Woodstock Rising - Tom Wayman

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Base in the desert fifty miles northeast of L.A. The other was over here on Sitton Peak in the Santa Anas. Fifty miles southeast of L.A.”

      “The Sitton site is in the desert, too,” Pump said. “They call it the Cleveland National Forest, but it’s nothing but rocks and mesquite.”

      “Agave. And tumbleweeds.”

      “Snakes and lizards, man. Don’t forget the time —”

      “Never mind,” Edward ordered. “How does any of this relate to satellites?”

      “The missiles are still there,” Pump said. “We were assigned to mothball the silos. But the brass decided it was easier to —”

      “Cheaper,” Jay contributed.

      “And cheaper to cement shut the silos with the birds still inside.”

      For a moment I heard the surf through the windows.

      “The logistics guys took the warheads away,” Jay continued. “We stood down the launch and control stuff. But the birds are intact.”

      “Like those bombers you can see from the freeway to Arizona?” Phil mused. “Hundreds of old jet bombers lining a runway out in the Mojave?”

      “Yeah. They’re obsolete, so they’re parked.”

      “You can’t be serious about firing off an ICBM,” Edward said.

      “Why not?” Jay asked. “We were trained to do it.”

      “Not exactly, man,” Pump said.

      “Okay,” Jay agreed. “We’ve got the know-how, though. You just have to pump the fuel aboard, target it for orbit instead of Moscow or Shanghai or someplace, install the Woodstock Satellite, and wham-o! We have liftoff.”

      “The Woodstock Nation takes to the skies,” Pump said.

      “Bitchin’,” Willow approved.

      “Hold on, hold on,” Edward broke in. “Even if this wasn’t a dope-induced delusion, you’ve overlooked a few tiny details. One is that you’d be committing every felony in the book — breaking into a silo, stealing a missile. Second —”

      “The Reveres are obsolete,” Pump said. “The bird they’re using for silo deployment now is the Minuteman, like Phil said.”

      “If they’re obsolete, what makes you think they’d launch the satellite?” Phil asked.

      “They’re obsolete because they’re too slow or have less range or something,” Jay said. “Not because they won’t work.”

      “You hope,” Phil said.

      “We hope,” Jay confirmed.

      “Forget it,” Edward declared. “Besides being horrendously illegal, if you idiots could launch a missile, you’d probably start World War III. Ever think of that?”

      “We’d launch southwest,” Jay said.

      “Southwest?”

      “We could lift southwest out over the Pacific. Nobody’s radar would pick it up as a hostile. If any major malfunction developed, the bird would land harmlessly in the sea.”

      Pump giggled. “Unless it hit Hawaii.”

      “What if a screw-up happened right after launch?” Edward said. “Before it reached the ocean?”

      Jay grinned. “We might take out the Western White House in San Clemente.” He held up his hand. “I know, I know — that could start the Big One. But at least we’d get rid of that asshole Nixon.”

      “No loss,” Willow said.

      “If he was in residence,” Phil said.

      “We could route the launch over Pendleton, Jay,” Pump said.

      “Nobody lives in most of it. If there was a big explosion, they’d think it was part of a training exercise.”

      “Good plan,” Edward jeered. “A missile out of nowhere lands in the middle of the largest Marine Corps installation on the West Coast and nobody would imagine for a second it might be an act of war.”

      “We could notify the Pentagon, man, before we —” began Pump.

      “Why am I even discussing this?” Edward asked. “Light up another number, boys, and rave on. You probably couldn’t even find the silo you’re talking about. And if you could find it, how would you break in? If you managed to get inside, you couldn’t fire off the missile. If it was actually left in there, which I also doubt. At best you’d kill yourselves. At worst you’d be arrested. They’d probably decide you’re spies and lock you away permanently. Assuming you didn’t get the chair. I’m going to bed.”

      Jay stood. “Let’s check it out. We’ll need a hacksaw, and probably we should take a crowbar. What else, Pump?”

      Pump also rose. “Flashlights, man. Till we get the power on. I know where the main —”

      “You mean, go tonight?” Willow asked.

      My brain was spinning. Willow’s question had leaped into my mind, too, and was instantly jostled by a dozen other concerns. How serious were Jay and Pump about this scenario? Even in my woozy, late-at-night, too-many-days-on-the-road, too-much-of-the-killer-weed headspace, I recognized the sensation of adrenaline coursing through my arteries. The sickening energy that suddenly suffused my body matched how I felt when a speaker at a meeting urged we embark on a protest action that could involve a serious confrontation with the cops. Pump’s and Jay’s intention that we drive off in the middle of the night and force an entry into a top-secret facility involving guided missiles and nuclear warfare was something I didn’t want any part of.

      “Count me out if you mean tonight,” Phil was saying, to my relief. “I have to work in the morning.”

      “I’m certain by tomorrow,” Edward declared, “you retards will have no memory of —”

      “Must be jelly, ’cause jam don’t shake like that,” Pump retorted. “Wayman?”

      I pleaded weariness to the core after my driving and the lateness of the hour.

      Pump shook his head in disgust. I felt a surge of guilt, after my talk tonight about the need to oppose the status quo. But this scheme was too flaky.

      “I hear the vote tending toward postponing the mission until tomorrow night,” Jay said, resuming his seat. “We’ll need a few more people along, because we can’t launch with just this handful. We’ll contact some trustworthy folks, and everybody will rendezvous here at 2100 hours.”

      “Roger on that,” Pump confirmed. He also sat.

      “Which ‘trustworthy folks’?” Phil asked.

      “Opposed?” Jay inquired.

      “What’s 2100 hours?” Willow asked.

      “By tomorrow you boys will have regained a nodding acquaintance with reality,” Edward pronounced.

      His response, though I would have phrased it differently, echoed my conviction. Beyond any doubt, this fantasy was not only impossible, it was a bad idea. Yet as the gathering dissolved and I headed for the front hallway, Pump and Jay were huddled over a piece of paper on the coffee table, scribbling something that looked very much like a list.

      I awakened to the sea-bright sunshine pouring into my bedroom on Cajon. Untangling myself from my sleeping bag — I was too sleepy when I returned from the Bay to unpack my box of sheets and blankets — I tugged on my jeans and hotfooted across the scorching deck, its rails covered with white trumpet flowers amid the green vines. At the stairs I plucked

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