Resurrection Day

by Brendan DuBois

  The colonel cleared his throat. ‘The third bomber, with its engines aflame, began to descend over Great Neck and released its bomb at about 8:10 A.M. The impact point was in Queens, between Bayside Avenue and Forty-sixth Avenue. Along with the bomber, two of the pursuing F-102s were destroyed in the blast.’

  The colonel’s voice was getting more strained, and Carl thought he knew why. He was an Air Force man and one of the Air Force’s primary missions was to protect the country’s skies. There had been no defense against the missiles that had destroyed such targets as San Diego or D.C., but the Air Force had done a lot opposing the Soviet bombers. A number of success stories had come from the Cuban War, including some vicious air battles over the Canadian prairies where dozens of Bear and Bison bombers had been intercepted heading south, but those victories all paled in the face of the one big disaster: New York City. And another single word -SAC—was still a nightmare to many trembling survivors in Europe and Asia. Most Air Force personnel never traveled abroad, for fear of being arrested as war criminals.

  ‘Fifteen minutes later, here, the fourth bomber from the flight dropped its payload over Idlewild Airport, destroying the airport and adding to the damage and firestorm caused by the Queens detonation. The bomber then went on and dropped its second payload, here, in Orange, New Jersey. We believe its original target was Newark Airport. We still don’t know why it missed. Perhaps the plane was damaged, perhaps crew members were wounded. We’re not sure. The bomber itself crashed a few minutes later, north of Patterson. A few crew members parachuted out but they were killed on the ground by armed citizens and police units.’

  The colonel’s voice then changed. Pride, perhaps? Maybe a wistful pride. Carl wasn’t sure.

  ‘The fifth TU-95 bomber was making its attack approach here, coming south over New Rochelle,’ the colonel said, his voice softer, ‘The third surviving F-102, which had joined in the attack that shot down the two other Bear bombers, intercepted the TU-95 bomber. The F-102 had exhausted its six Falcon air-to-air missiles, and somewhere north over the Bronx the pilot of the F-102, Air Force Major Conrad Tyler, deliberately rammed his aircraft into the Bear bomber after seeing its bomb bay doors begin to open. The Bear crashed here, on Wards Island. In 1963, an unexploded five-megaton nuclear bomb was successfully retrieved from the island. That bomb, ladies and gentlemen, was to have been dropped on Manhattan proper, and would have destroyed the entire island outright, no doubt along with most of its several million inhabitants.’

  Colonel Jefferson paused, and then continued. ‘Major Tyler’s F-102 crashed in Flushing Bay. His body has never been recovered. In 1963, he was posthumously awarded the Medal of Honor, and this Air Force Station was named for him, in 1964.’

  You could hear people breathing, that’s how quiet the room was. The colonel nodded briefly and said, ‘Lieutenant Sinclair? The next easel, if you please.’

  The young Air Force lieutenant pulled the sheet of paper back from the second easel. It had the same large-scale map of Manhattan, Long Island, lower New York State, and eastern New Jersey, but the heading at the top said: NEW YORK MILITARY DISTRICT OCTOBER 1972. Tyler Air Force Station was marked off by a stylized drawing of an airplane. There were irregularly shaped sections of gray-scale shading over portions of the map, along with three black ovals centred in the same areas that had been marked NUDET in the other chart. With pointer again in hand, Colonel Jefferson began talking.

  ‘This is where we are today, ladies and gentlemen. These shaded areas are what’s known as RZs, Restricted Zones. The RZs for the New York Military District cover all of Long Island, west from a line stretching from Fort Salonga in the north to Bay Shore in the south. This RZ also covers the New York City boroughs of Queens and Brooklyn. Over here, in lower New York State, the Restricted Zone runs south, from a line east to west that is roughly parallel to the county line between Westchester County and Bronx County. Manhattan, Wards Island, Welfare Island, Ellis Island, Governors Island, and Staten Island all fall within this RZ.’

