Disaster Among the Heavens, Don E Peavy Sr [reading rainbow books txt] 📗

the hell do you think you’re doing?” shouted Diggs.
“What I am told as you should do,” answered Fredda. She stopped in front of the console and sat down.
“How do we know those damn missiles won’t fire?” Diggs was now on his feet and moving toward Fredda.
“Because he said so. That’s good enough for me.”
“He said so? Hell, have you not heard death loves company? He’s dying. What’s to keep him from taking all of us with him? Hell, what grander death can one have but to take the whole damn world with you?”
The Doctor was now hysterical. The Patient moaned and groaned even more. No doubt, part of it had to do with his being ignored in the level of exchange of the present debate.
Fredda touched the keyboard and the console’s screen lit up. This caused the Doctor to rush to where she sat. He grabbed her right arm.
“Back off, man!” exclaimed Fredda.
Doctor Diggs was shocked to feel the knife against his throat. He did not see from where Fredda got it. However, the blade felt cold and deadening against his Adam’s apple. He took three steps back and despite his terror, tried a more gentle approach.
“Look Fredda, we don’t know what typing those codes will do. The Patient is in no condition to think rationally. Let’s wait and think this through.”
“We’ve come too far to turn back now,” argued Fredda. “There is a time for thinking and a time for action. Guess what time it is?” She returned to face the console and hurriedly typed in the first three lines of text.
A siren sounded. The three monitors over the console showed the silos in which the missiles were stored opening up and the missiles came forth.
“God, no!” shrieked Fredda. But was it too little too late?
...

In response to the ringing bell, the weary Wife rushed to the door of her home. She hoped it was her missing husband who perhaps had lost his keys. In great anticipation, she opened the door without peering through the spy glass as she held her breath.
Disappointment took hold of her as joy faded to sadness. Instead of her husband, standing on her porch were three young people: one white, one blonde, one Black. She stared at them several minutes before asking, “Yes?”
“Mrs. Diggs? Are you married to Johnny Mark Diggs?” asked the blonde. She was five feet nine inches tall and wore tight fitting, faded blue jeans with a light blue long sleeved blouse whose sleeves were rolled up about three-quarters of the way up tanned arms. Her natural blonde hair was bleached lavender; it was of medium length and in need of a perm – she wore it in no distinguishable style. Without make-up or jewellery, she was still good looking and looked younger than her twenty-three years.
“Who wants to know?” responded the Wife. She stood in the small opening of the door and impeded the progress of the three young adults who attempted to enter the house.
“Police officers, Ma'am,” retorted the blonde as she extracted a wallet from her back pocket which contained her police badge and handed it to the Wife. The two men did likewise. “I am Officer Cynthia Blundus. This is Officer Rodger White and Officer Johnny Black.”
“Yes, I am Pamela Diggs.” Pamela reviewed each of the badges with accompanying photos with the scrutiny of one who has encountered too many frauds in her life. She held each photo up in the air and glanced at its respective officer.
Officer White, twenty-five years of age, was the shortest of the three at five-feet-six with slim build. Despite the seventy degrees Chicago weather, he wore a navy blue Chicago Bears sweatshirt with the number forty over blue jeans. His hair was dark brown which he wore in a teased shaggy mop which descended into sideburns an inch below each ear lobe with matching moustache in need of trimming. He wore a gold chain around his neck.
As for Officer Black, at twenty-eight he was the oldest of the group and the tallest at six-one. He was of muscular build and wore dark blue bell bottom pants topped off with a light blue turtle neck with its long sleeves pulled up to the midway point on his arms. His black hair was combed nicely into a medium-sized Afro. Around his neck was a gold chain from which dangled a peace medallion.
“Like, can we come in?” asked Officer Black. Pamela still blocked entry to her home despite having viewed the officers’ badges which she now returned and watched the officers put them away. She forced a smile.
“What’s so funny?” White asked, placing his identification back into his rear pants pocket. The other officers aped him.
“Nothing, really. It’s just your photos look so unusual,” remarked Pamela as she fought to compose herself. Her laughter was magnified by a fly which buzzed around then disappeared into Black’s Afro.
Officer Black reached for his gun and retorted, “What you mean by that?” He was restrained by the other officers. Black stared at Pamela with admiration rather than disgust which calmed him. His fellow officers released their hold on him.
Black peered into Diggs' brown eyes which complimented her long brown hair that she wore combed to the back except for small bangs which dangled over her forehead in a teasing sort of way. In every sense of the phrase, Pamela was high yellow and naturally beautiful.
Officer Black measured her off at five-feet-seven, weighing about one-hundred and twenty pounds. She wore a very light blue Pierre Cardin mini shift dress which accentuated her shapely body and black stockings which eased into a pair of black thigh high boots.
