by C A Bird
But then came 2:45 p.m.
On August 21 at 2:45 p.m. a Quick-Alert is displayed on the video display screens of the NORAD Command Center, initiated by one of the Air Force Space Command’s worldwide network of Space Warning Squadrons. Infrared sensors had detected an unidentified, rapidly moving source of energy, which could be an intercontinental ballistic missile. A “threat fan” is generated by the Cheyenne Mountain computers.
“Jefferson! What the Hell is your problem?” Leroy vaguely heard the voice as it barely penetrated his consciousness. In near catatonia, with his eyeballs fixed and his mouth drooling spittle down the front of his uniform, he pissed his pants, urine soaking through his uniform and forming a puddle at his feet. His body had finally ceased shaking as he stared at the vast room’s huge central monitor.
“Oh my God!” was the last thing he ever heard before his mind shut down forever. The Lieutenant was also staring at the screen. Showing on the map, overlaid with a grid of lines representing longitude and latitude and depicting the United States, Canada, and the North Polar Region, were hundreds of lights, each one an incoming intercontinental ballistic missile with one or more nuclear warheads.
The indicator switched to Defcon 1.
August 21, 2:45 p.m.
Denver, CO
John Arnaud slammed on his brakes, bringing his car to a jerking stop in front of his house. He jumped from the vehicle even before it completely stopped moving and bolted through the unlocked front door. “The bitch is seriously going to pay for that fucking remark she made to Veronica!” He muttered as he stormed into the house. What was wrong with her? Even though the accusation was true, he was infuriated she would embarrass him in that manner. He’d returned from an early afternoon meeting and Ronny angrily informed him about the call. He was so furious he left work early to teach the bitch a lesson she would never forget.
He slammed the front door and looked hurriedly around the front room, noticing Lori’s note propped against the radio on the kitchen pass-through counter. He snatched it up and read it.
“You arrogant asshole - You beat me, you beat our children, and you fucked your secretary. Now you deserve anything that happens to you when the world goes up in flames. Dad sent me a map to a bomb shelter and I’ve taken the kids. We’ll be safe while you burn in Hell!”
He was temporarily shocked out of his fury. What in hell was she prattling about? He grabbed the remote and switched on the T.V. The cable was out.
“Fuck!” He slammed the remote controller across the room and turned on the radio, twirling the dial quickly as he had trouble locating a station. Most of them seemed to be off the air with loud static blaring from the speaker.
Suddenly, a clear signal came through, “. . . minutes to impact. We repeat, the first of hundreds of incoming missiles will strike in approximately ten minutes. It appears that major cities from coast to coast have been targeted. Get under cover and stay tuned to this emergency station. We will continue to broadcast for as long as we can.”
He stood there totally dumbfounded. Then he realized the significance of her note and the radio message. Denver was certainly a major city. He balled up his fists, looked up at the ceiling and screamed with fury, his neck muscles distending and his veins pulsing. Crumpling the note, he flung it across the room. Going berserk, he knocked the radio off the counter with a backhand, then ran across the room and ripped the paintings off the walls, overturned furniture and kicked gaping holes in the drywall. Exhausted, he threw himself in a corner, arms across his head, and screamed and bawled in frustration. “You Bitch! YOU FUCKING BITCH!”
August 21, 2:58 p.m.
Sangre de Cristo Mountains, NM
Taking the curves too fast, Robert Crowder gripped the wheel with white knuckles and prayed he and Lisa would arrive on time. She had called him immediately when the device went off, but he foolishly finished his assignment before heading home! The assignment seemed so important at the time but now he realized how utterly stupid he had been. Lisa looked nauseated as he careened around mountain curves speeding south on highway 25 at 2:58 p.m. They were coming from the north, from Colorado Springs where he worked as a communications instructor at The United States Air Force Academy. The baby’s infant carrier leaned sideways as he barreled around a curve at 75 miles per hour.