  The pointer moved to the left side of the chart. ‘In New Jersey, the RZ contains those New Jersey communities within a boundary marked by Interstates 80, 280, and the Hudson River. Among the cities contained within this RZ are Clifton, Passaic, Montclair, Hoboken, and Orange, New Jersey.’

  Colonel Jefferson stopped, the pointer in his hands. ‘The Restricted Zones are those areas still affected by fallout from the three nuclear detonations. All civilians left these areas in 1962 and the RZs have been under military control ever since. I am pleased to report that the RZs here in the New York Military District are about half the size they were in late 1962. Each year, as part of our Relief and Recovery efforts, we are able to reclaim more communities and land in these areas. Our planners tell us that by 1982, the RZs should shrink by another half.’ Carl noted that the colonel had begun to talk faster, as if ashamed at what he was saying. ‘The black areas on the map are of course the areas immediately surrounding the points of detonation. They are known as UZs, Uninhabitable Zones. It is doubtful that these areas will ever again be habitable in our lifetimes.’

  The room was still so silent, Carl thought. It was as if the reporters and photographers had been struck dumb. Ten years ago, it happened ten years ago, but for the wide eyes and quiet mouths, you would have thought it happened last week.

  Another motion of the pointer, to the top of the map. ‘Tyler Air Force Station—formerly a civilian airport—was a temporary field in November of 1962, meant to serve as a refueling point for aircraft coming to provide relief forces for the area. The field quickly expanded and became an official Air Force installation in 1963. We serve as the staging area for most of the relief and recovery efforts in the RZs. Our mission here is the same as it was when it began, ten years ago. To protect private property. To preserve industrial facilities. To recover, decontaminate, and transport out items of wealth or value from the RZs, such as the gold bullion stored in some of the banks, and artworks from the dozens of museums in the RZs. To prevent looting. To decontaminate and recover areas so that civilians who wish to return to their former homes can do so. And folks, believe me, even a decade later, they do. Lieutenant, the last chart, if you will.’

  The third chart was a map of Manhattan, and Colonel Jefferson pointed to a rectangular section in the center of the island. ‘Your eventual destination, ladies and gentlemen. The Manhattan Air Force Station, located here, at the southern end of Central Park. You will depart here later this afternoon, in helicopters, and arrive there for a briefing and tour of Manhattan. Now. I appreciate your patience in letting me monopolize your time. I believe we have time for a few questions. Who’s first?’

  Carl turned and looked at the small crowd of reporters. Their faces were impassive and silent, like marble sculptures. Questions. Didn’t anyone have a question, anything at all? Maybe it was just too damn big to ask a question about. You could spend a day and a week and a month with this colonel, asking questions, again and again. The most popular one being, of course, why? Why did this happen? Was it inevitable? Why?

  A hand rose up, breaking the spell. Colonel Jefferson almost looked relieved. ‘Sir. Go ahead.’

  ‘Thank you,’ came a male voice, but Carl couldn’t make out the face. ‘Civilian casualties. Could you tell us what they were for the area around New York City?’

  The colonel nodded crisply. ‘I’m afraid I can’t. That’s still classified information, but I’m sure it’s evident to all of you that we suffered tremendously on that day. Next question?’

  A woman, with a British voice but not Sandy: ‘Is it true that civilians are still living in the Restricted Zones?’

  ‘Yes, unfortunately. There are people who refused to leave, and others who have snuck back in past our checkpoints. There are also organized gangs of looters, sad to say, who are still stripping out belongings from many of the homes and businesses.’ His voice lowered. ‘We still have orders to shoot on sight, and when we encounter these looters, that’s o
ften what happens.’

