Resurrection Day

by Brendan DuBois

  General Curtis replied, quote, ‘The Russian bear has always been eager to stick his paw in Latin American waters. Now that we’ve got him in a trap, let’s take his leg off right up to his balls. On second thought, let’s take off his balls, too.’

  He looked up from the memo, the page shaking in his hand. Could this be . . . Sandy was sitting by the fireplace, leaning against the brick supports, shaking her head. All of this ... all of this work and blood and tears and sweat, all for a bunch of bloody ten-year old memos.’

  ‘Sandy, don’t start panicking,’ he started, scanning the memo again, wondering how in God’s name it had gotten out of the White House in time. ‘It could work out to be—’

  The bathroom door inside the cabin slammed open and Sandy sat up with a shriek as a male voice said, ‘Right, Landry, because you should start panicking, you traitorous asshole.’

  Standing by the open bathroom door, in jeans and turtle-neck and holding a revolver, was Captain Rowland.

  ‘Idiot,’ he said, pointing the revolver at Carl. ‘You out of the service so long you forget your tradecraft? We had you under the gun all day, right up to the riot in the Common. You didn’t even look through the goddam place when you got here. Amateur. You, honey, get your Limey ass over there, next to your stupid boyfriend.’

  Sandy’s face was ashen but she picked up her purse and joined Carl. He looked at the smug, beady eyes and thought about that beefy, well-fed man, beating up on Two-Tone. To come this far, after Manhattan and the Boston Common and everything else ...

  Carl said sharply, ‘And what about you, Captain? Did you forget the motto of the Special Forces? De Oppresso Liber—To Free the Oppressed. Is that what you’re doing here, or are you just busy helping the oppressors?’

  Rowland grinned, not a pretty sight. ‘Sorry, pal, I haven’t been with the Special Forces for a long while, a very long while. I didn’t fit in with those Boy Scouts and I ended up where I am, in Zed Force, doing the naughty deeds that need to be taken care of.’

  Sandy spoke up, her voice quavering. ‘Like killing Merl Sawson? And trying to kill us in Manhattan?’

  If anything, the grin got wider. ‘Whatever it takes, baby. Whatever it takes. Old Merl, he thought he could go to the Brits without anyone noticing, and he was wrong. We screwed up in New York, that I admit, but we had you guys wired tight back at the Common. That draft-dodger friend of yours, he gave you up in about five minutes, and we were right behind you, all the way to the liquor store and the pet cemetery and back here. Now,’ he said, waving the fingers of his free hand. ‘Hand ‘em over.’

  Carl felt a dark despair starting to grow within him. All these years, these documents had been saved—from the nuclear fire of Washington and through the turbulent years of the early recovery, and now, only by chance, had they been found. Now they meant something important again. A way to stop a new madness, a way to change direction after ten years, a way to finally put things right. But they were about to be turned over to a new barbarian.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I can’t do that.’

  Now the smile was gone. Rowland gestured with his revolver. ‘Look, pal, I don’t have time to debate. Hand over the documents right now or your Limey girl gets one in the shoulder. And if that doesn’t do it, I’ll do her knee, and maybe some other pretty parts.’

  A gunshot, outside, and then two more. They all looked to the front door and Carl couldn’t believe what he saw: Rowland looked puzzled. Another gunshot, and the far-off drone of a helicopter.

  ‘What’s the matter, Captain?’ Sandy asked, a sly smile on her face. ‘Is somebody coming along without an invitation?’

  ‘Shut your mouth,’ Rowland said, his eyes moving back and forth, from Carl and Sandy to the front door and then back again. ‘You hand over those papers, or I’m going to—’

  There was the harsh crash of automatic weapons fire from outside and Carl fell to the floor, pulling at Sandy, who struggled against him. Rowland yelled, ‘Jesus Christ,’ and went to look out the near window, revolver at his side. Sandy pulled herself loose from Carl’s grasp and he was going to yell at her to get her foolish head down, when she popped open her purse and pulled out a small, black automatic pistol. She tossed the pistol to Carl and he grabbed it with one hand, and worked the action back with his other.

  The captain turned at the noise, face angry, revolver in their direction. He fired and Sandy screamed, and Carl raised the pistol and shot the captain twice in the chest.

  Rowland lurched backward to the ground and Carl grabbed Sandy and pulled her down and yelled, ‘Where in hell did you get the gun?’

  ‘Where do you think?’ she said, face bright red. ‘When MI6 prepared me for this trip, they didn’t just give me a radio.’

  The sound of the helicopter grew louder. Sandy said, ‘That horrible man. Is he dead?’

  He crawled over to where Rowland was lying, facedown. Carl retrieved the revolver and checked Rowland’s breathing, then went back to the fireplace and said, ‘He’s not doing well, but he’s still alive. Jesus, Sandy, are these your folks showing up?’

  Her face was smug, a sight that made him angry and sad, all at once.

  ‘Of course,’ Sandy said. ‘They’re the very best, and they’re here to finish the job.’

