Resurrection Day Page 10

  ‘Often during this last tortured decade, I’ve reflected on a question from the Scripture,’ McGovern said. ‘“Which of us, if his son asked him for bread, would give him a stone?” Our sons have asked for jobs—and we’ve sent them to poisoned lands and sick cities. Our sons have asked for an education—and we’ve taught them to arrest others and we’ve taught them to kill. Our sons have asked for a full measure of time—and thousands have been lost before their time. So let us seize the chance to lift from our sons and ourselves the horror of this administration, this leadership, this so-called recovery, and finally bestow the blessings of peace. Let us give thanks to our British friends, and send them home. Let us give thanks to our brothers, sons, and fathers in the armed services, end the draft, and bring them home. Then, and only then, can we restore our sense of purpose and our character as a great nation, and rejoin the family of nations in this troubled world.’

  The news cut away to a commercial for Alka-Seltzer and he saw that he was dripping ice water on some magazines. He moved the dish towel around and thought about McGovern, soaked to the bone, speaking in the home state of his opponent, knowing that all the polls and pundits had not only declared this election over, but also the elections of ‘76, ‘80, ‘84, and those well into the next century. Still, he had labored on, speaking his mind, not giving up. Stones. That was a good phrase. He knew a lot of people who were burdened with stones. There was Two-Tone, living among the trash and tunnels of Boston. There was Sam Burnett in the Globe’s newsroom, forever fifteen years old. And then there was Merl Sawson, who had been shot in the back of his head. The sons of America, all looking for bread, all looking for fulfillment.

  Not to mention one Carl Landry. Overseas duty hadn’t been that bad, back in ‘62, but then there was California ... Some of the things that went on in that state after the war were not widely known, nor would they ever be. When he had gotten to the Globe, years after California, someone had shyly asked him, what was it like out West? And he had said, ‘It was a time when the dogs ate the dead, and when the food ran out whoever was left ate the dogs.’

  He thought about that for a while, his leg aching in memory, the television having gone into test pattern. So many times he had thought about the years before the war and so many times he had tried to leave those memories alone. Why torture yourself, remembering full supermarket shelves, clean clothes, steady power, and a government that didn’t hunt down draft dodgers and didn’t censor the news and didn’t run Labor camps for the dissidents, the protesters, the ones that didn’t belong. That time was gone, was never coming back, not ever.

  He thought about that some more, and also thought of something else. The orfie gang leader. When he had come out of the alley in front of Carl, he hadn’t simply said. ‘Let’s get ‘im.’

  No. His words were quite distinct. ‘There he be! Let’s get to ‘im.’ He had been set up. By who and why. he didn’t know, but it was clear enough. Someone wanted something bad to happen to him.

  That night he slept poorly, the pistol under his pillow, dreaming of California. So many gaunt faces, looking at him for bread, and all he had was a bag of stones.

  ~ * ~

  EMPIRE: ONE

  A MATTER OF EMPIRE: ONE

  * * *

  On a Sunday morning 350 miles northwest of Boston, Major Kenneth Hunt of the British army’s Parachute Regiment, 16th Parachute Brigade—known as the Paras—stood on the runway at RCAF Trenton watching the small executive-style jet with the RAF insignia on the side taxi to a halt. It was a crisp morning and he had yet to eat breakfast at the temporary mess that had been set up for his paras at the Royal Canadian Air Force facility. He had someone important to meet first. His stomach grumbled in protest at having to wait.

  The regiment’s colonel had been in Boston these past three days, and had asked that Hunt—head of ‘A’ Company—greet him on his return. He wasn’t sure what was going on but he knew it wouldn’t be good. His unit had been secretly flown over to Canada just weeks before, and they had immediately started training in empty fields adjacent to the RCAF station in Ontario. Their live-fire exercises had fallen into two areas: the first had been assaulting heavily defended storage areas controlled by a foreign force, and the second had been establishing control in a civilian-controlled city environment. Nothing else had been said about what they were planning for, and like the professionals they were, the paras just continued training and got on with the job.

  Hunt clasped his hands behind him as the side door to the jet opened and a couple of RCAF ground crew moved a short metal staircase into place. He was one year shy of his fortieth birthday and had been in the British army since he was seventeen. At twenty-one he had entered the Parachute Regiment and had found his home there, in the regimental headquarters at Aldershot. He had been married for a while and had looked forward to starting a family, until outside events ten years ago had taken control of that part of his life. Now he was single and would always remain a bachelor. He had served his sovereign and country in Korea, the Suez, North Borneo, and Cyprus. But now ... Hell, he wasn’t sure what he was doing in Canada, but he and his officers had quickly hazarded a guess: it had to do with the wounded and still frightening giant to the south, and that thought wasn’t appealing, not at all.

  The colonel stepped out of the small jet, dressed in an ill-fitting light gray suit. He carried a small leather dispatch case in his right hand and he limped slightly as he walked across the runway. He was ten years older than Hunt and had salt-and-pepper hair, cut short, and a face that looked permanently sunburnt, with a squashed nose that had been broken in some long-ago bar brawl in Indonesia. The colonel limped due to a piece of German shrapnel that had struck him in 1944, during the disastrous Operation Market Garden in Arnhem that was supposed to end the war in Europe that year.

