Shelter

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Shelter Page 10

by C A Bird


  “Baby, you really blew it!” she thought to herself. “It looks like another job change for you.” The corridor seemed three times as long as it had been on the way to the meeting. Ron ran out of things to scream at her about and he lapsed into an angry silence that left the only sound the clicking of her high heels on the tile floor.

  The original proposal for the project was Jean’s, and Ron had to admit it was very thorough. Of all the manufacturers submitting bids he was convinced they had the best shot at the contract. Up until this year, his negotiating team had always been composed of high-pressure, hard-driven males and he seriously resented it when Jean was assigned to his department, but her significant ability to accurately calculate project costs had won him over. He’d made a couple of half-hearted attempts to get her interested in him personally but soon desisted, worried about the company’s sexual harassment policy. They had finally settled into a tolerable work relationship, until this colossal blunder! They’d rehearsed the meeting several times and he thought Jean knew exactly what to say but the problem was that this was her first experience with presenting proposals and he failed to brief her on what not to say.

  They reached her office door with Ron arriving first, and opening it for her. She ducked in quickly and turned, blocking his path. “Ron, please let me collect my thoughts. I’ll talk to you in a few minutes.” She risked looking up and he saw tears beginning to form in her large green eyes. His anger abated somewhat and he relented.

  “You have ten minutes and I want to see you in my office.” He wheeled abruptly and stormed down the hallway toward his own office.

  Jean paced in front of her desk, furious with herself for being a naive fool. She didn’t think it was such a big deal to mention possible cost overruns, thinking by mentioning how minimal they would be; she would impress the Navy team. This was her first big sales meeting and now she felt sure it would be her last.

  She’d joined the company, Advanced Communications, Inc., last January, starting out in the accounting department, but was quickly reassigned to Ron Carlin’s team, the group that made the sales presentations to the defense department and other contractors. They were the ones responsible for ensuring the company made money . . . big money. Now it looked like she’d be sent back to the accounting department, or worse, looking for new employment.

  “Well idiot, what’s your next career going to be?” she mumbled. Jean Barnes hadn’t been able to settle down in one job in all her thirty years. She originally graduated from college as a psychology major. Her mother, a clinical psychologist, had died when she was eleven and her father, Byron Barnes, encouraged her to pursue her degree in the same career field. Although she had never really been interested in psychology, she would have done anything Daddy wanted her to do. Since moving to the United States from Scotland as a young man, he had spent his life working in a backbreaking job as a longshoreman in Boston, and he believed a college degree would ensure Jean, like her mother, would never have to make a living performing manual labor as he did.

  After her mother’s death, her father had raised her as a single parent and it had been rough for both of them. Her opportunity to broaden her horizons came when she applied for college; it was her chance to get away. Wanting a completely different environment than Boston, she chose the state of Colorado and attended The University of Colorado in Denver. Daddy died of pneumonia when she was a sophomore and she had placed a huge guilt trip on herself for having been selfish and moving away. She knew he’d been lonely after she left Boston, though she visited as often as possible.

  After college, with no reason for returning home to Boston, she stayed in Colorado and moved to Colorado Springs. Trying to work as a child protective worker for El Paso County didn’t work out, as she died just a little inside with each child abuse case she investigated, so with Daddy gone, she decided to give up psychology and, again, try something different. She had no way of knowing that being a psychologist and living in Colorado had given her a ticket to salvation.

  Jean quit pacing and sat in her comfortable desk chair, glancing around her office. She had finally earned her own office after years of working in various labor pools as she worked her way through college the second time as a secretary. Not having any idea what she wanted to do this time around, she took a variety of courses and discovered she had a talent for mathematics. Her second degree was in Accounting and once she’d completed her retraining she moved to California, searching once again for a change of scenery and lifestyle. She loved the ocean and settled in Los Angeles, hoping this time it was for good. At her first job, over thirty people worked in the same room, each with a tiny cubicle. She went on to work as an accountant at the corporate headquarters of a national chain of athletic shoe stores.

