Resurrection Day

by Brendan DuBois

  ‘I’m Carl Landry, and I’m with the press contingent. I felt like some fresh air and decided to come up here.’

  ‘Do you have identification?’

  ‘In my wallet. Which is propping open the stairwell door.’

  After his wallet was retrieved and his press pass checked, the soldier with the flashlight politely passed his wallet back and said, ‘Sir, you shouldn’t be up here without an escort. And you haven’t been issued your dosimetry yet.’

  He returned the wallet to his pants. ‘No problem, guys. I’m heading right back down.’

  As Carl opened the stairwell door, he saw movement over on the other side of the building’s roof, overlooking Fifth Avenue. There was a squad of soldiers and two of them seemed to be wearing larger-than-normal helmets. Instead of M-14s, they had long rifles.

  He wanted to ask questions, lots of questions. Instead he went downstairs.

  ~ * ~

  At room 1418 he rapped on the door, and when a woman’s voice said, ‘Who is it?’ he said, ‘A delegation from the Prime Minister’s office.’

  Sandy opened the door, wearing a long blue robe and rubbing the sleep from her eyes. ‘Oh, come on in.’

  ~ * ~

  He moved some in the bed, her head upon his shoulder. ‘Hmmm, why is this bed so comfortable?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said, her lips gingerly nipping at his ear. ‘Maybe we broke something earlier on.’

  ‘Maybe we did.’

  She snuggled against him some more and he said, ‘Quick question?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Why?’

  He felt her pause. ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why me?’ he said. ‘Why us? Sandy, the past few days have been wonderful indeed, but I…Well…’

  She raised her head. ‘You want to know my feelings, is that it? Why I’m attracted to you?’

  He stroked her back. ‘If you don’t mind. Having you near me is like... it’s like winning the lottery, and I didn’t even buy a ticket. It’s been a wonderful and unexpected gift.’

  Sandy smiled and scratched at his chest. ‘Among a lot of things, dear boy, including your handsome and rugged face, it’s that you’re different. You’ve been places, you’ve done things, you have this quiet sense of energy and intelligence and strength. You’re not like any man I know, back home. There, I’ve grown up with soft English men whose idea of exertion is running after the train, and whose idea of hardship is not having fresh bread for toast. There. Satisfied?’

  He hugged her and she said, ‘Not so fast! Your turn. I shan’t let you get away without you giving me the same in return.’

  Carl gently touched her chin and lifted her head. ‘The truth?’

  ‘Of course, the truth.’

  ‘The truth is. . . Sandy, you give me hope.’

  ‘Hope?’ she said, in mock anger. ‘What do you mean, hope?’

  ‘You come into my life and show me what things are like, an airline flight away. You show me that things still work, that there are still good places left. And you give me hope that it’s not too late.’

  ‘Too late for what?’

  He looked past her and out the dark window. ‘Not too late for my country.’

  ~ * ~

  A bit later she said, ‘Can I ask you something, my friend?’

  ‘Ask away.’

  ‘How did you come up with that question that got the general so upset? I had the feeling that I was knocking at a very forbidden door.’

  He rubbed at her silken hair and said, ‘Earlier today, when we were at the Fence, I had a conversation with a soldier, maybe eighteen or nineteen years old. He didn’t come right out and say it, but he did tell me that contrary to published reports and public opinion, the Army doesn’t aggressively patrol the Restricted Zones.’

  She suddenly sat up again, brushing her hair back from her eyes. ‘And what else did he tell you?’

  ‘That was about it, except for a roundabout statement that there are some dangerous things in the RZs. I don’t believe in monsters and I don’t believe in ghosts, and I’m sure the Army isn’t afraid of dog packs. So I think it’s people.’

  ‘Who? Who would be living there?’

  ‘Survivors, who never left their homes or who came back. And maybe some militia types, the kind of groups that formed m California. Whoever they are, it seems like the Army is fairly cautious when it goes into the RZs.’

  Sandy rubbed at her chin. ‘Then that was a bloody good question you had me ask, you conniving fellow. Anything else you’re hiding?’

  He drew her down and she kissed him on the nose, and he kissed her on her lips and cheeks and eyes, and said in a low voice, ‘Sandy, when the good general was talking about being stationed in Manhattan, what kind of duty did he call it?’

  ‘Mmmm,’ she said, nuzzling and nibbling at his ear. ‘I think he called it calm duty, or something like that.’

  ‘Close,’ he said, caressing her back in long, looping motions. ‘He said it was quiet duty. And that’s an important thing to a soldier. Quiet duty means you get your job done, things go as planned, and you don’t have to worry about your bed being blown up during the night.’

  She made a growling noise, like a frustrated cat. ‘Your point being, young man?’

  He tightened his hold on her smooth back. ‘My point being that if you have a building with a sniper unit on its roof at night, would you call that quiet duty?’

  Carl felt her stiffen under his touch. ‘You mean this building?’ she asked.

