by James Kiehle
21. The War
The China War had begun.
Navies engaged in sea battles, air forces scrambled and attacked anything that flew or floated in the Formosa Strait; in a few places on Taiwan, ground forces fought Chinese soldiers face to face. From land and submarines, missiles were fired, sealing the casket.
And by the time the smoke cleared, this much was clear: The American nation would cease to exist.
In the White House, the president addressed his staff, telling them how much their service had meant to him and to the country. It only took a few minutes for him to bring them up to speed and deliver the bad news. Once they left the Oval Office, most in tears, the president was left alone and anxiously waited for his family to join him and head to the President’s Emergency Operations Center (PEOC) under the East Wing. He called his secretary every minute or two to find out where his wife and children were—in a helicopter somewhere over Baltimore.
He turned on the computer and opened a secure video channel, a high-def version of Skype.
“What’s your guess?” the president asked the secretary of defense, on a plane heading for Idaho. “How long until the nukes hit us?”
Herman Locke turned away from the screen for a moment and spoke to someone before answering. “Colonel Grant tells me that in less than twenty minutes warheads begin falling on the west coast; about forty minutes for the east—or less.”
“And Russia? Are they participating in this melee, too?”
“Do they really have a choice, Mister President?” the secretary asked, not that it mattered, because an instant later the screen turned blank—Locke’s image disappeared—and the president, overwhelmed, held and squeezed his forehead.
Nations quickly lined up behind their allies as the dominoes began to fall. Frayed nerves, a meteor strike and misunderstandings led first to the atomic accident in Hawaii, as Chinese-implemented reprogrammed computer codes accidentally disrupted the workings of their secret plane, the ZCF-111, and destroyed American warships and the north end of Oahu in the first nuclear explosion.
That tipped the scale, and panic spread world wide. Old conflicts grew into larger ones as nations took this last chance to harm or obliterate their enemies. And once the nuclear option took center stage on the table, a range of swift military actions followed. In China, the feared DF-51’s were launched one by one, aimed at cities all over North America. In the US, retaliation was almost instantaneous as literally thousands of missiles shot through the sky at targets predetermined years before, when the USSR and China were commies but the Cold War stayed medium cool.
Now it was hot.
And unless they were lucky, or shielded by God, the world would cease to exist.
“God damn us,” the president said to the empty room.
•
Judy Perry’s savior was not what she expected.
Dreamboat was the word that came to mind.
Had this been another time—say, pre-Mrs. Judith Perry, pre-daughter Iris, post-party-girl, and pre-World War III—Roger Lind, apparently a honcho of an Oahu-based sight-seeing steamship line (and lifesaver Arnold’s uncle), would have spawned moist intrigue in her sweet spot, and probably, truthfully, a crush.
Sporting thin-edged intellectual’s glasses—her secret penchant—Roger Lind wore a Hawaiian shirt, khaki shorts (what legs) and sandals. He was what Iris might call cuteized.
Roger Lind sat behind an antique table, stacks of papers almost shielding him from Judy’s extended look-see, then peered up and his eyes popped. He stood with his hand motioning them inside the office. From his facial expression, Roger had the same reaction as Judy—instant attraction. Tall, taller than Russ maybe, Lind had the sort of trim, compact swimmer’s frame that appealed to Judy—the masculine version of her own figure minus boobs—plus a genetic facial mesh of adorable and almost handsome. He seemed an insouciant cad, what with that carefully mutinous comma of hair dipping teen-boy-band-like over one eye, hiding sheepish peepers.
But Judy had a long-standing mutual deal with her husband: Look, don’t touch. As true for Russ with strippers or matriarchs—not to mention her catty, flirtatious friends here and there—as faux sexual palter was for her, at holiday parties when his drunk office and/or golfing buddies would smooth her ass or whisper how much they always really liked her, just out of earshot and view of her hubby, sparing themselves perhaps a broken nose, at least back in the pre-Iris days when Russ’s temper was legendary.
