Racing the Rain Page 13

  “The Russians are putting missiles in Cuba. We have photographic proof from spy planes. President Kennedy said they have to take them out and we’ve sent the Navy to blockade Cuba. We’re on military alert.”

  “Okay, very good, Alan. Good, concise summary. Anybody else have a comment about what’s going on?”

  Cassidy thought about trying to make his and Randleman’s encounter at the base into some kind of anecdote, preferably one in which he and Randleman would come off as perhaps brave or clever, but since the MP hadn’t pulled his weapon—plus he was a guy they played basketball with—the incident really didn’t seem to have the ingredients of a very exciting story.

  A few people made comments, but they were of a piece throughout. There wasn’t much controversy. Here were the Russians up to their old tricks again. What they were doing was simply unconscionable and the president had no choice but to take the steps he did. If the Russians refused to back down, then we would have to go to war.

  “And what would that mean? Anyone?” Mr. Kamrad looked around the room. Everyone looked puzzled. They had always assumed it would be pretty bad, but that was as far as the thinking went.

  “Why don’t you enlighten us, Mr. Gravatt.”

  Ronald Gravatt, a pleasant-looking dark-haired boy in horn-rimmed glasses, sat up straight, a puzzled look on his face. He was probably the smartest kid in school, Harvard-bound, but against all odds was one of those clever kids who managed to be popular, too. This was probably because he was down-to-earth and funny, and he didn’t carry a briefcase or wear a pocket protector.

  “Sir?”

  “Tell them about your primary extracurricular activity last year and specifically what you learned from it.”

  “Oh. Well, I was on the debate team last year, uh, with Susan, and our topic was nuclear weapons, so . . . Uh, how far do you want me to go with this, Mr. Kamrad?”

  “Just give them the basics. How might an all-out nuclear exchange come about, and what would be the general outcome.”

  “Well, there are all kinds of ways it could happen, but the most likely scenario is where both sides have nukes, but one side has a big conventional advantage—like we do with Cuba, or like they do in Eastern Europe. See, there are these weapons called ‘tactical nukes,’ which are relatively small nuclear devices attached to artillery shells or supposedly even torpedoes. If a general or admiral gets in a situation where he feels he’s going to lose a conventional war, he will likely resort to one of these devices. The command-and-control situation on these weapons is such that the officer in the field can sometimes use them on his own authority. In other words, he may not have to go back to his superiors for any kind of launch codes or passwords.”

  “So, say some general shoots one of these things off, what happens then?” asked Mr. Kamrad.

  “Once the nuclear trip wire has been triggered, things will probably escalate fast. One tactical shell will be answered by two, or five, or a dozen. Then the first side decides to try to take out the other side’s command and control with a larger device, then the other side responds to that . . . Well, basically, it’s not long before there are dozens or hundreds of strategic megaton-level weapons in the air flying toward each other. At that point, each side will probably just let go with everything they have. No reason for restraint any longer, you see.”

  “And what does that look like on the ground?”

  “Mr. Kamrad, I don’t know how well I remember the details from last year . . .”

  “It’s okay, Ronald. Just do the best you can.”

  “Yes, sir. Well, the first thing that would happen is the most high-priority targets would get hit by submarine-launched missiles from just a couple hundred miles offshore, maybe closer than that. Russia has about seventy of those. We have twice as many. They would be aimed at taking out ICBM launch sites out west and our North American SAC bases, to stop the bombers. Also, some would be used for a so-called decapitation strike at Washington and a few key military facilities, as well as New York City and maybe a handful of other population centers.”

  “What kinds of defenses do we have for these weapons?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Come on, this is 1962, surely our scientists . . .”

  “No, sir. There aren’t any. None. We can’t stop them, all we can do is retaliate.”

  “How much warning would we have?”

  “Well, none really.”

  “None? But we have all these civil defense plans, evacuation routes, bomb shelters. We all know how to duck and cover. What do you mean, ‘none’?”

