The Bunker below Believers' Palace: A Short Story

by Paul Salvette

Nixon’s hand, but as Nixon reached out Hans surprisingly slapped him five like they were back in middle school.

  “Welcome, Lieutenant Nixon. I am so glad you could come.” The German was dressed in white tennis shoes and black socks, confirming Nixon’s suspicion that Europeans were all pretty weird.

  They walked through a rusted gate and made their way toward a checkpoint surrounded by concrete barriers. A lone Iraqi soldier was plopped down on a plastic chair, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He waved Hans through and stepped in front of Nixon.

  “Do you have ID, sir?” the young soldier grumbled.

  Nixon fished through the plastic holder hanging on his chest to produce his military ID card. As he handed it over for inspection, he glimpsed at the photo that was taken right when he made lieutenant. He had been stationed at Pearl Harbor at the time, and he thought he had only one year left in the Navy. God was I stupid.

  “Here you go, my friend.”

  “Shukran,” Nixon replied, subtly mocking the Iraqi’s accent.

  “Okay, you can go,” the soldier said, falling back down onto his chair as his AK-47 dangled in the dust.

  Hans and Nixon walked into the entryway of the palace, which appeared to be structurally sound enough. Gaudy pillars of cheap plaster held up a balcony above the massive doorway. Once Nixon walked inside, it was apparent that the place had gotten its ass kicked by the Coalition Forces. The rubble in the main room was a foot high with wood, chunks of concrete, and warped sheet metal. The support beams that held up what remained of the roof were pockmarked with shrapnel. Twisted rebar and wiring hung from the ceiling and swayed as the breeze blew through. Two pillars of light came down at an angle from where bombs penetrated the roof during the invasion.

  “Can you believe what they did here, lieutenant? All this destruction is almost unbearable to see, to say nothing of this country as a whole now.”

  Nixon never understood why people, whether American or otherwise, felt the need to lecture him on the downsides of the invasion. Sure, the decisions of the Coalition Provisional Authority during the early days of the war were boneheaded to say the least. But Nixon reckoned such people feel self-righteous in speaking to someone who they think is in power. When President Bush announced America was launching a war in Iraq, Nixon was a lowly ensign struggling to pass Navy Nuclear Power School. He was hardly one of the swinging dicks calling the shots.

  “I’m not sure everything went according to plan, but at least Saddam’s done for,” Nixon said, trying to divert the conversation from politics.

  Hans leaned down and picked up shattered pieces of a chandelier. “Look at this. Something so beautiful, now destroyed in the name of freedom.”

  Nixon bit his tongue to avoid mentioning that Saddam, like Hitler, gassed his own people. He didn’t want to offend the German, even though he was acting bizarre.

  “Do you believe in this war? Do you like your president?” Hans continued.

  “I don’t know,” Nixon blurted out. “I’m in the military. We just do what we’re told.”

  “Haha, you always have a good sense of humor, lieutenant.”

  Nixon was confused. Nothing he had said could be construed as funny.

  “I wonder, if you were given the choice of whether or not to invade Iraq, which would you choose? Pretend you are the president of the United States and someone has put a gun to your head.”

  “I don’t know. Any asshole can look back in the past and say he would’ve made the right decision. But no, Saddam didn’t pose a direct threat to us.”

  Hans paused with an odd look on his face before nodding. He turned and stepped over some rubble in a doorway. He pulled aside a pile of debris to reveal a hatch with a circular wheel. Grabbing the protruding handle, he spun the wheel counterclockwise. He yanked the steel hatch as a puff of air escaped, blowing dust over Nixon’s uniform.

  “Come have a look at this bunker, lieutenant. It is so fascinating.” Hans pulled the hatch vertically so it stood on its own. He stepped down onto the ladder and descended into the darkness.

  Nixon reached for the tiny, blue Maglite he always kept in the front pocket of his uniform. He gave it a twist to turn it on and placed the cold metal in his mouth. Peering down the hatch, he could see Hans standing in a tiled hallway with a grin on his face.

  “Don’t you need a flashlight?” Nixon asked.

  “No, I am okay, my friend. I know my way around.”

  Nixon climbed down and left the hatch open. As he stepped onto the level below, he could smell mildew and diesel. It reminded him of those long days at sea, trapped in the metal confines of a submarine. He shuddered.

  “Are you claustrophobic, lieutenant?”