Flattering flirtation, but pointless.
Roger Lind had not yet spoken a word as she gave him the twice-over.
First impression: In another time she would face a dilemma.
Second impression: Maybe they could reach a deal.
Roger Lind had waited for Iris and Judy upstairs in a cramped old office overlooking the pier where his ship was docked. Outside, through a grid of square-paned windows, people were boarding the cruise ship as quickly as they could, some falling down in their struggle to get on the vessel.
“Have a seat, please, have a seat,” Lind motioned, then sat across from them on the kind of hard seats that high school principals once used. He rifled some papers and shook his head. “Hell of a thing, those ships getting attacked by the Chinese. Panicked the whole state. Makes you wonder what’s next. And don’t get me started on those meteors—”
“Mister Lind,” Judy held up a slender hand, “Can you help?”
Roger adjusted his glasses and shrugged.
“I’m sorry.”
Iris held Judy’s other hand so tightly that it hurt.
“What?”
“I wish I could be of service,” he said, putting down a folder, then held up his palms in resignation. “The Oahu Queen is not a large vessel and quite full up. It’s a very long trip to the west coast, so we need to be concerned with weight. Not that you two weigh much, but well, you know—”
Iris squeezed even harder; so did Judy. You win, she thought, and tried to let go.
“There must be something you can do,” Judy said.
“I wish there was but—” Lind replied, then stared deeply in her eyes with a look that slightly unnerved and yet attracted her. “I do have an idea.”
“What? Money? I have money. I can pay,” Judy told him, opening her purse. “Look, I have—I have eight hundred dollars…”
“No, no, put that away.” Lind bit his lip. “It’s really not a question of money. The owners jacked up stateroom prices as it is. A room now would cost you around ten thousand.”
“Dollars?” Judy asked, wondering what he’d say next. “What then? What idea?”
His gaze shifted towards Iris, then back to Judy.
“Perhaps we could talk alone for a few minutes?”
•
This was what it was like to die, Russ thought. Going through the motions for the sake of sanity—a living death. While others you knew and loved were no longer alive, their souls minus a flesh and muscle and bone container, immortal essences set free to explore anywhere in the universe they liked, maybe able to invent their own heaven—Judy would choose where? What would his wife decide to look in on?
Home. She’d choose to be back in Bend. Watching over Russ.
A deceased Iris, meanwhile, probably selects a day at the mall with all her friends, getting ghostly mani-pedis, trying on invisible clothes and buying blank magazines without Slut in the headline.
Russ almost laughed, thinking of their faces, remembering their myriad expressions etched over time. He walked up streets and down others, going north, then east, then south, just not thinking right. He was so lost, so full of regret and fear that it nearly strangled him.
His wife…His daughter…
More than anything, Russ wanted to be with them. Maybe not in Bend again, but maybe in Heaven, if that was possible. Right now he truly felt like one of the undead.
Russ walked on, vaguely heading for the office.
A sullen, living zombie.
•
I
n the morning, Rebecca left the hotel bed early, giving the cute, spoiled boy—whose name she never learned—a quick peck on his sleeping cheek. She strode to her own suite with five thousand of his dollars in her pocketbook and smiled as she packed up.
The Fantasy Smile.
Fulfilled indeed.
At the front desk, Rebecca put on the charm big time as the manager took care of the bill, writing Honored Guest on the statement. He held his hands to his lips and blinked his eyes, disbelieving.
“Oh. My. God. It is such a privilege to have you stay here, Miss Chase—”
“Call me Rebecca.”
The manager almost drooled. “I am such a fan. I have all your records. Oh, and that first one? The lollipop video? Divine.”
“Yay for me,” she laughed, and held out her hand. “Well, thank you so much for taking care of the suite—”
“Of course, of course, but, um…”
“Yes?”