The radio was tuned to the emergency channel, since most others had ceased broadcasting, and they heard that incoming missiles had been detected. He suspected that Colorado Springs and possibly Denver might be targets, and wondered how far away he had to be to keep from getting hit with the blast or thermal effects. Dear God, he thought, what if they hit Los Alamos? He kept on praying.
***
Dr. Sterling Harrington wandered through the wide hallways of Denver’s Cherry Creek Mall swearing over and over again to himself when he heard the news. Tears rolled down his cheeks but no one noticed. He’d had a key to life and he destroyed it. All his degrees, the papers he had published, “The Group Psychology of Confined Individuals,” the new therapies he had developed, all were worthless now. Someone, he would never know whom, had found him worthy and had sent him a black box and he had destroyed it.
There were others running through the mall with merchandise in their arms. Maybe they thought it really wouldn’t happen and they would make off with whatever they could carry.
There was evidence of the earlier panic, broken glass, and overturned benches, mannequins in grotesque positions knocked from their window displays. A group of looters came around the corner and ploughed into him. They all went sprawling. The looters quickly gathered up their stolen goods and disappeared, leaving him alone in the eerily empty mall. He stood and brushed off his clothes. He would meet his end with dignity. A few minutes ago Sterling had heard someone in the crowd screaming that missiles were detected en route for the United States and the crowds had departed, trying to get home to their loved ones, attempting to leave town before the bombs arrived and leaving the mall looking like the aftermath of the world’s end. He righted an overturned bench and sat down realizing it was indeed the end of the world.
He was totally alone. It was 3:02 p.m. and he had one more minute to live.
August 21, 3:30 p.m.
Bering Strait
Captain Richard Dombrowski paced the bridge of the Ohio Class, nuclear powered submarine. It was gliding through the water south of the Aleutian chain off the coast of Alaska and he had just disobeyed direct orders from the United States Military Command.
“Sir,” The Exec informed him again in his southern accent. “We have been ordered to fire our missiles.”
“I’m aware of that Mr. Finney,” he replied. “But the United States has already responded to the attack with a killing blow. I’m concerned about throwing everything we have at them and having nothing left in reserve.” The Captain had always been a man that considered all options and wasn’t afraid to put forth alternative courses of action.
“I don’t think we are the ones to worry about that, Sir. We have received direct orders.”
“Well Sir, there may not be any one left to answer to. I’m saying we need to think ahead. We are officers of the United States Navy. We are paid to think as well as to follow orders.” He turned to the communications officer. “Are we picking up anything?”
“No Sir. It’s dead. I think the EMP has knocked everything out.”
“Well, gentlemen, we have a choice. We were at extreme depth, which seems to have protected us from the EMP. Our systems are all still operational. We can fire our missiles and slink back home to hope that China and Russia have nothing left as well, or we can go back to San Diego with a full complement of missiles and possibly be the only protection our country has if they try to attack us later.”
There was silence on the bridge as the crew considered his words.
The Exec looked at Captain Dombrowski with a sheepish grin. “Sir, hopefully the targets we were to hit have been taken out by other missiles. I know there was redundancy
for every target. I believe you’re correct in that we may be all that’s left to protect the West Coast. I’d sure rather still have some teeth if they try to hit us later.”
The Captain stood immobile for a few seconds then ordered, “Bring us about and set course for San Diego. Stand down the launch.”
He fervently hoped he had made the correct decision.
August 21, 9:00 p.m.
Sangre de Cristo Mountains, NM
Wincing with pain, Aaron Brown succeeded in turning his head enough to elevate his nose and mouth above the muddy water that chilled his face and saturated his clothes. He struggled to regain consciousness, desperately trying to remember the circumstances surrounding his current predicament.
This wasn’t his life. He knew it wasn’t his life. He was a doctor. What happened to put him in this dark place, barely able to breathe and in this intense pain? He vaguely recalled a journey through unimaginable hell. His head cleared slightly, his thoughts traveling back in time to this morning’s first surgical case and the beginning of this nightmare.
