Notice

Crashing into the chair, the disheveled President of The Russian Federation turns toward the speaker-phone centered on the small table before his wobbly body.

“Yes, Mr. President, one missile.” Defense Minister Grachev’s voice calls out from the phone.

“Why would they only launch one missile?” a slowly speaking, half-asleep or drunk President Yeltsin asks out-loud.

Is he expecting an answer?

I don’t know enough to answer that, yet.

I hope General Grachev can.

“It may be a first strike, Mr. President.” Grachev’s voice returns to the room.

Looking over President Yeltsin’s rounded shoulder, I can see the black nuclear-command suitcase, it’s lethal to millions or more contents open on the desk.

I didn’t get to say goodbye to Katerina or the kids this morning.

“What do you recommend, General?” The President asks the Defense Minister.

A commanding silence fills the room.

Could we go to nuclear war now?

Stalin didn’t attack when we developed the bomb.

We made it through the 60’s with Cuba and Turkey without ending the world.

We survived the 80’s with Reagan’s insanity before the ABM, Nuclear Test Ban and START treaties brought him around.

Now that we’re at our weakest, could NATO be attacking us with one missile?

. . .

Why would anyone attack with one missile?

“We need to prepare a second strike right away, Mr. President” General Grachev replies.

A second strike?

If we launch a second strike it will be Armageddon. For one missile?

“We have two minutes, Mr. President” Grachev offers, as if issuing an order.

“Could it be a test, Sir?” I almost shout, not even realizing I was thinking such a thing.

President Yeltsin turns around slowly, holding the desk for support.

Behind me I can feel the others backing away.

I didn’t step forward, but I’m standing alone now.

A test, what kind of test could it be?

A nuclear missile test?

An anti-satellite test?

A test of our defenses?

I’m going to have to give him some kind of explanation.

His bloodshot eyes now staring directly at me, President Yeltsin is awaiting my explanation.

Grachev, on-the-speaker phone, jumps in before I can say anything.

“It could be a test, Mr. President.”

“Yes”, I say, “It could be a test of a rocket, a satellite launch, a weather probe. It could be any of those things, Mr. President.”

“IS THIS A TEST?” he demands.

“We don’t know, Sir.” I retort without thinking.

I don’t know.

“It does not match any of our launch scenarios” Grachev chimes in from the phone “But, that does not mean it’s not an attack we have not yet considered.”

May it not be an attack.

May it be a test.

How could we know if it’s a test or an attack?

Banishov, from the Defense Ministry chimes in “If it were a test, they would have told us beforehand. Our Early Warning Radar Operators had no forewarning of a test.”

President Yeltsin turns to him, but ask the room in general “No one told us they were going to test?”

“One minute-thirty seconds, Mr. President” Grachev announces.

“Tell me, anyone, were we told someone would launch a rocket?” Yeltsin demands.

Would anyone here announce they received an advisory, now?

In the face of nuclear annihilation, would anyone be brave enough to say they received notice, but didn’t tell anyone else?

Would I admit my mistake?

Some shuffling is taking place between Foreign Minister Kozyrev and some of his deputies. One of them runs out of the room.

President Yeltsin turns torward Kozyrev, “Do you have something you wish to share?”

Please have something.

Please tell us you received notice of a test.

“I’ve asked my deputies to look into all of the notices we’ve received” Kozyrev responds.

“One minute, Mr. President” Grachev chimes in. “We need to prepare the Second Strike option, NOW, Mr. President.”

President Yeltsin, his tired eyes darting back to the phone faster than his shaky head can turn, almost topples in his chair.

“Yes, yes, be ready with a strike, but do not issue any orders yet. The last thing we need right now is for more confusion.”

“No one answered my question, did we receive notice of a test?” President Yeltsin demands.

“We’re looking into it” Kozyrev replies.

“Anyone else?” President Yeltsin turns to Victor Chernomyrdin, the Head of the Government, who is conferring with Kozyrev and his deputies.

They are debating something, which I cannot hear.

Chernomyrdin then turns to the President, “There may be something, we are checking.”