  Well, Hunt thought grimly as he approached his superior officer, that was a perfect example of how perfect planning went to the shits when it was brought into the field.

  The noise from the jet was lessening and as Hunt got closer to the colonel, he suddenly felt uneasy. Something was not right. Something was not right with the colonel. His face was ashen and his shoulders sagged as if he had been awake for all of the three days he had been in Boston. The colonel nodded as Hunt approached.

  ‘Thanks for seeing me in, Kenneth,’ he said, his voice raspy.

  ‘Not at all, Colonel,’ he replied. ‘How was your trip?’

  The colonel wearily shook his head. ‘Walk with me to my quarters, will you? I feel like I could sleep for weeks.’

  He fell in beside the colonel and they strode toward the collection of barracks, hangars, and RCAF administration buildings. There were many questions Hunt wanted to ask the colonel but he had learned long ago to keep his tongue still. The colonel gave him information when the colonel was ready, and he forced himself to keep patient.

  ‘Can hardly wait to get out of this dratted suit,’ he said softly, and was just barely heard over the sounds of the transport aircraft and the RAF Vulcan bombers taxiing about on the runway. ‘I’ve never felt comfortable in civilian clothes, not ever. They just don’t seem to fit right.’

  ‘Sir,’ he replied.

  ‘But I had to wear the damn thing while I was at the consulate in Boston,’ he continued. ‘They couldn’t bear the thought of all their great secrets being learned because someone spotted an out-of-place colonel, so I had to blend in. Even went to some dreadful party last night. Filled with overweight consulate types and hungry Americans. Civilians all. Bah.’

  ‘And how did the briefing go, sir?’ Hunt couldn’t help but ask.

  ‘Civilians…’ he repeated, his voice still low-pitched, ignoring Hunt’s question. ‘They like to think of us as the coldhearted ones, the warriors thirsting for combat, ready to fight and die for Queen and Country, ready to go into battle at a moment’s notice. But do you know what I learned in Boston?’

  ‘No, sir, I don’t.’

  The colonel paused and
looked out to the runway and the far-off fields. He blinked a few times, then seemed to shudder. That one movement frightened Hunt as much as anything he had seen while in the paras.

  ‘I learned that the civilians are the truly cold ones, the right bastards who thirst for battle,’ he said.

  Hunt watched with dread as the colonel shuffled off to his quarters. In a staff meeting just before his trip to Boston, he had been his usual self: calm, cheerful and utterly confident in his abilities and those of his paras. But the colonel who had come off that jet hadn’t been the same man.

  Boston. What in hell had happened there?

  With that, Major Hunt turned to go to the mes; hall, and he was halfway there when he realized he was no longer hungry.

  ~ * ~

  SEVEN

  On Sunday morning Carl moved slowly around the kitchen, his right hand aching, his head fuzzy from not enough sleep and too many bad dreams. That orfie gang from last night was more than just a coincidence. Had to have been. So who hired them? Someone at the consulate who knew he had overheard that conversation about Canada? Or someone who knew that he had met with Merl Sawson before he had taken a couple bullets to the back of his head?

  There was a single egg in the refrigerator, a frozen chunk of sausage in the freezer, and if he trimmed away the mold on the last three pieces of bread, he’d have enough for toast. He was rummaging around in a kitchen drawer, looking for a knife, when the phone rang.

  ‘Carl?’ There was a pause. ‘It’s Sandy Price from the Times. Look, I wanted to apologize for Farley’s behavior last night. He had no right to say what he did.’

  He moved into the living room with the phone, trailing the cord after him. ‘Sure he did. He could say anything he wanted, and he did.’

  ‘Farley is old and tired and homesick, and last night he had a skinful,’ Sandy said. ‘You were my guest at the consulate, and I feel embarrassed.’

  He smiled, stretching his legs out onto the coffee table. It was nice to hear the concern in her voice. ‘Well, apology accepted.’

  ‘Not so fast,’ she said.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Oh yourself,’ Sandy said. ‘My apology’s not complete until I’ve given you breakfast.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘At my hotel. The Park Plaza. Unless you have a better offer.’

  He looked over to the counter, where he could just make out the start of his breakfast.

  ‘Lucky for both of us,’ he said. ‘Yours is the best offer I’ve gotten this morning.’

  ~ * ~

  When the dishes had been cleared away and they were both on their third cup of coffee, Carl looked around at the quiet elegance of the Park Plaza’s dining room. Clean carpeting, tables with white tablecloths so bright they almost hurt your eyes, and efficient and quiet service by waiters and waitresses in clothing that looked neither old nor freshly mended. It was hard to believe he was in America. The food — French toast, sausages, oatmeal, and toast—was hot and fresh, and best of all, as Sandy said with a wicked smile on her face, it was all paid for by a generous expense account from the Times. She signed the check with a flourish and leaned back in her leather high-backed chair. Her fine brown hair was down about her shoulders and she had on a simple white turtleneck sweater and black slacks. She looked . . . hell, she just looked good. No other deep and grand explanations. She just looked good. Again, he was reminded of those fashion photos of the prewar American women. She had the fresh, strong look of a woman utterly confident in who she was and what she was doing. He remembered what she looked like in that black dress the night before, and decided he would very much like to see how she looked in other dresses as well.

