Resurrection Day

by Brendan DuBois

  Well, the Army had sure done and got him, and for that he was grateful.

  But then he glanced back at the locked door and the silent phone.

  ~ * ~

  He stayed in the shower for almost a half hour, not even remembering the last time he had bathed. It must have been back in the hotel room in Manhattan, the morning of that disastrous tour through the empty streets. The hot water and soap felt wonderful on his skin as days’ worth of grease and dirt cashed away. He was careful of his legs, though. Then he shaved, and enjoyed seeing the stubble disappear from his face.

  Carl was surprised at what was waiting for him in the bedroom: a meal cart, not unlike that from a hotel. He raised the metal dish covers and found scrambled eggs, toast, pancakes, sausage, and bacon, along with a tall glass of orange juice and a small pot of coffee. He supposed he could have done the noble thing and ignored the meal. Or the paranoid thing and ignored the meal.

  Instead he did the reasonable thing, which was to sit on his bed and eat everything, too hungry even to get dressed first. And as he ate, he looked carefully around the room, looking for the telltales, the little signs that he was under surveillance.

  When he was finished and had dressed, Carl checked the phone again. No dial tone. He tried the door. Still locked. He went over to the window. It was sealed on all sides. Fair enough. Carl went back to the bed and tore off the sheets and flipped over the mattress and box spring. The metal frame was not screwed or bolted together and he managed to kick one of the side frames out and picked it up. It was metal, heavy, and about six feet long. Perfect.

  He went to the window and drew open the shades and then crossed back to the other side of the room, pacing off where he would start and how far he would get before he could punch the metal frame through the glass. He held the frame firm in his hands, took a series of deep breaths, and—

  The door opened. A man’s voice. ‘Please, Sergeant Landry, you can put that down.’

  Carl turned, the frame still in his hands. A young man in an Air Force uniform stood there, smiling at him. He wore glasses, dark blue trousers, and a blue knit sweater, and had the door propped open with a hand. Carl remembered the soldier he had met, back at the Fence, the young man whose term of service was about to expire. He was about the same age as this airman, but there, the similarities ended. That soldier had had a tired look about his eyes from working among the dead for a long time. This airman had the bright eyes of someone who knew he had comfortable duty, and rather enjoyed it.

  Carl didn’t smile back. ‘I will if you tell me who the hell you are, and where I am.’

  ‘I’m Senior Airman Taft, Sergeant, and—’

  ‘You can call me Mr. Landry,’ he said, his tone sharp. ‘I’m not on active duty. I’m a writer for the Boston Globe and I was working on assignment with the Times of London. I want to know where I am, and why I’ve been kept prisoner.’

  The smile didn’t fade. ‘Last question first, Mr. Landry. You weren’t kept prisoner. It was decided that it would be easier for all concerned if you stayed in this room until your appointment was ready. And as for your first question, it will be revealed to you, quite soon.’

  He dropped the metal bar to the floor, just to see Senior Airman Taft’s reaction, and was pleased to see the young man jump. ‘Appointment. I didn’t realize I had an appointment.’

  ‘You certainly do,’ the airman said, opening the door wider. ‘And if you come with me, I’ll take you there.’

  ‘Suppose I don’t want to go?’ he demanded.

  Not a waver, not a blink. ‘You’re a newspaper man now, correct? I’m sure your curiosity will get the better of you. Please, Mr. Landry. Won’t you come?’

  This time, Carl smiled. ‘Sure. Why the hell not.’

  He was sure he was in some type of military base, either Air Force or Army, and had expected to see the usual tiled corridor with offices. But the hallway was narrow and paneled and wallpapered, as if he were in some sort of expensive country home. There were old chairs and antique tables set against the wall, and a few tasteful paintings. This was a warm and comfortable place, and in these days of gas rationing and food shortages, Carl was surprised it existed. But then again, why not? This sure had been a week for learning secrets.