Let there be something, an overlooked notice, a news report, something.

A young man, I’m not sure from what ministry, rushes in while announcing “Norwegian Scientists gave notice of a rocket launch to study the atmosphere. This could be the . . .

“Thirty Seconds, Mr. President” Grachev jumps in.

. . . missile.” The young man finishes.

A research rocket!

Please let it be a research rocket!

“This could be a ploy, Mr. President” Grachev’s voice comes across the speakerphone.

“It could also be true, Mr. President.” Kozyrev counters.

“What do you think Victor?” the President asks Chernomyrdin.

“A one-missle strike makes no sense, and there is evidence this is a science rocket. There is no evidence it is an attack, Mr. President.” Chernomyrdin says.

“Stand-Down Pavel, No Second Strike.” President Yeltsin speaks clearly into the phone.

“Yes, Mr. President” Grachev’s heavy voice slowly replies, a little forlorn.

WE’RE NOT GOING TO END THE WORLD!

MAY THE AMERICANS NOT BE ATTACKING!

Just then, the deputy to Kozyrev returns flustered, saying something to his boss.

Chernomyrdin turns to Kozyrev “What is it Andrei?”

“We did received notice of a rocket launch by Norwegian and American scientists today.”

IT’S NOT AN ATTACK!

The President chose correctly!

President Yeltsin turns to Chernomyrdin, who gives him a nod, before looking back at the phone on which Grachev’s line is currently silent.

“Pavel, it looks legitimate.” The President announces.

“Then why wasn’t the Defense Ministry notified?” Grachev demands.

Yeltsin looks at Chernomyrdin, who turns to Kozyrev, who then directs his visage at one of his deputy’s.

Even when it comes to the possible end of the world, shit always rolls down hill.

On January 25, 1994 the world came the closest it has ever been to nuclear annihilation. The Cold War was over. There was hope and promise across much of the world about the triumph of Western Liberalism and democracy. Yet, when Norwegian and American scientists launched a Black Brant XII sounding rocket from the Arctic Circle island of Andoya to study the aurora Borealis, it almost caused the end of humanity and most life on our planet. The scientists had issued warnings to 30 countries around the Arctic Circle, including Russia. Unfortunately, with all of the confusion of the day, the Russian early warning radar operators were not notified. They alerted Moscow of an incoming first-strike, forcing someone to wake and offer President Yeltsin his black nuclear-command suitcase. Yeltsin hurriedly phoned his Defense Minister and huddled with others to decide what action to take. This was the first time either a Soviet or Russian leader had used the nuclear briefcase in response to an actual alert. Yeltsin decided it could not be a first strike and did not retaliate.

This decision turned out to be the correct one, although Yeltsin did not know that at the time. It wasn’t revealed until later that the Russians had been notified, but the information had not been shared with the Defense Ministry.

Nuclear weapons have been around since 1945, with many close calls of their use being narrowly avoided at the last minute. Somehow, humanity has, so far, not destroyed itself with these potentially all-life-ending weapons. We’ve become comfortable with the (As Dan Carlin offers in metaphor: Growing up with a Gun to our heads) of these weapons ready to be used at any time because it’s an abstract idea very few humans in history have witnessed. Nuclear weapons are very real, their stockpiles are increasing, and threats of their use have become far more commonplace in the past five years.

I’ve walked the nuclear test-sites in the Nevada desert and can vouch for the destructive power of small versions of these weapons.

We are simply measuring time until their next use, as they will be used again. What misunderstanding, mistake, or mis-deed will cause that use. The bigger question is: What will become of life on the planet once we’ve broken that taboo?

Desert

Voice work by Sara Raz.

Voice work by Sara Raz.

 

There he is again, slithering directly behind me.

 This soldier won’t leave me alone.

 I scurry a little faster, hoping to lose him in the crowded street, but he keeps up, maintaining an uncomfortable distance.

 I just want to get home.

 His eyes, dark under the pulled down military cap, stare intently at me when I glance back to see if he’s still there.

 Seek help from a stranger, that is the only answer.

