Family Legacy

Chief Scientist Tom Handy sat at his desk, the silver frames of his bifocals resting on the tip of his nose, allowing him to look over the tops of them. His brow furrowed as he read the report. He gave no hint of emotion as he scanned the words while his top generals looked on anxiously. His great oak desk gleamed in the sunlight that sifted through the shades, its presence a natural fortress separating him from his inferiors. A pedestal whose feet were anchored no higher than his generals’.

The phone beside the manila folder that had carried the report burped static before General Loveland spoke. “Handy, I need something quick here.”

“Understood General,” Tom responded, buying himself a few more seconds. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff was generally a reasonable man, but this was no reasonable ask.

“If the report is correct General, and hundreds of nuclear warheads are to be launched towards major cities across the United States and Europe imminently…” he paused and breathed deep, “I’m afraid the chances of intercepting even half of them are virtually nonexistent.”

Silence filled the room. Tom leaned against the cushioned back of his chair. The generals looked dumbly in his direction, though he would not meet any of their eyes.

Finally, Loveland’s voice returned. Tom was relieved despite sensing the incoming rebuke.

“Handy, we’ve funneled trillions of dollars your team based on your promise to develop the technology to safely intercept nuclear weapons. You’re telling me now that I need you, you have nothing for me.”

“Sir, with all due respe—”

Loveland cut him off. “I don’t need any goddamn respect. I need you to tell me what the fuck you’re going to do about the nuclear warheads that are about to wipe us all out.”

“We’ll send up everything we have. But if they’re coming from sites we haven’t even identified yet across the entirety of the Axis region…” Tom let his voice tail off here. He struggled to remain calm, both in voice and expression.

“Stay near the phone. You’ll be getting a call from the President soon.” The phone clicked.

The room was silent. Some of the highest-ranking military scientists stared dumbly at Tom. His eyes remained fixated on the report in front of him, lingering on one phrase in particular: “The warheads will be launched from numerous sites in the Axis world, including but not limited to Siberia and Western China.”

Doesn’t exactly narrow it down, Handy thought. A certain rage rained down on him steadily and his insides became hot. “Out. Everyone OUT! OUT!”

The men and women standing before him scrambled for their belongings and headed to the door like schoolchildren.

“Levine, Muhammad. Stay.”

Ellen Levine and Riya Muhammad turned back towards Tom. The looks on their faces told him they knew what this was about. He waited until it was just the three of them in the room. He caught Muhammad’s eye, then nodded towards the door. She pushed it closed.

“Sit.” He gestured towards two leather chairs in front of his desk.

The two women took their seats silently. He knew they were forcing him to say it.

“As you both know, there is no way in hell we can intercept hundreds of warheads launching from sites we didn’t even know existed before today.” Tom sat forward in his chair and reduced his voice to a near whisper. “Operation X may be our only option.”

Tom met both sets of eyes in front of him. He anticipated a rebuttal from one, if not both. But Levine’s gaze drifted away from him, and she began to nod. Muhammad couldn’t prevent a smile from crawling across her face, devious and confident. Still, neither of them spoke.

“Am I sensing agreement?”

The women looked at one another. Levine looked back at him. “You’re right Tom. It’s the only hope we have.”

...

“I suppose the first question is when.”

Levine responded in an instant. “I think it’s pretty clear.” Muhammad nodded as Levine continued, “Japan is calling the shots. Loveland said so himself. I don’t care that the capital is Beijing, that was a geographical decision. And Japan and China have relegated Russia to the Axis’ infantryman since their failed invasion of Germany.”

“What’s this have to do with timing?”

“Japan never forgot about Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Never. Sure, they played their role of our buddy well. They followed orders to disband their military. They were our biggest non-European trade partner for much of the first half of the 21st Century. But they never forgot Tom. This is payback.”

Handy sat back in his chair and put a face of contemplation on, though he knew immediately Levine was right.

“We have to send someone back to before Truman decided to drop the bombs,” Levine concluded.

