Rocket Girl

by George D. Morgan

  Mary saw movement above her and looked up just in time to catch a hawk gliding in for a landing on one of the turrets atop the college roof. A pair of hawks had made a home there, a spaghetti mix of straw, thread, and bramble garnered from a nearby dairy farm forming their nest. Mary watched as the hawk fed a morsel to a small chick.

  Why couldn't you be a California condor? Mary answered her own question out loud. “Probably because we're in Ohio.”

  Mary reached into her lunch sack and retrieved a small note. Father Lyons had handed it to her in the hallway that morning. A man wanted to meet with her about a job interview, and since nonstudents were not allowed in the building, she had been instructed to wait on the front steps. She looked up and down the street again—still no one.

  Mary had never had a regular paying job. Sometimes she dreamed of how much money she might have if her father had had to pay her for all those years of farm work.

  Over the past year and a half, her family had gotten used to the idea that Mary had a personal need and drive to go to college, even though no Sherman family member had ever seen the need or had the drive before. Of course, that did not mean they were willing to financially support her. Mary had no choice but to find some income. The money from her $500 scholarship had been exhausted, and the Sisters of Notre Dame, good Christian women every one, needed a payment. Soon. Whatever this job was—and Father Lyons had been very cryptic about it—this was one appointment she could not miss.

  The north door opened again, and about a dozen students walked out of the building. Most of them were women, of course—the war having removed from American soil a large portion of the country's young male population. She watched the students cross the street, then head east toward Guy's Café, the closest place in the neighborhood where one could get a bite to eat. Mary had only taken advantage of it once—her finances allowing little else. As she watched the students head up the street, she saw a man maneuver through their midst heading the opposite direction toward the school. He was very thin, with a bony face. He carried a briefcase and was impeccably dressed in a dark suit and felt hat. The man crossed the street, checking his watch as he approached.

  Mary pushed the last vestige of her sandwich into her mouth as the man came to a halt just below the step she was sitting on.

  “Hi. I'm looking for one of the students here. Mary Sherman.”

  “That's me,” she said, her mouth still masticating the bread and turkey meat, with a little mayo and lettuce.

  They shook hands.

  “I'm Paul Morsky. We have an appointment.”

  Mary nodded. “I've been waiting for you.”

  “Sorry I'm late. Is there a place we can talk?”

  “What's wrong with right here?”

  Paul glanced to his left, then to his right. Mary thought he seemed nervous.

  “I'd prefer someplace with a little more privacy.”

  “You're not allowed inside the building.” Mary considered their options, then added, “There's a public park up the block.”

  They didn't speak during the short walk, and when they arrived Mr. Morsky took a seat at a wooden picnic table. To Mary the man seemed nervous, taking occasional glances left and right.

  “Are you nervous?” she asked.

  “No. Just careful. Loose lips sink ships.”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind.” He removed his felt hat and set it on the table. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me.”

  “I have to get to my chemistry class soon.”

  “Chemistry. You enjoy that?”

  “It's my favorite class.”

  The man smiled for the first time.

  “Good. What I have to say will only take a few minutes,” he said, handing her his business card. Mary read the company name.

  “Plum Brook Ordnance Works.” Ordnance. Something to do with explosives. She remembered one of the students saying her mother and sister worked at Plum Brook.

  “A lot of girls here in Toledo work for us,” said Paul. We'd like you to consider coming on board.”

  “What would I be doing?”

  Again with the look left, look right.

  “What would you be doing? Let's just say, ‘a little of this—a little of that.’”

  Mary sensed his coyness was deliberate. “What do you do for them?”

  “I'm a recruiter. My job is to find people—people with certain talents.”

  “How did you get my name?”

  “One of your teachers referred you.”

  “Which one?”

  “I'd rather not say.”

  “Why me?”

  Paul Morsky shifted position on the bench, taking a moment to think through his reply.