  Carl sat up against the fireplace, holding the precious documents in his lap. He looked back down at the memo he was reading, and finished the last few paragraphs:

  ... Shortly before noon, 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.

  General Curtis replied, quote, ‘The Russian bear has always been eager to stick his paw in Latin American waters. Now that we’ve got him in a trap, let’s take his leg off right up to his balls. On second thought, let’s take off his balls, too.’

  The message to General Curtis was repeated, that he was not, repeat, not, to launch the retaliatory strike at all costs. The General replied with a vulgarity and said, quote, ‘That Ivy League boy screwed the pooch at the Bay of Pigs, and we ain’t gonna be left holding the bag this time.’ The General then hung up.

  Subsequent attempts to contact General Curtis were unsuccessful. Contact through the White House Switchboard to the Operations Officer at Homestead AFB determined that the retaliatory strike had been launched. The Operations Officer refused to issue a recall order without the proper authority or coding.

  Attempts to secure the recall order or codes by this office proved unsuccessful. Initial reports are that the SA-2 sites have been bombed and that follow-up raids are being conducted on other SA sites in the area.

  Attached to the memo was a handwritten note, on a piece of White House stationery, dated October 28, the day after the raid:

  Damn it, Merl, that fool Curtis has gotten us into a full-out war. Word is the Marines and Airborne are going in shortly. What a hell of a fucking mess.

  The note was unsigned.

  Something smashed through the windows and the front door, and he rolled over, pulling Sandy close to him.

  ~ * ~

  ‘Clear!’ someone shouted, and another voice echoed, ‘Clear!’ Carl looked up and saw four men, dressed in black jumpsuits, helmets, and body armor, carrying short stubby Sten machine guns. British-made. They had come through the front door and windows, and one of them bent over Rowland and shouted, ‘Medic! We need a medic in here!’

  There was a quick shuffle of people around the fallen form of Rowland and then a young man strode through the broken front door, wearing a business suit and necktie and dress shoes.

  ‘Hullo, Sandy,’ he said. ‘Sorry about all the noise. Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said, standing up and smiling widely. ‘Just fine.’

  Douglas Harris, press attaché to the British consulate in Boston, nodded in Carl’s direction. ‘And how is Mr. Landry of the Globe?’
>
  Carl got to his feet as two of the soldiers came over and took away his knapsack and both of the weapons. The papers were still in his hands. ‘Mr. Landry is one confused person,’ he said. ‘And his ears hurt. And he wants to know what the hell is going on.’

  Harris smiled. ‘Of course you do. But first things first, Mr. Landry.’ He held out a hand. ‘The papers, please.’

  They felt as light as feathers in his hands. ‘I’m sorry, could you say that again?’

  A small nod, and he saw that Sandy was looking at him, a touch of fear in her eyes. ‘Those papers you have, Mr. Landry. They were promised to us and we want them.’

  Rowland was hustled out of the room and it was quiet, except for the thrumming sound of the helicopter engine outside. They must have landed the damn thing in the motel’s parking lot.

  ‘I’m sorry, but you can’t have them.’

  Harris was obviously trying to hold his temper in check. ‘Damn it, man, we don’t have time for this,’ he said, stepping forward. ‘We’ve just shot up this piece of property and the local constabulary are probably on the way. We’ve got a fucking chopper in the front yard of this place, and I want those papers. Now!’

  ‘If you’re in such a hurry,’ Carl shot back, ‘then why don’t you get in your fucking chopper and fly out of here?’

  Sandy spoke up. ‘Carl, it really—’

  ‘Shut up, Sandy,’ Harris said, interrupting. He turned to two of the soldiers and said, ‘You and you. Get those papers, and you don’t have to be gentle.’

  Carl threw the whole load of documents into the fireplace.

  ~ * ~

  Both Sandy and Harris shouted and sprang forward, but Carl yelled, ‘Shut up and freeze!’ in his best Army sergeant voice, and moved his hand down to the gas supply lever.

  ‘Now,’ he said, speaking slowly and loudly, a part of him not believing what he was doing. ‘Listen closely. Those papers belong here, to the American people. They don’t belong to you. Every second that passes, they’re getting burned. Not so badly since the fire is on low, but see where my hand is? I’m controlling the flow of gas into the fireplace. Anyone moves closer, anyone at all, and I’ll flip this lever up and you’ll have nothing but ashes.’

  The pile of documents had landed right in the center of the fireplace, and first one, and then another sheet of paper curled itself over and started smoldering.

  Harris said, ‘You’re bluffing.’

  ‘Try me, Dougie,’ he said. ‘My guess is, there’s important things here, important things that you might want to see publicized. Or not publicized. Fine. Either way, you want them. What I’m saying is it’s not your responsibility. The papers belong here.’

  Sandy said, ‘Carl, look, I know how you feel, but if they are to be publicized, it has to happen outside the country, away from your censors.’

  ‘You let me worry about the censors,’ Carl said. ‘And we don’t know if Dougie here will allow them to be published anyway, do we?’

  Harris looked horrified. ‘My God, man, don’t you realize the treasure trove you have there? You have documents from the White House, explaining how the war started, secrets that will affect your election. And you’re letting them burn!’