Aaron’s surgery schedule began daily at 7:00 a.m. University Hospital, a 384 bed tertiary hospital, was the primary teaching hospital for the University of New Mexico at Albuquerque. From the day he arrived as a first year resident he’d found a plethora of interesting cases on which to sharpen his skills. His first case this morning, a routine cholecystectomy, went well and the patient would recover uneventfully. The next case, an exploratory laparotomy, went sour soon after the surgeon made the opening incision. The patient was loaded with metastasized cancer and Dr. Mannix, the surgeon, while attempting to completely excise the largest tumor, nicked an artery. All hell broke loose. The customary blood order for an exploratory lap is a type and screen; no blood had been crossmatched.
“Brown! Why the hell didn’t you keep the field clear? Get that cell-saver over here! Call the lab and get six units ‘stat’!”
It took the lab twenty-five minutes to get blood crossmatched. They transfused four units, and an hour later than originally expected, they wheeled the patient into recovery. Aaron was confident he wasn’t at fault and swore that when he became a practicing surgeon he would never blame a resident for his mistakes.
It was approaching eleven a.m. when they broke for lunch, the residents gathering in the doctors’ lounge to discuss their cases. The first year surgical resident, David Garcia, was questioning Aaron and furiously scribbling notes when the phone rang. Garcia, low man on the totem pole, answered it, motioning to Aaron, “There’s a God-awful racket coming from your room. Mrs. Newell says it sounds like an alarm or something and it’s driving them nuts. Been ringing for over an hour.”
“Alright, tell her I’ll check it out.” As Aaron left the lounge he told Garcia, “Finish reviewing those notes and get scrubbed for the next case. I’ll be right back.”
“Hey man, don’t we get to eat lunch?” David, as usual had overslept and missed breakfast.
“You have ten minutes. Better grab something quick,” Aaron was seldom able to get lunch himself until things slowed down around two in the afternoon.
The residential wing was on the ground floor of an older section of the hospital. He rounded the corner and went from the gleaming “Alvarez” wing to the 30 years older “Harper” wing. Proceeding down a corridor, a right turn brought him to the hallway where his room was located. He could already hear the jangling alarm and was puzzled about its origin. As he unlocked the door, and pushed into the room, his eyes immediately rested on the device he’d thrown on the closet shelf the previous day. He stood stunned for a moment, then glanced quickly at a nurse standing behind him, shrugged at her, and closed the door squarely in her face. He hurried across the room, grabbed the box, which was now partially opened and examined the back. The hinged compartment swung down, spilling the contents onto the floor. Aaron noticed a toggle switch in the compartment, flipped it and was rewarded with sudden silence. He reached down and retrieved a note, some money, and once he’d unfolded it, what appeared to be a map. He briefly glanced at the map and read the note,
SINCE YOU ARE READING THIS MESSAGE THE WORST HAS COME TO PASS. NUCLEAR WAR IS IMMINENT! YOU MUST LEAVE FOR THE SHELTER IMMEDIATELY. I CANNOT OVEREMPHASIZE THE URGENCY OF THE SITUATION. YOUR ONLY CHANCE FOR SURVIVAL IS TO FOLLOW THESE DIRECTIONS WITHOUT DELAY. DON'T BOTHER TO BRING PROVISIONS WITH YOU, AS EVERYTHING WILL BE PROVIDED. BRING YOUR IMMEDIATE FAMILY AND ONLY THOSE POSSESSIONS THAT ARE PRECIOUS TO YOU AND CAN BE CARRIED ON YOUR PERSON. HURRY AND GOOD LUCK!
He stood there totally confused, unable to assimilate the contents of the message. There was no way he could just leave, not with another surgery in a few minutes. Of course, if this message weren’t a classic Jenkins practical joke, the surgery wouldn’t matter. He looked around the room he’d lived in for over three years, and would live in for another two if this wailing siren was a hoax and didn’t signal the end of the world as he knew it. It was home.
His Levi’s were tossed across the end of the bed and his closet door stood open, revealing a few clothes and his guitar, standing in the corner. An open textbook lay on the desk where he had been studying the night before and the bookshelf was bowed from the weight of every textbook he bought for medical school, and had been unable to get rid of. A stereo occupied the top of the tiny dresser, which also held a picture of his younger brother and sisters.
