Day of the Bomb (12 page)

“Thank you.”

Upon reaching Los Alamos, he reported in to his new
boss, who greeted him with winks, smiles, and raised eyebrows. “How
was your trip, Bill?”

“Oh, just a few storms here and there that made some
kids need the barf bags. Other than that, it was okay.”

“Well I hope you discover all the problems that need
to be fixed.” Wink. Smile. “There seems to be some loose screws
here and there.” Wink. “Especially around Technician Dave Freight’s
work area. Can’t afford any loose cannons because of the sensitive
nature of our work here.” Smile. “I’m sure you can remedy that
particular situation for me.” Smile. Wink. “Please report any
findings back to me immediately. I’m a hands-on supervisor.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll be sure to focus on Freight’s work
area.”

That afternoon the supervisor introduced the
temporary maintenance man at a staff meeting that included all
employees, great and small. “This is our new maintenance worker
Bill Pryzinski. I’ve instructed him to talk to you personally to
have any repairs made to furniture or equipment. Unfortunately, I
could only get headquarters to loan him out to us for a week at
most so make good use of him while we have him. Welcome, Bill.” He
clapped until everyone joined him and Bill stood and waved his
hand.

***

Early next morning, Bill stopped at Dave Freight’s
work area, a small desk located in the corner of a room filled with
scientific equipment. “Everything okay here?”

Dave stood and scratched his head. “I can’t figure it
out. It’s a good thing you showed up. It’s been driving me crazy
for months now.”

“What?”

“My drawers are always sticking on my desk. Can you
fix them for me?”

“Sure.” He set down a toolbox and began to remove the
drawers and stack them on the floor. “I see what you mean. This
desk sure needs some work done on it.”

“Looks like I’m just in your way. When should I come
back?”

“Make it thirty minutes.”

“Okay.”

When Dave returned, Bill was sliding the last of the
drawers back into place. “They work okay now?”

“Sure do.” He demonstrated the results of his
labor.

“Great.” Dave shook Bill’s hand. “Hey, since you’re a
stranger to the area how about if I treat you to dinner tonight in
town? There’s a little taco joint that I really like. You like
Mexican food?”

Bill smiled. “To tell you the truth I never really
tried it out before. But I don’t want to trouble you any.”

“Not in the least. Meet me back here at five. I
always stop off somewhere to eat on the way home. It will be real
nice to have some company for a change.”

“Okay. See you at five then.”

***

Rosarita’s was a hole in the wall café where the
namesake served as waitress, cook, dishwasher, and cashier. Because
they arrived there before the blazing sun had set, Dave and Bill
were the café’s lone customers. A large fan circulated the hot air.
Two flies rode its breeze as they waited for food on which to
land.

“Not much to look at ambiance wise but the food’s
great.” Dave shoved a crispy freshly fried tortilla chip into his
mouth. “So, how long have you been a spy for the feds?”

“Huh?” Bill set his soda down so quickly that its
carbonated bubbles stained the white tablecloth. “What do you
mean?”

“I know the boss has me pegged as a whacko fan of
science fiction who can’t tell fantasy from reality. Little does he
know my real love is mysteries. You know, Hammet, Gardner, and
Chandler’s stuff. I’ve read every one of their stories and seen the
movies too. The radio dramas are best of all. But my real all-time
favorite is Sherlock Holmes. Those tales taught me how to observe,
how to deduce, how to size people up.” He narrowed his eyes to a
squint and moved them from Bill’s face to his hands.

“Like me, for instance?”

“Yeah. My boss is very tight with the budget. No way
he would ever spring any dough to have some guy come way out here
to fix things up. No way. And you taking a half hour to fix my
desk? A real maintenance man could have done it in five minutes,
maybe ten minutes tops. You know what the clincher was?” He rocked
his chair until it rested on two legs.

“I give up.”

“Your hands.” He pointed at them. “When I shook your
hand today it was as smooth as silk. No maintenance man has hands
like you do. The only calluses you have are probably the ones on
your butt from sitting behind a desk most of the time. At least
they let you out of your cage once in a while. Look at me.” He
tapped a fingertip on his chest. “Do I look like someone who’s
passing secrets on to Stalin and his boys?”