  Still looking for something more fulfilling, she worked at four more companies in the next five years. In January she landed the job with Advance Communications in Marina Del Rey. The accounting department was boring but she was soon transferred to the infinitely more interesting cost analysis department where she had an opportunity to utilize her research and math skills. She was given her own office, which meant to her that she was beginning to achieve some success. Daddy would have been proud.

  And Ron? She had absolutely no interest in getting involved with her boss. He was nice enough looking, just under six feet tall with short-cropped light brown hair and an outstanding short beard, but she considered him shallow and self-centered and she had never been interested in his type. She had a problem with relationships, her standards eliminating most normal human males from consideration and she wasn’t going to allow her personal life to interfere with her career.

  Now it looked like, once again, she’d have to start over. She’d miss this office with its large desk and state-of-the-art computer system. There were three lateral file cabinets along one wall and low bookshelves, filled with accounting books, lining another. The room was carpeted, with an artificial tree in the corner. On the wall above the bookshelves were three recently purchased, framed photos, the three together creating a panorama of The Sangre De Cristo Mountains in northern New Mexico. They gave her a sense of comfort.

  She wondered if it was possible to avoid talking to Ron. Ten minutes had already passed. Just as she screwed up her courage, and started for the door, the intercom crackled, the voice of the receptionist announcing that Federal Express had delivered a package for her. Greatly relieved, she called Ron explaining she would be late. “This package could be really important,” she told him. Driving slowly, and killing as much time as possible, she retrieved the package from the Company’s main office building. Although she was mildly curious about it, she was too concerned about confronting Ron Carlin and she stuffed the package in her oversized purse and drove back to the building housing the Cost Analysis Department.

  Returning to her office she steeled herself, knowing that Ron would be waiting for her. She left the package, unopened, in her purse. She and Ron arrived at her office simultaneously.

  “Ron, I’m so sorry about the meeting . . .”

  He waved her off. “I’m too angry about the whole thing at this point,” he said. “Why don’t we go to dinner tonight and we’ll discuss it in an informal atmosphere.”

  Being totally caught off guard by this turn of events, she agreed. "Ah… all right, that sounds like a good idea.”

  “Good, I’ll pick you up tonight at six.” He turned and left her office.

  She plopped down in her chair. Maybe she could salvage this job after all.

  August 20, 3:20 p.m.

  Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado

  Since the Defense Condition indicator had gone to Defcon 3 the previous day, the intensity of activity at NORAD Command Center had doubled, the noise level rising tremendously as the rate of incoming data increased. Personnel moved on the double going through a routine they’d rehearsed frequently during drills.

  Leroy had trouble controlling his breathing and was sweating profusely. The walls were cl
osing in. He closed his eyes, picturing himself standing outside the complex - above ground. There were only ten minutes left of his shift.

  Data being received and analyzed from the Millstar Satellite Communications System indicated the system would be up and available in the event of hostilities. The multi-satellite system links command authorities with a wide variety of resources including ships, submarines, aircraft and ground stations. Each satellite serves as a smart switchboard in space by directing traffic from terminal to terminal anywhere on Earth and provides interoperable communications among the users of Army, Navy and Air Force Milstar terminals.

  At that moment in time Leroy Jefferson had absolutely no interest in the Milstar Communications System. Nor did he care about the reports being received from the Space Control Center or from the “Theatre Ballistic Missile” warning system. This system gave warning of short-range missiles, such as SCUDS, being launched anywhere in the world. The ones Leroy worried about were the ones monitored by the “Strategic Ballistic Missile,” the long-range ones, the ones that could reach this mountain and trap him here in this underground tomb.

  He forced himself to open his eyes and look at his console.

  “Jefferson! Get your ass moving!” He was staring at the indicator, barely able to function. With the admonition his eyes snapped to his monitor but he had difficulty interpreting the data. His fingers began to automatically speed across the keyboard, transferring data to the mainframe. NORAD, continuously monitoring for enemy activity from their base at Cheyenne Mountain in Colorado Springs, reported all clear.

  His replacement stepped up on the dais. “Hey Leroy, what’s up?”