 Reaching out to the first man I see, I plead “Monsieur,can you please help, this soldier is following me.”

 Looking up, surprised from the distractions of his ground-focused attention learned through years of NAZI occupation, the gentleman is a bit startled.

 The soldier comes closer.

 He’s not keeping his distance any longer.

 “What is the problem, madame?” the gentleman says, just as the soldier sidles up to tower over him.

 “Move along buddy” the soldier says, “my girlfriend and I are having a lover’s chase, if you know what I mean.”

 “This soldier is not my boyfriend” I exclaim with all authority.

 The gentleman is dazed, confused, and clearly wants to get somewhere away from this soldier.

 Shoving the gentleman on, the soldier turns to me, his back to the other man.

 “Look here sweetheart, we’re going to resolve this.” He says as he grabs my hand.

 “LET GO OF ME!” I scream.

 The gentleman stands there, stunned.

 “Come with me Lucille!” the soldier projects loud enough for all to hear.

 A crowd begins to gather around. The gentleman is still standing there, not knowing what to do.

 “My name is not Lucille. I will not go with you. I don’t know you. Let go of me!” I demand.

 Yes, a lot of noise, a crowd, attention. The last things he wants!

 The soldier lets go of my hand as he turns to the crowd.

 “Fine, have it your way honey. I’ll see you at home.” He says as a parting blow to my status among the strangers in the crowd.

 It worked, I am free of this monster.

 “I do not know him.” I plead as the crowd dissipates with knowing expressions.

 How dare he besmirch me near my home, this Cretan!

 Scurrying home,I turn on several wrong streets to make sure the soldier is not following me.

 I can’t have him know where I live.

 Finally turning onto my street, I see my building entrance in the distance.

 Home, safety, freedom.

 Making my way toward the entrance, I look around me.

 The soldier is nowhere to be seen.

 I walk through the outer gate, entering the front courtyard of the building.

 As I approach the front door, I look around again.

 I’m not opening this door until I know I’m safe.

 No one is around. I am alone.

 I reach into my purse, clasping the key to the door in my right hand.

 Looking up at the lock, a shadow breaks over mine on the door.

 NO!

 Swiveling around, I am prepared. The key to the door is locked between my forefinger and my middle finger.

 It’s not much, but it would hurt if jabbed in the eye in a quick thrust.

 Thrusting my arm, I see whose shadow it is.

 “Good evening Monsieur Horbac” I say in a startled voice as I let my hand fall to my waist.

 Thank god!

 “Allow me to get the door, Madame.” The kindly old gentleman says to me as he reaches up.

 How did he surprise me?

 We enter the building, Monsieur Horbac heading to the elevator, and me to the stairs.

 “Good evening Monsieur Horbac” I offer as I start up the staircase and he enters the open elevator.

 I’m almost home.

 My right foot just touches the first stair as the door behind the entrance to the staircase closes with a loud slam, and I hear “Hello again Lucille.”

 

  

Following the liberation of Paris in August 1944, the fighting units of the Allied armies pushed on through Eastern France toward Germany. Some of the soldiers from these armies decided to make their way back to the City of Lights, rather than fight on the front. For most, this was a chance to get out of the fighting, keep a low profile, and simply sit out the remainder of the war. For others, this was a chance to take advantage of the military uniform to steal, assault, rape and murder without compunction. Paris and other liberated cities were hit by a wave of violence and crime not often discussed after the war. Up to 50,000 American and 100,000 British soldiers deserted their units during World War II. Between June 1944 and April 1945 the US Army investigated over 7,900 cases of criminal activity. Forty-four percent of these were violence, including rape, manslaughter and murder. Eventually, law and order were restored in the liberated cities of Europe, but it took to the end of the war, and the reintroduction of strong civilian police authorities, to make this happen.

 

The Deserters: A Hidden History of World War II by Charles Glass was the source of information for this story.

Tease

Perky dirty blond, even in a dirty shirt and torn pants, you can tell a looker when you see one.

She strolls into the large room, confident and carefree.

Wow, what a soft face. Hazel eyes. She’s gorgeous.