On impulse he crossed to the dresser and removed the picture from the frame, noticing that his fingers were shaking. When he went to replace the frame on the dresser it slipped from his fingers and shattered on the floor. The noise galvanized him into action, and he moved quickly around the room. He put the picture in the back pocket of his jeans but left them on the bed. Grabbing a small daypack out of the closet, he emptied the contents on the bed, an old Gameboy video game, a pocketknife, a small first aid kit and an unopened package of Gummy Bears. He stuffed the things back inside and went into the bathroom, adding his toothbrush, toothpaste, a washrag, a small bar of soap, and his razor. He returned to the room, tossing the bag on the bed, his mind a confused jumble of thoughts. How long, he wondered, before the bombs come, assuming they come at all. He stopped to reconsider his actions, needing to think through the facts before he made any rash decisions that could ruin his career.
He hurried back toward the surgical suites. Was this whole thing for real? Why wasn’t it on the news? He detoured and went by the hospital gift shop to buy a paper, noticing that everything seemed so normal; the pink shop with its aroma of fresh flower arrangements in the cooler, stuffed animals on the shelves and magazine racks with People and The Enquirer. The cheerful volunteer, her smock identifying her as a member of the Hospital Auxiliary, smiled as he came in. He went to the newspaper rack and scanned the headlines, looking for evidence of a serious problem. “Secretary of State to go to Moscow”, “China Tests Nuclear Weapons,” They proclaimed. He knew events were transpiring that he wasn’t aware of because of his isolation as a surgical resident. With a touch of guilt he realized he hadn’t seen a paper or news broadcast in weeks but he did know he was late for his next case and he quickly headed for surgery.
“Where the hell have you been Brown, we’re ready to start. Get scrubbed.” Harold Ewing, the surgeon, looked irritated. He was an outside man and Aaron would be assisting on his private case. The patient on the operating table was already prepped and the surgeon had finished scrubbing. Aaron quickly scrubbed and entered the operating room to find Ewing briefing the surgical team as he took his place opposite the surgeon. The patient was anesthetized, the nurse anesthetist reporting blood pressure, temperature, and pulse were fine and he had control of the patient’s breathing.
Ewing was in a foul mood, his usual state, and berated Aaron continually about minor details until Aaron was getting angry himself. “Brown, can’t you clamp those bleeders any quicker than that? It’s sloppier than hell in here.”
“This sounds just like the last surgery.” Aaron thought. “What is this? Aaron Brown
screw-up day?” The surgery seemed to deteriorate into slow-motion, a horrid nightmare, as he first looked up from the patient to Ewing, and then glanced at the scrub nurse and the anesthesiologist. The awful clamor of the siren was ringing in his imagination. It suddenly occurred to him, “Oh my God!” that it could be real, and he was wasting time. He looked at the clock - 12:05 p.m. The second hand swept the dial and he stood transfixed unable to take his eyes off the inexorably advancing time.
“Brown! What the hell are you doing? Wake up and pay attention!”
Ewing was glaring at Aaron while a small amount of blood welled up into the incision. The nurse applied suction and the blood welled up again. Aaron stared at Dr. Ewing but looked down again and concentrated with all his energies until the surgeon had finished. He could never leave a patient in the middle of a surgery.
“Go ahead and close, Brown.” Ewing instructed him, but as far as Aaron was concerned, the surgery was over, the patient in good hands. With sudden resolve he handed a hemostat to the nurse. “Here, Mrs. Stark.” She stared at him in shocked amazement.
He looked back at the surgeon, his mind suddenly made up. “Screw you Ewing! You close it.” He strode purposefully from the operating theatre.
As he hit the corridor outside the surgical suite he broke into a run. He rounded the corner to the Harper suite and bowled over a group of young nursing students, skidding to a halt to help them up. He muttered apologies and started down the hallway. Then he stopped, turned back, and said to them, “Did you know we’re having a nuclear war and you’re all going to die soon?”
