Rip the Angels from Heaven

by David Krugler

  “North relay four,” he said loudly.

  Brode was crouched in front of an open metal cabinet affixed to one of the tower’s pylons. He clicked a switch.

  “Check,” Kistiakowsky, who was standing behind Brode, called out.

  I walked over to Jarowsky. He was standing just outside of the headlights’ beam, so as not to block the light. Smoke twisted from the cigarette in his right hand as he gazed up at the tower. I’d expected a formidable structure, but the tower was spindly. A metal ladder reached to a deck at the top. Wires dropped from the deck, stretching in all directions to sturdy T-poles embedded in the desert soil.

  I lit a Lucky. “What’s up there?” I asked, figuring I had nothing to lose. The worst Jarowsky could do was say I didn’t have clearance.

  But he answered, his gaze still directed upward. “The gadget.”

  “Funny.”

  “For real. That’s what they call it.”

  “The gadget?”

  Now he looked at me, taking a long drag. “If they used its real name, would any one of us know what they meant?”

  “Good point.”

  “Looks like a goddamned diving bell,” Jarowsky said.

  I was about to ask him more when Bainbridge caught our attention. “Mason’s going up,” he announced. “Should be back down in five minutes tops, then we’re done.”

  “Okay,” Jarowsky responded as we watched Brode deftly, swiftly climb the ladder.

  I felt a surge of complex emotions. Curiosity, because I wanted to know what, exactly, the gadget was; dread, because I couldn’t know until the detonation what, exactly, the gadget was; apprehension, because unless I left Trinity with Brode’s diagram of how the gadget worked, I wouldn’t save myself; and grudging admiration at how thoroughly the Russians had penetrated this project. After all, a Russian spy would be the last human alone with the gadget before the zero time. For a moment, I wondered if Brode would sabotage the gadget so that the test fizzled. Wouldn’t a bred-in-the-bone Red want the United States to fail while ensuring that the Russians succeeded? Then I remembered how proud, how boastful Brode had been when he had come to Washington in May to deliver the diagram. He wanted the bomb to work to prove how smart he was, and he wanted me to tell the Russians what I’d just seen: Brode was the last scientist to handle the gadget.

  After three minutes, Brode calmly descended the ladder. He handed a sheet of paper to Bainbridge, who scanned it.

  “Okay, we’re all set, let’s go,” he said.

  We got into the car. The tires crunched slowly as I backed up, then steered onto the road.

  “Oh-four-fifty-seven,” Kistiakowsky announced, looking at his watch.

  “Wonderful. Lieutenant Voigt won’t have to speed,” Brode quipped. Everyone laughed, releasing our pent-up tension.

  And I didn’t speed as I drove the remaining five miles to Shelter A, though it took conscious effort to keep my foot from pressing down on the accelerator.

  SHELTER A CONSISTED OF TWO BUNKERS INSIDE EARTHEN BERMS AND A wooden shed half-buried in the ground. At Bainbridge’s instruction, I parked the Plymouth behind one of the bunkers.

  “Everybody, roll down your window,” Kistiakowsky said, then he and Bainbridge beelined for the larger bunker.

  “I’ll brief Colonel Latham,” Jarowsky told me as he left the car.

  Brode remained in the middle of the back seat. His gaze was already locked on the rearview mirror when I looked at it. All around us, MPs, officers, and scientists came and went, busy with their tasks, but none paid any attention to us. Even with the windows down, Brode and I could talk unobserved.

  “Did Meacham tell you about the suntan lotion?” Brode asked.

  “What?”

  “I’ll take that as a no. You should rub suntan lotion over your exposed skin, especially your face, before the firing.”

  “What the hell is about to happen here?”

  “‘References to ‘Hell’ and ‘Heaven’ are proving to be quite popular as we prepare to embrace our destiny. If I were given to hyperbole, I might say that what’s about to happen will rip the angels from heaven. But why seek flourish when simplicity will do? Trinity, despite its portentous name, is uniquely American. Think about it, Voigt! Here we are, about to unleash the most powerful force in the universe, and we’re preparing for it like a day at the beach. Put on your dark glasses, rub on the lotion, and get comfortable in the sand. There’s no ocean, of course, but there will be plenty of sun. The most beautiful sunrise you’ll ever see in your life, Voigt, so I advise you to look closely. They’ll tell you not to, not even with the glass, but I’ll be watching, and you should too, Voigt.”