She sees me looking.

She looks back.

Contact! 

Game On.

I look away, not wanting to seem too interested.

She looks away as well, as she brings her right hand slowly up her thigh, as she turns to reveal a nicely shaped silhouette.

Oh, you’re friendly.

Her eyes locked on me now as she lifts her back leg a bit while bending slightly at the hips to push out her chest.

I’m going to enjoy this!

Adjusting my stance to accommodate some personal changes, I cut the fine figure in my Hugo Boss and leather boots.

Throwing her head back, she begins swinging her hips as she pulls the hem of her shirt out from her pants.

She looks as soft as the little one I had last week, but far more playful!

Slowly, and with intent, her hands rub the shirt fabric up, against her skin, revealing a pale, but tight stomach.

Show me what you got honey!

Pushing it ever higher, her shirt barely reveals the strap of a red bra, before falling loosely about her torso.

She let go. Ugh.

Her eyes lock with mine again, this time just as she places her left index finger in her mouth, licks it with a gentle touch of her tongue before letting it slide down her chin, under her neck, to her chest.

I stare back at her, leather baton in my left hand resting across my front to hide my enjoyment of this little show.

Swishing her hips again, she places both hands on the hem of her shirt, ripping it up and over hear head in one fluid motion.

I want her!

I start toward her.

Damn the rest, this one’s mine!

She crumples up her shirt, throwing it in my face.

Sweaty, grimy, dirty, female pheromones; I’m taking her right now! 

Her shirt covers my face; enveloping my senses in the dream of sensuality.

Just then, I feel a shove against my chest, and a grab at my right arm.

What was that?

Who was that?

Was that her?

Instead of pulling the siren shirt from my face, I reach down, unclasping my Luger from its leather holster.

What’s happening?

Two hands throw my right arm up, away from my pistol.

With my left hand I pull the encapsulating shirt away from my face.

Dirty blond is directly before me, my pistol in her right hand.

No!

I bring my left hand up to throw the shirt in her face just as she pulls the trigger on the Luger.

PPHHUUMMPP, PPHHUUMMPP, two rounds enter my stomach.

NO! NO!

Emmerich rushes over as she turns the pistol on him, firing at his leg.

Doubling over, and collapsing to the hard cold concrete floor, I lose site of the pretty pistol armed inmate.

I could have had her.

Commotion reigns around me as screaming women let loose on the other guards.

It’s a riot.

Automatic gunfire erupts from within the undressing room. Repetitive fire follows from outside where the rest of the prisoners were lined up waiting to enter.

We’re saving gas and wasting bullets today.

I lose site of everything.

 

 

On October 23, 1943 Franceska Mann, a beautiful Polish Jew with blue-black hair was one of 1,700 Jewish women arriving at Auschwitz-Birkenau. Part of a trainload of prisoners told they were heading to Switzerland to be exchanged for German POW’s, the 1,700 were told to undress before being disinfected so they could cross the border. As they were undressing, Franceska noticed SS roll call officer Josef Schillinger ogling her with his eyes. There are different accounts of exactly what happened, but what is known is she seductively began to undress, keeping his attention on her. She either threw her shirt at his face or smashed a high-heal against it, covering his eyes either way. Then she grabbed his pistol, firing two shots into his stomach. At this point, the other inmates attacked the SS guards, all of whom were rushed out of the room. Machine guns set up outside the room killed the lined-up prisoners who were waiting to enter while grenades were thrown into the undressing room to kill those inside. Schillinger died of his wounds. Emmerich survived with a permanent disability. All 1,700 women prisoners were killed, possibly all in defiance.

The 1,700 women had been told they were a special transport because they had all paid large amounts of money to the Gestapo for permits to emigrate to Paraguay. Turns out, that was just a ruse to take their money and get them on the train. The permits were not real. Nor was the intent to send them to Switzerland. They were, instead, taken to a death camp for execution. When the women learned of this, they rose in revolt.

Also of note, the SS uniforms were designed by Hugo Boss. This is how the fledgling company first came to prominence. Turns out, somehow, it’s done quite well since then.