by Sam Moffie
In order to maintain a more macho image, Americans involved in the planning of the Cold War had to know what types of nuclear bombs would produce what type of results. The only way to determine this would be tests — lots and lots of tests.
The Cold War movers and shakers decided upon air-dropped nuclear bombs. They started at the old Nevada test site, where Oppenheimer et al had created the first bomb, and gave the projects monikers to fit the times. Operation Ranger, Operation Buster-Jangle, and Operation Tumbler-Snapper were all aptly named for the cause known under the umbrella name of Operation Faust.
The generals, senators, representatives, contractors, scientists and all the others in charge of keeping America safe from Communism had left no stone untouched in showing off their nuclear arsenal.
A remote area in the sprawling Nevada test site, which is buffered from public access by vast, federally owned chunks of land totaling more than 1,300 square miles, was outfitted to look like a little town with mannequins set up to symbolize people. Cheap homes were built. Vehicles were parked around the town and on driveways. If you looked at the guinea pig community with binoculars, it could be any small town in any part of suburban America. They even dressed the mannequins in the American clothing style of the day and built the structures to look American with parked American cars all around the town! The militaristic marionettes in charge of building this phony town marveled at their attention to detail in order to view what the level of destruction would be like. They didn’t get the irony that it was a model AMERICAN town about to be blown up into a million little pieces.
They might have thought they were blowing up puppets, mothballed trucks and cheap buildings. They smiled when they viewed the images that the high-speed cameras, set up in and around the community at ground zero, gave them. Pictures of paint boiling off the buildings as the first shock wave came through and flattened their fictional town, made them jump up from their chairs and punch the air with clenched fists at the power they now held.
They didn’t pay attention to the fine print, which showed that I-131 radioiodine from the bombs would probably float through the air to places close by, and infect up to 2,300 people with thyroid problems — eventually killing at least 120!
Then again, they must have reasoned that their target was Russia, not communities in rural Nevada, Arizona, California and Utah.
What did these nuclear-weapon upstarts know about wind currents?
Nothing.
Furthermore, what did mannequins tell them?
Nothing.
So these big shots decided on graduating from dummies to real, live people. They called on their loyal troops — American GI’s, soldiers, dog faces — the real reason why America had won the last war, for help. Of course the big shots had been told that there was a real threat to people (and other living things) that lived near and around the fall-out. In their minds they reasoned that any fall-out would blow to places miles away, not telling them anything about what would happen close up. This wasn’t good enough. They wanted their soldiers as close to ground zero as they could put them. This was a sure way to prove to the Communists that America would go ‘all the way’ to win any war with them… after all, how many countries knowingly set up their own troops for the ultimate friendly fire?
Not only did the troops have to watch the bombs drop, they had to march to view the destruction, because once again the American Cold War warriors sprinkled vehicles and structures near the blast site.
The troops were in awe of the mushroom clouds and the total destruction of the items that had been placed in harm’s way. They were not protected from anything other than a ‘fizzle.’
A ‘fizzle’ was something the big shots hated.
Another word for a ‘fizzle’ was dud. There were a lot of duds in the beginning of the program. A dud meant nothing. No blast. No fallout. No scaring the Communists. In order to show the Communists which was the more macho country, the bomb to be detonated after the dud had to be larger than the previous dud in terms of blasting size.
Size was everything.
Because of a previous dud, it now became ‘Operation Tumbler-Snappers’ turn to wow everyone. The code name of the big bomb to be dropped was ‘Harry.’ It was 32 kilotons of massive firepower. It was 32 kilotons of a mushroom cloud that went up, stabilized and drifted over an area where a movie was going to be filmed. The big shots named ‘Harry’ after President Harry Truman.
While ‘Operation Tumbler-Snappers’ handlers were gift wrapping ‘Harry,’ Howard Hughes was growing impatient… something he loathed in others. This was making him mad at himself.
I hate impatient people, he thought to himself as he looked at his watch and checked if it was showing the correct time against the clock on the wall in the outer office of the Pentagon big brass who had requested a meeting with him.
I have been waiting for three minutes already he thought as he squirmed in the chair. These chairs aren’t fit for people in jail he thought as he pondered who the hell made the decisions about buying furniture in the government. Just as he noticed that it was going on his fourth minute of waiting, the doors to the inner office of the big shots flew open and all sorts of uniforms with brass buttons came out to greet him. The uniforms hurried him into the big room with men in different uniforms — the pinstripes of the politicians were joined at the hip to the men in uniforms when it came to wanting something from Howard Hughes.
As they always do at this level, the introductions started to turn into mini speeches. Hughes quickly started to bore and pulled out a legal pad and his engineer’s pencil. The big shots couldn’t see what he was writing, but grew louder and longer in speech for whatever it was they were trying to sell him. He was just doodling. Not surprisingly, most of his doodles were pictures of women with big breasts, airplanes with big wingspans and metal dinner trays with big meals on them. Every once in a while he made eye contact with whomever was talking and then he smiled. Sometimes he nodded. Most of the time he doodled, until he heard the word ‘fizzle.’