“No. Why would you do that? You’re too honest.” When
your cover is blown, try to regain the person’s trust, Bill’s FBI
mentor had said. Feed whoever pegged you as an agent just enough
truth to get them to think you have their best interest at heart.
“The way you talk I know there’s no way you are a spy.”

“Good. Now that we settled that, let’s get down to
brass tacks.” He pointed at the tray of food Rosarita was lowering
toward them.

Bill had the enchilada plate with rice and beans.
Dave ate the daily special, a taco, burrito, and tostada, all of
which he doused with hot sauce that made him swallow a pitcher of
water before the meal ended. Once an agent’s cover is blown, the
best plan is “to drop back ten yards and punt. In other words, get
away from the one who made you as quickly as possible.” His
mentor’s advice echoed through Bill’s head.

“I have to be getting back to my hotel.” Bill pushed
his chair back from the table.

“Not so fast. We still have a deal to make.”

“Deal?”

“Yeah. I don’t tell anyone who you really are and you
get me transferred away from Los Alamos. A happy ending for
everybody, right?”

“How am I going to convince your boss to do
that?”

“I don’t know but I do know you will. I need to be
sent to one of those bases in the desert east of Los Angeles.” Dave
scraped the scraps from his plate and dumped the remaining tortilla
chips into his doggie bag.

“Why there?”

“I really like the desert. Working here has made me
fall in love with it.”

“What makes you think I can arrange all that for
you?”

“Because you’re an honest guy. You tell my boss
whatever about me. Tell him it’s best for everyone if I’m sent
there. I know he will listen to you, Agent Pryzinski or whatever
your real name is.”

Bill shrugged.

“Okay, okay, you win. I’ll show you the real reason
but you have to come to my apartment to see it.” He pointed at
Bill’s plate. “You mind putting your leftovers in this bag? My dog
gets really hungry this time of day.” He stood and threw a $2 bill
onto the table.

Rosarita returned and snatched the payment. “I’ll
bring the change.”

“No thank you.” Dave stood and hugged her. “Keep the
change. It was delicious as always.”

“Thank you, David. Bring more friends next time.”

“Okay.”

The two diners walked outside into the 95-degree air,
which was half illuminated by twilight.

“I’ll say this much for you, Dave. You’re a big
tipper. I figure you gave her at least twenty-five percent.”

***

Dave’s apartment was a studio no larger than Bill’s
lodging at his hotel; his dog a Dalmatian who devoured the contents
of the doggie bags in seconds. Afterwards Saturn lay at his
master’s feet. Bill kept glancing at his watch.

“I know you want to be going. It’ll only take a
minute. See that map over on the wall?”

“Yeah.” Bill studied the two-foot by three-foot map
of America’s forty-eight states. “What’s those pencil marks all
over it for?”

“The wind patterns from Las Vegas to points north and
east of it. I took a metrology class in college before I dropped
out to work for the government.”

“Why Las Vegas?”

“The rumor is that they’re going to move the bomb
tests over near Vegas. Obviously, anyone downwind from them is in
danger once they start the tests up.”

“In danger from what?”

“The fallout. At first I was only worried about the
atomic bomb rays but I’ve heard the scientists talking about how
all the dust and debris that gets kicked up into the air by the
blasts might be harmful too. So far they’re convinced that it gets
dispersed enough that it won’t harm anybody down wind. But I’m not
convinced one bit.”

Bill stood and walked to the map. His fingers traced
the wind patterns as far north as Montana and as far east as
Indiana and through states to the south of it to Louisiana. “Why do
your wind patterns only go this far to the east?”

“My calculations are that that’s as far as the real
bad fallout will go.”

“So why not get yourself transferred to somewhere
along the East Coast then?”

“Because I’ve already absorbed God only know how many
radioactive rays and breathed in and drank down who knows how much
fallout. It can settle onto water supplies you know. Just to be
safe I need to get to the west of Las Vegas.”

“Why not Los Angeles? There are lots of defense jobs
there. One time I took a vacation out there. It’s got great weather
and friendly people.”

“Ha! That’s a laugh. Come on. It’s so big that that’s
one of the cities Russia will bomb if we ever go to war with
them.”