“Agreed. But when, exactly?” Muhammad asked.

“What if we sent someone back to assassinate Hitler? Before his rise. When he was making public appearances with no security.” Tom realized his suggestion was a dumb one when he caught Levine’s eye. But he wasn’t sure why.

“You’re not much of a historian Tom,” Muhammad responded.

The women laughed and Tom smiled despite being the butt of the joke. It felt good. Normal. The weight on their shoulders ascended, if only for a moment.

“Japan would have bombed Pearl Harbor regardless of what Hitler was doing in Europe. They wanted to expand in the Pacific, and our presence there was prohibitive,” Muhammad continued. “What if we sent someone to infiltrate the Manhattan Project and stop the bombs from ever being made in the first place?”

Skepticism speckled Levine’s face. “It was too big a project. We need one person that we can target.”

“My great-great grandfather,” Tom said softly.

“I’m sorry?” Muhammad responded.

“My great-great grandfather,” he repeated. “He sent the order to drop the bombs. He was the Chief of Staff.”

“Wasn’t it George Marshall?” Levine asked.

“Thomas T. Handy was the acting Chief of Staff while Marshall was away.” Tom was getting excited now. His own relative. It’d make the job much easier, he thought.

“Where was he stationed at the time?” Muhammad asked.

Tom hesitated but Levine intervened, “He wouldn’t have been overseas if he was the Chief of Staff. He would’ve been here in D.C.”

Tom was smiling. “In this very building, no?”

Levine gazed up and slightly to her left, scouring her memory. “I believe construction was finished in ’43, so yes.”

Tom laughed. “Transporting through time…” he paused, “but not space.”

Muhammad laughed wryly and Levine rolled her eyes.

“Let’s get you to the time machine,” Muhammad said.

...

It wasn’t a time machine like you see in the movies, it was an entire room, like an MRI room in a hospital, but instead of a sliding table in the center it was a booth not unlike the booth at the security checkpoint of an airport, the one with gray feet outlined and a human-like figure pasted on the glass, raising its arms overhead to form a triangle, the vertical gray pole whooshing from left to right to scan each traveler like a piece of paper in a copy machine.

Tom took a deep breath and pressed his keycard against the door pad, which beeped and shone a green light. He nodded towards Levine and Muhammad and stepped in, letting the blast-proof door slam behind him.

Levine’s voice sounded over the speakers, “Alright Tom, remember, your actions could change everything. There’s a good chance me and Muhammad won’t have any memory of this happening when you return.” She paused. “Now, whenever you’re ready.”

Handy stepped into the staging area and immediately Muhammad directed the machine over him using levers akin to those found in an operator’s cab of a crane. The machine’s tubular shape encompassed the booth in total darkness. It whined softly.

“All systems green. Initiating countdown. Five,” Levine began, “four,” Tom’s eyes were open but all he could see was a blackness so pure it felt empty, “three,” he reached his hands in front of his face and tried to convince himself he could see their silhouettes but he couldn’t, “two,” he pressed them to his face instead, at once reassured like a child covering his head with a blanket to avoid monsters at night. “One.”

The whine grew in intensity, a resounding increase of noise that continued to rise when Tom thought it couldn’t anymore. The booth spun. Tom thought, at least. Spinning in an empty tube was a feeling no one could prepare for. He could see nothing. No blurring surroundings or spinning stanchions, just a dark void. He keeled over on his knees and heaved. The noise was unbearable. He needed it to stop. And then it did.

...

The stall was a solid forest green color. He shook his head, expecting some sort of residual effect from traveling nearly 150 years back in time. But his vision was clear and he felt normal. He heard a sink running. He figured it best to wait until he was alone. When he heard the sound of the bathroom door close, he unlocked the stall and stepped out. He stood in front of the mirror that hung over the row of sinks and looked at himself. Too old for this shit, he thought. Age had a grip on him. He was only 55, but when he was 50, people used to say he looked no older than 40. Now, when he revealed his age, they didn’t question it.