Howard Hughes had great contacts inside the government, as well as on the outside.
“What billionaire doesn’t?” he asked Dick Powell once.
Powell expected such things from Hughes. Hughes didn’t know people expected such things of him, so he was always confiding little tid-bits of information to the few people he trusted.
One of the men he trusted was a scientist who used to work for him at one of Howard’s many companies. On direct orders from Hughes, the scientist went to work for the Pentagon. Hughes kept the man on his payroll, and the man told Howard anything and everything. One of the items he had discussed with his former boss was the number of bombs that were ‘fizzling.’
“You mean duds,” Hughes said.
“Yes,” replied the scientist.
“Then why don’t they call it a dud? Why does the government insist on renaming everything?” Hughes asked.
“‘Fizzle’ for dud is the only one I know of,” replied the scientist.
“In dealing with government, up means down. Good means bad. Free means slavery,” Hughes said.
“I guess that is why they can’t run government like a business,” sighed the scientist.
“Government was never intended to be run like a business. You can’t run a business like the government. Know why?” Hughes asked.
The scientist wasn’t a philosopher; he was a scientist, so he shook his head no.
“Because that business would be OUT of business within days,” a beaming Hughes said.
“I think the only part of government that functions is the military,” the scientist said.
“Probably because it’s all about taking orders,” said Hughes. “However, don’t bet your life on that,” he added.
Hughes was brought out of this remembrance, because the current politician yapping in the meeting was severally misusing the English language. Although HH loved to doodle during meetings, he always kept one ear open for dialogue that
might interest him. After all, he was interested in dialogue; he owned a movie studio. Hughes always boasted that he could multi-task better than anyone else.
“This guy was so full of double-talk, I stopped drawing pictures of big boobs,” Hughes later told Dick Powell when they were discussing who Powell wanted Hughes to hire as the Tartar princess in The Conqueror.
“What did he say, boss?” Powell asked. “How did he screw up our language?”
“It wasn’t how he said things. It was how he used words. He actually said Communism was ahead of Capitalism when it came to ‘high-quality learning environments’” Hughes repeated.
“Was he talking about kids going to school?” Powell guessed.
“I think so,” said Hughes.
“Why is the Pentagon having discussions about kids in school in Russia versus kids in school in America? Furthermore, why would they have this topic on their radar?” a bewildered Powell asked.
“I’ll get to that sometime shortly. This asshole even used the word worklessness,” Hughes said with a laugh. “Know what that means?”
Powell shook his head no.
“It means being unemployed,” Hughes said as he laughed again.
“I think that guy should be experiencing worklessness,” Powell chimed in.
“Here was another line that some general said. He started talking about ‘social exclusion.’ I thought he was talking about a class system within the armed forces, which makes sense since all the troops come from various classes in America. Right? Wrong!” Hughes yelled.
Dick Powell shrugged his shoulders. He was interested in making movies, not studying social classes. He also wondered if Hughes would ever get to ‘the point.’
“That asshole actually meant poverty. That’s what ‘social exclusion’ means,” an exasperated Hughes said. “Furthermore… what am I doing in a room where a general is talking about poverty?”
“Well, boss. What were you doing in the room, other than doodling?” Powell asked Hughes.
“I was asking myself the same question when another one of these high-and-mighty know-it-alls says that they have to ‘procure’ my services,” Hughes said.
“I know what that word means!” Dick yelled out like a school boy vying for the teacher’s attention. “It means buy.”
“Very good,” Hughes said. “After all, you’re always trying to ‘procure’ my money when you have budget over-runs.”
“I have a question. How does the military ‘procure’ Howard Hughes?” asked Dick Powell.
Hughes broke out into a huge smile.
“They don’t,” he answered. “The jerk meant it to mean something else. What he meant, I have no idea. But being a big shot I guess he had to show me that he knew some new words,” Hughes added.
“Couldn’t they just have called and asked you whatever they wanted to ask you? I mean… why the meeting and all?” Dick asked Hughes.
“These assholes, and morons, love big meetings. They think it impresses people like me. Actually, I have come to believe that they think I’m the one who wants big meetings,” Hughes said with a sigh. “To an extent, Washington and Hollywood have that in common.”
“Okay boss, I have to get back to running your studio. What were they trying to sell you?”
“They wanted me to make a large donation to an account that would be used to make sure that our bombs have more bang than ‘theirs,’” Hughes said with a straight face.
Dick Powell knew that ‘theirs’ meant the Communists. “Isn’t that what we all pay taxes for? Isn’t that why they take those taxes and make a budget asking for nuclear bombs that work?”
“Too many ‘fizzles,’ Dick,” replied Hughes.
“Not this again,” Powell cried out.
“They ran out of their budget money and need new…err… what was it they called money… oh yes, new ‘revenue streams,’” Hughes said.
“Is that what raising taxes is going to be called from this time forward?” Powell asked his boss.
