Resurrection Day

by Brendan DuBois

  When we reached the California coast there were gasps of shock as the plane wheeled in to make its approach into the airport at Riverside. Through the windows and off to the south was a deep red and angry-looking glow, as San Diego and its suburbs continued to burn. The plane fell silent, and not another word was spoken until after we landed.

  The next several hours were more chaos. Suffice it to say that we slept on the floor in an airport terminal and the next morning, after a breakfast of cold oatmeal and watery orange juice, most of us were assigned to ‘A’ Company, 4th Battalion, 45 th Infantry, and were sent south. Our job was crowd control, to help move along the thousands of refugees heading north from the area outside of San Diego, to direct them to aid camps being hurriedly set up in towns north of the destruction.

  The first day, I stood on the meridian strip of Interstate 15 outside of Temecula, with a loaded M-14 in my hands, a radiation officer with a clicking Geiger counter, watching the frightened and burnt and injured walk by, using both sides of the highway. The lucky ones were in slow-moving school buses and trucks and cars. The unlucky had to walk, and some of the walking were on crutches and many had bandages about their heads and limbs. I saw one father, hauling his son in a little red wagon, the boy’s head covered with gauze. There were a couple of horse-drawn wagons, piled high with furniture and mattresses. A little girl went by, staring at us and holding her mother’s hand, and the young girl’s hair had been scorched and burned. The sounds I will never forget: the low growling of the motors, the shuffling sound of the feet, the coughs and sighs and gasps as the people who had lived around San Diego struggled to get free of the fallout cloud that was approaching. I was reminded of newsreels I had seen some years before of refugees streaming from battles in Korea and the Congo and other far-off countries. I had never imagined that the fate of being a refugee would fall upon my own nation.

  My fellow soldiers and I were silent, and I felt my throat constrict with guilt as the crowds streamed by. We had sworn to protect them, our brothers and sisters and mothers and fathers, and we had failed them, we had failed them all. A few days ago, I had been a self-confident soldier, ready to pay any price, bear any burden for my country and for my president.

  Now, both the country and the president I knew were dead.

  A woman struggled by, pushing a shopping cart filled with her belongings, her legs bleeding, wearing a dress shoe on one foot and a sneaker on another. ‘You bastards!’ she yelled. ‘It’s all your fault! Why did you let it happen? What were you doing? Why?’

  I turned, not wanting to see her anymore. Across the way, bulldozers were digging mass graves by a high school football field, a scene I would see again and again in my months of duty in California. And when the screaming woman finally passed us by and I turned and saw the dark cloud in the south that marked a dead city, I knew it would take more than a ‘year or two’ before we came back.

  If ever.

  ~ * ~

  THIRTEEN

  They were sitting in the crowded interior of an Air Force KC-135 tanker with some other members of the press. Sandy had grabbed his hand when they had taken off that morning from Logan Airport and still hadn’t let go. Carl figured it was part affection and part nerves, or maybe he was the one who didn’t want to let go. Sandy pushed her head in close and spoke over the roar of the engines, ‘I hate flying, Carl. Lucky you weren’t on the flight from London. I would have crushed your hand by the time we got to Boston.’

  He squeezed her hand in reply and gave her a nuzzle but his thoughts were elsewhere. He no longer believed in coincidences. How could he? A murdered presidential aide, an MI6 contact, a dead British general, a list of names of Kennedy Administration officials, all dead, all within official custody. And what was that warning Merl had given him last month? Carl tried to tease the memory to life. ‘You know, even ten years later, some people still enjoy killin’.’ A hell of a story, Merl had offered.

  So, what was he doing in this jet, heading south and away from this story? Regrouping, thinking. How ironic that for him, Manhattan would be a sanctuary. There, he couldn’t be arrested in the middle of the night. Or have an accident like the one that supposedly killed Merl’s landlord. Sandy looked over at him and he squeezed her hand again. He remembered their special night together and the energy that sparked something inside of him. A feeling that there was more out there than just doing your job and staying out of trouble. Sandy. She was making him think again. She was making him care again.

