Day of the Bomb (24 page)

They parted company in the parking lot with Bill
saying he needed to “hit the motel and write up my findings.”

Dave smirked as he watched Bill’s car turn off toward
the row of stores and motel outside of the front gate of the base.
He steered his 90cc Honda motorcycle toward home, a studio
apartment sixteen miles from the base. The recently purchased cycle
was his only luxury. Everything he could save from his paychecks
went toward his ramshackle cabin in the mountains, his oasis on
weekends and holidays and eventual refuge when the bombs started
falling. His latest remodeling had included layers of lead attached
to the cabin’s inner walls. A warm sensation filled him as he
reflected on its superior protective powers compared to the tin
foil that had wrapped his body the day the first atomic bomb had
exploded. His mind drifted to his favorite scenario.

They’ll take out L.A. for sure. No
loss there. Of course our B-52s and missiles will incinerate them
right back.
He chuckled.
I knew my beatnik act would send Agent Bill
whatever his real last name is running for cover.

***

When Bill returned to Washington, D.C., family life
tempered his work life. His wife Karen said she had burned her
candle at both ends for too many years in that tone of voice that
makes husbands finally listen.

“I feel like I’m burning wick instead of wax,” she
said. “I can’t go on.”

Bill retreated to his sanctuary, a den populated by
an aquarium filled with fish, snails, and plants; a cage with a
family of parakeets; and a dry aquarium with five lizards that
looked more like statues than reptiles. His cat and dog joined him,
the former on his lap and the latter at his feet. They nuzzled him
as he petted them. He pondered his dilemma for three hours before
returning to his wife.

“I don’t hit retirement age for another six years so
I feel stuck.”

“Can’t you take some job where you don’t have to
travel all the time? The kids need you here. They need a full-time
father, not some secret agent man who can’t tell them a thing about
what he does.”

Bill remembered an unsolicited job that a former
co-worker had offered three weeks earlier: “If you ever get tired
of being an agent you can come work for me,” he had said. “It would
be a desk job with the Department of Agriculture, a boring routine
compared to the DIA.”

Better bored than having Karen
crack up.
He stared at her and wondered how
many of the wrinkles on her face he had caused.

“I’m sorry, Bill. But everybody has their breaking
point,” she said.

“I know. I’ll call Jerry about that administrator
job, okay?”

Karen answered with tears and a smile that somehow
washed away some of the wrinkles as the seemingly two-ton boulder
rolled from her.

That left one unfinished task at the DIA for Bill,
the report detailing his findings after visiting seven military
installations throughout Southern California. Before, he had
exercised deference in his reports. With nothing to lose, he put
his true conclusions to paper for his first and last report for the
DIA. It was thorough, twenty pages, but the summary was concise
enough that his boss would read at least that much:

Summary

While the deficiencies and recommendations detailed
in this report are important, a more pressing concern needs to be
addressed. It is one that is systemic throughout America’s
intelligence operations. For the DIA, the main organizations in
which our duties might overlap are the FBI, NSA, and CIA. This is
so because while the FBI’s scope is limited to domestic issues, and
the NSA’s and CIA’s scope is international, the DIA’s scope is both
because we have military stationed in dozens of countries. If one
includes the marines assigned to our embassies, the number of
countries is well over 100.

For whatever reason, there is little to no
cooperation among these agencies. Each one conducts surveillance
and intelligence gathering but the data collected is not shared or
given only sporadically to anyone outside of each agency. Call them
empires, kingdoms, whatever, each exists to perpetuate itself by
strict protocols against releasing that data. Simply put, the right
hand does not know what the left hand is doing.

Not only is this ineffective, it is dangerous.
Needless duplication of efforts is played out while genuine
security threats to our nation go undetected. Thus far, we have
dodged the bullet. But with more nations obtaining the atomic bomb
and developing biological and chemical agents, we must change the
way we operate. I recommend that liaisons be established between
these agencies at every level so that a sharing of data can be
continually maintained. If we do not, at some point we will sow the
wind and reap the whirlwind.