  ‘I certainly do. Earlier, I wanted to get some air and I went up to the roof. Spooky sight, all those dark skyscrapers and office buildings. Then a few soldiers stopped me and sent me back down. Two of them had standard-issue gear, but there was a squad over at the other side of the roof that got my attention.’

  ‘What were they doing?’ she asked, her soft voice now all business.

  ‘They weren’t watching me. They were looking down at the street. And they were wearing night vision gear of some sort, and bolt-action rifles. Sniper rifles. And there’s another thing.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Just before our briefing today I saw two soldiers come out of an office and then just as quickly duck back in, like they didn’t want to be seen. But before they did that, I made note of their headgear. Sandy, one of the soldiers belonged to you nice folks. He was from a British paratrooper regiment.’

  ‘Paras? Here?’ She sat up quickly, sheet drawn to her chest.

  ‘Right. And the other was from my old unit, Special Forces. Both elite units. Not run-of-the-mill garrison troops.’

  ‘And if this island is on such quiet duty, you wouldn’t expect to see paras or Special Forces here,’ she said, holding the sheet with her fists.

  ‘No, it’d be a waste. If this is just hooking up lights, sewer, and water, then you wouldn’t have elite forces here. Unless there’s other work to do.’

  ‘Such as?’

  He recalled what he had seen in the basement, but decided to save that for later. He didn’t like the inquisitive tone of her voice. ‘Such as I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, tomorrow I intend to find out,’ she said, reaching for her notebook on the nightstand. She flipped the pages and made some notes.

  Carl rolled over on his back, folded his hands behind his head, and stared up at the ceiling. Foreigners, he thought. Civilians. Not a single clue. She thinks this is one terrific adventure, a lark set up especially for her, for the benefit of a good newspaper article and some stories to tell at the pubs on Fleet Street when she gets home. A moment passed, and then he listened to the sound of her notebook and pen being replaced on the nightstand.

  She touched the back of his head, gently stroked his hair. ‘Carl, what’s wrong?’

  ‘Sandy, do you know what the phrase “Potemkin village” means?’

  Her hand stopped moving. ‘Something to do with Catherine the Great. A minister fooled her into thinking that a region was doing well. Am I right?’<
br />
  ‘Your parents got their money’s worth at Oxford. Yeah, that’s pretty close. Prince Potemkin was an adviser and lover of Catherine the Great. In the late 1700s, she wanted to tour some new territories that Russia had annexed. Potemkin wanted to make a good impression, so he had the villages rebuilt and repainted, and the sick, elderly, and poor were shunted away. Some villages were nothing but facades. Peasants were supposed to sing and dance for the empress as she traveled by.’

  Sandy said quietly, ‘You think this whole trip is a Potemkin village?’

  ‘Or something damn close. And you know what worries me?’

  ‘Go on,’ she said.

  He kept on staring up at the ceiling. ‘I’d suggest you don’t ask any embarrassing questions tomorrow, Sandy. Everybody in a Potemkin village has their role to play, and that includes the news media. The peasants that were lined up for the empress had their roles. If they didn’t dance or sing on cue, they were beaten or killed. What happens if we don’t sing or dance on cue?’

  She hugged herself. ‘Carl, you’re beginning to scare me.’

  He thought about what she had planned to do tomorrow, to publicly poke and ask questions in the middle of a restricted military zone.

  ‘Good,’ he said.

  ~ * ~

  EMPIRE: THREE

  A MATTER DF EMPIRE: THREE

  * * *

  Major Kenneth Hunt was working in temporary quarters in one corner of an aircraft hangar at RCAF Trenton, reviewing a personnel roster, trying to keep his mind focused on his job and nothing else, when there was a tapping at the thin wooden door. He looked up, ready to snap at whoever was standing there, and then dropped the papers on the desk.

  ‘Clive!’ he exclaimed, standing up and extending a hand. ‘What the devil are you doing here?’

  His older brother was wearing a rumpled black suit, white shirt, thin black tie, and a tired look on his face. He was five years older than Kenneth, with a thick thatch of black hair, heavy eyebrows, and saggy cheeks that would one day turn into the jowls of a bulldog, though even now, he had that dog’s tenacity. Officially, Clive worked in the Foreign Office, but Kenneth knew better, had known better for years.

  Clive shook his hand and said, ‘Sorry about barging in on you like this, old boy, but I was passing through on my way to Ottawa and thought I’d see how little Kenny is doing. Feel up to a bit of a stroll?’

  Hunt was going to protest that he had too much work to do, that he had a meeting with an RCAF liaison officer in ten minutes, and after that, a meeting with the Regiment’s Sergeant-Major, but he saw the look on his brother’s face and said, ‘Of course.’

  ~ * ~

  In the quick stroll across the runway, they talked about their parents and their only sister, Penelope, a producer for the BBC. They reached a grassy area surrounded by a chain-link fence and Clive sat on the ground, letting out a sigh of exhaustion as he leaned against the fence. It was sunny and warm for October, and Hunt sat next to his brother.