  Merl, he thought, if I ever find out what really happened to you, you’ll have both me and this woman to thank.

  He looked around. The inside of the aircraft was strictly utilitarian. Alone with about a dozen other press people, Carl and Sandy sat on bright red canvas web seats that pulled down from the side of the bulkhead. There were six airline -style seats up forward, and those were taken by the older reporters. The floor was metal, with odd rings and hooks set into it, and the flight was noisy. The KC-135 was an Air Force tanker craft, converted from a Boeing 707 and used for aerial refueling. As the public affairs officer at the military terminal at Logan had said—a woman Air Force lieutenant with a smile too bright for the early-morning hours: ‘Folks, this is the best we can do. This KC-135 is returning to Tyler Air Force Station in Yonkers. It won’t be comfortable but it will get you there.’

  There was a bit of grumbling from the assembled reporters and photographers but not much. Carl was sure that most of them would have gone to New York State in an ox cart if it meant access to Manhattan. One of those reporters was Jeremiah King, from the Globe, who smirked when he saw Carl signing in at the access desk.

  ‘Are those cameras in your bag, Carl?’ he said, with mock surprise. ‘My, my. I didn’t know you were so talented. Who are you shooting for? Some shopper weekly?’

  ‘Nope,’ Carl said. He looked over and saw that Mark Beasley—the Beast—was standing next to Jeremiah. Mark looked about as happy as if he were heading into a dentist’s office. ‘I’m doing some photo work for the Times of London. Maybe you’ve heard of it?’

  Jeremiah’s eyes darkened. ‘Lucky you, to have the spare time for this trip.’

  ‘Yeah, lucky me.’

  As Carl left to find Sandy, the Beast had followed. ‘Hey, Carl, if you need any spare film, let me know.’ Carl had gently slapped the burly photographer on the back.

  Now the plane tilted and Carl guessed they were heading in for their approach. A yellow flap near a window was buttoned up against the fuselage. It was scorched on one side, as if it had been exposed to a strong heat lamp. Black letters on the flap said FLASH BARRIER. Sandy followed his gaze and spoke in his ear. ‘What’s that for?’

  The back of his hands felt cold. ‘It’s a flap to go over the windows. It shields the interior of the plane from a bright flash.’

  She nodded grimly. ‘From a nuclear bomb.’

  ‘That’s right. And from the scorch marks along the side, I’d guess that this plane’s been flying for at least ten years. And in some bad neighborhoods.’

  The aircraft tilted again and an Air Force sergeant in a green zippered jumpsuit moved past the reporters. ‘We’re touching down! Make sure you’re belted in! Five minutes till landing!’

  They heard the thumping of flaps and landing gear being extended and lowered. Carl caught a glimpse of roads and fields and homes as the KC-135 descended into Yonkers, an area about fifteen miles north of Manhattan. The landing was smooth, with just one small jolt that made Sandy gasp a bit. Out the window he could see that all types of military aircraft were on the field, mostly four-engine transports. Some of them bore the roundel insignia of the Royal Air Force. Interesting, he thought. What were they doing here? Still bringing in blankets and relief supplies? And what were their brethren doing, up in Canada? He remembered that overheard conversation from the consulate: ‘...getting ready to take care of the Yanks.’

  Two dark green helicopters at the end of another runway took off, like little mechanical dra
gonflies. The group filed out of the aircraft and went through a jetway. In the terminal a large sign hung from the ceiling, painted in blue and white:

  WELCOME TO TYLER AFS

  GATEWAY TO NEW YORK STATE

  RELIEF AND RECOVERY

  There were few civilians in sight. Most of the people walking by were military, friendly but cautious-looking in their jumpsuits or fatigues. Downstairs, luggage and camera bags were lined up on the floor beside a baggage carousel. Carl heard one photographer, from a newspaper in New Hampshire, complaining as he looked for his gear.

