Going Nuclear. Stephen Hart
Going Nuclear
by Stephen Hart
Copyright 2017 Stephen Hart,
All rights reserved.
Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com
ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-2074-5
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Chapter One
While the cab weaved through heavy traffic, Arthur Weiss rode quietly in the back, watching out the window as “Blowin’ in the Wind” played on the radio in front. He had always liked the song: the moving melody, the questions it raised concerning social injustice, the implication that a better world was possible, if not imminent. It’s up to us, the young people, Bob Dylan’s nasal-toned anthem seemed to proclaim. But now, its message rang hollow for Arthur. When had the song been written, he wondered, four years ago? Yet the war in Vietnam was raging. The only thing blowing in the wind over there was the likelihood of survival.
Suddenly, the driver jammed his brakes. They squealed, and a nearby horn honked. He then jerked the steering wheel to the right, accelerated, and turned his head to sneer at the driver next to him. Arthur simply settled back in his seat and closed his eyes. Half an hour later, the driver pulled up to the curb. Arthur gave him a twenty and told him to keep the change. He felt a little uneasy about the tip but had too much on his mind to consider it further. Hoisting his young, but stiff, six-foot-three frame from the worn backseat of the cab, Arthur closed the door behind him, a little harder than intended, then made his way up the lush purple-carpeted steps, the steps that led to the massive front doors of the funeral home.
Another breezy day in D.C., he thought, as wisps of cool air blew against his face and trailed through his collar-length blond hair. Pausing on the landing, Arthur took in the spring colors that effloresced around him: the well-manicured lawn, the pristine flowers, the flowering shrubs and stately trees. The whole scene seemed almost too perfect. A Norman Rockwell painting showing the beginning of yet another life cycle. Still, a funeral didn’t seem all that incongruous. Even in the warm sunlight and invigorating air, a morbid pall hung heavily, blurring the fragile distinction between life and death. Nobody stays around long, he thought. Just a stupid game. You play, it’s over. But with each step he took, Arthur realized that his immediate concern was seeing his parents. He dreaded seeing them far more than viewing the body of his older brother, his only brother, the brother who had just been shipped back from Vietnam in a body bag. His mother would probably be incapacitated by grief. Arthur didn’t want to even think about that. And his father would be insufferably strong, a royal pain in the ass.
At the entrance to the room where his brother lay in state, Arthur observed his father, a square-built man of five-ten, standing erect next to the visitors’ log: greeting callers efficiently, competently, all business. Arthur took in his father’s dress uniform, the glowing eagles on his shoulders, the crispness of his coat and tie, the perfectly spit-shined shoes. To Arthur, this suggested too much time spent preparing for military etiquette and not enough time contemplating the passing of a slain son, a favorite son. But then, almost immediately, his reaction softened. Probably just his way of coping, Arthur concluded. I suppose the old man’s entitled to that much.
“I want to talk with you,” his father snapped as Arthur approached. Arthur took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying not to reveal the exasperation he felt with the all-too-familiar tone, a tone that he had managed to avoid for almost four years, having been away at college. His father glanced disapprovingly at Arthur’s jeans and hair, then added, “Let’s go out to the car.” Arthur followed his father silently through the funeral home, back into the fresh air outside, down the steps, around the corner, to the parking lot, to a black Lincoln Continental that shone almost as brightly as his father’s shoes. Once seated behind the wheel, his father turned and cleared his throat. “First, I’d like to say I’m glad you came. Your mother will be glad to see you. She’s not here right now. She’s back at the hotel trying to pull herself together. But your being here will be a big help to her.”
“Of course I came,” Arthur replied, thinking to himself, What’s he doing? Giving me permission to attend my own brother’s funeral?
“Yes, well, I know things have been a little strained between us lately, but I hope we can put that aside for the time being, for your mother’s sake, if nothing else.”
“Of course.”
“This whole thing seems so odd,” His father sighed. “Only a year ago, your brother was graduating with his ROTC commission, in the prime of life. And now, just like that, he’s gone.” He looked down at the steering wheel and stared at it blankly.
“It really is hard to believe,” Arthur agreed, watching his father closely. “Things always seemed to go his way.” Or to put it more honestly, he thought, things always seemed to go your way, the Army way.
“Yes, they did,” his father said, nodding, looking up and staring straight ahead. “He must have had some terrible luck over there, just terrible. The whole thing just doesn’t seem right.”
“How did it happen?”
“His platoon walked into an ambush. Charlie was hiding in front of them and on both sides, like a horseshoe. Once they got to the center, Charlie opened up on them, caught them in a crossfire. It didn’t last long. The platoon suffered heavy casualties, and then Charlie was gone. Your brother should have had more jungle training; ROTC wasn’t enough.”
“It didn’t seem like enough to me. It seemed too much like a game. A lot of hoops to go through, but no substance. Maybe that’s why I didn’t stay in.”
“ROTC was your brother’s thing, never yours. Of course, you’ll be going on to grad school.”
Arthur felt another surge of resentment. His father made going to grad school sound like accepting an offer to join the New York City Ballet or some equally androgynous pursuit. Looking out the window, he nodded and took a deep breath. “Yes, grad school,” he said.
“That’s probably good. I suppose you’ll be exempt from the draft, considering what’s happened.”
“I suppose.”
Suddenly, his father grabbed the steering wheel firmly with both hands and turned to look directly into Arthur’s face. “I may be crazy,” he said, “but I can’t believe this is the way things are supposed to end.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, your brother made the ultimate sacrifice. He died fighting for what he believed in. And there wasn’t a better kid on the face of this planet, none. But the job isn’t finished, and it won’t be finished until North Vietnam is crushed and that goddamned Ho Chi Minh is hung upside down the way Mussolini was after World War II.”
“World War II was a long time ago.”
“Like hell it was. It was yesterday. The difference is, people had the courage of their convictions back then, that’s all. Half of the kids today don’t have convictions; don’t even know what convictions are.” An uncomfortable pause followed. Arthur chose not to respond. “I’m only going to say this once,” his father said firmly, breaking the silence, “and I know you don’t want to hear it, but I’m going to say it anyway. Nothing can bring your brother back; I’m fully aware of that. But if you took his place, took up where he left off and saw this thing through to victory, I’d feel a lot better about everything—one hell of a lot better than I do now.”
“And