Day of the Bomb

by Steve Stroble

  “I don’t know for sure. I’m just a maintenance man. I just repair what needs fixing is all I do.”

  “Shoot, boy. The powers that be got you headed in the wrong direction. They should be sending you to Washington D.C. to straighten old Harry Truman out. From what I’m hearing he wants to keep on expanding FDR’s New Deal. I’m not sure what killed FDR. Maybe it was his crusade to turn America into another USSR. Maybe it was his screwing those other women besides his wife Eleanor. Who knows? Someone needs to tell Harry he needs to keep a watch on those damn Russians. They already took over most of Europe. We’re next on their list. What do you think?”

  Bill nodded his head. “Can’t argue much with all of what you just said. But you know how it is. They tell me to jump and I say ‘how high?’ So I’m headed to New Mexico. I just hope I don’t end up like a Mexican jumping bean.”

  His seatmate extended a hand. “Name’s Tony Rechlizo.”

  “Bill Pryzinski. Glad to meet you.” He shook the sweat-covered palm. “First time flying?”

  “Nah. I’m a veteran at this. Besides, I drove tanks all the way to Germany during the war. Blew those krauts to hell and back again. Flying is a piece of cake. Can I buy you a drink?”

  “Thanks. Just a soda for me. Any alcohol really makes my gout flare up. Talk about painful.”

  “Gout?” He waved for a stewardess. “Bad news. My uncle has it too. His feet turn red and puffy if he drinks. Sometimes he can’t even walk if he drinks too much.” He smiled at the flight attendant. “Hi. A soda for Bill here and a whiskey for me.” He turned back to Bill. “You sound like a Republican.”

  “I never bothered to register with any party. I just vote for who looks best. I was for Al Smith back in 1928 and 1932.”

  “So you’re a Catholic like Smith?”

  “Nope. My folks weren’t church people except when someone got married or died. I go to church on Christmas and Easter when I can.”

  Agent Sampson stayed in character as he rented a car after landing in Albuquerque.

  “Thank you, Mr. Pryzinski. Here are the keys. Your car is out the door to your right. It’s the red Buick.”

  “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.

  Chapter 15

  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 li
ve 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.”

  The welcome home party for Fred was at the VFW hall, with the rental fee waived after he agreed to join the Madisin chapter. In attendance was the Rhinehardts’ pastor, Rev. Lacharetti of the Madisin Community Church and the Dalrumples’ pastor, Rev. Trueblood of the Full Gospel Evangelical Church. Strangers until now, the two sought each other out, mostly out of curiosity.

  “Never thought they’d make more fuss over Fred’s homecoming than they did Jason’s,” Rev. Lacharetti said.

  Rev. Trueblood chuckled. “You don’t know Jason.” He described some of Jason’s pranks before Rev. Lacharetti had accepted a call to Madisin. As their conversation spiraled into small talk Trueblood crossed the boundary that separates those of the same profession by “talking shop.” First he probed. “So what’s it like being the pastor at Madisin Community Church?”

  Rev. Lacharetti gagged on the punch coursing down his gullet. “Excuse me. “ He placed his empty cup onto their shared table. “Maybe an analogy would describe it best. I went to college and seminary and received my masters of divinity degree. First I served as an associate pastor at a large church in Detroit. Then I became head pastor for a congregation in Chicago. Somehow what I preached went over like a lead balloon. The Church by-laws called for an annual vote of confidence for the pastor. When the vote was 423 to 399 that I stay I took a smaller church in St. Louis. That lasted for five years. Then I came here.”

  “You like it here?”

  “Yes and no. Having a congregation of only about a hundred is nice. The much smaller salary has drawbacks though. Just ask my wife.”

  “What do you think made those other churches lose faith in you?”

  He smiled. “You hit the nail on the head. I taught them not to put their faith in me and our church and our denomination but to put it in Jesus and His kingdom instead.”

  “The kingdom of God instead of your denomination? Bet that went over like a fart in church at your denominational headquarters.”

  He laughed. “Yeah. You might say that. Anyway when it’s all said and done, I went from the major leagues down to the minor leagues in twelve years. How about you?”