  ‘I can’t see why we weren’t allowed to carry our cameras on board,’ he said, picking up a canvas bag that bulged with rolls of film and cameras. ‘This stuff’s delicate and I’d rather have it riding in my lap.’

  Carl saw his own overnight case and camera bag, on loan from the Times. ‘Because they were being polite.’

  ‘Polite?’ the young photographer demanded. ‘What do you mean, polite?’

  Carl picked up his things, slung them over his shoulder, and spotted Sandy at the other end of the line. ‘They’d rather store your gear than let you have it in your lap, and have to tell you that you couldn’t take a picture of the New York crater on your way in. Less fuss that way.’

  Carl walked up to Sandy and she held out a mimeographed sheet of paper. ‘Bloody efficient, they are. First there’s a press conference, then some free time and lunch, and this afternoon, we get shuttled into Manhattan.’

  ‘Just trying to make it easier for the poor overworked press people that we all are.’

  Sandy said something else and Carl expressed shock. ‘My, how vulgar. If only your friends in Fleet Street could hear you now.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me, Mr. Landry,’ she said. ‘My friends in Fleet Street are being bored to tears by a Labour conference in Blackpool. I’m getting a look at Manhattan.’

  They filed into an auditorium with cushioned chairs that could have doubled as a movie theater. On stage was an American flag, an Army flag, and the flag of New York State, as well as a podium with a military crest, that had to be the base unit insignia. Three easels with large charts covered by light blue sheets were near the podium.

  Carl fumbled with the bag that contained a Nikon 35mm with built-in flash and an adjustable zoom lens. The damn Japanese piece of equipment was light and efficient, and he felt sorry for the French, who were trying to go head-to-head with the Japanese trade monster in Southeast Asia. It had taken him hours of practice and reading and rereading the manual before he felt comfortable. He had taken pictures off and on for the Globe when he first started and was fairly competent, but that was about it. He had lots of film and planned to burn through most of it. More film exposed, better chance of having some usable photos for Sandy and the Times.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said, as he saw some movement up on stage. ‘Time for me to earn my pay.’

  ‘Do a good job, will you?’ Sandy said, smiling up at him. ‘Or I’ll think I just hired you for your eyes and your shapely bum.’

  ‘Leave my bum out of this,’ he said, feeling good as he went forward, the camera still awkward in his hands. He wouldn’t have passed this up for anything.

  He joined about a half dozen other photographers in the front row of seats. The Beast nodded at him as he got his camera gear ready. A slim black man dressed in Air Force blues strolled across the stage to the podium, accompanied by two other officers. Carl noticed their shoulder insignias and was fairly impressed. One hell of a press tour had been put together.

  ‘Good morning,’ the Air Force officer said. ‘I am Colonel Brigham Jefferson, the base commander here at the Tyler Air Force Station. I’m also one of two deputy commanders for the New York Military District. I’d like to welcome you to this two-day tour of Manhattan and its surrounding communities, and I also welcome your participation and cooperation. Before I begin this briefing about our mission and status, I must settle a couple of ground rules.’

  There were a few groans from the assembled reporters. The colonel smiled and held up a hand. ‘Please. Before you protest too much, I’m sure you’ll see that this is nothing too onerous. First, at all times you will be with a military guide and escort. It is that guide’s job to answer your questions, to take you to the places you’d like to go, and to watch out for your safety. If tomorrow your guide says going over to the Roosevelt Parkway will be too dangerous, please listen to him. He knows this area and is looking out for your safety as well as his own.’

  The colonel wasn’t speaking from notes, which impressed Carl. Most officers he knew—not to mention Cullen Devane back at the Globe—couldn’t find their way to the men’s room without a written map. He took a few photos and then let the camera rest in his lap.