  “Defcon 3 status. No indications of incoming missiles.” He reported automatically. “See you tomorrow.” He hurried off the dais to the waiting vehicle that would deliver him from this smothering womb.

  Unbeknownst to him, the minute he left his station the indicator went to Defcon 2. Had he known, he would have gone AWOL rather than return to this place tomorrow.

  August 20, 3:30 p.m.

  Albuquerque, New Mexico

  Aaron Brown’s six-foot frame barely fit; as he flopped down on the narrow bed and tore the wrapper from the package the man had given him earlier this morning. It was now late afternoon but he’d had so many surgeries he just hadn’t had the time to get to it any sooner. As a third year surgical resident at University Hospital in Albuquerque, he was constantly running, with a demanding surgery schedule every morning, surgery clinic in the afternoons, and frequent on-call for the E.R. Aaron lived on-site in the residents’ quarters, and spending most of his free time studying, he had almost no life outside medicine. But he loved the challenging practice of surgery and secretly dreaded the completion of his residency when he planned to return home to Atlanta, Georgia to practice surgery at Grady Memorial Hospital where his family had received their health care since he’d been a little boy. He would have to establish a private practice and fervently hoped it wouldn’t bore him to death.

  The package contained a radio device of some sort and a letter. As he read the letter he smiled at the joke one of the guys was playing on him.

  YOU HAVE BEEN SELECTED TO SURVIVE THE COMING NUCLEAR HOLOCAUST. A BOMB SHELTER HAS BEEN CONSTRUCTED AND WILL BE AVAILABLE TO YOU IN THE EVENT OF A NUCLEAR WAR. ENCLOSED IS A SIGNALING DEVICE. YOU WILL NOTE IT IS SMALL ENOUGH TO CARRY IN YOUR POCKET OR PURSE. YOU ARE ADVISED TO KEEP IT ON YOUR PERSON AT ALL TIMES. THE BACK OF THE DEVICE IS LOCKED AND WILL REMAIN SO UNTIL IT IS ACTIVATED. IF YOU TRY TO TAMPER WITH IT IN ANY WAY IT WILL DESTROY ITSELF AND YOU WILL LOSE THE OPPORTUNITY TO UTILIZE IT. IF THE SIGNAL EVER GOES OFF YOU ARE ADVISED TO FOLLOW THE DIRECTIONS IN THE BACK OF THE DEVICE IMMEDIATELY. THERE WILL BE NO TIME FOR DELAY. YOU MAY BRING YOUR IMMEDIATE FAMILY IF YOU CAN LOCATE THEM AT ONCE. KEEP IN MIND THAT ANY DELAY MAY MEAN YOU DO NOT SURVIVE. ACCESS TO THE SHELTER WILL BE FOR A LIMITED TIME ONLY. I HOPE THE DEVICE WILL NEVER BE NEEDED. IF IT IS I PRAY YOU WILL HEED IT'S WARNING. IF NOT, MAY GOD PROTECT YOU.

  It had to be Jenkins, the clown of the surgical residents. He’d played practical jokes on almost everyone else but had always left Aaron alone. There was a group of third year residents that didn’t seem to take the work as seriously as Aaron but he had the distinct impression he was now accepted as one of the guys. He ran his hand over his shiny, shaved, dark brown scalp. He got up and opened the bottom desk drawer where he kept a few small tools and grabbed a screwdriver, wanting to figure out what was in the box before he ran into Jenkins. He placed the screwdriver blade in the crack and began applying pressure when he heard a page, “Dr. Brown, please report to the O.R.”

  “Aw hell!” He tossed the box on the closet shelf and headed for surgery.

  August 20, 4:00 p.m.

  Kirtland AFB, New Mexico

  Karl Dohner was beginning to panic. Hired by Will Hargraves over three years ago, he’d worked at the shelter during the final construction phase and currently performed whatever duties Mr. Hargraves assigned him. He worked with Glen’s crew, rotating food stores, performing general maintenance, helping to take care of the animals, and it was his responsibility to deliver the signaling devices to those selected to receive them. Karl got a call a few days ago from Hargraves, a call he never expected to receive, instructing him to begin delivery.

