Resurrection Day

by Brendan DuBois

‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I’ll tell you later.’ Unbelievable. The fate of two nations dependent on a $4.99 shovel.

  The drive to the Happy Farms pet cemetery took another ten minutes. The place was run by a stout, elderly woman in tan slacks and a dungaree workshirt who didn’t seem eager to assist, until Carl slid his last five-dollar bill across the wooden counter. Her face brightened, the money disappeared, and she said, ‘You know, now that you mention it, I do remember a man from Massachusetts coming up here some few weeks ago, bringing his dog.’

  Carl clenched the car keys so tight in his palm he thought the skin would break. ‘And that’s what the other woman told me over the phone, just an hour ago.’

  ‘Oh, that’s my daughter,’ she said, making a dismissive wave in the air. ‘She’s so scatter-brained, I wouldn’t trust her to tell me if it was snowing in the middle of a blizzard.’

  She reached under the counter and brought out a leather-bound ledger book. She licked her fingers, opened the book, and ran her fingers down the columns and said, ‘Here it is. Lot one seventeen. Bought by a Mr. Sawson. There should be a metal post with a number on it. Would you like me to walk you out there?’

  ‘No, that’s all right,’ Carl said. ‘Mr. Sawson was a friend of ours, and we bought a little headstone for his dog, just to show him we care. We’ll go out there by ourselves.’

  The woman shut the ledger with a confident slap of her hand. ‘Funny thing, that.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  She took a rag and started wiping down the counter. ‘That’s what he asked to do, when he brought his dog in. He didn’t want any help, didn’t want any supervision. He just wanted to go out there by himself and do the job alone.’

  ~ * ~

  He took the shovel out of the car and concealed it close to his leg, in case they were being watched through the windows of the one-story building. He started walking across the cemetery with Sandy at his side and his knapsack over one shoulder. She said, ‘You know, I’m beginning to get a little excited, just a little, mind you.’

  ‘Excited?’

  She looped an arm through his. ‘What that woman said, about him coming out here alone. My God, maybe you are right after all.’

  ‘Don’t start thanking me yet.’ Three days. Maybe, just maybe ...

  They walked among the headstones, some decorated by flowers, either fresh or plastic. The stones were simple, honoring dogs and cats and other pets, though Carl noticed the cats outnumbered the dogs. Sandy shivered and pressed his arm close. ‘I don’t know why, but I find this place depressing, even more so than a cemetery for people. Why is that?’

  Carl looked at the small stones, each marking a loved pet. ‘Because they’re all so innocent. They don’t think up exotic ways of killing or cheating or lying to each other. Maybe that’s why.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  At the far corner of the cemetery was a metal pole, about six inches tall, and on top of the pole was a round metal plate. The numerals 117 were engraved on it. He dropped his knapsack and leaned on the shovel. The cemetery was a square lot of land, bordered on three sides by woods. It was dusk and the sky was clear. Lights were already on in the tiny building on the far side of the lot, where the only vehicles were the woman’s station wagon and their Volkswagen. A truck rumbled by on the far road. Sandy said, Are you all right?’

  ‘Just catching my breath,’ he said, picking up the shovel. ‘Just catching my breath.’

  He dug slowly at first, freeing up the metal pole, which was anchored about a foot in the ground. He tugged the pole free, tossed it aside, and resumed digging. Sandy stood next to him, eyes downcast, hands trembling, and he wondered what was going through her mind.

  ‘Secrets,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sorry, what did you say?’

  ‘Secrets, Sandy,’ he said, tossing aside another shovelful of dirt. ‘It’s time for us to tell each other some secrets. Like what might be down this hole. You said you were supposed to get some documents from Merl Sawson and deliver them to your superiors. What’s in the documents?’

  ‘Carl, I told you before—’

  ‘I know, I know. You told me the documents were something of great importance, something that had to be gotten out of the country. And I want to know what your people think they are. Sandy?’

  He stopped shoveling, letting the blade sink into the wet soil. Sandy had her fists clenched to her side and looked downward. Then she cleared her voice and said, ‘Codes.’

  ‘What kind of codes?’

  ‘Dispersal codes,’ she said resignedly. ‘You don’t know how scared we are of you ... You’re the only nation left with its own nuclear force, and that frightens everyone, whether they live in Tokyo, Paris, Berlin, or London. Somehow... from what I was told, Colonel Sawson had dispersal codes for your remaining strategic forces. The bombers and the submarines.’

  ‘And a few missiles,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, yes, but just a few. It’s the bombers and the sub-marines that concern us, and Colonel Sawson supposedly had the codes that would send them to other countries.’

  He rubbed his hands across the shovel handle. ‘Dispersal codes ... If there was a threat, you’d want your bombers and submarines out of their bases. And the right code might send them to another country. Like air bases in Canada for one’s bombers, and naval bases in Great Britain and Hong Kong for your submarine force. So let’s say these codes get overseas to your friends and are transmitted on the right frequencies. Then this country disarms itself, sending its nuclear forces to our British and Canadian friends. And when they arrive ... interned, right?’