His once thick, jet-black hair had thinned and grayed. His solid face now sunk slightly in the cheeks. His brows rested, tired, just above his eyes. He broke his gaze off and reached down with his palms cupped together, allowing them to fill with cold water, which he splashed against his face. The chill shocked him a little. He grabbed the ID card that hung from a lanyard around his neck and looked at it. He hoped no one else looked closely. He headed towards the door.

He stepped into the hall and quickly got his bearings, recognizing the bathroom where he had appeared as the bathroom closest to his own present-day office. Unfortunately, that meant he had to cross much of the building to get to the Chief of Staff’s office.

The building was five stories, but Tom was already on the fifth floor, where his forefather’s office was. Each floor was made up of five rings of offices, meeting rooms, control centers, bathrooms, kitchens, electrical rooms, and closets. The rings were labeled A through E, and they ran concentrically around each floor of the building. The rings were connected by 10 corridors, labeled numerically, that ran from the outermost ring to the innermost.

Tom headed down the sixth corridor towards the A ring, the innermost ring and thus the most efficient mode of transport. He was reassured by the fact that he knew where he was going, but he kept his head down and his gaze just in front of his shoes, hoping to God that no one questioned him.

As he approached his destination, his pace quickened, as did his heartbeat. He realized that he didn’t have a plan to actually get in front of Thomas T. Handy. Then, he was abruptly drawn out of his stupor by a shrill voice.

“General Handy.”

He paused in the hallway and looked back. A man that looked like a staffer was running awkwardly down the hall towards him, waving one hand while another secured his briefcase to his side. His brown shoes slapped the linoleum floor hard, echoing in the hallway and drawing looks from others. His suit was buttoned, but one side of his undershirt had come untucked and fluttered against his waist.

Tom stood, somewhat stupidly, in the middle of the hallway. He had become the center of attention. The exact thing he so desperately had wanted to avoid. He kept his eyes on the gangly staffer but felt the gazes of others bouncing off him from all angles. Finally, the young man reached him. He was breathing heavy, and Tom saw a flicker of confusion run across his face as they locked eyes.

“Sir, do you have a second?” the staffer asked.

Tom remained silent, confused.

“I work in General Spatz’s office. He relayed a message from the Pacific today that he hasn’t received a response from you regarding a telegram that he sent earlier this week. He asked one of us to call up to your office, but the line was busy, so I was coming to see if you were in,” he paused. “And then I saw you.”

Tom remained silent. A surreal feeling came over him and he almost wanted to laugh. He wondered if he were dreaming. Or if the time machine had made some sort of mistake. The staffer’s eyes wandered towards Tom’s hairline and then back. It happened again. Tom couldn’t think of what to say. The period of silence was becoming too long. The man in front of him shuffled his feet a little, then his eyes rose again to the General’s hairline.

“Sir?” he started carefully, “Would you…uh,” he paused and coughed a little, but Tom could tell it wasn’t a real cough, it was a space filler, “Would you like me to relay a message back to General Spatz?”

It hit him. This staffer thought he was General Thomas T. Handy, the acting Chief of Staff of the U.S. Army. He tried to hide his slight amusement at this fact, and then reached out a hand and placed it on the shoulder of the staffer in front of him. The staffer looked down at the hand, confused, worried. His eyes crept back up to Tom’s, who started to realize how bizarre of a movement it had been. But he kept his hand on the young man’s shoulder and did his best impression of his great-great grandfather, whom he had never met. “You can tell Spatz I will have a response ready for him by the afternoon,” and then he turned defiantly away from the young man and resumed his walk towards…his office.

...

His confidence waned as he approached the Chief of Staff’s office. He might be able to fool most people, sure, but not Handy himself. He reasoned that getting into the same room as him would have to be good enough. From there, he’d improvise. It sounded stupid when he thought about it, but he reminded himself that he had no time to develop an alternative plan. The nuclear warheads may already have been fired at this point.