  “The war has hurt this country, Miss Sherman. More than most people realize. We have a great many skilled jobs that are not being filled.”

  “Like…?”

  “Like chemical engineers, for one. There's a big shortage of trained chemists right now.”

  “You're aware I'm just finishing my sophomore year here.”

  “Oh yes—we know all about you.” He opened his briefcase and removed a thick folder. “Your teachers give you glowing reports. You're at the top of your class in both math and science.”

  “This isn't exactly Harvard—not a lot of competition at DeSales.”

  Paul chuckled quietly. “You're modest. I like that.” He paged through the folder briefly, then re-closed it. “How would you like to skip college and go straight into your career? We'll hire you as a chemist—right now. Not quite the same pay scale as if you had a degree, but close.”

  “You must be desperate.”

  Whatever Morsky was thinking at that point, he did not say.

  “Mr. Morsky, I'm looking for employment so I can continue my schooling, not abandon it. I didn't graduate from high school till I was nineteen; I've already had too many delays in my education. I don't want any more.”

  Though the job offer was a compliment, she handed him back his card. “Sorry. I'm determined to finish my degree. I'll call you after I graduate.” Mary was about to stand up when Morsky reached over and held her arm. In her mind she pictured Clarence, and he had a switch.

  “Please let me go.”

  “Listen to me, you selfish little girl. There are a million American boys out there who have postponed their educations for years in order to keep the world safe for people like you and me. A lot of those American boys are dying out there. Every day hundreds of our young men perish on the battlefield. Don't you think you owe it to them to contribute something?”

  He paused to allow his words to sink in to her conscience, then he released his grip.

  “Your job would help the war effort, Miss Sherman. Our soldiers need you.”

  “Do you use that guilt technique on everyone?”

  “Only if I have to.”

  “Does it work?”

  “Only with the good people. And I believe you're one.” Mr. Morsky handed her back the business card.

  Mary thought of her brother Michael, who had joined the army the year before and who was at that very moment on some battlefield somewhere risking his life for democracy. After all the years of torment they had put her through, she had no great affection for any of her brothers. Still, Mr. Morsky's words had cut her to the center. Was she being selfish? Undeniably, but only because she had never before had an opportunity to put herself first. All her waking days had been spent serving someone or something else. Was it so bad to be a little selfish after all she had endured?

  “I suppose I could finish my education taking night classes.”

  “Sure,” he said. “You could do that.”

  Had Mary been paying better attention, she might have detected the doubt in his voice.

  “What do I have to do?”

  “You'll need to apply for a top secret clearance—just a formality in your case. Aren't too many Soviet spies coming out of Ray, North Dakota, these days. Takes about a month, so y
ou'll be able to finish out the school year. After that, you show up for work—seven thirty in the a.m.”

  Paul stood up and once again offered his hand. She accepted it.

  “Congratulations.”

  He turned and took two steps toward the street.

  “Hey,” she interrupted. “You haven't told me what I'll be doing.”

  Paul looked carefully at his new recruit. His reply had an edge to it—a mood; like two spies exchanging whispered secrets in a Moscow alley.

  He slowly placed his felt hat back on his head and said, “A little of this—a little of that.”

  Then he turned, walked across the street, and was gone.

  As she headed away from the park toward a rendezvous with chemistry class, Mary held her books close and kept her head down, counting each crack in the pavement. She did not want to interrupt her education—again. She loved school more than life itself. Leaving the farm and striking out on her own had been the best decision she had ever made. While many of her fellow students at DeSales battled constant waves of homesickness, Mary rarely thought of her pre-college life. Free to make her own decisions. Free to make her way in the world. Free to make her mark. Other girls could grow up to be schoolteachers—that was fine for them. Mary had other plans.

  Still, freedom had its limitations. Mary's paltry savings account had run dry, and she was desperate. It's when someone leaves home that they discover how important money really is. If you cannot buy food, you starve. If you cannot pay the rent, you become homeless. Mary was close to suffering both. To top it off, the school's bursar kept putting notes in her mailbox, emphasizing in ever stronger terms the need for Mary to bring her tuition payments up to date.