  ‘No, you’re the one letting them burn, and there goes another sheet,’ Carl said, trying to speak clearly and quickly, all at once. ‘Here’s the deal. You give me transportation back to Boston, leave me and these papers alone, and I’ll get them publicized. If I fail, I’ll make sure that the next day they end up at your consulate. But that’s the deal. Make up your mind or there’s nothing left. Something tells me, Dougie old boy, that your superiors won’t be so happy if everything goes up in flames. But you better hurry, I think I hear sirens coming. You want to explain to the New Hampshire State Police why there’s armed British nationals on the ground in American territory?’

  Harris’s face was quite red. ‘Damn you, how can I trust you?’

  ‘Ask Sandy. She’ll vouch for me.’

  A brief look passed between them. ‘All right, and how do you know that you can trust me?’ Harris asked.

  ‘Just give me your word as an Englishman and a gentleman and a member of the British diplomatic corps, and that will do,’ Carl said.

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  Harris sighed. ‘You bastard. I give you my word as an Englishman, a gentleman, and a member of the British diplomatic corps, that you will be taken back to Boston unharmed.’

  ‘And with all of the papers in my possession.’

  ‘Yes, yes, yes, the papers still in your possession. Damn it, turn the gas off!’

  Which is what he did. He picked up the thick stack of papers and brushed away the burnt remnants of two or three sheets.

  ‘I suppose it’s time to go, right?’ Carl asked.

  ‘Right,’ Harris said. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  Some people had pulled their cars over to the side of the highway to look at the helicopter in the parking lot, blades still turning. The soldiers were carrying Carl’s and Sandy’s belongings, and as they made their way to the helicopter, Sandy put her mouth next to his ear and said, ‘That was pretty tough.’

  ‘Had to do it,’ he answered, the precious cargo firmly clamped under his arm.

  ‘Weren’t you afraid of damaging the papers?’

  Carl looked at her and raised his voice against the engine’s noise. ‘Sandy, I was scared shitless.’

  They got closer to the helicopter and Dougie jumped ahead of them, with a smile on his face, a triumphant smile that was wrong. Quite wrong. Two of the soldiers in the helicopter were staring right at them, and Sandy went ahead and there was a movement as a man leaned forward from inside the cabin to see what was going on. Tall, angry looking, with a large mane of white hair...Damn it, why was that familiar?

  He took a couple more steps to the helicopter.

  Stewart. Stewart Thompson. The head of MI6 in Boston and the name on the card that Merl Sawson had had hidden among his papers, back in his freezer.

  Another step to the helicopter. The noise of the blades was deafening. Something was wrong, something was wrong. Stewart Thompson was leaning further out, face twisted in anger, and there was Dougie, smiling, smiling because—

  Carl had made an agreement with Dougie, not with Stewart Thompson.

  He took a deep breath, hunched down, and then threw himself under the helicopter, rolling on the cracked pavement, the noise in his ears and the grit against his face overwhelming, and he rolled, rolled, until he was free.

  And then he ran to the woods, as police cars howled their way into the parking lot and the helicopter lifted off.

  ~ * ~

  THIRTY

  He knew he was being chased, and in the end, there was only one place to go.

  Carl walked gingerly through the empty rooms of the small house, a candle flickering in his hand. He was exhausted. After spending some long minutes thrashing through the woods near the Matador Inn, he had managed to get back to the pet cemetery, and to the borrowed Volkswagen. Driving back to Boston at that time of night would have been foolish. Any kind of random checkpoint would have ended everything. Not to mention the Zed Force, furious that one of their own had been shot. And not to mention the equally furious British.

  So he had come home. To Newburyport, for the first time in more than ten years. He had hidden the car in some woods down the street, and had made his way here, walking along the familiar road. It was getting colder but he sat for a while in the tiny backyard, looking at the unlit and shuttered Cape Cod house with peeling paint, the place he and Mom and Dad and his sister, Sarah, had once called home. The landscape had reverted back to the wild, with tall grass and saplings growing on the lawn. Plants had also grown around the rusted remains of a swing set in the rear yard. Faded ply-wood covered the lower windows of the house. Some time ago—‘64, maybe?—he had gotten a letter about the house. A company calling itself Real Estate Salvagers had offered to
go in, clean out the belongings, disconnect the utilities, and then put it on the market. With millions dead in ‘62 and ‘63, it was another growth industry from the Cuban War. He had paid the company, they had done their job, and each year he paid the minuscule real estate taxes from the city. It had never been sold.

  Tonight, he had gone to the back of the house and loosened a brick in the rear walk, where he had found the rusted but still serviceable spare key that had let him in. A search of the kitchen had found a candle stub and an old packet of matches, and on the fifth try a match sputtered into life. He looked around, at the dusty floor and shelves. Mom had made countless breakfasts here, lunches and dinners, too. He remembered as a child coming downstairs in the morning in winter, chilly from the low temperatures, and eating cereal on the floor with Sarah, huddled up against the hot-air register, trying to warm up their feet.