  “Those first weapons are launched from underwater from a few miles off our coasts. They can be set to fly in a low-arc trajectory to their targets. We’re talking a matter of minutes from the time they’re launched till they hit. That wouldn’t be enough time to alert state or local authorities, or to issue any radio alerts or set off air raid sirens.”

  “So, our first indication that we were under attack would be . . .”

  “A nuclear flash in the sky. That is, if you were close enough to the primary targets. If you were lucky enough to be far away, you’d just notice that a lot of stuff would just stop working. Network television and radio would go out, electricity in a lot of areas, most commerce and transportation would stop completely.”

  “Then what?”

  “That would be the first wave. The next wave would be the ICBMs, the ballistic missiles. They take thirty to forty minutes to reach the U.S. from the Soviet Union, and vice versa. Some would be targeted at many of the same high-priority targets as the first wave, just to be sure they are taken out. Others would be aimed at regional and local infrastructure, power generation, transportation, and communication. And, of course, the population centers, most of them would be taken out by this wave.”

  “What kind of numbers are we talking about?”

  “We believe the Soviets have about forty intercontinental ballistic missiles right now. Their guidance systems aren’t very good, but realistically speaking, they don’t have to be.”

  “And how many do we have?”

  “Oh, we have at least a couple hundred, and they’re much more accurate.”

  “So we’ve taken—and given them—a pretty good pounding, right? But still, at that point there ought to be quite a few people left to . . .”

  “Mr. Kamrad?”

  “Yes, Ronald? Am I forgetting something?”

  “Yes, sir. The third leg of the nuclear so-called triad and the oldest one, the bombers.”

  Mr. Kamrad sighed theatrically and moved away from the blackboard where he had been writing the numbers as Ronald gave them. As if he were getting too tired to stand anymore, he walked to the front of his desk and half sat on the corner.

  “The bombers. Okay, let’s have it.”

  “This is all very iffy because it’s impossible to tell how many of them would be left after the initial strikes on their bases. But there are a number of them in the air around the clock, so presumably at the very least those would survive. But we don’t know how many would make it through whatever air defenses are left. But they think a significant fraction would make it and deliver their bombs on the remaining targets.”

  “And the numbers?”

  “The Russians have around a hundred and forty strategic bombers and around four hundred warheads. We have more than thirteen hundred bombers and over three thousand warheads.”

  “And what would they be targeting?”

  Ronald shrugged and made a funny face. Nervous laughter erupted from a few classmates.

  “Whatever’s left, I guess.”

  Mr. Kamrad went to the blackboard and in silence wrote the last numbers down: “Bombers: Them 140/400 vs. Us 1,300/3,000,” then returned to his perch on his desk. The room was silent except for some coughs and the whir of the big oscillating fan at the front of the room.

  “Okay,” said Mr. Kamrad. “Everyone got that? Anyone have any questions or comments? Yes, Alan?”

&nbs
p; “This all sounds pretty bad, but what if there isn’t any choice and we have to fight or else end up becoming Communists?”

  “Good point. Better dead than red, right? What about that, Susan?”

  Susan Wiseman was Ronald’s debate partner and academic nemesis. Her grade-point average was five hundredths of a point below Ronald’s perfect 4.0, owing to a maddening B in sophomore phys ed. Like Ronald, she was popular. She was forgiven her brains simply because she was gorgeous and didn’t seem to realize it. She made no attempt whatsoever to capitalize on it. She also didn’t suffer fools—or anyone else—gladly. Cassidy and Stiggs were both madly in love with her. In Cassidy’s case, second only to Maria DaRosa.

  “I don’t know, Mr. Kamrad. After a nuclear exchange like we’re talking about, I don’t think ideology would have any real meaning.”

  “Why is that, Susan?”