  ‘So, when they found out I was coming to the States for a month,’ she said, ‘Mother and Father had a fit. They only know what they read in the press: food rationing, mutated babies and armed gangs, not to mention a quasi-dictatorship that’s running things. They’d much rather I spent my time in Europe, covering the UN or the French or some damn thing. But I reminded them of Grandmama—my father’s mother -and how she stayed with her husband during the Siege of Mafeking during the Boer War. I said that I had her genes, and that I fully intended to come here.’

  ‘Mothers and fathers are like that,’ he said, trying to make his third cup of coffee last. He didn’t want this morning to end.

  ‘Your parents,’ she said.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Your parents. You’ve not said anything about them. Are they in the area?’

  He took a breath and struggled to keep his face calm. ‘No,’ he finally said. ‘They’re both dead.’

  ‘Oh. I’m sorry. Did they die in the war?’

  The coffee didn’t taste so good anymore. ‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘You could say that.’

  ‘I’m sorry I mentioned it, Carl.’

  ‘Don’t be hard on yourself. Look around this room, Sandy. Almost everyone in here lost someone during the war. A child, a brother, a sister, mother or father, and friends. Lots of friends. I’m afraid that’s the way of our world. Some died in the bombing, some died of the flu and other diseases after the war, some just died because food or medicine ran out. Some people even froze to death when the power grid railed. This room ...There’s lots of ghosts here.’

  ‘Did ...did you lose anybody else during the war?’

  His hand tightened around the coffee cup. ‘My younger sister, Sarah. She was in college at the University of Nebraska. In Omaha.’

  ‘Omaha ... Wasn’t that your Air Force headquarters?’

  ‘Headquarters of the Strategic Air Command, yes, that’s right. When I heard that Omaha was bombed ... I just assumed she died. Then, back in ‘64, I got word from the Red Cross that a fellow student recalled she had beer, out of town that day. I’ve been looking for her ever since, in the missing persons registry in the Red Cross, Salvation Army, and a half dozen other charities.’

  Sandy said in a quiet voice, ‘Do you think she’s still alive?’

  How the hell should I know? is what he thought. But he said, ‘She was my younger sister. I had a responsibility to look out for her. She may be hurt, she may be an invalid somewhere. Who knows. But I haven’t given up.’

  She looked down at her own cup. ‘There I go, putting my foot in it. I’m terribly sorry.’

  ‘It’s all right.’

  She shook her head. ‘No, it’s not all right. You see, it’s been a problem, ever since I got here. I’ve been bumping into things and asking the wrong questions, insulting people when I don’t even know it, and getting odd looks.’

  ‘Part of adjusting, I suppose.’

  ‘Certainly, but beside that, no one wants to talk. I’m having a devil of a time with this story, but believe me, I’m not one to let obstacles get in my way. Only last Friday I was at Boston City Hospital, trying to talk to the doctors and nurses who were part of the relief convoys to Connecticut in ‘62 and ‘63, and no one would talk to me. Not a single one. They claimed they were too busy, they claimed they really didn’t do much, they claimed nothing really interesting went on. Why are they so secretive?’

  ‘I don’t think it’s being secretive,’ he said.

  ‘You don’t? What else could it be? I’ve been through masses of magazines and newspapers and I couldn’t find a single word that even acknowledges that this is the tenth anniversary. Not a single one! It’s all nibbling at the edges. The gas ration might go up next year. Grain imports from Canada might decrease next summer. Five communities in California near San Diego have been decontaminated and cleared for resettlement. Nobody really talks about a damn thing, and you don’t think it’s secretive?’

  ‘Nope,’ he said.

  ‘Then what is it?’

  ‘It’s shame,’ he said.

  ‘What?’ she said, surprised.

  ‘Shame,’ he said. ‘We’re ashamed of what happened.’

  She carefully folded her slim hands. ‘Please, go on. I want to know what you mean.’

  For a seco
nd he felt tongue-tied, like he was telling a stranger a deep and horrible secret about his family, and he said, ‘Shame. That’s all it is. We’re ashamed of what we did to ourselves and what we did to the Russians. We were so damn afraid of the Soviets and matching them, bomb for bomb, that we didn’t even know the poor bastards had problems feeding their own people. Our bombers, missiles, and submarines were much better than anything they had, and we either didn’t believe it or wouldn’t believe it. You can see why Khrushchev put missiles into Cuba in the first place. Look at it from his point of view. Twenty years earlier, the Germans came roaring into Russia, killing millions. Then, all of a sudden, the Germans are back and this time they’re part of an alliance called NATO, brimming with tanks and troops. There’re also missiles in Turkey and Italy, pointed at him, and our bombers are snooping at his borders even day, and U-2s are flying overhead, taking pictures, preparing bombing targets.’