Checkers on the Hill, page 13
Whispering low, I said, “Here, read the caption that goes with this diagram. It says, ‘Destruction Area from Russian Nuclear Missile Strikes.’ This map shows the cities that would be destroyed, Booker. Do you see which one is right in the middle of the worst destruction?”
“Yeah,” he answered, his eyes widening, “it’s us, Washington, DC.” He let out a long, ragged sigh. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
“No, Booker, it’s, well, I would be toast! Now, how am I going to sleep tonight knowing all this? I have a family. Armed Russian subs are right off our coast, aiming their missiles our way, ready to fire them any minute. And can you imagine how much damage seven subs firing nuclear missiles at us would do?”
“Wow, I think I’ll have a few drinks after work,” Booker said. “Hell, I could use a few right now. Do you think those goons at the door would let us have a liquor delivery?” We looked at the guard by the door again, then made eye contact. We fell silent as the reality of what was actually going on in the United States at this moment sank in. We realized this was such grave, dangerous information to know. I bit my bottom lip, slowly shaking my head back and forth. Booker silently walked back to his desk with his shoulders slumped, lost in his thoughts.
When Dean came back into the room, we both stopped working and looked up at him. He paused, puzzled by our stare and silence, and asked, “Is everything okay?”
There was an uneasy quiet, then Booker said, “Yeah, we’re okay. Josey and I are just thinking a vacation in Florida would be good to take right now.”
Dean replied, “When we get this job done, we’ll all have enough money to take a great vacation,” and he sat down at his desk.
“Yeah, if there’s a place left where we could go to,” Booker said under his breath.
The Cold War tension between the United States and Russia had gone on for years, and there was no sign of it ending soon. It was no secret that we didn’t like Russia, and the feeling was mutual. But having Russian subs positioned this close at this moment, able to fire missiles at us, was a vastly different and extremely dangerous thing. Our whole government and the seat of our military—the Pentagon—would be obliterated. It was difficult to keep working without thinking about those subs and the possibility of what they could do.
It reminded me of the Cuban Missile Crisis that President Kennedy had dealt with just a few years earlier, in 1962. The Russians had installed nuclear-armed missiles just ninety miles from the U.S. in Cuba. It was a tense time trying to get them removed. We thought we were on the brink of a nuclear war back then, but Kennedy handled it with a naval blockade and stern warnings that we would not tolerate missiles that close to our shore. He said we would use whatever military force we had to stop that threat. After a couple of weeks, Russia removed the missiles in exchange for us removing the blockade, our missiles from Turkey, and promising not to invade Cuba. The threat I was seeing now, just a few years later, seemed even more dangerous to me. They were even closer to our seat of government, and thousands of innocent people were in grave danger, including my family.
The next day, I resumed work on the top-secret publication, and more charts were delivered from technical. The new ones showed black symbols of our tactical jet fighters. They indicated the locations of the air force bases in the United States. Diagrams of aircraft carriers and submarine locations were delivered for paste-up too, and this time the photo caption I had typeset read, “American Naval and Air Support.”
As I put the pages together with their images, photo captions, and text, it became obvious that the publication was about an imminent Russian nuclear attack. Pages showed what the damage would be and what power we had to respond to their attack. It was shocking and unsettling news to me, and it would be shocking news to everyone else in the United States. Most Americans were consumed with the Vietnam War protests, the Civil Rights marches, the Women’s Liberation Movement, plus the upcoming unusual presidential election. We were all still trying to recover from the tragic death of John Kennedy. All Americans were so preoccupied with all that activity happening around us. I felt sure no one had any clue the Russians were right off our shoreline, ready to wage war. Now I understood all the precautions the FBI was taking and the need for such tight security. I glanced over to where Lyla was working. She was concentrating on some papers and typing away. I felt the weight of guilt for what I knew about her lack of security clearance. I left work after that long day, troubled by what I had read and seen. I was also terrified for my family and my country.
That night in bed, my mind was so unsettled I just stared at the ceiling. Questions kept dominating my thoughts. Will an attack from the Russians happen at any minute? The American people should know what’s going on, so they can prepare. Shouldn’t this be on the television news? Why isn’t President Johnson telling the public? Kennedy told us when Russia had missiles right off the coast of Florida in Cuba. Should I tell Samuel about the secrets I read? Are we even safe in our apartment right now? I have to tell Samuel. No, I can’t tell Samuel—I swore an oath to loyalty and secrecy not to talk to my spouse about anything I was working on. Is there someplace like a bomb shelter nearby where I can take the kids? Will I hear air raid sirens going off in time to get them there?
Question after question pounded my brain like the brutal waves of a hurricane storm surge hitting the sand dunes on a beach and dragging them out into the darkness of the sea.
If I tell anyone and the FBI finds out, we could all lose our jobs. Maria works so hard in the typesetting department while her husband fights in Vietnam, that wouldn’t be fair to her. My bosses thought enough about my skills to give me this job. How can I betray that trust? But isn’t it in the best interest of my fellow Americans to know what’s going on? It might mean thousands of lives can be saved. Oh, God, what do I do?
