Resurrection Day

by Brendan DuBois

  Q. DOOLEY 65

  Quentin Dooley, a special assistant to President John F. Kennedy, convicted during the 1963 Domestic War Crimes Tribunal, was shot and killed while trying to escape from Leavenworth Federal Penitentiary last week, authorities said ...

  T. ISAACSON 65

  It was reported this week that Thomas Isaacson died of heart failure last month at the Federal Prison on Alcatraz Island in San Francisco. Isaacson worked for the Department of Defense, and was serving a term for his actions during the Cuban War...

  C. PORTER 68

  Soon after his arrest last night, Clarence Porter—a Deputy Assistant Secretary of Defense during the Kennedy Administration—died in Military Police custody...

  N. DINITALE 71

  Nicholas DiNitale was killed in an auto accident on Route 3 in southern New Hampshire last night, as police officials and members of the Military Police were attempting to arrest him. DiNitale—a counsel to President John F. Kennedy—has been a fugitive from justice since being convicted in absentia during the Domestic War Crimes Tribunal of 1963 ...

  F. X. TILLEY 72

  One of the last surviving members of President John F. Kennedy’s inner circle and a member of the Executive Committee—ExComm—which so disastrously planned the Cuban War, was killed during a prison disturbance this past Saturday.

  Francis X. Tilley was an inmate at the Leavenworth Federal Penitentiary when the riot broke out...

  It felt like something was crawling up the back of his scalp. He remembered his meeting with Merl Sawson last month. Something awful was going on, a big story, maybe the biggest story ever, the old man had said. Carl had covered enough crimes to know what had been going on. Witnesses. Witnesses to the start of the bloodiest war in history were being eliminated, and Merl had been the latest. And it looked like Merl had gone to him, Carl Landry, and then to the British consulate, and now—

  He sensed someone coming up behind him in the newsroom. As casually as he could, he pulled an expense report over the clippings and the list of names.

  ‘Mr. Landry?’ said the voice behind him, a male voice that was vaguely familiar and sounded very self-confident.

  ‘Yes?’ he said, turning in his chair and blinking his eyes quite hard as he saw who was before him.

  Major Cullen Devane, oversight editor, nodded with satisfaction. ‘I need a few moments of your time, please.’

  He walked past Carl’s desk and headed to his own office, without looking back to see if Carl was following.

  The newsroom seemed awfully quiet. Not many things one could do at a time like this.

  He took a deep breath.

  He got up and followed the Army major.

  ~ * ~

  ELEVEN

  He closed the door behind him as he went into the oversight editor’s office. Devane was already sitting in a plush leather swivel chair, and he motioned to one of two leather chairs before the wide desk. He was wearing his standard work attire of dark gray vest and dress pants, white shirt, and dark blue necktie. The matching suit coat hung on a wooden clothes rack in the far corner. The office blinds were closed and green-shaded lamps were lit. Carl sat down and looked at Devane, who was opening up a manila file folder. His hair was black and streaked with gray, cut quite short, and his ears were small and set against his head. In the faint office light his skin looked smoothly waxed. There were two kinds of officers in this man’s Army, Carl recalled. Those who count and those who don’t. Those who count were in the field, making a difference, working with their troops and doing their job. Those who didn’t count remained in the rear, generating and thriving on chickenshit rules and regulations. In Carl’s mind, no matter how much power the man had, Devane didn’t count.

  On the wall behind the major were framed awards, certificates, and photos. One photo showed Devane in dress Army uniform, getting a medal pinned on him. Another photo showed a smiling Devane—still in dress Army uniform -shaking hands with General Ramsey Curtis.

  Devane looked up from the file folder. ‘Interesting record you have here, Landry.’

  ‘Yes,’ Carl said. He placed his hands on his pants leg, surprised at how calm he felt. So this was what it was like, being in the lion’s den. He looked closely at Devane, at the tailored clothes, clean office, tidy desk, and decorations on the wall, and suddenly he felt something, something he had not felt in a very long time, since he was in the Army and facing down other stupid officers. He took a deep breath. This was going to be a hell of a ride.

  ‘Let’s see,’ Devane said, leaning back in his swivel chair, his voice steady and low, the file folder open before him. ‘Carl Martin Landry. Born in Newburyport, Massachusetts, on March 5, 1942. Went to the local schools. Parents deceased. One sister, reported missing after the war. Enlisted in the U.S. Army on May 1, 1960. Successfully went through infantry training and advanced infantry training.’

  Devane looked up for a moment, raised an eyebrow. ‘Also successfully went through Special Forces training in Fort Bragg, North Carolina. I’m impressed.’

  ‘Good for you,’ Carl said.

  ‘After additional training, sent overseas and assigned to the Military Assistance Command, Republic of South Vietnam. Spent several months there, training and advising South Vietnamese troops. Hot as hell there, I’m sure.’

  ‘It had its moments.’

  Devane turned a page, snapping it over. ‘After the war, you and the rest of your advisers from Vietnam came home. You ended up in Southern California, attached to the 24th Infantry Division. You spend the next six years there, working relief and recovery. Well, eventually working relief and recovery.’