  “Lying down in trenches might remind some people of a graveyard, not a beach.”

  He snorted dismissively. “A senseless precaution is no precaution at all. Trust me, if my baby gets colicky, lying flat won’t save you. You’ll merely be buried rather than blown away. Why not stand beside me and enjoy the show?”

  His baby? The man’s arrogance was boundless. My already strong dislike of the physicist intensified, but I wasn’t here to make a new friend.

  “Let’s not forget the work we have to do, Brode.”

  “You and me, the two of us, alone; that work, right? Tell me, Lieutenant, how have you been able to stay hidden so long, even as you rise ever higher?” Translation: Why hadn’t I yet been identified as a Red spy?

  “I could ask the same question of you.”

  “But you already know the answer, don’t you?” The gadget couldn’t have been built without me, so what makes you so vital?

  I let that ride, still watching Brode in the mirror. A grim expression had replaced the cocky smile. “Before we get to our work, what happened to my friend in Washington?” He meant Himmel, his contact, to whom he had delivered the first diagram of the gadget.

  “He retired.”

  “Without clearing out his desk?” Without delivering the diagram?

  “He’s worried he can’t enjoy retirement without sufficient life insurance.” He kept the diagram so the Russians wouldn’t kill him. I sure wasn’t going to tell Brode that I, in fact, had killed Himmel to protect myself. As long as Brode, like the Russians and the Americans, believed Himmel had gone on the lam, I was safe.

  “Paranoia really creates problems, doesn’t it? With just a small measure of trust, all of this intrigue, all of the effort to send you on your beach holiday, could have been avoided. I’m going to tell you the same thing I told our retired friend: I’m out, got it? Be sure to let the bosses know.”

  Before I could answer, a male voice boomed from a speaker on a tripod behind the bunker: “T minus fifteen.”

  “Just fifteen minutes til showtime,” Brode said.

  “Then you better get busy,” I said, suddenly anxious. If Brode wouldn’t or couldn’t give me another copy of the diagram, I was in deep trouble.

  “Here you go.” A tri-folded sheet of paper dropped onto the seat next to me.

  I snatched it up and jammed it into my pocket. “When the hell did you do this? I sure hope you haven’t been carrying—”

  “Easy, boy, easy. I know the rules. Here’s a hint. I did it in the last hour.” He slid across the seat and got out of the rear driver’s side door. The only time Brode could have drafted the diagram was when he was on top of the zero point tower, making the final check of the gadget. He had only been up there a few minutes. Was it possible to draw the plan from memory that quickly? What kind of confidence and brilliance did he have?

  He leaned into my window. “What do you say, Voigt, are you ready to hit the beach? Ready for a day of fun in the sun?”

  CHAPTER 38

  IGOT OUT OF THE PLYMOUTH, OPENED THE TRUNK, AND RETRIEVED THE frame of dark glass. Then I went into the closest bunker to find Jarowsky and Latham. The small space was jammed with worktables and consoles of electrical equipment. Four civilians, all men, were monitoring gauges or talking. I left and headed to the other bunker, which was larg
er. An MP stood at the entrance.

  “Where’s Colonel Latham?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Not in there, I can tell you that, sir.”

  Another MP rushed up. “We’re supposed to get behind the photo shelter.”

  I watched them trot off toward the wooden shed. Photo shelter? The structure resembled a gun emplacement, buttressed with sandbags and featuring a long, narrow firing window. Instead of Browning machine guns, this position apparently had Kodaks pointed at the zero point. Brode’s beach metaphor took on added meaning. Don’t forget your camera.

  I ducked to enter the bunker. Bainbridge, Kistiakowsky, and Oppenheimer were intently talking with one another. Brode was seated by himself at a small table, looking like he didn’t have a care in the world. I tensed up. I couldn’t ask if anyone knew where Latham was, not in front of Brode. Not that the three scientists paid attention to me. Brode stared at me but said nothing. Does he suspect me? I couldn’t help but wonder. Unnerved, I left without saying anything.