  About a hundred yards away, just off the runway, was the rusting and picked-over carcass of a B-52 bomber. It had been there ten years, partially buried and collapsed in the soil. Talking to one of the Royal Canadian Air Force officers, Hunt had learned that the bomber—damaged by missile fire somewhere over the old Soviet Union—had made an emergency landing here on its way back to the States. The crew had gone home and the top-secret gear had been stripped out, and there it remained. The Canadians had protested and had asked for funds to remove the hulk, and the Americans had said they would get around to it, one of these days, and these days had extended into weeks and months and years.

  Clive gestured to the dead jet.

  ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘Another relic of a dead empire. A Boeing bomber. Built in Seattle, probably based in the Midwest, and then sent over the North Pole to the middle of Asia, to kill people who probably never left their village in their entire life, and whose only fault was that they lived next door to a Soviet military base. The reach of an empire. And here it rests, rusting, never to fly again. But one sure thing about dead empires is that sometimes they don’t want to remain dead. Like ours.’

  Major Hunt nodded, knowing what was ahead. His older brother was a lecturer, and when he was in the mood to talk, it was best just to listen. Clive reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a thin box of Dunhills. ‘Want a fag, Kenny?’

  ‘No, I’m sticking with the pipe nowadays. I find it soothing.’

  ‘Hah,’ Clive said, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. ‘Haven’t felt soothed in months, not since the stupid bastards upstairs thought up Operation Turnabout.’

  Hunt felt himself stiffen at the name of his operation, the one that he had been planning for, the one that was due to commence in less than four weeks’ time, the one that gave him nightmares about his dead wife, Rachel. ‘If I were you, I wouldn’t be bandying that name around too much, Clive.’

  His brother waved a hand dismissively. ‘Bah, don’t worry. That’s why we’re sitting out here, instead of in your office, which might have an electronic ear or two. There is something that I didn’t want anybody else to hear, though. Operation Turnabout does not have the full backing of Her Majesty’s Government. The PM is still wavering.’

  ‘Is there a chance it might be called off?’ Hunt asked, anticipation in his voice. ‘I tell you, Clive, it’s kept me up a few nights.’

  His brother frowned, took a deep drag from his Dunhill. ‘Then I’m afraid you’re going to have a lot more sleepless nights over the next few weeks.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Clive nodded, stared out at the runway. ‘Oh, we had a chance, maybe, just a week or two ago, to stop this bloody thing. We had someone in the States, in Boston, who claimed to have some information that would have helped us tremendously in blocking it.’

  ‘And who is “us,” if I may ask?’

  He rubbed at his face with his free hand. ‘Those of us who don’t like Operation Turnabout. Those of us who think three world wars in one century is more than enough, thank you very much. And those of us who think that if another British empire is to be created, it will be done because the world wants it. Not because we took advantage of a wounded friend.’

  ‘If that’s “us,” then who are the others?’

  Another deep pull on his cigarette. ‘Ah, the others. The ones who are fearful of our French and German comrades across the Channel. Who would have thought that those old bastards, de Gaulle and Adenauer, would form an alliance after the war? And that Pompidou and Brandt would keep it alive? The French and Germans have been moving in on Eastern Europe, opening up those markets, while we, the poor man of Europe, are being ignored, being ridiculed. But here’s a chance to bring the empire back to life overnight, with more territory and the most terrible weapons in the world, and then, well, we won’t be the poor man of Europe anymore.’

  Hunt felt bleak, seeing the angry and tortured expression on his brother’s face. ‘You’re probably right, Clive. We won’t be the poor man of Europe anymore. Just the most hated.’

  His brother nodded, stubbed out his cigarette on the grass. ‘A decade ago, all of us thought we’d seen the last of war, especially after seeing pictures of what happened here and in Russia. But ten years is a long time, Kenny. People forget.’

  He was surprised when his brother—not usually a demonstrative man—grabbed his hand and gave it a firm squeeze. ‘And when the people and the politicians forget, they tend to do stupid things. Like send their finest young men into battle to do the devil’s work. Oh, blast, look what’s coming.’

  Down the side of the runway, an RCAF staff car was approaching. Hunt and his brother stood up, Clive brushing at the grass on his pants. ‘My official escort approaches, Kenny, so I’m off to Ottawa.’

  ‘What happened to the man in Boston?’ he asked. ‘Who might have helped stop the whole thing.’

  Clive sadly shook his head. ‘We were asked to send him someone, someone who knew him a long time ago. An
old general. Sheffield was his name. And now they’re both dead, and Operation Turnabout seems to be unstoppable.’

  Hunt suddenly felt chilled, standing next to his brother. ‘Both of them, dead. And that’s it?’

  ‘So far. Unless we get terribly lucky in these next few days.’ The dark blue car came to a stop and Clive gave him a glum half wave as he climbed in. Hunt watched the car turn around, thinking, I can’t. I can’t do it. Not with Rachel up there, watching me.

  I can’t.

  ~ * ~

  SIXTEEN