  “We’re talking about a hundred million dead on each side within hours or days, mostly from the initial blast and heat waves, plus the initial radiation. Then millions more within a few weeks or months. That’s from lingering radiation and fallout, earlier injuries, infections and other diseases. Not to mention the sort of incidental deaths that would come with a complete breakdown of civil society. Anyone who gets a heart attack or a stroke would probably just die. There wouldn’t be any functioning hospitals, no doctors or nurses. Very little or no law enforcement or other government help. Food and water would rapidly get scarce. Some scientists think that even the weather could be affected, maybe leading to a new ice age or at least serious long-term disruptions in the food supply.”

  “Good! And I don’t mean ‘good’ as in ‘this is a good situation,’ I mean this was an excellent recitation of the facts. It’s easy to see why Ronald and Susan were the runners-up in the state debate tournament last May in Tallahassee. By the way, what was the exact topic anyway, Ronald?”

  Ronald looked at Susan with a tight, weary smile. Just the idea of it brought back the hundreds of hours they’d spent in the library, mostly making note cards with horrific quotations from books like Dr. Samuel Glasstone’s Effects of Nuclear Weapons.

  “ ‘Resolved that nuclear weapons should be controlled by an international organization,’ ” said Ronald robotically.

  “Yes, and good luck with that, right?”

  “Yes, sir. Though we did prefer to argue in the affirmative.”

  “And why is that? Susan?”

  “Because of everything we’ve just been talking about, Mr. Kamrad. Those are just facts and estimates and projections. There are some people—these are just opinions now, but informed ones—who go even farther in the direction of gloom and doom.”

  “Farther than a hundred million dead?”

  “Mr. Kamrad, there are people who think that an all-out nuclear war would mean the end of our species.”

  The teacher let that sink in. The bell was about to ring, which normally would have meant a lot of hubbub, but now the class was silent.

  “Okay,” he said finally, getting up from his perch on the desk and walking to the blackboard. He picked up the eraser but then put it back down and turned back to the class.

  “One more thing. What strategic advantage do these medium-range ballistic missiles give Cuba or the Soviets?”

  The two debaters glanced grimly at each other, then looked down at their desks.

  “Ronald?”

  He looked up reluctantly. “That’s the thing that doesn’t make any sense, Mr. Kamrad. To either of us.”

  “What doesn’t?”

  “Well, the submarine-launched missiles would get to Washington a few minutes before these medium-range weapons would, and the ICBMs a few minutes after, but essentially . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Kamrad, those missiles don’t make any real strategic difference at all.”

  Mr. Kamrad seemed to be gazing over the heads of the students, through the windows into the palm-shaded courtyard between the school’s two classroom wings. He was tapping the eraser against the knuckles of his left hand, making little clouds of yellow dust with each tap.

  “Yes,” he said quietly. “Exactly right.”

  The class sat perfectly still until the mechanical minute hand on the wall clock clicked straight up to the hour, and nearly everyone jolted upright when the shrill clanging of the bell split the air.

  There was none of the usual fracas. Everyone—Cassidy included—left the room quietly.

  * * *

  His father was there when Cassidy got home, which hardly ever happened. He walked back to his parents’ bedroom where his father, dressed in his flight suit, was packing a small duffel bag.

  “Dad?”

  He realized too late that there was enough of that whiney kid fear in his voice to shame him instantly.

  “It’s okay, son. I’ll be out in a minute. Your mom’s next door, she’ll be back in a sec.”

  Filled with a vague dread, Cassidy sat on the floral-patterned wraparound couch that dominated the tiny living room. It occurred to him that he spent almost no time in this room except when some grown-up—like the preacher or some nebulous relative—was visiting, or when he was waiting for something faintly unpleasant, like church. This was a room that served mainly as a kind of limbo where as a child he was expected to sit still and not mess up his clothes.