Pamela Diggs ceased her laughter. She returned to her previous state of melancholy. Silence fell over the group of disenchanted souls as Pamela dropped her head, picked it up, then led the squad into her spacious living room where she directed them to a nearby black leather couch. Before sitting cross-ways from them in a matching love seat, she detoured over to her RCA Cunningham colour television, where The Mike Douglas Show was on, and turned the combination AM-FM radio, television, and record player off. She was quite proud of the fact that she was the first resident of her Groveland neighbourhood, on the south side of Chicago, to own one.
Once in her seat and at ease, she asked, “How can I help you officers?”
The officers surveyed the well appointed home. Officer Black spoke first, “Nice crib you have here, Mrs. Diggs. You must be real proud.”
“Yea,” added Officer White, “this is a long ways from Bronzeville.” He made reference to the neighbourhood where Pamela grew up. It was once the heart of the black middle class. However, the War on Poverty, America’s response to the Civil Rights era, brought economic stimulus to Blacks and opened up many other neighbourhoods – thus setting off a massive migration which left behind empty and dilapidated buildings and houses. Community blight, like the spider webs which envelop abandoned houses, had now set in.
Officer Blundus was more direct, “Do you know where your husband is?” Black and White gave her a questioning look.
Without hesitation, Pamela answered, “No, I don’t. Why?”
“When’d you see him last?” asked Blundus. After fumbling anxiously, she extracted a small notepad from her back pocket and a pen from her front pocket.
“Last Saturday morning. He was here when I left home. I haven’t seen him since. I miss him so. I’m afraid. What with all this stuff going on, it’s no telling what has happened to him. I miss my husband and I want him back. I...”
“Just the facts, Ma'am,” interrupted Officer White.
Officer Black took a handkerchief from his back pocket and handed it to Pamela who had burst into tears. Pamela brought the cloth to her face but recoiled when it passed her nose and handed it back to the officer. She got up and went to the bathroom, returning with a box of Kleenex which she placed on the marble topped coffee table in front of her, extracting two with which she wiped her eyes and blew her nose. The officers covered their ears to shield their drums from the onslaught.
“Mind if I smoke?” asked Officer White who spied a crystal cigarette lighter on the coffee table with matching crystal ash tray.
“Yes,” whispered Pamela. She crossed then uncrossed her legs and shifted her position but did not look at Officer White; instead, she tossed the tissues into the ash tray and extracted another one which she used to gently pat her eyes before returning to an upright position on the love seat.
“Haven’t heard from your husband since Wednesday? He hasn’t called you or anything?” asked Officer Blundus. This seemingly uncaring attitude of Pamela’s husband, given that it was now Monday, reinforced her own decision not to get married and kept her from any type of serious relationship.
Pamela’s tears flowed even more. Struggling for strength, she said in an excited voice, “It’s been since last Saturday that I heard from him. Why do you hurt me with confusion? I miss him so much!”
Officer Black rushed over, set on the right arm of the love seat, hugged the sobbing wife and tried to comfort her, “Here, here,” he counselled. “We’re just doing our job. C’mon get a grip.”
“What kind of vehicle does he drive?” fired Officer Blundus. She was not moved by what she termed the theatrics of Pamela. Officer Black gave her a stern look.
“Who?” Pamela retorted, pushing away the arm of Officer Black who got up and reclaimed his seat on the couch. Pamela sat up straight and brushed her hair with her hand as she gave Officer Blundus a deadly look.
“Your husband, who else?” shot back Blundus.
“A 1964 Cadillac Fleetwood,” answered Pamela who was now composed.
Officer Black, trying to de-escalate what was brewing into a cock fight, asked calmly, “Would you by any chance know the tag number?”
“Sure,” smiled Pamela, “It’s OPN WIDE.”
The squad looked at each other and said in unison, “Excuse us a minute.”
They huddled and talked as if the Wife was not present. Officer White spoke first, “Ma'am, we’ve concluded our interrogation of you which was intended to confirm what we already knew. Now, we want to shift to an interview format to get you to tell us what we don’t know. Do you understand?”
“No,” answered Pamela. She crossed, uncrossed, then crossed her legs.
“We’ll cut to the chase,” intoned Officer Blundus. “We found your husband’s car at Chicago General Hospital. It was parked where a missing ambulance had been. Later we found the ambulance at O’Hare Airport. Do you know where that ambulance went before it went to O’Hare?”
“No,” answered the bewildered Wife.
“Of course, you don’t,” continued Blundus. “The ambulance went to the apartment of the Assistant to the director of the CIA and picked him up.”
Officer Blundus paused and gave Pamela a long searching look. Officer White picked up the crystal cigarette lighter and stroked it – it did not light. He frowned and set it down.
Blundus continued, “We have been