  He had always had a problem with procrastination, a problem exacerbated by alcohol, and the call had frightened him. Drinking himself into a stupor, he awoke the next morning to find he had lost a full day. He immediately started sending them out by Federal Express, but hadn’t mailed them all when he received a frantic call yesterday telling him to finish delivering them as soon as possible. Hargraves didn’t tolerate mistakes. If he discovered that Karl hadn’t promptly delivered them, he might not let him return to the shelter. According to Hargraves, the possibility had increased tremendously that the devices might be needed. Karl took the last of the receivers and started delivering them by hand. Most of those he had failed to mail had been destined for people in northern New Mexico down into Albuquerque. He drove like a madman and spent as little time as possible with each recipient and, by the afternoon of August 20, he’d delivered all but one.

  Karl drove down a quiet street in base housing looking for the address on the list in his hand. Jason and Kristen Douglas were the last people who would receive packages. He’d gained access to the base by telling the guard he was visiting the Atomic Energy Museum, his visitor’s pass visible on the dashboard as he cruised the quiet residential street nowhere near the base museum. As he listened to the news on his radio he was becoming alarmed. The shelter was 160 miles from his current location.

  There it was, the address on the paper! Karl pulled up in front of the well-tended front yard and climbed quickly out of his car. He approached the front door and leaned heavily on the doorbell as he wiped perspiration from his brow and glanced at his watch. Shifting from one foot to the other, he checked his watch again and nervously pushed the button a second time. When no one came to the door, he rapped loudly on the jamb, listening for any indication that someone was home. He felt he had waited an eternity when in reality it had been less than a minute, and when no one answered immediately he hurried back to his car, jumped in, and drove away at a clip guaranteed to get him pulled over if he was unfortunate enough to be spotted by the Security Police. He glanced in the rearview mirror just as a pretty young woman walked out onto the porch, staring after him with a puzzled look.

  He would never forget that face.

  “Oh God, I’m so sorry but I just can’t go back,” he whispered as he sped away. He couldn’t rip his eyes away from her face, as it grew smaller in the rearview mirror. The young woman watched as he disappeared with her and Jason’s key to survival.

  ***

  They were five hundred keys to survival. Some recipients laughed, others worried, and many thought it was a joke. But most people kept them just in case. Only a handful took a chance and destroyed the devices by trying to open them. The news fro
m abroad was too frightening for that.

  News of the devices leaked to the media, but just as Hargraves thought it would, created very little sensation. The story was buried on page twelve of the L.A. Times and was soon forgotten. It was thought to be the work of a lunatic, a clever hoax, not newsworthy beyond a minor curiosity.

  Hargraves had considerable difficulty in selecting candidates to receive the devices. One major problem was he had no way of determining whom, or for that matter, if anybody, would heed the warning and attempt to get to the shelter. Should he then select back-up candidates for all the major occupations? Of course, proximity to the Sangre De Cristo range in New Mexico was of prime importance. Denver, two hundred eighty miles north, and Flagstaff, slightly farther than that to the west, were within four to seven hours of the shelter. Smaller towns such as Durango and Colorado Springs, in Colorado, and Las Vegas, Santa Fe and Los Alamos in New Mexico were also reachable by automobile in a reasonable period of time. Albuquerque, one hundred sixty miles away was the closest large city with an international airport. It was approximately three and a half hours away, taking into consideration the mountainous terrain at the end of the trip. No one would make it if they had to travel too far.

  Doctors were among those he considered critical. He selected a general practitioner from a small town in the foothills; male, divorced, age 56, and a young surgical resident from Albuquerque, African-American, age 29. Also, an experienced internist from Santa Fe, age 41. He hoped one or more would make it and possibly bring other medical personnel. The internist was married to a former nurse. Other medical personnel included two nurses, a Clinical Lab Scientist, an E.M.T., a pharmacist, a dentist, and a psychologist.

 

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