Fallout

CHAPTER 9

Trying to maintain his patience and keeping an open “American hospitality” mood, Mike Waterloo drove with his station wagon crammed full of Russians. Six members of the disarmament team rode with him as he fought through the evening traffic clogging the Las Vegas Strip.

After their days in the DAF, he had come to know all the inspectors by name, though now they treated him like a mere chauffeur, talking among themselves in guttural Russian, excluding him from the conversation. He clenched his jaws so that a ripple of muscles stood out on his gaunt cheeks, making no comment as the Russians guffawed, sharing a joke — possibly at his expense. He would never know. Their humor struck him as forced, with a slightly hysterical edge, still shocked at the messy death of their comrade.

General Ursov had remained behind in protest, going to his room at the Rio where he was no doubt contacting superiors back in Russia… or possibly just documenting the information he had collected from NTS. Waterloo wouldn’t be surprised to discover that Ursov worked as a spy for the KGB, or whatever the state intelligence organization called itself these days.

Despite Ursov’s protests, the others had overwhelmingly voted to see Copperfield’s show. They would hear nothing about changing those plans — dead comrade or no dead comrade.

As Waterloo drove, the Russians marveled at the dazzle of Las Vegas — the epitome of American commercialism. The foreigners acted more excited about seeing a stage magician than about global nuclear disarmament. Maybe if Copperfield could just make the entire stockpile disappear.…

Waterloo pulled into the first roundabout parking lot of Caesar’s Palace. The palatial building’s smooth arches, splattering fountains, and alabaster statue reproductions recalled the golden age of Greece, complete with lovely Corinthian columns, gilt edgings, and shapely curves. He let a valet take his vehicle to the free parking while the Russians boiled out of the front and back seats, gawking at the architecture, the opulence.

This place was very different from what Waterloo had experienced in Russia three years ago.…

Following the breakup of the USSR, the Russians and the U.S. had agreed to a bilateral monitoring of nuclear dismantlement. Hence Waterloo’s long stay in Russia, and the return visit of this team to the Nevada Test Site.

Waterloo had been one of twelve inspectors arriving in Moscow, a year after the death of his wife, only a few months after Gordon Mitchell had succumbed to cancer. It had felt good to get away.

He and the others had worn badges that sported a bright U.S. flag, which elicited many stares in the airport. Protocol prevented the Russians from physically touching the inspectors, but Waterloo and his teammates were scanned for metal objects. He removed every electronic item from his suitcase, while the customs official studied it to make sure he had not attempted to smuggle any recording devices. His electric razor received particularly rigorous scrutiny.

During the creaking bus ride into Moscow city center, Waterloo had seen few cars on the road. The air was filled with smog, making the gray clouds seem even drearier. He saw no individual houses, only massive state-built apartment complexes. Whole sections of building fronts had fallen away, slumping into disrepair as if no one cared.

Vastly different from the glamour of Las Vegas.…

Inside Caesar’s Palace, the Russian team wandered through the dizzying maze of lights, blinking slot machines, and video poker games. “We play slot machines here, friend Mike,” said Nikolai Bisovka, sucking on another Marlboro. He seemed determined to get lung cancer before he returned to his own country. “You will pick up our tickets please?”

Waterloo dreaded they would scatter like wild chickens the moment they were out of his sight, but when he returned with the tickets, he was surprised to find the Russians glued to a bank of nickel slots.

Alexander Novikov bubbled with excitement. “I won jackpot, friend Mike! Jackpot!” He rattled a plastic cup of coins, and Waterloo saw that he had collected about four dollars in nickels — the handful of coins must have seemed like a fortune. Novikov took great pride in jingling as he walked.

Waterloo ushered them up the lighted stairs toward the Circus Maximus auditorium. He handed them their tickets as if they were school children, afraid they would lose their stubs or forget to go to the bathroom before the show started. Filing dutifully to their booth, the group sat back and waved for cocktail waitresses so they could order several rounds of drinks at once.

Waterloo tried to convince himself to enjoy the experience. He had never seen Copperfield’s show, though the magician had been playing in Vegas for much of his long career. He and Genny hadn’t been to shows in years. As the foreigners spoke in Russian around him, the lights dimmed — and his thoughts drifted back to when the lights had gone out in his Moscow hotel room.…

The Hotel Ukraina looked impressive, but old. The walls of the cavernous dining room had been painted with idyllic peasant scenes, huge dancers, farmers, happy musicians. Waterloo went with his companions to a feast of beef pot pies served steaming hot in individual crockpots.

A broad-hipped waitress bustled up and removed the cloth that covered a serving table to reveal an array of trinkets she had smuggled there — nesting “matrushka” dolls, painted eggs, tins of caviar, lacquered boxes. She insisted her under-the-table prices were much better than the Americans could expect to find in the hotel store.