  His father came out and put the duffel by the door, then sat next to Cassidy. He was still dressed in his flight suit, which always meant that he was leaving immediately. It sometimes meant for a long time, months in one case. He put his hand on Cassidy’s knee. This familiarity was also alarming.

  “You know what’s going on, right, son?”

  “I know about the missiles. We had a class on it today. Is there something new happening?”

  “We just had a jet go down. The pilot’s missing in the Atlantic somewhere. You know the new system that I’ve been working on for the past two years, the one I can’t say much about? Well, at least I can tell you that what it does is find people; people like this pilot. It’s not really operational yet, but they want us to take our test units out and try to locate our man.”

  “But you’re not . . .”

  “I know. I don’t usually do this kind of thing. But I’m still writing the training manuals. None of our search-and-rescue guys have even seen the equipment, much less know how to operate it.”

  He looked at his son with a tight smile. Cassidy tried to smile back but reddened when he realized his vision was blurred. He knew he wasn’t supposed to be acting this way, and he expected his father to be angry with him. Instead, he just patted him on the knee.

  “Look, it’s going to be okay. We have complete air superiority out there, so no one’s going to bother us. We’re just going to go out over the Gulf Stream and find our guy and bring him back. Our guys do this kind of thing all the time. It’s what they do.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. You’ll be the man of the house. I expect you to look after your mother and take care of things around here.”

  “Yes, sir.” He was horrified to realize how close he was to just out and out blubbering.

  “Okay, here she is now.” His father stood, gave Cassidy’s shoulder an awkward squeeze, and headed for the door. His mother’s face looked strained, but she gave Cassidy a quick smile.

  “Cal was just on the phone with them and they’re on the way,” she said. Their neighbor and his father’s best friend worked in the same squadron.

  “Why are they . . .” Cassidy was puzzled. They never sent anyone to pick him up.

  His father held the door open, looking at his mother.

  “Okay,” he said, and kissed her harder than Cassidy had seen before.

  “Okay,” she said, brushing at her eyes.

  “Okay,” he said.

  They followed his father out the door. Cassidy was fighting to control his emotions now. He had watched his father leave on military trips before, but never lik
e this. His dad walked right past the family station wagon and began heading down Rosedale Street on foot. Cassidy was confused.

  “Mom, what’s he . . .” he croaked.

  She was crying openly now, making no effort to hide her tears. She didn’t try to speak, just looked toward the east, from which direction they had been hearing a steadily increasing roar. It got louder and louder until, just as it became deafening, an apparition appeared over the tops of the live oak trees where Rosedale dead-ended into a big vacant field. Looking like a giant metallic dragonfly from some antediluvian nightmare, the Sikorsky UH-19B Chickasaw helicopter set down right in the middle of the sandy field where Cassidy and his friends played football. It was emblazoned with the Air Force star and a bold yellow vertical stripe right behind the cockpit. The side door in large letters said RESCUE. On the nose, in bouncing letters, was the word HOPALONG. The roar was almost overpowering and the small hurricane it kicked up made Cassidy’s pants legs flap even as he watched from halfway down the block. Clouds of white sand flew up in gusts all along the street as children stopped their games and grown-ups gawked from their porches.

  The side door was already open as the craft descended slowly, and his father tossed the crewman his duffel before the skids even touched down. With a helping hand, his father put one foot on the skid and was hauled inside the craft in an instant. Before the door was even closed, it was ascending and simultaneously doing a hammerhead turn to head toward the coast. It lifted in an obstreperous chorus, its roar no louder but somehow more earnest as it picked up height and speed simultaneously, and in a very few seconds it was a barely audible speck on the horizon.

  Then it was gone, leaving a ringing silence so profound it precluded thought. There were still miniature whirlwinds winding down here and there, limbs trembling in the trees, bits of detritus settling back to earth. Some neighbors, only partially jaded by living next to a twentieth-century American Air Force base, still stood on their porches, shading their eyes and scanning the pale horizon for a last glimpse of the thunderous ascension.