“Yup,” Hughes warned, “anything to hide what they are really up to.”
“Is there any hope to stop the growth of government?” Dick Powell asked the richest man in the world.
“Revolution… but not until people want to die,” Hughes said matter-of-factly.
“So they want you to give them some money, so they can build more bombs to drop on an enemy that only exists in theory. I suppose no one will know about this but you, me and them?” guessed Powell.
Hughes nodded his head yes.
“I’m glad I’m a movie-maker, but what you told me would make one lousy movie,” Powell said. “By the way, what about Russian kids in school versus American kids in school?”
“Forget that. The discussion was so boring all I did was doodle sheep counting chickens while they tried to get to sleep. Hey, I got something out of it you know. I always do.”
Powell shrugged his shoulders again. He didn’t have a clue as to what Howard Hughes could have extracted from the movers and shakers on the American side of the Cold War that he didn’t already own.
“Dinner trays, my boy! The Pentagon is going to buy a ton of them for the families who live on bases all around the world. I’ll make a killing that will more than make-up for me swimming in their stream,” Hughes said as he broke out laughing.
“That’s why I make movies for you,” Powell announced.
“Hey, speaking about movies. Do we have an actress with big tits yet? Also, did the on-site production team take the trays with them?” Hughes asked one of his most trusted employees.
The entire conversation with Hughes — ‘fizzles’ and the killing that Howard was sure to make in selling metal trays to the Pentagon (and eventually other government agencies) — were the last items on Dick Powell’s mind as he drove around Southern Utah, where he was getting ready to begin production of The Conqueror. His writer, Oscar Millard, was in the back seat working on yet another rewrite of another scene.
“I wonder if an original screenplay has ever not been rewritten.” Millard said sarcastically.
“Never!” Powell said with a laugh. “Look, stop bitching and keep writing. You of all people should know that writers are at the bottom of the food chain.”
“I know. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it,” groaned Millard, who was starting to feel motion sickness coming on from writing on a tablet as he also watched the road. “Slow down to a crawl, will you Dick, or you will see original upchuck all over this original screenplay.”
“Forget the rewrite for now. Tell me about Hughes’ co-pilot,” Powell implored his screenwriter.
“All the details?” Millard asked.
“Well, you are a writer. Aren’t writers into details?” asked Powell.
“I thought you didn’t like locker room talk,” Millard answered.
“I don’t like being on hold. I don’t like being late. I don’t fool around, but once in a while I like hearing how others do it,” Powell said.
“That is why I am the writer and you are the executive,” Millard said.
“Huh?” replied Powell.
“Writers experience life and others have to read about it… or in this case hear about it,” Millard said.
“Well… you want a formal request or something?” Powell asked.
“Someone is real hot for some juicy details,” Millard said with a chuckle. “So anyway, I’m in a little one-room rental cottage in Malibu staring out at the ocean, wondering why I wrote a script for Brando that now has to be retrofitted for Wayne, when there is a slight knock at my door. I yelled out that the door was open and for whomever was knocking to come on in.”
“You leave your door unlocked?” a startled Dick Powell asked his screenwriter.
“Of course I do! I believe in the ‘open door policy’, especially since I live on the beach. You’d be surprised at who comes over to party with me, and at all hours, too,” Millard said with a huge grin.
“My second question is, are you n
ot afraid of some crazed group of people busting in and torturing you? My third question is how do you get things written?” Powell said, still totally bewildered that someone in this day and age would leave his only door unlocked.
“Believe me Dick, there’s a lot of time in the day to find the solitude to write,” Millard said.
“Talk to me about the babe, Oscar,” Powell sighed.
“Yeah… the babe. As I said earlier, she walked right in,” Oscar started to say.
“No, you didn’t. You said there was a slight knock first,” interrupted Dick Powell.
“So I forgot. Sue me,” Oscar said.
“No. You’re a writer. This is why I order rewrites. You’re constantly changing things when you’re not making things up,” Powell said.
“Only because you order me to,” Oscar said.
“Get on with the broad, would you!?” Powell yelled.
“She was carrying a metal tray that had containers on it,” Millard began.
“Did that tray have legs?” Powell asked.
“Yes. How did you know that?”
“Never mind. Sorry that I interrupted you, Oscar.”
“Now this broad was gorgeous. I mean a real stunner. I’m watching her waltz into my bungalow with a metal tray with containers on it, and I’m thinking that since it’s not my birthday it must be one of the Duke’s practical jokes or maybe she’s in the wrong place, so I ask her,” said Millard.
“Her response?” Powell asked.
“She asked if I was Oscar Millard,” Oscar said. “I said I was, and she said that this is where she was supposed to be. She then sets the tray down in front of me and uncovers the dishes on it. The first dish she uncovers has nothing but plain pita bread. The second dish is a perfectly cut, large purple onion. The third dish is a bowl of raw hamburger. The fourth dish is really a bowl of ketchup. So then I ask her if this is the practical joke.” Millard said.