Bill placed his report on his boss’ desk before lunch
on a Friday and left the building, never to return. Attached to the
report was his letter of resignation “due to family matters.” As
was his habit, the agent in charge tossed the foot high stack of
paper from his in basket into his briefcase and took it home. By
10:30 p.m. Saturday night he had reached and finished Bill’s report
and sighed as he read the attached letter.

Instinctively he knew Bill’s summary was correct. But
passing it on up the line would only create waves. As a mid-level
administrator he daily had to “get with the program” and “go along
to get along.” Otherwise there would be no further promotions and
he would languish where he was or perhaps be shipped off to some
remote location as punishment. He detached the summary from the
report, shredded it, and then used the long thin strips to start a
fire under the cherry and oak logs sitting in the five-foot wide
fireplace. He picked up that day’s copy of the Washington Post.

Damn it all, they sure screwed up on that Bay of
Pigs invasion. There are still stories about it months later. I bet
heads are still rolling over at the Agency.

Summer of 1962 offered hope. JFK had rebounded after
deserting the invaders of Cuba. Now he had the country looking at
the Moon and beyond. A pragmatist, he called for tax cuts in the
belief that they would ultimately result in more tax revenues as
the economy grew. Wall Street and Main Street got on board. Ike
might have given security and started an interstate highway system
that was connecting the nation; JFK presented Camelot, complete
with beautiful wife Jackie and cute kids Caroline and John John. An
understanding media swept any dark side under the rug, such as his
sleeping with Hollywood starlets and gangster’s molls.

Fantasy was also readily available
to the masses via television.
Walt
Disney’s Wonderful World of Color
beamed it
weekly into homes. Jason joked that for the Dalrumples it was the
wonderful world of color in black and white. He fended off any
requests for upgrades. “I’ll buy us a color TV when they cost the
same as black and white ones.”

But seeing the Magic Kingdom in person was doable,
Jason decided. To fund the trip, the Dalrumples had skipped
vacations for three years. The money saved went in to a bank
account they called Disneyland or Bust. When Stanley stepped up his
soda bottle redemption efforts to contribute to the account, Jason
decided to reward him.

“You can pick one friend to come on along with us to
Disneyland, son.”

“Really?” Now fifteen and possessing the body of a
man but the mind of a ten-year old, Stanley appreciated any
decision making delegated to him. “I want Dan to go along! Can I go
tell him? Huh? Can I?”

“Sure.”

Sally Richmond was unsure of the offer. Dan was
fourteen and reminded her of Elvis’ sneer and James Dean’s
cockiness. First she lay down expectations of perfect behavior from
Dan. Then she talked to Thelma.

“You know I think Dan would be in reform school by
now if it hadn’t been for Jason being like a father for him since
Fred died.”

“Truth be told, I think Dan has helped Stanley be
more than we ever expected. He’s the only kid in Madisin that
treats him like he’s normal. He even makes Stanley forget he’s
retarded.”

***

The Mother Road that stretched from Chicago to L.A.
was no longer the most direct route for them to go to Disneyland.
But it was the most scenic. They started to get their kicks on
Route 66 when they turned south at Baxter Springs, Kansas.

Sometimes two lanes, sometimes four, the highway was
being overshadowed and at times replaced by the interstates bit by
bit. Because there were a lot of architectural oddities and scenery
along Route 66 Mr. and Mrs. Dalrumple were entertained. Not so
their son.

“Are we almost there yet?” became Stanley’s refrain
every ten miles until Texas. By then, Jason’s exasperation had
inspired Dan to invent games to distract Stanley from the
never-ending road.

“Okay, now that we’re in Texas we’re going to count
license plates from any other state, Stanley.”

“Why?”

“For something to do instead of bugging your dad.
Whoever counts up the most by the time we get to New Mexico
wins.”

“Okay.” Seated on the left side of the rear seat,
Stanley could usually spot the plates from oncoming traffic first.
“California plate, one. Arizona plate, two.”

Jason turned up the ball game on the radio to drown
out his son’s count. By the time they reached Kingman, Arizona the
next day, Stanley was at 782 non-Arizona license plates. Dan lagged
behind at 351.

“You see any motels you like?” Jason asked.