  “T minus ten,” the PA announced. “Ten minutes until detonation, ten minutes, all personnel should assemble at their observation positions.”

  Where was the announcer located? Was he one of the men I’d seen in the first bunker, or was he located at another shelter, miles away? Was he even real? No experience in my life, nor any novel, not even Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, had prepared me for the disorientation I now felt. I was lost in the desert, wandering in and out of gadget-packed grottoes as I gripped a piece of darkened glass, waiting for someone to give me suntan lotion, waiting for someone to tell me which trench was mine to lie down in, waiting for the zero minute, waiting for the detonation.

  “Voigt!”

  Jarowsky was motioning to me. He was standing with Captain Foley, Colonel Latham, and an MP behind the larger bunker. I gratefully trotted over. Foley finished saying something to the MP, who nodded and started walking to the photo shelter.

  “So?” Latham asked.

  I looked over my shoulder to make sure Brode wasn’t in sight. Then I wordlessly handed the folded diagram to Latham. He slipped it into his jacket pocket without looking at it.

  “He bought your story about being a spy, obviously,” the colonel said.

  “Yessir, he did.”

  “Did he just do that in the car?” Jarowsky asked.

  I shook my head. “He did it at the zero point.”

  “But how, he was busy the whole time and we were there for only …” Jarowsky trailed off as he realized that Brode had sketched the diagram while atop the tower. “Holy shit!” he exclaimed.

  “Can it be done that quickly?” Foley asked, incredulous.

  Latham scowled. “We better hope so, but we don’t have time to check now.”

  “He’s in the bunker right now,” I said.

  “We know,” Jarowsky said.

  “If the test goes well, we’ll take him into custody right afterward,” Latham told me.

  “And if it doesn’t go well?” I asked.

  “We leave him be. Oppie will need him to figure out what went wrong.”

  “Unless it goes really wrong—then none of us will be around to care,” Jarowsky cracked.

  No one laughed.

  What if the gadget failed? That possibility hadn’t occurred to me. A dud would foul me up but good. As long as Brode remained free, my plan was at risk. If I gave the Russians a bum diagram and they were somehow able to make contact with Brode, they’d know I’d tricked them. I pushed that ugly thought out of my head. I had to assume the bomb would work, and I had to get a fast answer to the question of where, exactly, I should be at T minus zero.

  “Are we really supposed to lie down in trenches?” I asked.

  “The MPs are, but their position is closer than ours. We’re going into the bunker,” Latham said.

  “What about them?” I pointed to a group of several civilians who had also assembled behind the bunker. They were talking animatedly; one was gesturing wildly with his hands. They looked like they were dressed for church: suits, ties, hats.

  “More scientists,” Foley said. “They built it, they wanna be present at the creation. I get why, but I’m not taking any chances.”

  “Brode said something about suntan lotion.”

  Latham looked uncomfortable. “Some of the scientists think—they’re advising that putting the lotion on your skin may offer some added protection.”

  “We’re five miles away from the zero point, sir. If the distance isn’t enough, why do we need this”—I held up my piece of glass—“and suntan lotion?”

  “There’s going to be a flash, and we don’t know for certain how bright it will be,” announced Oppenheimer, who was approaching. “Frankly, I don’t think the suntan lotion will do anything, but I definitely advise you not to look in the direction of the zero point. Jim, a moment?”

  He and Latham stepped to the side and conferred quietly. A sidelong look from Oppenheimer at me hinted at the topic: Had I obtained the diagram from Brode? Yet again, I wondered if Oppenheimer was trustworthy. If he was a Red; if, somehow, Groves and Latham had failed to uncover his true allegiances—

  “T minus five, T minus five,” the PA interrupted that troubling thought.

  “Well, that’s all the reminder I need,” Jarowsky said. “Time to stake my claim in the bunker.” He started walking to the entrance.

  “You coming with us?” Foley asked me.

  Joining the other officers in the bunker certainly was the prudent decision. But as Latham and Oppenheimer finished their conversation and Oppenheimer walked over to the other scientists gathered around the bunker, I knew I wasn’t going inside—I would stand and watch, just as Brode had tauntingly told me to do.

  “No, I’m going to stay out here,” I told Foley.