Waterloo had gone to his room exhausted, anxious to be alone. Though meant to be ostentatious, the decor unsettled him — pink walls, green curtains, a pair of chipped end tables sporting small lamps. An empty desk, a tiny black-and-white television in a plastic case, a single hard-backed chair.

While assuring them that there was no crime in Moscow, the senior Moscow escort had insisted they keep their room doors locked, and warned them never to wander around the hotel alone.

Waterloo had been sitting on his bed considering this, when the power went out, cold darkness sweeping down like a Valkyrie — merely one of the frequent power outages that plagued Moscow. On his first day in Russia, he began to count down the hours until he could return home to his own beloved country…

Dry-ice fog poured along the Circus Maximus stage as spotlights stabbed across the vacant space. Electronic rock music blared, a pulsing rhythm in time to the light show. Near-naked dancers swept out from behind the curtains as an empty cage descended from the rafters, dangling on a chain.

The dancers came forward, hinting at more skin than they actually showed, to place translucent white screens around the empty cage. As the music reached its crescendo, fire exploded in the background. The cloth screens fell away, and the lean dark-haired magician appeared out of nowhere. To thunderous applause, David Copperfield took a bow.

Through the stage lights, Waterloo looked to see the Russians delighted at the lights, the spectacle, the sex. Gauzy wisps of costumes and flesh-toned leotards made the beautiful assistants look nearly nude as they swirled around Copperfield’s dusky handsomeness.

This was why the Russians had come to America in the first place — not to work, not to go through the tedious requirements of the disarmament routine, not to prepare for a summit meeting. But to experience the American flash and dazzle.

Waterloo recalled how the Russians had been displeased with Nevsky staying behind to work in the DAF. If he had only gone with them back to the Rio for the international buffet, rather than putting in extra hours, Kosimo Nevsky would be alive today. It seemed ironic that the only inspector actually interested in the job had suffered for that fact, paid with his life.

Not that the job was anything glamorous, but at least Nevsky had been dedicated to it.…

When Waterloo and the other On-Site Inspection Agency workers had finally reached their destination — a military base and weapons stockpile in the city of Sarny — he at last began to feel that he was ready to accomplish the task for which he had left his beautiful and spacious Southwest.

The OSIA team began a routine that continued for the next three weeks. Breakfast at 0800, departure for the work site promptly at 0850, work itself at 0900 sharp. The first day it poured down rain. Waterloo stood with the others wearing identical parkas and OSIA baseball caps, watching the step-by-step procedures. Russian escorts followed them suspiciously at every turn.

The SS-20 missiles slated for destruction were huge, fifty feet long and twelve feet high. The Russians used only hand tools for the job — wrenches, hammers, hand saws. Conscripts did all the work while officers supervised.

Waterloo watched one conscript having difficulty removing a hydraulic line because he was turning the wrench the wrong direction. Forbidden to interfere with the work, Waterloo could say nothing, only watch, as the conscript tried one hand, then two hands, then a hammer to break the nut free. When all else failed he cut the line off with a hacksaw, though never once did he attempt to turn the wrench the other direction.

Papers were signed by Russians and Americans, verifying completion of the treaty-mandated work, and then the team returned to watch the process all over again.

The OSIA inspectors lived in a rectangular compound surrounded by a twelve-foot-high concrete fence topped with electric wire. The paper-thin walls readily passed every annoying noise from the outside, at all hours of the night. Water dripped in pipes that ran through the wall next to his bed. The wallpaper had begun to peel in large sections.

It took them a week to discover the hidden microphones, one in each bedroom, several in the day room, another in the hall.

Wonderful Russian hospitality, Waterloo thought now. Not quite like what we’re showing them.…

On the Circus Maximus stage, a blond woman went through a seductive dance with Copperfield, using cloth strips to tie his wrists to the headboard of a simulated bed, which was then surrounded by screens and raised up out of reach. The blond picked up another loose bedsheet, swirled it around herself, draped it over her body — and suddenly Copperfield himself tossed the sheet away, having miraculously switched places with her. When the bed came back down to stage level, the woman lay tied in the same position. Copperfield released her, then launched into further performances.

The Russians sat astounded.

After the grand finale, Waterloo stood patiently with the Russians as they chattered among themselves. He could tell from the sparkle in their eyes, the smiles on their faces how much they had enjoyed the show. He continued to play nice, nodding, unable to understand a word they said.

It galled him to be so pandering. The Russians, every last one of them, took undue advantage of the U.S. hospitality. At least Ursov had the decency to be enraged at the death of his team leader — but these men seemed to be having the time of their lives… and from what he knew of the squalor in Russia, that could well be true.

He urged them through the casino away from the long galleria, because he knew he would never get out of there if they began to look into the stores. For himself, he would rather be home, even if it meant an empty house without Genny… at least he could find peace in the surrounding quiet.