  His hands trembled for a moment, holding the camera. Carl had a sudden thought of his sister, Sarah, perhaps trying to survive in a Restricted Zone around Omaha, maybe injured, maybe not quite right in the head, and one day, she runs into an Army patrol that thinks she’s looting. A soldier raises his rifle, hell, maybe a soldier Carl knew back in basic training or South Vietnam or California, this soldier aims at his sister, the suspected looter, and begins to pull the trigger—

  ‘Next question?’ asked the colonel, and Carl took a deep breath. Back to the world, son, he thought. Let’s get back to the world. He recognized the unctuous voice of the questioner. Jeremiah King. ‘Colonel, as a member of the Air Force, do you and your fellow officers, well, if you excuse the question, sir, do you and your fellow officers feel any guilt about the Strategic Air Command, and what it did during the war? Sir?’

  Lieutenant Sinclair looked like he could have shot King if he had a weapon, while Colonel Jefferson’s eyes narrowed as he held the pointer stiffly. ‘An interesting question, one I’ve been asked before. And I’ll answer it just as I’ve done in the past. The Air Force and the Strategic Air Command and all other military departments of this government have been and continue to be under civilian jurisdiction. We follow the legitimate orders of the civilian leadership of this nation. We are here to do a job, whatever job is deemed necessary by our civilian oversight, whether it was President Kennedy in 1962 or President Romney in 1972. You ask if I feel guilt. No. Do I feel sadness at what happened to the people of the former Soviet Union? Of course. But I also feel much more sadness for the people of New York and New Jersey and other communities in our nation. Yes, you, in the second row.’

  A male Brit, this time. ‘Colonel, if I may, I’d like to ask you a somewhat personal question, not really connected with our tour here.’

  A wide smile. ‘Now that’s a welcome change. Go ahead. I’ll see what I can do.’

  Some polite laughter. The British reporter said, ‘As a Negro and a colonel in your Air Force, do you still think there’s room for improvement in the area of race relations in this country?’

  Another sharp nod. ‘All right, I’ll give that question a go. First, I’d like to point out that Negro is a term that’s not often used today. Some like the phrase black, others like Afro-American. Myself, I consider myself Air Force blue.’ There was more polite laughter but then the colonel’s voice grew serious. ‘But I will tell you this, sir. In 1962 I was a tech sergeant at a base in Oregon, and I thought that was about as high in rank as I could get. Cousins of mine were getting beaten as Freedom Riders. Other relatives were being clubbed and teargassed in Southern communities. Then came the war and then the National Security and Civil Rights Act of 1963, written and passed as a result of General Ramsey Curtis’s efforts. You can say a lot about General Curtis and his decisions after the war, and his influence in our affairs today. That kind of discussion I will leave to other people.’

  Colonel Jefferson leaned on the podium, as if emphasizing a point. ‘But I will tell you this. When General Curtis appeared before the surviving members of Congress in Philadelphia in ‘63 and said it was for the good of the country that we work together as one, that it made no sense for a full 10 percent of our workforce and brainpower and willing hands to be left behind while we were in the gravest crisis of our nation, well, he made history that day, ladies and gentlemen. And he made history that week, when Army units went into Alabama and Georgia and Mississippi and elsewhere, and crushed the Klan and ended segregation. That’s a history that I personally am grateful for. Sir, you asked about the state of racial affairs in this country. There is still work to be done, but you can thank one man for destroying segregation and Jim Crow in one day. Who’s next?’

  A couple of other questions were tossed up to the colonel, mostly about the mechanics of the trip and what one could and couldn’t do in Manhattan. Then the colonel raised his hand and said, ‘Time for one more.’

  Carl’s ears tingled when he heard the next voice. ‘Colonel, Sandy Price of the Times. I see two hours before lunch is allocated as free time. I’d like to make a request, and I think I speak for at least most of my fellow reporters, that we travel a bit south and see the Fence. We’ve heard so much about it, I think we’d like to see it firsthand.’

  There were some murmurs from the reporters and someone said, ‘Hear, hear’ in a loud voice. Colonel Jefferson said, ‘We thought that after your flight from Boston, you’d like some time to refresh yourselves.’

  ‘With all due respect, Colonel, I feel quite refreshed. And I would be very grateful if a visit to the Fence could be arranged. If it wouldn’t be too much of a bother.’