  ‘Right,’ she said, nodding quickly. ‘And disarmed. And then maybe General Curtis and the other lunatics here would start talking sense, start cooperating with us and the UN.’

  ‘Some people might call that meddling in another nation’s affairs.’

  And others might call it meddling in the survival of this planet,’ she said sharply.

  He resumed his digging. ‘Now, that’s funny.’

  ‘Why? What’s so amusing?’

  ‘That story,’ he said. ‘That’s the fourth story I’ve heard about what Merl Sawson was hiding. Another is that he was hiding the original Declaration of Independence and our Constitution, smuggled out of Washington before the bombing ten years ago. Another is that he had important documents that can impact the upcoming election.’

  And Resurrection Day, but he still didn’t want to tell Sandy that part of the story. Not yet.

  And yet another story ... well, that’s one so crazy, I can’t even believe it. It involves what might be the hiding place of President John F. Kennedy. Confirming that he is alive after all.’

  ‘That’s insane,’ she said.

  ‘Ain’t that the truth,’ he said, picking up the shovel. ‘Let’s find out.’

  He widened the hole and kept digging, and Sandy moved around, trying to look closer and closer. Back at the parking lot the Volkswagen was now the only vehicle there. It was getting dark and a wind was picking up, and Carl was contemplating resting for just a few minutes when the shovel struck something that made a scratching noise.

  ‘What is it?’ Sandy asked, leaning into him and looking into the hole.

  ‘Not sure,’ he said. ‘In the top flap of the knapsack, there’s a flashlight. Get it out, will you?’

  Sandy got to her knees and opened up the knapsack and clicked on the flashlight, holding it with both of her hands. She aimed it down the open hole and he scraped the shovel back and forth. There was a piece of blue cloth down there, and he moved the cloth away with the shovel blade, exposing something white and firm. He pushed aside some more dirt, and then Sandy said, ‘Oh!’ and he felt something go sour in his mouth.

  The fur-covered skull of a dog grinned up at them.

  Sandy sat on the ground, still holding the flashlight, and Carl felt his hands burn with the pain of shoveling. His legs were aching, too. Then he muttered something and resumed digging,
and Sandy said, ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Just closing the circle,’ he said. ‘Finishing the job.’

  He gingerly removed the remains as best he could, wrapped up as they were in a thready blue towel. Then he dug for another five or ten minutes, and when the shovel blade scraped against something else, Sandy stood up, flashlight again pointing down to the hole.

  ‘What was that?’ she said, her voice once more eager.

  ‘Don’t get excited,’ he said. ‘Might just be a rock. Or another bone.’

  But he felt his own arms tremble with excitement as he scraped more dirt away, widening the hole even more. The sound of this scraping was different than before: metal upon metal, and in the wavering light of the flashlight, he saw something dark green in the hole. A few shovelfuls of dirt later and he saw the top of a green metal lid, narrow and long. Two more shovels of dirt and he recognized it for what it was, and he laid the shovel down and got on his hands and knees.

  On top of the metal lid was a handle, and he grabbed on to it and pulled.

  It wouldn’t budge.

  ‘Damn it,’ he whispered, though he knew no one was around to hear them.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘It’s stuck in there, like a cork in a bottle.’ He stood up and worked the shovel in and around the metal box, scraping and prying, and then Sandy said, ‘Carl. Look over there.’

  He looked up. Two cars were pulling into the small park-ing lot next to Two-Tone’s Volkswagen.

  ‘The light,’ he said. ‘Kill the damn light and hit the dirt!’

  She clicked off the flashlight and lay flat on the ground, and he joined her, pushing his hand into the hole. He grabbed at the box again, feeling the sharp metal cut into his skin. He tugged. Nothing moved.

  ‘I don’t know if they spotted us,’ Sandy whispered. ‘They’re going toward the building, but I think it’s closed now. Most of the lights are off.’

  Another tug. Nothing. He swore and put both arms down into the hole, scraping a fingernail in the process, and he grabbed the handle again.

  ‘It looks like three or four men,’ Sandy said. ‘They’re knocking at the door and looking through the windows.’

  Carl gritted his teeth, pulled up, and finally, something gave. Dirt trickled back into the hole, tinkling off the cover of the metal box.

  ‘Carl,’ she whispered again, her voice strained. ‘I think they’re looking over here.’

  ‘Too bad,’ he whispered back, and he gave another tug, and another, and the box slowly came out, revealing itself to be a metal ammo box, clamped and clipped shut. Carl took a breath and said, ‘Can you crawl?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then let’s start crawling, to that woods line, and let’s get a move on.’

  As he crawled the short distance into the woods, he felt something cold on his spine, like someone was lining up a rifle’s target scope on the middle of his back.