  Then, out of nowhere, a job offer. A job that would allow her to start her career immediately, but whose description was couched in riddles. A job that promised to end her financial problems, but whose acceptance required a top secret government clearance.

  A little of this—a little of that.

  As she approached the entrance to DeSales, Mary happened to look up and see Mother Hawk attending to her chicks. Then Father Hawk, back from a foraging mission, flew up and landed, another tasty morsel in his beak.

  Even birds have a better family life than I do.

  It was getting late in the day, and the St. John Building was casting a long, cold shadow. Mary sped up her pace—being late for class was not something she was known for. Arriving at the north door, she took one last look around the grounds. She had enjoyed her brief sojourn at DeSales College so far, and hoped to be able to continue. Mary, after all, had never given up on anything in her life and certainly did not want to start. But change, like the persistent force of a Dakota prairie wind, was blowing fast and strong. Mary entered the building and closed the door behind her.

  “Miss—your booties.”

  Mary turned to see who was talking. It was the receptionist, a mousy woman with stringy hair and a bow-tie kerchief wrapped loosely around her neck.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You cannot enter the floor without booties.”

  “I—I don't have any.”

  “Are you new here?”

  “First day.”

  The mousy lady stood and opened a faded green metal cabinet about six feet tall. Inside were what looked like hundreds of pairs of white socks. The lady removed a single pair, closed the cabinet, and handed them to Mary. She motioned to a row of chairs where she could put them on. Above the chairs hung a number of black-and-white portrait photos of Plum Brook Ordnance's board of directors. On another wall was a poster showing a sinking battleship. Around the half-sunk ship were the words LOOSE LIPS MIGHT SINK SHIPS.

  “No one is allowed on the floor without booties.” She pulled a padlock and key from another drawer. “Pick the first available locker you find and place your personal effects in it.”

  Mary sat down. The wooden chair was stained a shade of deep brown, like the bark from a South Dakota spruce. The booties had an elastic band that allowed them to fit over her shoes. She put them both on, stood up, and faced Mousy Lady.

  “Do I have to work in these?”

  “Of course.”

  “What are they for?”

  “They help dissipate static electricity—so you don't blow the place up.” She put a cigarette in her mouth and kept it there, a signal she was done talking.

  Mary walked to the large set of double doors labeled BADGES REQUIRED BEYOND THIS POINT. She knew her Plum Brook Ordnance ID was still clipped to her blouse, but looked down to check just the same.

  “What am I going to find beyond these doors?”

  Mousy Lady set her cigarette on an ash tray, then began turning the platen knob on her typewriter, feeding through it a three-color carbon form in triplicate.

  “A little of this—a little of that.”

  The woman's reply made Mary instinctively glance at the “Loose Lips” poster. Then she turned back and twisted the knob on the door, pushing it open. Three steps later, she was standing in front of a small wooden desk manned by two burly security guards.

  “Your ID, please.”

  Mary unclipped her badge and handed it to the man while the second guard walked around the desk to inspect her booties and check the contents of her purse. The first guard spoke to his companion.

  “Tell Hollingsworth his new chemist is here.”

  “Right,” and he was gone.

  A moment later, Mary had her badge back and the guard waved her on.

  “I'm supposed to get a locker.”

  “First door on the left.”

  The locker room was larger than the Sherman farmhouse, with hundreds of pale tan lockers. Two older women were talking in low tones against the far wall. They looked up when Mary came in, watched her briefly, then went back to their business. There were dozens of available lockers. Mary picked one at random, then put her purse inside. That's when she felt a hand on her shoulder.

  “Miss Sherman?”

  She turned quickly to find a short, middle-aged man standing before her. Mary wondered what a man was doing in the women's locker room.