He made it to the third corridor and turned left, following signs plastered to the wall. As he reached the D ring, his stomach fluttered at the site of a security guard in the hallway. He approached confidently regardless, trying to present an air of entitlement, refusing to look the security guard in the eyes. He knew the protocol. At least, he knew the present-day protocol. A quick flash of the badge should do. He tried to cover as much of the ID card as he could with his hand as he pushed it out from his chest in the direction of the guard without slowing his pace. He doubted the guard could have seen his job title underneath his picture, but he couldn’t risk it. He was in the clear. Until he wasn’t.

“Sir?”

Tom sighed, but in character, wheeling around abruptly on the balls of his feet.

“Apologies Sir, but did somebody color your badge?”

Of course. Color photographs weren’t around in 1945. How had he not thought of that? He had to think on his feet. Luckily, this was the Department of Defense, a place where new technology abounds. “Ah. Just came from the security wing. They’re testing a new camera that captures and prints colored photographs. They call it a Polaroid I believe. If the color holds up, everyone will be getting one like this soon.”

The guard eyed Tom, who had walked past him and was now standing several steps away, far enough that the guard would not be afforded a good look at the badge.

“That’s something. Would you mind if I took a closer look?”

“I’m afraid I’m running late. I owe General Spatz a telegram.”

“Of course, Sir. Another time.”

“Indeed.” And with that, Tom spun around again, brimming with confidence and pride at his improvisation. He was a natural, he thought. He made his way towards the office. He saw two coat racks outside of the door to the foyer. The door was closed, but a rectangular window allowed him a look inside.

Two secretaries sat at mahogany desks placed across from one another, between which was a walkway leading to the Chief of Staff’s personal office. Behind the desk on the right side of the room was a kitchenette with wooden cabinets lining the walls over a stove with two burners, like a mantle over a fireplace. The sink was a standalone piece of white ceramic set against the far wall that bordered Thomas T. Handy’s office. Tom Handy thought it looked out of place.

The secretaries. How was he going to get by them? What if Handy was in his office? They wouldn’t just allow him to waltz in. Confidence and a sense of entitlement had gotten him this far. If he didn’t let them see his face, maybe he could make himself seem important by walking right past them.

He took a deep breath and opened the door to the foyer with his left hand while he brought his right across the top of his face, rubbing one of his temples with his thumb and the other with his middle finger, his palm acting as a mask over his eyes. He hastened forward, determined to reach the far door as quickly as possible,

“Sir,” one of the women started.

Tom kept walking.

“You said you wouldn’t be in today.”

Giddiness washed over him. How about that for timing, he thought as he reached the door. He began to respond as he reached for the knob, “Just one item on my to-do list. Time sensitive.” The knob didn’t turn. He tried turning it the other way. Nothing. Locked. He stood still for a moment, trying to think.

“Forget your keys again, Sir?”

“Ah, I seem to have, yes.” The words tumbled out awkwardly.

He heard one of the women shift her seat and stand up. “Perhaps I’ll get you a keychain for your birthday,” she said as she approached, keys jangling.

He reached his hand to his side, palm upward, like a boy receiving communion from the Father. He said a prayer.

“Did you get a haircut?” she asked once she was beside him.

He didn’t respond.

The secretary still seated at her desk chimed in. “Come on, turn around and show us.”

“Yeah, no keys until we see the haircut,” the woman next to him teased.

He wiggled the fingers of his outstretched hands impatiently.

“Fine. Have it your way,” she said, and handed over the keys.

His hand shook as he pressed the cold metal key attached to a key chain with an American flag on it into the lock and turned. He was in. Tom closed the door behind himself, pressed his back against it, and released a deep sigh.

The office floor was carpeted. A maroon carpet whose fuzzy texture made Tom think of his daughter’s dorm room rug. A great wooden desk sat at the far end of the room, at which was stationed a mammoth chair with a slat back that rose higher than any man’s head would reach lest he stood on the seat. Across from the desk was a lounge area. Two small couches and a cozy-looking armchair surrounded a wood framed table with a transparent glass top. Beside the table was a cabinet that showcased a clear amber liquor held in a crystal bottle. Two bottles of red wine posed symmetrically on either side of the booze.