“Well, I hate to bring this up but there is one tiny thing, though—”
She gave him Innocent Smile, learned long before she became a ‘star.’
“Tiny thing?”
The manager looked apologetic as he pulled out the registration.
“See here? It says Chace. C-H-A-C-E. Not C-H-A-S-E like your stage name, which everybody knows, of course, and I was wondering…”
“Yeah, sure, I get it,” she grinned to reassure him, “I do that as a ruse for the paparazzi. They use this service, this app called CelebTrak? And it follows you by where you use your credit card or something. To throw them off, I just tweaked the name. It was a bitch to get Amex to agree but, hey, all’s fair in war and fame. Right now they probably think I’m in Australia.”
The manager twisted his neck and rubbed it with his hand.
“Naturally, of course I believe you,” he said. “But perhaps you could just show me your identification again—”
Her eyes narrowed; the smile vanished.
“Oh, I see, I see. You don’t believe me.”
“It’s not that, it’s—”
Rebecca looked angry, much like the expression in the video for South of Sunset where the singer morphed from teen coquette to demonic, if comely, vampire.
“Here,” she said, whipping out her driver’s license and almost throwing it to him. “And here is my social and my business card and my passport— oh wait, maybe I have my birth certificate with me…”
“That’s really not necessary.” The manager looked flushed and barely glanced at the documents.
“Do you need a note from my mom, too?”
The manager said, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s just that I am a fan, and thinking that I’m possibly being deceived—”
“DECEIVED?” she said at the top of her voice, and people in the lobby turned to look. She pulled out a wad of bills. “How much was it? For one night? What? Three thousand? Four? Here just take this—” and handed him all of the rich kid’s tribute money.
The manager reluctantly took the bills but looked at them as if he didn’t know what they were and said, “We’ve had people take advantage of our hospitality.”
Rebecca’s eyes glowed. “So now I am not just a slut but a hotel whore, too?” The man looked both horrified and turned on. If others weren’t gawking nearby, he would have probably knelt down and begged, an idea she liked.
“I— I don’t know what to say. I had no right.”
“You’re damned right.”
“Please, then—” He handed back the money and documents.
“That’s the simple truth,” she said. “Believe it, don’t believe it. I could care less. This is bullshit.”
“Please forgive me,” he said, and seemed to wash his face with his hands, peering out between fingers.
Rebecca seethed. More people stopped to look. The younger ones knew immediately who she was and several teens cautiously approached her. Some began snapping pictures.
“May I have your autograph?” one girl asked.
“Sure,” Rebecca beamed, thankful for the distraction.
Another said, “Are you still dating that actor guy?”
“Yep, still going out.” Rebecca smiled patiently, calming down, then turned the Colgate gleam on brighter as she complied with more requests. This smile version was I’m so happy to meet all of you. A winner.
“Who do I make it out to?” she asked and names were thrown out.
“Did you really break up that marriage for kicks?”
“Why aren’t you in Australia? I thought you were on tour?”
“Who does your hair?”
“What do you think about China?” a teen boy with a cracking voice asked. The mostly young crowd now numbered a good twenty.
“It’s a great country,” she said. “Full of wonderful people. I’ll be there next March. I plan to learn the language. I’m taking lessons.”
“Really?”
“You think China’s great?”
“Well, sure? Why wouldn’t it be?” she replied, head tilted.
“Watch the news,” one boy said, and turned away.
The crowd fell silent and after a moment slowly backed up and drifted off, a move that baffled her, and though she shrugged, Rebecca felt uneasy.
“We done here?” she asked the hotel manager, turning from the few who still gawked.
“Would you sign this?” he asked.
Rebecca looked down suspiciously. “What?”
“I’d love your autograph,” he blushed.
Relieved smile. “Of course.”
Rebecca signed it with an S instead of a C and gave him a smile for the ages, even threw in a tongue between her teeth.
“Come back again,” he called out.