  “Not really. What the hell was this place used for?”

  “Ah, yes. Saddam had this bunker constructed during the Iraq-Iran War in the 1980s. However, he ordered it to be expanded and more heavily fortified in the 1990s. He thought Israel was going to strike Baghdad and end everything he had worked to build.”

  “Hmm,” Nixon grunted as he looked over the surroundings. Mold rotted the corners of the hallway, and a large rat scurried past his boots.

  Nixon followed Hans with his flashlight pointed down the corridor, which cast a long shadow of Hans onto the gray tiles. Hans turned a corner that led into a small room. A single candle burned below a framed picture of Saddam standing in front of a brick wall. A cluster of Iraqi children were in the corner of the picture, all smiling. The dictator had his right hand raised with an AK-47, while his left hand remained outstretched below a large stone block with an inscription in Arabic and English: “Built by Saddam Hussein, son of Nebuchadnezzar, to glorify Iraq.”

  “You like this picture, ya?” Hans voice echoed inside the small confines of the room, slightly disorienting Nixon.

  “Where was it taken?”

  “At the ruins of Babylon,” Hans replied, gazing in awe at the picture. Nixon stifled a laugh at Saddam’s ridiculous trademark mustache.

  Nixon scanned the room with his flashlight and noticed a metal conference table with eight chairs. A puddle of water sat in the middle of the warped table. Nixon tilted his flashlight up and saw a tiny chandelier hanging on a brass chain.

  “I guess the looters didn’t make it down here,” Nixon said.

  At the edge of the room, he saw a large control panel with indicator lights that were all dead. Everything was labeled in German and Arabic. The panel had a map of the bunker, with two lights for each room and corridor.

  “Do you know what this was used for?” Nixon asked.

  “Yes, of course I do. I was the one who designed it. I am very grateful no one found it during the invasion.”

  “You designed it? For Saddam? The guy who murdered his own people?”

  “Yes, indeed. We were hired to build a bunker that could withstand every type of attack, even nuclear. When this panel was functional, the lights showed if there were dangerous levels of toxic gases inside the compound. The idea was that we could stay down here and wait.”

  Hans ran his hand over the control panel, tracing the black lines of the extensive tunnel system. He knocked his fist twice on the outer chassis as a hollow sound reverberated through the dead machine.

  “Come. Look behind the panel.”

  “Is this where you hide your scheisse porn stash, Hans?”

  “No, no, lieutenant. Behind here lies something much more important than simple pleasure.”

  Now Nixon had come across some real creeps in his day, but he had no clue what Hans was after. Fear washed over the lieutenant as Hans led him behind the control panel into a dark recess.

  Hans pushed open a small door on the wall and ducked through it. Nixon crouched and saw a circle of candles dripping wax on top of a small pedestal. A pair of coat hangers duct-taped to the ceiling of the small recess held a picture of a spaceship. It had an Iraqi flag with Ba’ath stars scribbled on its exterior in crayon. The crude sketch looked like it had come out of a children’s
book.

  “Nice drawing. Looks like the flying saucer they used in Plan 9 from Outer Space,” Nixon muttered.

  “This is no simple sketch, lieutenant. It is a prophecy. You see, when Nebuchadnezzar drove the Jews out of Jerusalem more than two thousand years ago, they vowed vengeance against the Babylonians. Saddam recognized that the rise of Israel in the Middle East means they are coming to seek retribution. This bunker ensures that he will survive while everyone else in the region perishes. So once the End Times come, Saddam will be able to escape in this vessel.”

  “Sure, and I hope he can take Peter Pan and Tinker Bell with him. Listen, Hans, this is all very amusing, but I’ve got to head back to my trailer.”

  “Wait. Please, lieutenant, you have to listen. Saddam had our firm in Germany construct this bunker, but he doesn’t want anyone else to know of its true purpose. That is why he has locked us down here. He wants to make sure that those with the necessary technical knowledge can help him escape after the apocalypse.”

  “Fucking weirdo,” Nixon mumbled as he began walking backward out of the room. Despite the terrible awkwardness of the situation, Nixon was glad Hans at least didn’t try to grope his genitals.

  Heading down the corridor, he heard footsteps approaching from both ends. Nixon shined his light and saw a group of men with white hair and skin even paler than Hans’. They were yelling something in German.

  “Who are you guys, the CHUDs?”

  The Hessian denizens then grabbed Nixon and pinned him