  ‘Hell of a prison you got here,’ Carl said.

  ‘Oh, it’s not bad duty, once you get used to it,’ Airman Taft said. ‘And the food—as you probably could tell—is pretty good.’

  ‘How long was I out for?’

  ‘Some hours after your rescue this morning, that’s all.’

  At the end of the corridor was an elevator, and the airman took out a key and opened the sliding door. Carl followed him in and Taft slid shut the metal grate. With another key, he switched on the elevator and they glided up two floors. The door slid open and they went down another corridor, almost identical to the first, and Carl said, ‘This is a very nice tour, but it sure isn’t telling me anything.’

  They stopped at a closed door. ‘Oh, you’ll see, in about another minute or two,’ Airman Taft said. He knocked twice at the door, opened it slightly, and motioned to Carl. ‘Go in, why don’t you.’

  ‘Somehow, Senior Airman, I think that decision’s already been made for me,’ he said.

  He stepped through the doorway and found himself in a study or a library. There were two walls of built-in bookshelves, and one wall was covered with framed pictures and certificates. In the center of the study was a large desk, and in a corner of the room, near the desk, stood a large globe of the earth. There was a fire crackling in a small fireplace, leather couches and chairs, a wet bar, and another door, set into the wall by the far bookshelf. A floor-to-ceiling window by the desk overlooked the meadow that Carl had seen from his window. He stared at the man who got up from behind the desk and walked toward him. He wore a white turtleneck sweater, khaki pants, and brown loafers, and he was smoking a cigar. His thick hair was black, streaked with gray, and he had thick eyebrows, also streaked with gray.

  Carl took a deep breath. He had seen this man before, just a few days ago, on the television, back in Boston.

  General Ramsey Curtis, U.S. Air Force, Retired.

  General Curtis stopped before him, stuck out a hand. ‘You’re Landry, right?’

  Carl shook the man’s hand. ‘Yes, sir, that I am.’

  He motioned to a seat. ‘Sit down, why don’t you. We’ve got a lot to cover.’

  Carl nodded. ‘I guess we do.’

  ~ * ~

  TWENTY-FOUR

  The general moved back behind his desk. ‘Welcome to Pennsylvania, to my retirement home and final duty station. How’re the legs?’

  ‘They’re all right,’ Carl said, not taking his eyes off the older man. ‘They feel pretty sore. But I’m lucky to still have them attached to my knees.’

  General Curtis nodded as he sat down. ‘When my boys got there, I think you were pretty lucky to still have a head attached to your shoulders. There were a couple of raiders up on the road, taking potshots at you. And I’m told that you took care of one of them yourself. Good work.’

  ‘Wasn’t work,’ he said. ‘It was just something I had to do.’

  The general ashed his cigar in a large crystal ashtray. ‘Probably wondering why you’re here, and why we kept you under such close watch. Door locked, no phone, crap like that. Am I right?’

  ‘That you are, sir.’ Carl found it hard to keep focused, with everything that was going on in his mind. This was the infamous General Ramsey Curtis, the man who had once led SAC and the forces that had killed millions. And this was the famous General Ramsey Curtis, the man who helped end the Cuban War before it spread further, and who had helped the country in its first years of recovery. One man, two stories many contradictions.

  General Curtis. Who was supporting Nelson Rockefeller in the upcoming election. And who must know about the plan to bring in British troops to clear out the RZs. And who was focusing his attention on Carl Landry. Carl now knew what it
was like to be a tiny field mouse and see the shadow of a descending hawk appear.

  ‘First, standard procedure,’ the general went on. ‘Wanted to give you time to clean up, shower and eat before we got down to business. Second, you’re here because you’re a valuable man, Sergeant Landry. A very valuable man.’

  He swallowed, his throat quite dry. ‘I’m afraid I don’t see your point.’

  The general nodded. ‘You’ve been a man in trouble, ever since that Merl Sawson case, back in Boston. Am I right?’