“Absolutely,” she said, but thought: Yeah, right, like that’s gonna happen.
•
Judy wondered: What was this all about?
She didn’t like the look on Roger Lind’s face as he glanced at Iris, though it was a hard call deciding just what his expression showed aside from confidentiality and a desire to speak alone.
Judy said, “You’re harmless, right?” to which he grinned sardonically.
“I was an Eagle scout.”
“Well, I was a den mother, so that doesn’t mean much,” Judy said, then softened her look and turned to her daughter. “Honey, wait outside.” Iris was still squeezing and she had to pry her fingers off. She patted her daughter’s hand.
“It’s okay,” Judy said. “Wait in the hall on the bench outside. I’ll not be long.”
Iris looked quizzically at her mother, then at Lind, who smiled reassuringly, then walked outside, but paused at the door. “I’ll stay nearby.”
“Good.”
“Just down the hall.”
“Okay.”
Judy looked at the man, then at her hands. Lind sat back in his chair and balanced one shoe on the desk top, tilting his chair back and forth while the door was closed.
“What’s your idea?” she asked. “It better not have to do with Iris.”
Lind gazed into the air thoughtfully, then tossed a pencil up and into the ceiling where it stuck in the tiles along with previous successes.
“Of course not, Mrs. Perry. I have no interest in children. It’s about you.”
“What about me?”
“We all have a type,—perhaps you do, too,” Lind replied. “I have a thing for Katie Holmes.”
“Oh, God,” Judy said, having heard this before.
“Precisely,” Lind grinned, almost embarrassed. “But more like ‘Oh, Goddess.’ You’re a handsome woman, Mrs. Perry.”
“I’m younger than Katie Holmes—” she started to reply, but stopped, cursing her vanity.
Roger shrugged, “Comme ci, comme ça.”
Judy studied his face. The man smiled. Roger’s teeth were not perfect, but oh so close.
“And this means what, exactly?”
“I’ll give you these.” Lind held up two tickets, then laid them in front of h
er.
Judy eyed them enviously. “For what exactly?”
“There isn’t much time.”
“Tell me. I want to hear it.”
Lind sat forward and made a chapel with his fingers.
“Guess.”
•
In his last official act, the President of the United States appeared on all still-working TVs, POTUS speaking on a hundred channels, telling the nation a final, heartfelt goodbye. He spoke of the need to go beyond mere survival of the coming war and to rebuild the planet using fresh ideas.
“The Earth will soon be a blank slate,” he said. “Write a new history; one you can be proud of and, most importantly… Live life as equals.”
The screen turned white with snow.
Then—
Nothing.
•
Oblivious to the announcement, Russ walked to the Sun’s office and peered in through the outside window into abandoned darkness.
Closed. Too early for work? Or too late?
Russ opened up and went inside. The desks were empty. All the computers were off, the television mute. Ted’s office was open, so he walked in, looked around, and sat behind the desk, getting a feel for the seat he would probably never inherit.
What a treat that would have been for Judy—“Surprise, we own a newspaper!” and Russ, seated in the power chair, was holding out hope that this would all blow over, that his girls were alive and in this weird new world, Judy would see Russ reinvented as publisher for all the irradiated geeks who survived the capital ‘E’ End, not a loser who couldn’t keep a job for longer than a cup of coffee.
Russ hated keeping a secret like buying the Sun from her but, face facts, sometime the means justify the—no pun intended—ends. Thanks to bombs falling on Oahu, his secret was safe, as if that was a comfort.
After a long meditation, peering out Ted’s glass window towards the empty edit area, Russ finally rose, smoothed the leather on the publisher’s chair, and took a last long look at the office. He locked up and resumed his mindless walk. The shops and stores along the street were shuttered; the sidewalks nearly empty. It was lonely and unsettling to be without others at that moment, as if it were Sunday in a religious community and everyone was in church, sharing the communal experience of uncertainty.
