for the last seventeen years he had won back the amount lost when the monkey troop had torn apart his winnings from so long ago on Monkey Island. Putting the ex-sergeant and still crooked dealer out of business made him even happier. The extra money would allow him, Thelma, and boys to extend their vacation. “You only live once.” He would repeat the phrase every time Thelma questioned his largess.

  Once they had crossed the state line into California, Stanley abandoned the license plate game. Instead, he watched for every mileage sign and announced the remaining miles to Los Angeles twenty-nine times before his dad finally said, “We’re here, Stanley. At last, thank God.”

  They toured Disneyland the next day. Jason bought four books of tickets for rides, handed them to Stanley and Dan, and ordered them to meet him at the front entrance at 8 p.m. The lines were long, so it took them all morning to ride to the top of the Matterhorn, travel aboa
rd the submarine Nautilus for about the length of a football field under the sea, take the jungle boat on a safari, and hang onto a runaway ore car through gold mines once. They fought pirates in the Caribbean, flew flying saucers and rocket ships in Tommorowland, got sick on Mr. Toad’s wild ride, and rode the monorail around the park’s perimeter more than once. The rest of their day was spent firing pellet guns at the shooting galleries, watching shows, and stuffing themselves on sugary, fat-laced goodies. By the time they met Mr. and Mrs. Dalrumple at the gate they were too tired for anything else. It took Jason an hour to rouse them the next morning.

  “Get up, you sleepyheads or you’ll miss all the good waves those Beach Boys are always singing about.”

  “Huh?” Stanley rolled over.

  “We’re going to the beach.”

  Stanley grunted and Dan buried his head beneath his pillow. Breakfast partially revived them. Unfamiliar with the morning rush hour traffic, Jason abandoned the freeway after travelling five miles in stop and go traffic. The boulevards were less congested and they reached Venice Beach at 10:30. “Here’s the plan.” Jason grabbed Stanley’s shoulders. “Your mom and me are going to take one of those tours to see where all the movie stars live up in Beverly Hills. We’ll be back to pick you up for supper around five. Just stay next to Dan all the time since you don’t know how to swim yet.”

  It was 84 degrees by 1 p.m. so they retreated to the shade next to a lifeguard stand. Stanley questioned his friend’s behavior.

  “Why are you gawking at the girls so much for?”

  “They sure don’t wear swimming suits like those back home.” He pointed at the smallest bikini within sight.

  “Mom says gals like that are Jezebels. I bet it was really her idea to go to Beverly Hills just so Dad wouldn’t be staring like you are.”

  Twenty minutes later a girl who appeared to be their age walked by carrying an umbrella and beach chair. She dropped the umbrella at Stanley’s feet.

  “Oh darn it. It’s so heavy.”

  “Let me help you out. My name’s Dan.”

  Her smile sent a rush through his body. She led him to a spot twenty feet from where the foam of the waves retreated back to their source and instructed Dan on how to plant the umbrella in the sand.