  ~ * ~

  TWENTY-NINE

  the trip through the woods and through the streets of Hudson seemed to take all night, although the cabin clock said they had only been gone two hours. They had traveled among trees and across fields, and then had walked quietly and quickly along the side streets of the small town, heading toward the sound of traffic. That had led them to Route 3 and back to the Matador Inn.

  Carl had forced Sandy to hold back and they had hidden in a thicket of bushes and brambles across the street, looking for anything out of the ordinary, anything that didn’t belong. Like an unmarked Chevy van or Ford LTD in the motel’s parking lot. Or a couple of husky young men, lounging about the motel’s check-in area.

  When he was satisfied that all was clear, he led her across the street, shouldering his knapsack and carrying the ammo box in his free hand. He unlocked the door to the cabin and kept all of the lights off while he drew the curtains, then closed and locked the door. Then he switched on a small table lamp and walked over to the fireplace in the center of the room.

  ‘No need to bring any attention to ourselves,’ he said. ‘We’ll stay for a bit, see what we’ve got in the box, then wash up and get the hell out of here.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘First things first,’ he said. He dropped the knapsack and the box to the floor, and then lit the fireplace, keeping the flame low. His hands were scratched and scraped, and he had a sharp cut over his left cheek. Sandy looked just a little better, her fine hair tangled with bits of leaves and twigs.

  ‘I’m sorry, I just can’t wait anymore,’ she said. ‘Open it, please open it.’

  He perched the ammo box on the brick edge of the fireplace, wiping it clear of dirt. Faded yellow paint on the side of the box announced that it contained five hundred rounds of .30 caliber ammunition. He almost giggled with despair. The yellow letters might just be right. That’s all. All this work and skullduggery and traipsing through the woods on a cold fall night, all for a few hundred rounds of ammunition. Sorry, Jim. Sorry, PS 19. Sorry, United States.

  The lid was held down by a spring clamp, which easily popped open. Sandy was looking at the box with eagerness, her eyes wide with anticipation. He felt his own shaking hands grow cold as he lifted up the lid. In the faint firelight he saw something inside, wrapped in plastic. He picked it up and started unwrapping it. The package shifted in his hands.

  ‘Papers,’ he said softly. ‘That’s what’s in here. Papers. And it’s definitely not the Declaration of Independence or the Constitution.’

  Sandy hugged herself. ‘The codes,’ she said. ‘They were right. The codes. Carl, do you realize what this means?’

  The plastic came off and fell to the floor. He looked down at what he held, at the top document, and he wordlessly handed it to Sandy. She read it with a low moan and said, ‘That’s it? We’ve gone through all of this, and all we’ve got are memos? Bloody memos? No codes?’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ he said, holding another document up to the trembling firelight, and read the first few paragraphs:

  SECRET

  * * *

  SPECIAL

  NATIONAL INTELLIGENCE

  ESTIMATE

  NUMBER 85-3-62

  The Military Buildup In Cuba

  19 September 1962

  THE PROBLEM

  To assess the strategic and political significance of the recent military buildup in Cuba and of the possible future development of additional military capabilities there.

  He flipped through the pages, revealing other documents from that long-dead building known as the White House:

  TOP SECRET

  * * *

  SUPPLEMENT 7

  TO

  JOINT EVALUATION OF

  SOVIET MISSLE THREAT IN CUBA

  The Military Buildup In Cuba

  PREPARED BY

  Guided Missile and Astronautics Intelligence Committee

  Joint Atomic Energy Intelligence Committee

  National Photographic Interpretation Center

  0200 Hours

  27 October 1962

  SUMMARY

  1. Detailed analysis confirms the rapid pace of construction reported in our last supplement. As of 25 October there is no evidence indicating any intention to halt construction, dismantle or move these sites.

  2. There are no changes in the dates of estimated operational capability for the MRBM and IRBM sites. Five of the six MRBM sites are now believed to have a full operational capability and the sixth is estimated to achieve this status tomorrow—28 October (See Figure 2). This means a capability to launch up to 24 MRBM (1020 nm) missiles within 6 to 8 hours of a decision to do so, and a refire capability of up to 24 additional MRBMs within 4 to 6 hours (see Table 1).

  There were easily a hundred pages of memos and reports. A name caught his eye on one document, a hastily typewritten memorandum that had several typeovers and cross-outs:

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  Washington

  October 27, 1962

  MEMORANDUM FOR THE PRESIDENT

&
nbsp; The Joint Chiefs of Staff Operational Plan No. 312 specifically called for the destruction of any Cuban or Soviet SA-2 missile sites within two hours of their having shot down a U-2 surveillance craft. To support this directive, 16 F-100 fighters have been on station at Homestead Air Force Base in Florida on 30-minute alert since the start of the crisis.

  At about 10 a.m. EST today, a U-2 flight near the Cuban northern coast was shot down. Shortly after 2 p.m., per the direct order of the President, this office contacted Air Force General Ramsey Curtis to ensure that the retaliatory strike against the SA-2 site that shot down this U-2 would not occur except upon the direct order of the President.