I thought about my coworkers who could have seen the diagrams. Then it dawned on me that I was the only one typesetting the headlines and photo captions. Right now, I might be the only one who would fully understand what the publication was about. The art department had made the drawings of the submarines, but they probably thought they were American subs. Technical had made charts of patterns, but when Cade delivered them to our room, he only said, “Here are some maps. I’ve no idea what they’re for.” Technical wouldn’t understand the purpose of all the diagrams because they didn’t have the descriptions that explained them. Maria and Lyla might be able to determine something from the text. However, they wouldn’t have seen the diagrams to know where the subs were positioned or read the information in the captions. I had typeset all the captions and headings. Priscilla, our proofreader, would know everything when it was finished, because she would be reading the completed publication carefully. All my other coworkers were creating separate pieces and not seeing the complete pages. Dean, Booker, Priscilla, and I were the few people looking over the pages the president and his cabinet members would see. I fell into a fitful, uneasy sleep until Samuel came to bed.
The bedroom was dark and felt like a confessional, a place where I could voice all my secrets and fears. Samuel climbed into bed and settled down beside me. I started to speak, but he interrupted me by saying, “You’ll never guess what happened at work today. I had a road call on a back road in Virginia. The truck ran out of power and shut right down, and the guy needed help fast. It was a refrigerated rig. I think he was carrying frozen chicken meat. Anyway, he wanted it fixed fast so his load wouldn’t spoil. The driver had pulled off the road in a wide area by a field. At least I wasn’t right out in traffic to work on it like on the Beltway. It was hotter than hell out there, though. I had to climb on top and under that engine. It took me some time to figure out the damn problem.
“I finally found a fuel line with a hole in it way underneath the cab. I was lying on the ground with my arms up in the engine, trying to connect a new section of the fuel line. My eyes saw something dark crawling on the frame by me. It was a damn snake! I jumped up so freakin’ fast I hit my head trying to get out from under there. I stepped way back from the truck as the driver banged on the fender. The nasty snake dropped down and slithered away. He said it looked like a copperhead. They’re quite poisonous. It probably wouldn’t have killed me if I had gotten bitten, but it would hurt like hell. It can make you sick enough to throw up and have trouble breathing. God, I hate snakes! Those copperheads have a narrow neck area right behind their head so he could tell what it was. The damn thing might have bitten me any second. God, I’m so tired tonight. Really rough day today fighting traffic on the Beltway and almost getting bit by that shitty snake. I’m so glad to be home with you and the kids.” He paused, let out a long sigh, then asked, “What was it you wanted to say?”
It was quiet for a few moments, then I softly answered, “Nothing right now, dear. Go to sleep.” He leaned over and kissed me goodnight, and soon I heard his regular breathing. I lay there for a long time as Samuel slept. I was wide awake, trying to figure out how to keep us all safe and get out of the mess I was in.
Chapter 9
I worked on that top-secret publication for days without talking to anyone about how conflicted I was. All that time, I weighed the pros and cons of what I should do about the information on those pages. I had sworn to secrecy, but knowing that millions of people were in such danger troubled me terribly. If a nuclear strike was imminent, they should prepare and find shelter. That included my own family. I loved them and worried about their safety more than anyone else. Yet, if I disclosed that information, I would lose my job. I could be prosecuted for breaking a sworn oath of secrecy to the government of the United States. My coworkers would surely lose their jobs if the FBI found out about Lyla. The agency would be sued, and any future government contracts would be canceled. I liked my job; I needed my job. I was still making monthly payments to the placement company for helping me find it. I finally decided that I must abide by that oath of secrecy. I wondered what other information was being kept from the American people. How many government contractors knew information that meant life or death for Americans and had to keep it silent?
Many believed our government was deceiving us about what was happening in Vietnam. The counts of soldiers killed over there were under suspicion for their accuracy. The fact that we were winning the war might be a lie too. I could not believe any news coming from our government. I changed my opinion of good ole honest Uncle Sam. He was dishonest, sneaky, and kept way too many secrets from us.
Newspapers were delving into the reasons why so many riots had broken out in the previous summer of 1967. It was believed that sweltering hot days and idleness had sparked some of them in Detroit, Newark, Minneapolis, and Milwaukee. Although rioting had stopped, police brutality in dealing with the rioters had enraged the protestors more. Police dogs, clubs, and powerful water cannons were being used on them. In the spring of 1968, Memphis garbage workers demonstrated for safer working conditions and higher pay. Sadly, two black sanitation workers were accidentally crushed to death in a defective compacter. They had taken refuge in it during a rainstorm. There was a history of other serious accidents happening there due to dangerous working conditions and faulty equipment. Television images of marches and protests going on in Memphis were broadcast almost every day. The sanitation workers received incredibly low pay. Their demands included a raise for the truck drivers and all the other sanitation workers. But they were refused any increase, which forced them to go on strike.
