Shadows

by Peter J Manos

  They returned to the house without talking and sat again at the kitchen table. Washington refused another cup of coffee, asking instead for a glass of water. O’Hare put the cups and saucers in the sink but left the cookie platter on the table.

  “Forgive me, but I think you are a little naïve,” said Edna evenly, picking up the conversation without a hint of combativeness, “If the capital is gone, someone else must have authority to fire, don’t you think? And if that person is out of commission, a third person must have authority. And down the line it goes. I don’t know; there might be dozens of people who could start a nuclear war.”

  Makenna sipped her water before speaking. She could think of nothing to say, except to deny the premise.

  “The capital couldn’t be destroyed by surprise because so very many sophisticated systems would warn of incoming missiles.”

  “There are other ways to deliver bombs to their target,” said O’Hare. “What about a very low flying cruise missile from a submarine? Or from that atomic-powered cruise missile the Russians are working on that can stay in the air for months? What about an atomic bomb brought into the city by truck? Or by boat? Now don’t you think someone besides the president, or vice president, or speaker of the house, or anyone in Washington, must have authority to launch our missiles if the capital is gone?

  Washington was nonplussed. When had any of her instructors talked about these scenarios? That only the president had such authority was a creed everyone believed in. But what this woman said made sense. Only one of these formulations could be true. Only the president or not only the president. To give herself some time, Washington picked up a cookie, finished it off, sipped her water, and reached for another cookie, which she held up between thumb and index finger like a tiny shield.

  “Well, that’s all too theoretical for me,” she said before biting into the cookie.

  “I hope I haven’t upset you,” said O’Hare.

  “No, of course not. I think it’s stimulating. You’ve really made a study of this, haven’t you?”

  “Oh, I’ve done some reading.”

  They talked a little about the weather—once upon a time a safe subject—before Washington departed, having accepted Edna’s invitation to return and to bring some friends. They exchanged telephone numbers.

  On the road back to her small apartment in Minot, Makenna reviewed her visit. She’d enjoyed it and she liked Edna, but she still felt uneasy about it. She recalled reminding Charlie Forster that it was the Russians who were the adversary, not an old woman with unpopular ideas, but now she had second thoughts. Edna was an adversary, albeit a powerless one.

  Unless planting an unorthodox idea in a person’s brain was a kind of power: people other than the president launching nuclear tipped missiles. She disliked that idea. It increased chances of error and with nuclear war making capacity there must be zero chance of error. But that was impossible no matter what the truth was.

  She regretted not having probed Edna’s mind. What did she know about North Dakota’s missiles? What did she know about the launch crews? Did she plan to protest further? How?

  Was it impossible to bring a bomb into an American city on a truck or a boat? Difficult, yes, but impossible? And wouldn’t such an attack, by a terrorist for example, be interpreted as an attack by Russia? And lead to nuclear war?

  She had expected an amusing afternoon and the effortless rebuttal of any antinuclear argument with the word “deterrence.” But O’Hare wasn’t talking about nuclear disarmament per se.

  And the whole time she was with Edna, Makenna had suppressed the image of Joe Calderone cheating on the exam. What was she going to do about that?

  Chapter Eighteen

  Edna met Will at the front door.

  “Will! You’re back. I thought you were going to New York. Has something happened? Is your mother all right?”

  “I’m going to go but I first wanted to see if…if maybe you could use my help for a while.”

  He looked tired and worried. She invited him in, offering the ubiquitous cup of coffee.

  “I’ve been thinking—thinking about the red paint on your truck and the window…about your being hassled. And about the logistics of carrying a sign, a chair, and everything.”

  She would be happy to have his help but disliked the idea that she’d be keeping him from his sick mother. He reassured her that his mother would “keep” as he put it, rather disrespectfully she thought.

  “So, can I help?” he asked.

  “I can’t pay you—”

  “Pay me!” he interrupted, offended. “I’m not asking for money.”

  “Please calm down. I’m sorry. It’s just that you don’t even believe what I’m telling people, so your wanting to help me is… I don’t know. Umm.”

  “Never mind,” blurted Will. “I see I made a mistake. Sorry to have bothered you.” He pushed the coffee cup away, scooted his chair from the table, and stood.

  “Will you please calm down, for crying out loud,” demanded Edna angrily.

  His departure arrested, Will, looked at his coffee cup, and sat down. He pulled it back across the table toward him.

  “I don’t like admitting it, but I could use the help. A bodyguard and a pack horse in one, actually, if I may be so crude. On the other hand, I’d feel guilty if I don’t pay you in some way. I didn’t mean to offend you. You are a delicate flower, I see.”

  “Who you calling a delicate flower” said Will, reestablishing balance and smiling weakly.

  “You’d be of most help if you stayed here. How would that be?”

  It was too late to make a sign for Will so Edna made dinner, after which they sat on the sofa together while she showed him some websites, including one called Nuke Map, a clinically cold, grisly website. One picked a city and dropped a bomb on it to see the extent of the damage.

  “Let’s do Minot,” she said. The map on the screen now showed Minot and surrounds. “You can pick the bomb size.”