  Carl said nothing, staring intently at the man’s face. Devane stared back. ‘For a year or two—your records aren’t that clear—you were attached to a Special Forces unit. Something called Task Force Coven. Care to elaborate on your duties there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It says here, Mr. Landry, that you were involved in a number of interesting campaigns in the Southern California area. Operation Thrasher. Operation Kilroy. And this one, Operation Phoenix. What were those operations like?’

  Surprise, surprise. His hands felt fine and his voice was quite clear. ‘When I left active duty, I signed a standard National Security nondisclosure form. I’m afraid I can’t say anything else.’

  Devane merely smiled. ‘Operations Thrasher and Kilroy took place in the spring of 1963 at the border with Mexico. Mexican gangs—some of them consisting of off-duty Mexican army officers—were raiding the refugee camps set up east of San Diego. You and your units went into Mexico—illegally of course—and neutralized the problem. Correct?’

  Carl said nothing, remembering the bright sun of those days, the wind that came out from San Diego smelling of soot and decay, and the cold nights in the desert, moving south, scared to death that you were going to be seen by the Mexican Federales before reaching your target. Then brief firefights. Explosions and tracers lighting up the night sky.

  Devane kept smiling and placed the folder on his desk. ‘Now, Operation Phoenix, that’s the interesting one. Back then, farmers and rural residents in Southern California were forming armed gangs. Militias, they called themselves. It seems they didn’t like the refugee camps being placed in their towns, they didn’t like being under martial law, and they didn’t like the Army confiscating their crops and farm animals to feed their city brethren. Operation Phoenix targeted the leaders of these militia groups. You were supposed to go out at night and capture these leaders.’

  Carl said, ‘Is this going anywhere, or are you just the kind of guy who likes to hear himself talk?’

  ‘Oh, it’s going places, don’t you worry,’ Devane said, shifting his weight, the leather chair making a faint creaking noise. ‘That’s when your career really got interesting. A few discipline problems while engaged in Operation Phoenix, then you’re wounded on a night engagement, you receive the Purple Heart, and then you’re transferred to Sacramento. There, you’re assigned to a d
esk, performing writing duties. Including the base newsletter. From there you serve out the rest of your term, and then you end up here, at the Globe, in 1968.’

  Devane folded his hands and leaned forward. ‘Tell me, Landry, haven’t you learned anything at your time at the Globe? Anything at all?’

  ‘I know some great parking spots downtown, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘No, not hardly,’ he said, eyes glaring. ‘I’m talking about your job. About listening to your editor and completing your assignments. Your real assignments, not ones you’re doing on your own. Landry, why in hell haven’t you left that Merl Sawson story alone?’

  Carl forced himself to keep his voice even. ‘Because it’s a story, that’s why.’

  Devane shook his head. ‘No, it’s not. You know why? Because your editor says it isn’t, that’s why. I don’t care if you see rogue Russian paratroopers or Cuban refugees dropping into Boston Common tomorrow morning. If your editor tells you that’s not a story and sends you to the Boston Garden Club for their annual meeting, then that’s all you need to know.’

  ‘Why did you spike it?’ Carl asked, wondering how far he could push Devane. ‘What is it about Merl Sawson that involves national security?’

  ‘My job doesn’t concern you, Landry.’

  ‘The hell it doesn’t, when you’re spiking stories I write and I don’t know why.’

  ‘The fact that they’re spiked is all you need to know,’ Devane said sharply. ‘So listen well. Stop poking around Sawson’s death. Understand? There’s no story there. Leave it be.’

  Carl said nothing, just stared at that smooth and healthy face. Devane looked like he could order the death of the men on that list that Merl Sawson had, men who were on the inside during the first dark days of the Cuban War. All because of those magic two words: national security. What a country.

  Devane went on. ‘What the hell are you, anyway? One of those crazy Kennedy cultists, is that it? Looking to rewrite history? Here, let me tell you about history.’ Devane opened a desk drawer, pulled out a sheaf of papers, clipped together. ‘Here, read this when you get a moment. It’s a copy of an article I wrote for the Army Times, a few years back. We were talking operations back a few minutes ago. Ever hear of something called Operation Mongoose?’

  Carl slowly nodded. ‘Anti-Castro activities conducted by the CIA and others, right after Castro took power in Cuba.’

  ‘Not quite correct, Landry. After Kennedy came to power. After Kennedy was humiliated at the Bay of Pigs in 1961, he and his brother were determined to get rid of Castro. Back then, you didn’t ever humiliate a Kennedy. They always got even. That’s what Operation Mongoose was about. It was more than just burning sugar cane fields or sinking patrol boats. It was about assassination attempts against Castro.’ Devane motioned to the papers. ‘It’s all there in my article, interviews with former CIA officers, some Department of Defense personnel who were involved. Hell, the Kennedys were running a Murder Incorporated in the Caribbean, they were so pissed off at Castro. They tried to assassinate him. Several times. And their attitude stumbled us into a third world war. Is that what you’re after, Landry? Is that what you are?’

  ‘I’m a reporter, that’s all.’

