Warday

was dropping and the gears were making a lovely racket. Jim wasted no time. He raised his cuffed hands above his head and grabbed the edge of the ventilator. In a moment he had pulled himself up and hooked one arm over the edge. With his free hand he unsnapped the plastic armature that held the vent in place. It began to bang against his arm and I heard him stifle a scream. Then his legs were up to his chest and he had rolled out onto the roof. A second later he opened the vent for me.

Now we were passing an abandoned kennel. People don’t keep many dogs these days, not even in California. The road cut the edge of the hill, which rose steeply to our right. On the left was a horse farm and open countryside and a chance to get to Richmond and intercept the Zephyr.

We jumped and rolled into the grass at the roadside.

All up the hill, that bus leaked prisoners. By the time it got to the top, I don’t think there were three left inside!

“Maybe we can find something to cut these cuffs at that truck depot back down the road,” Jim said. “If we don’t get them off, we might as well forget the train.”

We moved quickly. A lot of people were going to be trying to break into that depot today, all wearing handcuffs, all looking for shears. The place was open, so after the first ones came, the workers there would be on their guard.

The depot stood on the roadside in the heat, a broken semi blocking one driveway. In the other driveway, a new Mercedes truck was parked, getting diesel fuel. Behind it, an ancient eighteen-wheeler awaited its turn.

We went far up the hillside that backed the depot, and came around behind it. There was a door into the rear of one of the metal buildings. Inside, two men were working on a magnificent ’87 Thunderbird, a sleek red dream of a car with gleaming black leather upholstery. It was a breathtaking joy to see, that prewar car, and judging from the polished beauty of the engine compartment, we weren’t the only ones smitten by it.

I am a law-abiding man, but when Jim found those big metal shears and cut my cuffs, and I cut his, and I realized that we were both fugitives, it occurred to me that it would be an awful lot of fun to steal the T-bird.

“Too conspicuous,” Jim muttered. Just then, three more prisoners came in the rear door. I thought I heard a siren off in the mountains. It was time to leave.

We crossed the road and headed out into the countryside, moving back toward Route 80. It was eleven- thirty by the time we saw 80 in the distance. We had come about five miles. All during this time we had heard sirens, and seen an occasional police vehicle back on Crow Canyon Road.

There was a bus stop in the little town of Pinole. The schedule on the wall indicated that we should see the next Richmond bus at 12:10.

According to our timetable, the Zephyr would pull out of Richmond at 12:22.

If the bus was right on time, we would make our connection with exactly one minute to spare—assuming that the Immigration Police had not thought to extend their dragnet to cover the Richmond depot. Our Roman collars had become advertisements of fugitive status.

The bus came, and wheezed up onto Route 80. We would be in Richmond in a few minutes. The depot was the first stop. When I told the driver we were trying to make the train, he nodded and promised to do his best.

We sat there sweating, reading the aisle cards: the ubiquitous immigration warning; the Soyquick cereal ad; the BubbleRific poster with the sunny Valley Girl blowing a big yellow bubble; an appeal to orphans that read, “Don’t join the gangs. California has a home for you”; an ad for Shearson/American Express, “Tomorrow is going to work! And we know how.”

A man was humming an old song: “Jimmy Crack Corn.”

California is sun and the smell of watered lawns.
It is luxury trains and terror.
It is two-minute trials and prison farms.

And a beautiful prewar car, as exotic as a Maharajah’s coach, hidden in a nondescript garage.

California is fresh food, and lots of it.

It is also a very nice place to leave, if you don’t belong there.

The train was sitting in the Richmond station as the bus came to a stop out front.

We ran fast through the tiled lobby, past the ticket windows and directly to the train. A single Immigration Policeman lounged against the wall of the station.

The train was already in motion when we slung into the door a conductor was holding open for us.

“Come on, Fathers! You can make it.”

The Zephyr at last.

Soon it was picking up speed.

We went into the lavatory to change from the clerical clothes to our more ordinary jeans and shirts. We threw the incriminating clothes onto the roadbed somewhere between Richmond and Martinez.

Back in our seats, Jim began checking his disks to be sure none were damaged.

I leaned back, realizing how deeply tired I was. Despite the handicap of our illegal entry, we had done fairly well in California.

In Martinez, three Immigration Police came through the train fast, but they didn’t spot us. I suppose their eyes were going from throat to throat behind those mirrored sunglasses, looking for clerical collars.

I bought a soybean salad and some milk in the snack bar and sat watching the world go by. As we rounded Suisin Bay, I saw vast, empty docks that in the past would have been jammed with imported Japanese cars. Now there were perhaps a hundred of them standing in the afternoon sun, protected by chainlink fences.

Somebody began to play a tape of David Bowie’s new album, Dream Along, and I did just that.

I didn’t wake up until long after dark. There was a strong smell of salami. Jim was eating a sandwich that had been offered him by a magnificently uniformed British naval officer who now sat across the aisle from us, ready to give us what proved to be a truly extraordinary interview.

Jim glanced at me. “We’re in Nevada,” he said.

All I did was nod.

INTERVIEW Captain Malcolm Hargreaves, Sub-Popper

I am on a five-day leave, on my way to see the Rocky Mountains.

I’ll shift in Ogden to the Rio Grande Zephyr for the scenery and go down to Denver. Then I’ll fly back to base.

We have been in California for eight days. The Royal Navy has enjoyed learning about the famous California lifestyle. I’m from Yorkshire, and I believe I’ve seen more sunlight in a week here than we do in a whole Yorks’ summer. And every time you turn around, there’s another swimming pool. Not to mention an aspect my men have particularly enjoyed, which is meeting some of your wonderful girls. I confess to being unattached myself, so this hasn’t been without interest for me, either.

Now I did tell you at the outset that I would not be discussing details of the range or speed of my ship, or exactly how our weapons operate. But of course we are what is popularly called a “sub-popper,” and that is not a completely inaccurate name. It does describe our mission very well. As you know, the war left a large number of unidentified submarines, armed with nuclear missiles, sailing about the oceans of the world. They are all what we call “code blind,” which is to say that there is presently nobody to send them the codes they need either to fire their missiles or to come home. So they continue on station, generally, until they get low on nuclear fuel or some essential supply, or break down in a critical part, whereupon they either return to base and are disarmed, or they sink.

If you are like three-quarters of the people we naval types encounter, you’ll want to know something about