  ‘Second, while you’re in Manhattan, you will be issued dosimetry, a device to measure any possible radiation exposure. Please follow the instructions of the radiation safety officers. If any of you are found without your dosimetry, you will be immediately airlifted off the island.

  ‘Third, while we will answer your questions to the best of our abilities, I’m afraid there are a few items which we cannot discuss, due to their sensitive nature. There may also be a few instances where we cannot allow photographs, for the same reason.’ Another wide smile. If Colonel Jefferson wanted to enter politics when he left the Air Force, Carl thought, he’d do quite well. ‘I apologize in advance for any stonewalling that we will be sending your way.’

  A little light laughter and the colonel went on. ‘Now. Those are our preconditions for this tour. At the end of this briefing, we will ask all of you to sign a form stating that you understand the ground rules of this press tour. If you feel that you cannot—or will not—agree to these conditions, you may exit to the rear of the auditorium at this time, and we will make arrangements for your return to Boston.’

  No one was leaving, and who would? This was one of the biggest stories of the year, bigger even than the upcoming election between Rockefeller and McGovern.

  ‘Very good,’ Colonel Jefferson said, looking pleased. ‘Now. Lieutenant Sinclair, the first easel, if you please.’

  The chart on the easel was a large-scale map of Manhattan, Long Island, lower New York State, and eastern New Jersey. At the top of the map was the heading: 30 OCTOBER 1962 TUESDAY A.M. Three circles in gray scale were superimposed over the map. In the center of each circle was a caption: NUDET 1, NUDET 2 and NUDET 3. Two of the circles overlapped, east of Manhattan. The third was to the west of Newark, New Jersey. Colonel Jefferson picked up a wooden pointer and began talking.

  ‘It has taken some years of work to determine what exactly happened in the New York metropolitan area on October 30 of 1962, a few days before the Cuban War ended,’ he began, his voice firm and low. He sounded like a lawyer, reading the will of somebody’s long-dead relative. ‘But based on pilot debriefs and ground observations, and even some records from United Nations recovery teams working in the former Soviet Union, we now have a fair idea about what occurred.’

  He tapped the gray circle marked NUDET 1. ‘We are almost one hundred percent confident that the nuclear weapons dropped in the New York metropolitan district that morning came from a flight of Soviet TU-95 turboprop intercontinental bombers, known by the NATO designation “Bear.” Almost all Bear flights from Soviet Asian air force bases that flew against the United States during the Cuban War were tracked over the North Pole through the DEW warning lines in the Canadian Arctic, and were successfully shot down through joint American-Canadian fighter interceptor flights. However—’ Carl could hear the steely dismay in the man’s voice, even ten years later. ‘However, in the case of this particular flight, five TU-95 bombers, flying in from the east at extremely low altitudes, attacked the New York metropolitan district. Our best intelligence at the time said that the Bear bombers had neither the endurance nor the ability to make the long, low-level flights that would arc and bypass the DEW line. We were obviously wrong.’

  Carl balanced his
camera on his knees, listening with awful attention to the measured, clipped tones of the Air Force colonel. He had heard the basic story of the New York City attack, but never in such detail, never in such deadly thoroughness.

  ‘Three Air Force F-102 Delta Dagger interceptors, part of the 10th Intercept Squadron out of Dover, Delaware, were at New York’s Idlewild Airport as part of our dispersion activities during the crisis. Radar installations at Cape Cod and Long Island started tracking the five Soviet bombers, and the F-102s were scrambled to attack. The bombers themselves, once they approached the United States, also dispersed as they began their attack profiles. Other F-102s were alerted, to support the three from Idlewild, but they didn’t reach the area in time.’

  He raised the pointer. ‘Two of the bombers were successfully shot down at about 8. A.M. One crashed into Long Island Sound, and the other impacted here, a mile south of Plainview in Long Island. In 1964, an Army-Air Force Decontamination Task Force excavated the crash site and successfully removed two unexploded one-megaton nuclear bombs.’