  “I don’t know anything about this stuff,” said Will. “I don’t even know what the numbers mean.”

  Matter-of-factly O’Hare reviewed the basics. The W78 U.S. warhead, for example, released the explosive force of three hundred forty thousand tons of TNT, about twenty times more powerful than the bomb that fell on Hiroshima.

  “The Russians have similar bombs. Let’s use the W78. We’ll do an airburst. You want to push the button?”

  “Strange,” said Will. “This is kind of like a game but it’s spooky. Worse than spooky—ghoulish.”

  “I’m glad you think so. Here goes.”

  Concentric shaded rings appeared around the city.

  The nuclear fireball, with a radius of two fifths of a mile, vaporized everything. The five-pounds-per-square-inch air blast, with a radius of three miles, collapsed most residential buildings. The thermal radiation radius, causing third degree burns, was five miles and beyond that windows as far as eight and a half miles from the center of the blast would shatter.

  “I’m not going to be protesting the H-bomb. I just thought you might be interested in this.”

  “I don’t suppose you have any whisky?” said Will.

  “It is gruesome, I know. I’ll get you some.”

  After two shots, Will was ready for bed and for the next day’s work.

  Smelling bacon the next morning, Will came downstairs, still in Edna’s deceased husband’s pajamas. After putting food on the table and coffee in the cup, she began the discussion of how best to get the town’s attention.

  “They ignored me by and large at the college. I should probably carry the sign somewhere else. But no matter where I picket, I’m still a little old lady and little old ladies aren’t that exciting, are they.”

  “What about witches?” said Will. “They’re so exciting that they burned them at the stake in Salem.”

  “They hanged them,” corrected Edna. “That’s all I need. People already think I’m nuts. The ridicule would rub off on my message. ‘T
here goes that nut cake, the Russian air force’s best friend.’”

  “Christ, Edna! Haven’t you ever heard ‘there’s no such thing as bad publicity.’”

  “No more using the Lord’s name in vain, please.”

  “If someone writes a book about Mexicans fleeing gang violence and someone criticizes the author for ‘cultural’ appropriation because they’re not Mexican and were born into privilege, you think that hurts sales? Or criticism of a Sioux indian point of view story by an Englishman? Even an accusation of plagiarism will help sales. There is no such thing as bad publicity, at least not if you’re trying to sell a story. True, bad publicity could hurt baby food sales, but you’re selling an idea.”

  “You’ve made your point and I agree, but you don’t have to talk so loud. I’m old but I can still hear. I’ve got a pointed hat. Kept it all these years. Nobody around here gives a damn that humanity may burn itself at the stake, but they may be interested in a witch carrying a sign, after all.”

  They made a list of places they might picket: the college, city hall, a downtown mall, the air force base, the Ward county branch offices of the at-large congressman and the state’s senators.

  When Earnest Schmidt knocked on the door, Will followed Edna into the living room and sat on the sofa. He was not about to get into that closet again, nor did she ask him to.

  Edna and her brother-in-law had never taken to each other. Whenever she saw him, she was reminded of the time, seeing no harm in a little rough-housing, he’d thrown her into a lake during a family picnic. She’d fought him all the way to the water’s edge and torn her favorite summer dress. And he remained bitter that Fiona, Edna’s sister, and his wife, had not inherited the farm.

  Finding a young man in the house, a young man in pajamas no less, Schmidt did not conceal his surprise.

  O’Hare made introductions and invited Schmidt to have a seat.

  “No. No. I… I’d like to speak to you privately,” said Schmidt.

  She addressed Will. “Are you finished with breakfast?”

  On cue he said he was.

  “I’m going upstairs to take a shower,” he said, figuring he might take a long one to give them time to discuss their private matter.”

  “Getting arrested for trespassing on air force property wasn’t enough. Now you’re running around town trying to rile up college kids with your half-baked ideas. And with Grumman coming to Minot on top of it. What are they going to think of us?”

  “You mean what are they going to think of you,” said Edna.

  “Minot’s business climate may not be of any of your concern,” said Schmidt, “but it is most people’s and it is mine. So, I decided to come over here personally to ask you to stop acting like a batty old woman. You’ve made your point. You don’t like the missiles. Fine. Everyone knows it now.”

  “Is that all, Earnest?”

  “It’s not all, but it’s enough.” He sighed and turned to go.

  “Who is this Mr. Larrabee?” he asked frowning as he stood at the door.

  “A friend,” she answered. “A dear friend.”

  “Where’d you meet him?

  Remaining civil was harder than she thought.

  “On a dating site,” she said, unable to control herself.

  “What the hell!” he blurted.

  “Joke, Earnest. Joke.”

  “Well, it wasn’t a very funny joke.”

  They drove to the university where, at the foot of the steps to Old Main, they set up a card table and a folding chair. A bronze mask of her father weighed down the flyers. Will picked up his sign.

  Edna had not worn her tall, conical black hat in the car. After they arranged the table and chair, she sat down and put it on, resting it toward the back of her head so her hair framed her face. With black pants and black blouse the picture was complete.