  The colonel beckoned Lieutenant Sinclair over, and they huddled for a moment, and then Colonel Jefferson broke free and said, ‘Very well. For those of you who wish to go to the Fence, we’ll have transportation ready in a half hour. It won’t be too comfortable, and for those who’d like to stay behind, there’ll be a more in-depth briefing on this base’s mission in thirty minutes.’

  ~ * ~

  FOURTEEN

  It was loud and cold in the rear of the Army deuce-and-a-half truck, Carl was at the very back, looking out onto the frigid fall landscape of this part of New York State. Sandy sat next to him. They were rattling their way south along the New York State Thruway, and Carl leaned over and said to Sandy, ‘That was very nice, what you pulled back there.’

  ‘Whatever do you mean?’

  ‘I mean how you posed the question. No one else mentioned their name or affiliation. You did. Is that what you wanted, to use the grand and heavy name of the Times to get us this trip to the Fence?’

  She smiled and wiggled her nose. ‘Well, it worked, didn’t it?’

  He patted her on the knee and looked around. The interior of the truck was plank seating and a wooden floor, and the sides were canvas. The rear of the truck was open, and he could make out the landscape as they moved toward the Fence that separated Westchester County from the southern portion of the Restricted Zone. The road was bumpy and rough, with potholes and cracks in the pavement. Some of the cracks even had grass growing in them. The leaves had started turning colors but his attention was drawn to other things. Like the abandoned and rusted cars from ten years ago, pulled or dragged over to the side of the road. Like the lack of traffic on this thruway. There were a few other Army trucks and a converted bus, and that was about it. And there were the horses and wagons, assigned to the left-hand lane. Sandy tugged at his arm.

  ‘There are so many horses,’ she said. ‘I didn’t see that in Boston.’

  ‘In the cities it’s easier to distribute gasoline and other goods. The further out you go, the more expensive it is. Plus, power isn’t as reliable, the roads aren’t so hot. Horses are relatively easy to maintain, compared to cars. Horses also have another advantage.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  He smiled at her. ‘No one’s been able to figure out how to make two cars breed to make more cars. Horses seem to have the advantage there.’

  ‘Don’t they just.’

  The thundering growl of the diesel engine shifted in tone, and the truck ground to a halt in a large parking lot. Two soldiers unbolted the tailgate and helped Carl and Sandy and the others to the ground. Carl stretched his legs, blew on his cold hands, and looked around.

  About a hundred feet south of the parking lot was the Fence and its gatehouse. They were still in Yonkers but beyond the Fence was the Bronx, and beyond that, Manhattan. The lot was filled with all kinds of military equipment: jeeps, deuce-and-a-half trucks, half-tracks, and several armored personnel carriers. The Fence stretched to the east and west, as far as he could see. Brush and trees had been trimmed away, but from this distance, it looked like leaves and branches had gotten caught in the chain link.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, could I have your attention please!’ said a soldier in fatigues, holding up a clipboard in his black-gloved hands. His face was red and he lo
oked cold.

  ‘My name is Lieutenant Morneau. Here are the ground rules. Feel free to take as many pictures as you’d like. You can go anywhere you want on this side of the Fence. Do not attempt to cross over the Fence or gain entry into the Restricted Zone. If you do so, you will be arrested. In fifteen minutes, the trucks leave. We’ll give you five minutes’ warning with the horns.’

  A voice from the crowd, German-accented. ‘Vat if ve miss the trucks?’

  ‘Then it’s a long walk back to Tyler,’ the lieutenant said. While some in the crowd laughed, Carl saw no humor in the young man’s face. Sandy came up to him and said, ‘Let’s split up and see what we each can come up with.’

  Carl lifted up his camera bag. ‘Sounds good.’

  He went over and took a few photographs of the gatehouse. American and New York State flags snapped in the breeze atop fresh-white flagpoles. The roads heading south into the RZ looked to be in even worse shape than the thruway they had just traveled on, with broken asphalt and knee-high grass growing from the cracks in the roadway.