“But they don’t have the bomb.”

“Not yet. Give them some time. They will before we
know it.”

***

“But you’ve only been here two days, Agent
Pryzinski.”

At least he’s still using my cover
name.
“Yes, sir. But I’m afraid this case
is pretty cut and dried.”

“How’s that again?”

“First, Dave Freight is not a spy for Russia. Second,
his beliefs are probably interfering with his work here at Los
Alamos.”

“I suspected it all along.”

“But maybe his fears are valid.”

“What? You believe what that nut case told you?”

“You’re the scientist, not me. Just how harmful are
the rays and fallout from an atomic bomb test?”

“Oh, no. Now I know he’s won you over.”

“No. Please just answer my question.”

“We know for sure that anyone too close to the
initial blast gets radiated enough to at least make them sick for a
while.”

“Or die? Right?”

“Yes. As far as fallout goes, I can assure you that
radioactive material carried downwind from a blast is dispersed
enough to render it harmless.”

“Then why did they move all those natives away from
Bikini Atoll before starting those tests?”

“Just to be sure. With the bombs getting bigger and
bigger you need more of a margin of error. So what do you suggest I
do about Dave? Please remain impartial, agent.”

“If I were you I’d transfer him. But you have to do
it in such a way that he doesn’t realize you’re on to how his
beliefs affect his work.”

“Huh? How do I do that?”

“One important thing he told me is that he loves the
desert. Transfer him to one of those bases out in California in the
desert to the east of Los Angles. That should make him happy, you
happy, and everybody happy.” He rose and tipped his cap labeled
Maintenance. “I have to get going so I can catch the next flight
out of Albuquerque.”

Agent Bill Sampson remained maintenance worker Bill
Pryzinski until he reached his home in the suburbs outside of
Washington, D.C. He tossed his cap into the closet reserved for his
aliases. Then he became husband, father, and dog, cat, bird, fish,
and reptile owner, roles he preferred to undercover man.

The band played
When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again
as Fred Rhinehardt’s train pulled into Madisin. It was a
makeshift group of Veterans of Foreign War members: a drummer and
clarinet, sax, trumpet, and tuba players. Agreeing on what song to
play took more than one vote, something engrained into the fabric
of Madisinites.

Jason Dalrumple’s great grandfather on his mother’s
side, Horace Azarton, had rallied neighbors to incorporate their
tiny community in 1858. Most wanted to name their town Madison.
Horace insisted on Jefferson. As the town’s presumptive mayor,
Horace only relented when he saw votes that might elect him
slipping away. But not without sneaking in a misspelling on the
document sent to the territorial governor. Intent on having the
last laugh, Horace spelled Madison as Madisin, which he thought
reflected the condition of those who preferred James Madison to
Thomas Jefferson as a namesake.

“They’re just sinners, so I wrote in Madisin when
they weren’t looking,” he loved to brag of his subterfuge. As mayor
he vetoed every attempt to change the town’s name from Madisin to
Madison. Eventually those who cared either died or moved away.

Defining the region around Madisin
was also controversial. Some called it the Midwest, others the
Great Plains, and a few the South, especially those whose ancestors
who had fought for the Confederacy, proof enough for them that
Madisin was a part of Dixie. Such were three-fifths of the band at
the train depot and their preferred
When
Johnny Comes Marching Home Again
carried
the day
.
Not that
Fred cared, he was happy to be home and meet his son for the first
time.

Four-year-old Karl waved a small American flag. He
knew that all the other kids had fathers; except for the ones the
war had taken forever. But now that same war was sending his daddy
home. He wondered if war would take his father away again as Fred
lifted him in a bear hug and kissed his forehead.

“Welcome home, honey.” Sally grabbed Fred. “I won’t
be letting go of you ever again.”

Her emphasis on
home
told the returning hero that
moving was not negotiable. For a year via letters he had fought,
pled, cajoled, and reasoned that “my hometown of Boston has a whole
lot more to offer.” Sally had replied that if she could give up her
native Kentucky then he could live without Boston. Besides, four
years of living in Madisin had made her agree with locals that “if
you stay a while, it just sort of grows on you.”