  They’d discussed making an outfit for Will, as a scarecrow perhaps but in the end she just gave him an old white cowboy shirt of her husband’s. It wasn’t a costume exactly, but it was mildly theatrical with a fringe over shoulders and chest.

  Will picked up the sign.

  The GBSD is unnecessary for deterrence.

  The GBSD is a tremendous waste of your money.

  The GBSD brings us a step closer to nuclear war.

  Say no to the GBSD.

  Tell your congressman and senators now.

  More people climbed and descended the stairs to and from Old Main today than on the first time she was here. No sooner had they set up than a tall young woman at the bottom of the steps stopped to look at them, hesitated, and then came over. Minot and the number four were printed on her loose-fitting jersey.

  “Are you supposed to be a witch?” asked the young woman unsmiling.

  “Well, of course,” said Edna, “Who else would wear a hat like this?”

  “Are you a good witch or a bad witch?” asked the woman.

  “Have you ever seen The Wizard of Oz?” asked O’Hare.

  The woman nodded.

  “What color hair did the good witch of the North have? Do you remember?” said Edna.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “It was red, though not as red as mine. Good witches have red hair. I’m a good witch.”

  Will resting the handle of his sign on his shoulder, thought the interchange bewitching, smiling at his own joke. He wanted to join in, but good judgment, which he exercised now and then, was against it.

  The woman in the number 4 jersey smiled.

  “That’s good to know. So, what is the GBSD?”

  Will raised his sign and walked in a tight circle next to the table.

  As Edna talked about the missile that was to replace the Minuteman and how ground-based missiles were dangerous and superfluous, other students trickled by, most staying for only a minute or so, but some asking questions or disagreeing with her, by and large politely, though one middle-aged man angrily challenged her, after looking at the flyer.

  “Do you think the air force would spend so much money if it were wasteful? He must have realized what he’d said, given stories of $10,000 toilet seat covers. He walked off without waiting for an answer. Waste money? Oh, no, the military would never do that.

  The woman in the number 4 jersey introduced herself as Betty Carlson and took a flyer. “I’ll read it. I might even write an article for the Red and Green. I mean if I believe what you’re saying after I read this.”

  In all, seven people took flyers before Edna and Will left for their next destination.

  City Hall, a pale brown, two-story building, with a protuberant boxy entrance and two wings, looked out on a long U-shaped driveway, which looped around an expanse of grass. A sidewalk bordered the driveway. Since there was no one to be seen, they decided not to set up their table, but simply walk back and forth in front of the building.

  Will carried the sign. From time to time Edna waved at the six large windows on the right wing, and then, after they’d walked to the other side of the building, at the six large windows on the left wing.

  Before long they missed having an audience and walked back to the car. But they’d had an audience.

  Chapter Nineteen

  To his embarrassment, ordinarily punctual Dr. Andrew Rasmussen, an alderman, and the newest member of Working Group A, had missed the meeting with the mayor, the city council president, the president of the chamber of commerce and the members of Grumman’s Ground-Based Strategic Deterrent team.

  A patriot, he’d suffered from a guilty conscience because he’d been unable to join the armed forces due to an old knee injury from his rugby days. His father had served in the army and Andrew had been the prototypical army brat. When asked recently to join Working Group A, dedicated to supporting Minot’s air force base and its mission, he was happy to do so. His failure to get to the meeting was due both to his limp and an unexpected minor emergency with one of his patients.

  Fortunately, rotund, jovial Mathew Jackson, president of the chamber of commerce, was his
friend and had a good relationship with Ellen Conklin, Vice President of Grumman’s Ground-Based Strategic Deterrent team. Arranging another meeting had been easy. This time Rasmussen was early.

  Rasmussen set the pace as he and Jackson walked down City Hall’s brightly lit hallway toward the meeting room.

  “You didn’t have to make up for it by arriving forty minutes early for this meeting,” said Jackson. “What are we going to do? Play cards?”

  “No. No cards. You’re going to bring me up to date so I won’t look like a total idiot when they get here.”

  As they sat at the round conference table waiting for the Grumman team to arrive, Rasmussen asked, and Jackson answered questions.

  “…and Boeing has long since dropped out of the competition because of problems with their new airplane,” continued Jackson. Grumman had three years to make a proposal—phase one.”

  “What did the air force pay Grumman for the phase one proposal?” asked Rasmussen.

  “Two hundred forty-nine million.”

  “A billion here and a billion there,” said Rasmussen. “Pretty soon you’re talking real money. Some senator said that. I don’t want to sound critical by asking about costs in the meeting.”

  “You can ask about money,” said Jackson. “In fact, Grumman is proud that it could do phase one for less money than Boeing had proposed, before it dropped out of the competition. It makes them look good.”

  Jackson went on to summarize the previous meeting while they waited.

  Rasmussen met the members of Grumman’s Ground-Based Strategic Deterrent team as they entered the City Hall conference room.

  Ellen Conklin, Vice President of GBSD development at Grumman, stepped forward, shaking Rasmussen’s hand firmly.

  “Nice meeting you, Dr. Rasmussen. This is General Clayton, formerly an ICBM missile wing commander.”