  “It's not that kind of locker room,” he said, reading her concern. “The only things people stow in here are their personal valuables. And, of course, metal jewelry. Can't wear any metal jewelry on the floor.”

  Mary looked at her watch, then removed it, placing it in the locker beside the purse. Then she closed the door and secured it with the padlock. The two of them shook hands.

  “A. J. Hollingsworth—Floor Supervisor. Welcome to the team.” He smiled and headed for a second door. A very large sign across it read NO SMOKING—BOOTIES REQUIRED.

  “Come on—let me show you the place.”

  The “floor” was a cavernous room larger than an aircraft hangar. Mary guessed there were at least four dozen workers whom she could see from her vantage point. There was a cacophony of hums and roars and people shouting. Giant machines—all painted a putrid shade of green—were everywhere. Several odors permeated the air: sulfur, ammonia, and something else she could not quite place. A large sign with letters more than two feet high read, ONE SPARK KILLS EVERYONE. Metal poles five feet high were placed at regular intervals. Whenever an employee passed one, they would touch it, then move on their way.

  J. pointed to a nearby pole. “Please touch that.”

  Mary walked over and touched the pole.

  “Thank you. Get in the habit. Always touch a pole when you pass one so you can discharge any static electricity buildup.” He stepped farther into the room and spread his arms wide. “Welcome to Plum Brook Ordnance.”

  “Now that I'm here, can someone finally tell me what this place is about?”

  J. turned to look at the factory with a face full of pride.

  “Miss Sherman—you're looking at the world's largest manufacturer of trinitrotoluene.”

  She had only studied chemistry for three semesters—one in high school and two at DeSales, but it was enough. Enough to know w
hat all the prefixes and suffixes in that word meant. Enough to know the identity and purpose of the chemical compounds. Enough to know exactly what all the mystery and fuss and secrecy over Plum Brook Ordnance had been about. She looked at Mr. Hollingsworth and whispered.

  “T-N-T.”

  “We also make a helluva lotta gunpowder. Also nitrocellulose, nitroglycerine, some cordite. But TNT is certainly one of our most popular products. I'm sure you're familiar with the story of Alfred Nobel.”

  “Nineteenth-century inventor. Founded and funded the Nobel Prizes in his will. Made a fortune as the creator of several well-known explosives. No self-respecting chemistry student would be caught not knowing the story of Alfred Nobel.”

  “Very good. Let's take a tour.” Mr. Hollingsworth stepped farther into the factory, and Mary followed. “TNT is made from a mixture of one mole dinitrotolulene…”

  “…three moles of concentrated nitric acid, and five moles of sulfuric acid,” she finished.

  Mr. Hollingsworth stopped walking. “Yes. That's quite correct. The mixture is then heated to one-hundred thirty degrees centigrade for…”

  “Do you still use water to filter out the solution?”

  Mr. Hollingsworth seemed disappointed—like a doctor whose patients had all cancelled their appointments. “Yes—that's still generally considered…”

  “After you distill it with sodium sulfite and wash out the impurities, what do you do with the waste water?”

  The supervisor shrugged. “We pour it into a big hole in the ground out back.”

  “Exposed to the air?” Mary was incredulous. “That hole must contain thousands of gallons of sulfuric acid.”

  “Millions. It's a pretty big hole.”

  “I can't believe the government would let you do that.”

  “Actually, it was the government's idea.” Hollingsworth extended his arm to show the way. “Shall we continue?”

  The tour took less than thirty minutes, and after it was over, all Mary could think of was the many ways she could help her new employer improve their operation.

  “Let me show you where you'll be working.”

  He led her to a door labeled “INVENTORY TESTING.” The white paint on the door was yellowing and peeling. The yellow tinge resembled a typical oxidation reaction, and Mary guessed it was the result of the paint reacting with the chemicals that permeated the factory air. As Mr. Hollingsworth searched through a large bundle of brass keys, she asked, “Why don't you have your workers wear protective masks?”