  ‘I don’t know if I’d use the word “trouble”—-’

  ‘Oh, I would,’ the general said, tapping another bit of gray ash into the crystal ashtray. ‘You poke around where you don’t belong. You didn’t listen to your city editor, and you didn’t listen to your oversight editor. You were suspended. And if that isn’t trouble enough, you get on a trip to Manhattan and damn near get yourself killed and a British national along with you. Not to mention a fine young Army officer. All because you wouldn’t let the Merl Sawson matter drop. I tell you, if you were in SAC and had tried that shit, you would have been up at a radar station in Point Barrow so fast it’d make your ears bleed.’

  Carl tried to keep his voice even. ‘I was just trying to find out why he was murdered.’

  The general puffed on his cigar. ‘Good God, man, don’t you think that’s what we want to know, as well?’

  His head was starting to pound. ‘General, I don’t mean any disrespect, but what do you mean by “we”?’

  A thin smile. ‘I’ve been retired as chairman of the Joint Chiefs for more than a year, but I still get called in now and then for advice, and my advice is very nearly always taken. Much to the dismay of the people at your newspaper and others, I know. Still, I revert back to form when I talk, and that’s what I meant by we. Members of the military and intelligence community, who want to know more about you and Merl Sawson.’

  His head pounded louder. ‘Sir? What was that?’

  ‘Merl Sawson. Don’t you think we want to know what the hell was going on with him up in Boston and in Manhattan?’ The general leaned over the desk, eyes flashing. ‘Damn it, man, Major Devane back at the Globe, he was trying to save your ass when he got you pulled off that story. And then you had to go to Manhattan, where your ass almost gets shot off again by the same people who killed poor Colonel Sawson. Major Devane even went to Manhattan to look for you.’

  Carl kept quiet, his eyes staring straight ahead at the general, knowing the proper nature of his answers was going to be his only way out of this place.

  ‘I suppose that wasn’t what you were thinking, Sergeant, am I right?’ the general asked. ‘You probably thought that Colonel Sawson was killed by the so-called dark forces within our government. The same dark forces that chased you around Manhattan. The same dark forces that that fool McGovern says he’s running against this November. Am I right?’

  ‘In Manhattan,’ Carl said, his voice quiet. ‘After the sniper. We were ambushed a second time. By what looked to be a Special Forces or Zed Force unit.’

  ‘You’re an intelligent young man. How hard would it be for you or anyone else to get uniforms on the black market. A day? Two days?’

  ‘If that’

  ‘Right. And if you’re in the hire of certain foreign governments, it’d probably be sooner, correct?’ the general asked.

  ‘Colonel Sawson’s death and the shootings in Manhattan, they were done by foreign intelligence agencies? Why?’

  Another tap on the ashtray. ‘If I tell you, Sergeant, then you’re back in the active reserve, I’m afraid. This is highly classified, highly restricted information. But I need to bring you into my confidence, because of what you might know, and I’ll only feel comfortable if you agree to be back in the active reserve. Temporarily, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said, wondering if the general could sense the sarcasm.

  Apparently not.

  ‘Good,’ he said, wiping a bit of errant ash from the immaculate desktop. ‘What do you know about Colonel Sawson?’

  Carl shrugged. ‘He lived alone, was retired from the Army, and worked at the White House during the Kennedy Administration.’

  ‘Have you heard that he might have been in the possession of... of some sensitive documents?’

  ‘No, I haven’t,’ Carl lied. A voice was telling him to be on guard. This is a man who is a veteran of World War II and Korea, and thinks he fought and won a nuclear war all by himself, saving the nation and the world in the process.

  ‘Well, he was, and that’s what got him killed. First, forget Colonel Sawson always being at the White House. He was there for a while, temporarily, but he had other duties in the DC area, duties that eventually got him killed this month. And that’s why we believe you were almost killed in Manhattan. Our adversaries seem to believe that you either know what Colonel Sawson has, or where he has it hidden.’