“They all remind me of the one we spent our honeymoon
in. The roach motel.” Thelma squirmed.

“Las Vegas is only a couple hours north of here.”
Jason elbowed her. “What do you say?”

Thelma studied a map. “But it’s a hundred miles out
of the way.”

“It’ll be our second honeymoon, without roaches. Come
on. You only live once.”

She shrugged, Jason smiled and steered the car
northward. Stanley nodded off at plate number 795 as the sun
set.

***

Their Las Vegas motel was on the strip, close enough
to the big casinos that Jason could reach them on foot. He left the
others to the pool and air conditioned room, welcome relief from
the still warm air. At each casino, Jason walked to the blackjack
tables and studied the faces of the dealers. In the fourth casino
he found the one who had dealt him so many winning hands at sea
during wartime. The ex-sergeant looked the same except for thinner
and grayer hair and a paunch created by the alcohol drunk before
and after every shift to calm his nerves and steady his dealing
motion. Jason had grown a beard for two months and dyed his hair
from blond to black the night before leaving Madisin.

“Have to look handsome for all those California
gals,” he had explained to Thelma. “Especially those movie
stars.”

She had laughed until tears formed. “A mask would
work better.”

Jason studied the players until a seat opened up for
him after one of them ran out of chips. It took five hands before
the Professor’s Method kicked in and he began to win. The dealer
pretended to not notice. As long as this guy’s losing hands
eventually outnumbered the winning ones, who cared? The other four
players called out their requests after receiving their next two
cards, one face down and the other face up.

“Hit me.”

“I’ll stay.”

“Hit me.”

“Hit me.”

Seated at the end of the table, Jason mechanically
counted off the value of the exposed cards according to the Method.
“I’m good.”

When Jason’s hand of sixteen won the dealer started
to squirm. He began to sweat when Jason shoved his entire pile of
chips forward as a bet on his next hand. “The man is hot. Someone
pour water on this guy. He’s red hot.”

Jason noticed the glance the dealer
snuck at the player in the middle. He sighed.
Some things never change.

Within a half hour, Jason’s pile of chips was so
large that he dropped half of them into his coat pocket. A small
crowd gathered around the table and cheered each time he won.
Finally, the dealer slammed the deck on the table.

“You’re cheating!” He wagged his finger in Jason’s
face. “I’ve only seen one other guy ever win that many hands.
“He…he…” The dealer bent forward until his eyes were five inches
from Jason’s. “It’s you. I should’ve known. Security!”

The shouted command brought two beefy men in green
blazers to the table. “What’s the problem?” one asked.

“He’s cheating.” The dealer pointed at Jason.

“Actually, sirs, the dealer is dealing off the bottom
of the deck to his partner.” Jason pointed at the player in a baggy
suit and half knotted tie. The accusation brought forth his
stutter.

“I tol… told you to…to…to…to be ca…care…careful!” He
stood and bolted for an exit.

One of the guards, a third-string tackle for the Los
Angeles Rams who worked the casinos during the off seasons, tackled
him halfway through the door. They tumbled onto the sidewalk. The
second guard grabbed the cheater by the arm and dragged him toward
an office. A pit boss motioned for the partner in crime to leave
the table with him.

“Sorry folks. This table’s temporarily closed down.”
He took the dealer for interrogation by the casino managers.

“The guy’s a cheater!” The dealer yelled. “He cleaned
me out on a troop ship during the war. I thought he was dead.”

“Tell it to the boss.”

Jason divided up his chips still on the table among
the remaining three players. “Those two were taking you for a ride
before I sat down. This should cover part of your losses because of
those crooks.”

As Jason walked away to cash in the chips in his
pocket the growing crowd cheered and thanked him. His winnings
totaled $372. He calculated that after factoring for inflation for
the last seventeen years he had won back the amount lost when the
monkey troop had torn apart his winnings from so long ago on Monkey
Island. Putting the ex-sergeant and still crooked dealer out of
business made him even happier. The extra money would allow him,
Thelma, and boys to extend their vacation. “You only live once.” He
would repeat the phrase every time Thelma questioned his
largess.