Tom headed for the desk. In front of the chair, on a dark red writing mat that sat in front of a typewriter, was a piece of paper with a black ballpoint pen lying perfectly in the center. Tom noticed the paper lacked a signature. Handy’s signature. Tom began reading.

WAR DEPARTMENT

Office of the Chief of Staff

Washington 25, D.C.

25 July 1945

TO: General Karl Spatz

Commanding General

United States Army Strategic Forces

1. The 509 Composite Group, 20th Air Force will deliver its first special bomb as soon as weather permits visual bombing after about 3 August 1945 on one of the targets: Hiroshima, Kokura, Niigata, Nagasaki.

Tom’s heart was racing. He skimmed forward, picking up crucial bits and pieces as he went.

2. Additional bombs will be delivered on the above targets as soon as made ready by the project staff.

3. Dissemination of any and all information concerning the use of the weapon against Japan is reserved to the Secretary of War and the President of the United States… Any news stories will be sent to the War Department for special clearance.

This was it. This was the critical piece of paper that resulted in the killing of tens of thousands of Japanese civilians. This was the piece of paper that, almost 150 years later, would lead to the destruction of the United States of America.

Tom picked it up. His hands shook. He folded it in half. Then in half again. And again. Until it was small enough to fit into his jacket pocket. He moved the pen aside, pulled the typewriter onto the mat in front of him, inserted a piece of paper, and turned the roller knob counterclockwise until the paper sat just behind the keys. He began.

WAR DEPARTMENT

Office of the Chief of Staff

Washington 25, D.C.

25 July 1945

TO: General Karl Spatz

Commanding General

United States Army Strategic Forces

1. The proposed special bombing campaign of Japanese cities by the 509 Composite Group, 20th Air Force has hereby been TERMINATED. This decision was reached by the Chief of Staff, Secretary of War, and the President of the United States.

2. In lieu of the special bombing campaign, we will move forward with Operation Downfall, the air, land, and sea invasion of the Japanese mainland. Beginning immediately, proceed with Part 1: Operation Olympic.

3. Any and all orders, files, or other material relating to the special bombing operation – including this letter – are to be destroyed. The special bombing operation is not to be mentioned moving forward.

THOMAS T. HANDY

General, G.S.C.

Acting Chief of Staff

Tom removed the paper. He took the ballpoint pen in his hand but realized he didn’t know what Handy’s signature looked like. He rummaged through the desk drawers to find something the General had signed. He knew he had to get it right the first time, so he practiced emulating the correct twirls of the pen on his own palm before he dared touch the paper in front of him. Finally, he signed it. It looked good. Not perfect, but good. He doubted anyone would notice the extra loop he had added while crossing the second T.

He stood and took the paper confidently in hand. He took his suit jacket off so he could throw it over himself as he walked past the secretaries, buying him enough time to walk out of the office discreetly. He moved towards the door and swung it open. Throwing the jacket around his shoulders with vigor, he dropped his head downwards as he walked past the two desks, dropping the paper, along with his office keys, with the secretary who seemed to be in charge. Before either woman could get a word in, he said, “I need this sent right away. Confidential. No wandering eyes.” And just like that, he was out the door.

Finally back in the bathroom stall he had emerged from no more than 30 minutes earlier, Tom fished through his pocket for the small cylindrical return pad. His hand emerged with the pad, along with the original order for the special bombing of four Japanese cities. He placed the pad on the bathroom floor and pushed a small button on the side of it. The pad expanded so Tom could step on. As the slow whine began again, he unfolded the piece of paper and gazed at it. He felt like he was holding a weapon. In a way he was. He shuddered. He hoped he had done enough.

...

Tom was confused when he opened his eyes. He wasn’t in the same room he had left from. He was back in the bathroom. He hustled out into the hall, but no one was there. He scanned the hallway, more grateful than ever when he saw the high-tech security cameras pointing down at him from the ceiling. At least he was in the right era.