  ‘That’s it? Just a reporter? I don’t think so. What the hell is driving you?’

  Carl felt it coming up, all at once, like a water pipe under pressure. ‘That’s right, just a reporter. More of a reporter than you’re an editor. You know what you are, Devane, don’t you? You’re what we called a REMF—back in Saigon and Bakersfield and Tijuana. A rear echelon motherfucker, a by-the-book, regular Army toad who doesn’t care about his soldiers or his command or anything else. He’s just looking to punch his ticket and go places and have pictures in his office of him kissing butt with the general.’

  Devane’s face was darkening. ‘You better shut up right now, Sergeant Landry. I can have you reactivated and next week you can be doing latrine duty at a refugee camp in New Jersey.’

  Carl laughed, happy at the reaction he was getting from the major. ‘That’s right, another sign of a pure-bred REMF. Someone who isn’t afraid to make threats or throw his weight around. Most of the people in this man’s Army are trying to do good work in a rotten place, and guys like you are like carrion hovering up there, picking and chewing on them all the time. Must make you real proud whenever you put on your uniform.’

  Devane’s voice was flat. ‘That’s enough. You’re dismissed. For not following instructions from your editor, you’re suspended without pay for the rest of the week. I don’t want to see you in this newsroom until next Monday. Understood?’

  Carl got up. ‘Oh, you’ve made it as plain as the brown nose on your face.’

  He didn’t shut the door on his way out.

  ~ * ~

  At his desk he just sat for a moment, letting the tension ease away. He had gone face to face with the Great Ghoul himself, received the Killer C., and he was still here, still an employee, not someone who’d been re-upped and who would have to report to the State Street Armory tomorrow. The newsroom seemed awfully quiet. A typewriter on the other side was being used, the keys hesitantly tapped at, and there was the low stammering murmur of the teletype machines. But that was it. He found he could not look at the faces of his colleagues. He wondered what was going through their minds, and knew it was probably a mixture of fear about what had just happened, and relief that it hadn’t happened to them.

  ‘Carl?’ said a quiet voice. He ignored it, content to look at his messy desk and feel a vicious sense of glee that well, what the hell, he wouldn’t have to worry about this mess for a week. A week’s unpaid vacation, that was the way he knew he should look at it, but it still stuck at the back of his throat, along with the thought of what he would do now. Continue to chase down the Merl Sawson story from his apartment? Could it be done?

  ‘Carl?’

  He looked up. George Dooley was standing there, looking at him. He almost laughed out loud. Now that was scary. Being inside Devane’s office, well, one could expect that might happen, one of these days. But to have the city editor come to your desk? That was frightful, almost unbelievable. George never came to your desk. You went to him, and you went often, summoned by his loud, braying voice.

  ‘Carl, could I see you for a moment?’ George blinked and looked around the still quiet newsroom. ‘In my office, please.’

  He nodded. ‘Seems to be my day for office meetings.’

  ~ * ~

  In George’s office he sat down, conscious that he was quite tired. George sat across from him and quietly ran his hands across the smooth surface of the desk. He picked up the photo of his niece and replaced it, looking up at Carl. ‘I’m sorry for what just happened. Devane told me earlier today what he was going to do, and I did my damnedest to try to talk him out of it, but it didn’t happen. I’m sorry it didn’t work.’

  Carl felt like his head was getting too large for his shoulders. George apologetic was something he had never seen before, and he felt a new sense of affection for the man, even with being suspended from the paper. ‘So what’s the story. Am I being suspended for not following orders, or because I kept chasing the Merl Sawson story?’

  George’s hands were flat on the desk. ‘You’re being suspended because the oversight editor wants you suspended. I wish I didn’t have to say that, but it’s a hell of a business.’

  ‘It sure is.’

  There was the sound of a drawer being opened, and George pulled out .two empty glasses and a Jack Daniel’s bottle. ‘Feel like a drink?’

  Carl didn’t feel like much of anything, but an offer was an offer. ‘Sure.’

  George talked as he poured the drinks. ‘I usually hate to say this, because it goes to people’s heads and they become worthless, but you’re one of my best, Carl. I know you get crap from the newsroom about being a quota baby and I try to squash it when I can, but all in all, you do a good job for me.’

  George slid a glass across the tab
le and Carl picked it up, not quite believing what he was hearing. He took a sip from the glass, and then another.

  ‘Tea?’ Carl asked. ‘Your whiskey bottle is filled with tea?’

  His editor nodded, with a smile. ‘Sure it is. What do you think, I drink on the job? Those days are gone, along with my liver.’ George swallowed his drink in one gulp and refreshed the glass. ‘Lot of days are gone. You know, back in the fifties and early sixties, if someone ever told me that we’d put up with daily censorship of the paper, I would’ve told ‘em that they were crazy. Who’d ever think we’d be at a newspaper where a goddam Army major not only tells me what to publish but what to do with my staff…Christ on a crutch.’

  He looked down at his glass, moved it around a bit. ‘Though I gotta admit, it did make sense, at first. Back when the war started. You were overseas, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I was.’

  ‘How did you hear the news?’