  He shook his head. “Remember what they said about not looking in the direction of the tower.”

  He left. Latham glanced at me as he passed but said nothing. For a moment, I was alone. As I watched Oppenheimer converse with his fellow scientists, I suddenly felt anxious, like a lonely teenager afraid to approach a clique of popular kids. Would they abruptly fall silent as I approached? The absurdity of my fear made me smile—we were minutes away from something extraordinary, and I was worried about an awkward social encounter?

  I shambled over. The piece of glass was now grubby with fingerprints. It was still dark, though the predawn sky was starting to lighten. I lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply. One of the scientists was rubbing lotion onto his face, but his companions declined the bottle when he held it out. He shrugged, dropped the lotion into his pocket, and dabbed his face with a handkerchief. Another scientist with distinctive, bushy eyebrows was ripping up a sheet of paper. His explanation to a querying colleague made no sense to me—the only words I recognized were “shock wave.” Oppenheimer was standing next to a post, his left hand resting on its top, a cigarette in his right hand.

  “Good morning, Lieutenant.”

  “Morning, Professor.”

  “I heard you did a bang-up job chauffeuring the arming party.” Translation: You got the diagram from Brode, good work.

  “Well, I’ve got the easiest job round here.”

  “Perhaps.”

  We both took long drags on our smokes. I glanced around. There were seven of us, but Brode wasn’t present. Where is he? I wondered.

  “Professor, a question.”

  Oppenheimer gave me the slightest of nods. He looked exhausted, his wrinkled shirt loose on his bony shoulders, his face drawn, his eyelids puffy.

  “What’s this bomb made of?”

  “Made of? That’s not an easy question to answer, as you might imagine.”

  “Maybe that’s my problem—I can’t even imagine what’s about to happen. What little I’ve been told only makes it harder to envision what your gadget will do.”

  He flicked his cigarette butt into the air, its ember tracing an arc to the ground, and immediately lit another Chesterfield.

&nb
sp; “None of us can imagine what’s about to happen … nim … we can only predict what will happen, and those predictions vary. One of my colleagues has even conjectured our action could, nim, ignite the atmosphere.”

  “If that happens, I guess this won’t be of much use.” I held up my piece of darkened glass.

  Oppenheimer didn’t laugh. “No, it wouldn’t.”

  “Brode says your gadget will rip the angels from heaven.”

  “If there is a heaven, Lieutenant, perhaps.”

  “And if the angels haven’t already decamped for a safer place.”

  “T minus two, two minutes remaining,” the PA announced. He said nothing more, but a moment later, there was a gurgle of static and then, absurdly, we heard a few bars of classical music before the frequency went silent.

  Oppenheimer smiled wearily at my confusion. “That happens a lot. The Trinity frequency is close to an Albuquerque station that broadcasts music.”

  Bainbridge and Kistiakowsky approached, clearly wanting to talk to Oppenheimer. I edged away to give them privacy. My watch read oh-five-hundred-twenty-eight and forty seconds. I looked to see if Brode had joined the gaggle of scientists while I was talking with Oppenheimer, but he hadn’t. Where was he? Had he chickened out and gone into the bunker after all?

  “Voigt!”

  I turned and looked up. Brode was standing atop the bunker, hands on his hips. He’d donned a canvas bush hat, its strings dangling, and wore dark glasses.

  “C’mon up, the view’s incredible.”

  I shook my head in amazement. How could he be so sure of what was about to happen when even Oppenheimer himself was waiting with dread and anticipation?

  “T minus one, T minus one, countdown to begin at T minus ten seconds,” the PA announced. There was a distinct edge to the man’s voice.

  Two of the scientists knelt and lay on their stomachs, feet pointed toward the zero point and hands laced behind their heads, like soldiers who had just been disarmed and taken prisoner. Oppenheimer, Bainbridge, and Kistiakowsky remained standing, but Oppenheimer clenched the top of the post with his left hand. The coal of his cigarette cast red light onto his tense face. Should I at least crouch? I wondered. With both hands I held the dark glass in front of my chest, ready to raise it during the countdown. My mouth was dry. The glass started to tremble—for a split second, I thought the detonation had somehow already begun. Then I saw my hands were shaking. My legs felt weak.