  ‘Adversaries? Who are our adversaries? France? Japan?’

  A sage nod from the general. ‘And Germany. And even me of our so-called friends in Great Britain. They like to call themselves the First World, don’t they? The once mighty Soviet Union is nothing but a giant refugee camp, and the once mighty United States is barely among the Second World countries.’ He leaned forward over the desk, and his eyes hashed. ‘And they want to keep us that way, for a very long time. And what Colonel Sawson had was something that could help us regain our proper role in the world.’

  ‘And what did Colonel Sawson have?’

  The general leaned back in his chair, holding the cigar in his hand, like a loaded pistol. ‘Before I answer that, indulge me for a moment, will you?’

  What choice do I have, he thought, and he said, ‘Go right ahead, General.’

  A satisfied nod. ‘Fine. I always find I make myself more clear when I’m conducting a briefing. So. Your own personal treat. A one-on-one briefing by the old mad general himself.’ He grinned and took a satisfied puff from his cigar. ‘I know reporters from the Los Angeles Times and the New York Times and the Chicago Tribune who would love to be in that chair right now.’

  ‘Lucky me,’ Carl said, wondering what was going on behind the cigar smoke and the glassy eyes.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, without a trace of irony. ‘Lucky you, and lucky us. During the Cuban War, we were as damn lucky as any country in this world, but you wouldn’t know it from what people write and say, even ten years later.’

  Mom and Dad. Sarah. Two-Tone and Caz and Jim Rowley and PS 19. Carl found his voice. ‘Several million Americans dead in the space of a week, that’s really hard to assign the word luck to it, don’t you think?’

  ‘No, I disagree,’ the general said, his voice lower. ‘I still think it was pure luck. Look at what might have happened. Khrushchev could have outmaneuvered Kennedy and left the missiles there, and within a few years, the peasants in the Kremlin would be deciding our foreign policy.’

  ‘There might have been an agreement, an understanding to get the missiles out,’ Carl said, wondering why he was bothering to debate with a man who had already made up his mind. ‘I’ve heard stories that—’

  General Curtis dismissed the sentence with a wave of his hand. ‘I’ve heard the same stories, and they’re bullshit. Oh, the eggheads at the State Department were working on something, but all of us knew—every single one of us in the Joint Chiefs—knew that it would eventually come down to a shooting war. A diplomatic agreement would not have worked, not for a moment, and even if it did, all it would have done is to postpone the inevitable, at a higher cost.’

  He swiveled in his chair, to allow himself a glance outside. ‘War with the Soviet Union was going to happen, one way or another. We were lucky that it happened then, before they had made more progress with their missiles, submarines, and bombers. We took them on and we won. I don’t think we could have done that three or four years later. It had to happen. It’s unfortunate that it did, but we shouldn’t be ashamed at what action we took.’

 
Carl found that there was a throbbing sensation in his legs and his temples. ‘Millions of Russian civilians died during the war. A lot of people are still ashamed about that.’

  A flick of the head. ‘Those poor bastards in Russia, they died because they had the unfortunate luck to have been from there instead of someplace else. Millions of Russians died in the First World War, millions died in the Second, millions more were killed by their own government in the 1920s and 1930s. The Cuban War was just the latest in a series of their misfortunes. I’m sorry, I can’t change history. But look at what did happen, Sergeant.’

  He pointed the cigar for emphasis. ‘Where is the menace now, ten years after the war? Is there a Soviet empire, holding down satellite nations in Eastern Europe? No. Is there a communist China, threatening its neighbors in Vietnam, Laos, Burma, Thailand, or India? No. Hell, even Korea is getting back together. You see, we took it on the chin for the world, we made it safe so now everyone can play at business and expanding markets. Good for them. And give us a few more years, and we’ll be right back there, cutting deals with the best of them. But something is wrong. Something is missing.’