News stations showed mountains of garbage bags piling up on the sidewalks and rats tearing into them. People on the sidewalks had trouble walking around them. The sanitation workers were the subject of racial discrimination. Besides having unsafe working conditions, they were paid less than many white employees doing the same work. Their pleas for improvements and fairness with equal wages were ignored. After the workers formed their union, the mayor refused to negotiate with them. He refused to recognize their union and said the strike was illegal.
When Cade heard about the problems in Memphis, he commented, “If they didn’t appreciate their sanitation job, maybe they could leave it and move up to gravedigger or toilet cleaner instead.” He was such a disgusting racist and bigoted ass. I wondered how he became that way. Did he lay hold of that racism all on his own, or did it take hold of him? He made those comments right there in the layout department in front of Booker. I was angry at Cade, and at myself, too, because I was too timid to speak up and confront him about it. I was sure Cade did it to get a response from Booker, to get Booker fired. But Booker would just keep on working and never spoke up to Cade. Often, Booker left the room when Cade tossed out baiting insults like that.
Dean was checking pages we were working on and discovered that a diagram from technical was missing. He called Cade into our room and asked him where it was. Cade paused, then told Dean he had given the missing diagram to Booker earlier.
“I handed it right to him,” Cade said.
“Is that true, Booker? Do you have it and accidentally left it out?” Dave asked him.
Booker looked straight at Cade’s face, then back at Dave’s, and said, “No, I never got that one. He never gave it to me.”
Cade angrily said, “He’s a liar! He’s lost it and won’t admit it! You ought to fire him. He doesn’t belong here.” Then he added, “He’s incompetent.”
The FBI man, hearing the commotion, leaned in and asked, “Is something wrong?”
Dean answered him quickly. “No, we’re just handling some minor details. Everything is okay.” Then firmly, he told Cade, “Find the goddamn diagram fast or make another even faster.” Cade glared hatefully at Booker and left the room. Booker just got back to work on the page he was doing and shook his head back and forth without saying a word. My eyes met Dean’s. I knew he felt the same as me at that moment. Cade had tried to get Booker fired once again.
When we moved down south, neither Samuel nor I knew that so much racial tensions had existed there. Our local newspapers had covered only some of the national news thoroughly. They covered the space program because we had manufacturing plants that did aerospace work, and IBM’s home office was in the town where we lived. Those businesses thrived on big government contracts, and anything happening with IBM made it news of local interest that got printed on the front page of our papers.
So much of the local news was about the Vietnam War and protests happening all over our country. Many local men joined the service after being recruited at their high schools by different military branches. Recruiters came right into the schools to sign up young teenagers. For many, it was an opportunity to serve their country and start a career path.
We listened to Walter Cronkite faithfully every evening when he reported what was happening in Vietnam. We heard about the Flower Children in California and women protesting for equal pay and arguing over birth control rights. The television reporter covered the Cold War and what was going on in the space race with Russia. There was a lot of news to report during those times. So much upheaval was happening all over.
For some reason, though, the news of racial unrest, segregation, and double standards in many cities was not covered thoroughly by our local newspapers or newscasters. Perhaps it was because there was only a small black population in my hometown. We were walled off from all news of racial unrest by omission by local editors and broadcasters. It wasn’t something our papers thought a local needed to know, I guess. News of racial problems down south was hidden in the back pages or not covered at all. We missed a lot of information about what was causing those widespread riots and protests. Now, living in Maryland, so close to DC, it seemed we didn’t have to worry. All the chaos happening in Memphis and other cities was far away from us. We had believed we were safe where we were near our seat of government.
* * *
We worked until ten o’clock one night to finish the top-secret job and meet the crushing deadline for its printing. It was a dark, overcast night. I was warned not to go to the parking lot alone. Instead, I should have one of the guys escort me to my car.
“It’s just not safe,” Dean told me as he busily checked some pages we had just finished. “Don’t do it, Country Girl. Don’t go out alone anywhere here after dark. You’re on Fourteenth Street now in the city.” Wesley from technical was going to walk me to the parking lot, but instead, Booker asked if I could give him a ride since I would be traveling somewhat near his complex. He also said the buses were not running now, and no cab driver would pick up a young black man this late at night in DC. So, Booker was my security guard to walk me to the parking lot and would be my passenger. We didn’t know each other well, so at first, it was a little awkward to be alone in the car so late at night. But we were coworkers and friends, and I sensed he was a good person. I had noticed that Booker always declined the offer when I asked him to go to lunch with us and wondered why. Maybe I could ask him about that on the way to his home.
Booker gave me directions to where he lived. From some news stories I had seen, I knew it wasn’t a good section of DC. As I drove that way, I asked him, “Why do you live in the projects?”
“It’s where I found a place with my family. It’s not great, but we can afford it, and we’re together.”
“Can’t you just leave and rent an apartment in a better area?”
“Country Girl, how many black people live in your complex?”
I thought about that question. It stunned me when I realized I had never seen a black family there or a black child at the pool. Astonished, I told him. “Now that you’ve made me think about it, I haven’t seen any. Not a single one.”