He rounded the corner heading in the direction of his office and smashed head-on into a young woman in a dark blue suit. Her phone fell to the floor, smacking screen-first against the linoleum.

“Sir, I’m so sorry. My God, are you ok?” She didn’t wait for him to answer. “I was actually looking for you. It’s starting. No one wanted you to miss it. Come on.”

She grabbed her phone off the floor, unbothered by the new spiral cracks in the screen. She turned and set a bustling pace down the hallway. Tom struggled to keep up. After a couple turns, he recognized the hallway leading to the main control room. The woman pressed her badge against a pad outside the door. It blinked green and the door opened.

“I found him. Here he is.”

General Loveland’s face was beaming as he reached out his hand. “Handy. Thought you were going to miss it. Congratulations on a job well done. We couldn’t have done it without you.”

Tom grasped Loveland’s hand. The Chairman shook it vigorously. Tom turned his attention to the massive screen at the front of the room, upon which was projected a grid of dozens of computer screens. Each pane was labeled. Tokyo, Osaka, Sapporo, Beijing, Shanghai, Chongqing, Wuhan, Moscow, St. Petersburg, Nizhny Novgorod, and many more.

They were all aerial views, looking down from thousands of feet up, slightly off center, at skyscrapers and arenas and green spaces, no individual people discernible from such great height, but hundreds of millions ensconced in their respective homelands, going about their business just like the people outside the walls of the Pentagon.

General Loveland spoke, “Ladies and gentlemen. In moments, Japan and its allies will realize the military might of America. In 1945, the Japanese refused the option to surrender. They killed nearly two million of our sons during Operation Downfall before the stalemate. Today, we give them no such choice.

We’ve learned from our past mistakes. Mercy only begets resentment. False conviction. Entitlement. Today, we show no mercy. Today, we show brute force. We show that any and all who refuse the will of the People will be dealt with justly and swiftly. Democracy and capitalism are two universal truths. Do those living under the Communist regimes of the Axis powers deserve to be killed? Not all of them, I suppose. But do they deserve to be freed from grip of the red had of authoritarianism? Yes. And as Patrick Henry once said, ‘Give me liberty, or give me death.’”

The room erupted in applause and cheers. Tom looked at Loveland, whose smile oozed pride. He watched as the general turned towards the back of the room and nodded to a group of men and women sitting in front of computers. The group began furiously chattering into their headsets and tapping on their keyboards. A woman who appeared to be the leader of the group shouted, “TEN.”

The whole room gradually joined in the countdown. Tom walked forward in a daze towards the big screen, down a set of stairs that made him feel like he was in a movie theatre. “NINE, EIGHT, SEVEN.” He knew what was coming but he couldn’t look away. He thought he was going to be sick. “SIX, FIVE, FOUR.” The cities looked no different than they ever had. That was about to change. “THREE, TWO, ONE.” Simultaneously, each screen panel turned white. There was no audio, but Tom could feel the noise from the explosions. When the light subsided, mushroom clouds began to rise, at once beautiful and horrific. The room awed and then burst into more applause. Tom’s face went numb.

...

General Loveland was giving another speech. Tom felt like he was outside his own body. He had no idea how long he had been standing where he was, but he suddenly realized the presence of Ellen Levine and Riya Muhammad standing to his side. He glanced over at them. They felt his eyes on them and looked up to meet his gaze. They both smiled. He raised his hand to wave.

“What’s that writing on your hand?” Muhammad asked.

Tom looked down at his drafted scrawls of Thomas T. Handy’s signature. He racked his brain for an excuse, but Loveland directed the room’s attention towards him just in time.

“And finally, to the lead developer of the special bombing campaign against the Axis powers, Chief Scientist Thomas Handy. Handy, you have set in motion the beginning of a new world order. A world order where The USA and its Allies, and most importantly, democracy, reign supreme. Cheers!”

The room roared with applause. Tom stood still, unable to move. Frozen in time.