This is done by using all-fission warheads or by enhancing thermonuclear weapons with additional fission steps, in addition, thermonuclear weapons can be wrapped in tungsten or cobalt casings.
Fallout is carried by winds and is affected by altitude, moisture content of air, etc. A 10 MT surface weapon, for example, can, on detonation, rise to a height of 80000 feet, thus introducing radioactive particles into airstreams that circle the earth. More localized fallout is subject to geographical contour, nature of burst, and other factors that make statistical predictability unreliable.
The Rising of the Land
Just before a great storm is born in the plains, there often comes a time of perfect clarity. The sky becomes sharp, and the grasstops hang motionless.
Jim and I have been looking out the window of the train a long time. The air is a deep, clear blue all the way down to the northern horizon. But the horizon itself is the color of baked clay. It is odd, something you look at very carefully. Something that makes you wonder.
We are between Topeka and Kansas City. The crop is sparse, and there are many empty fields.
All through ’88 and ’89, people left. One member of a family might get sick with some radiation-related illness or die of the flu and they would all leave, abandoning their acres to nature. But wheat and corn need tending. Left to themselves, these highly bred species do not go wild, they die. When the stalks rot or blow away, the raw dirt is exposed.
The wind has danced and eddied through the Midwest for years now, blowing the active particles about, depositing them as far south as Texas and as far east as Ohio.
It is not the kind of radiation that devastates bodies in hours—that was gone with the fireballs. It is the more insidious type that lodges in the ground or blows into the silos and the corn-cribs, and stays there.
“What’s going on?” Jim asks.
At first I don’t understand why. Then I realize the train has picked up speed. To reduce wear on equipment, Amtrak doesn’t run much over fifty or sixty, but this train is doing seventy, maybe more.
Two rows ahead, a woman rises half out of her seat, shrinking away from the window.
I am shocked when I follow her eyes to the horizon. A vast black wall has risen there like some bloated mountain range, its topmost peaks streaming hazy fingers toward us across the sky.
People shout, their pale, frightened faces pressing the glass.
The train sways, its horn sounding and sounding, and now I understand: we’re running for shelter. If this dust storm stops us, we will be exposed to the full effect of whatever radiation it bears. A railroad car is little protection.
I feel bitter against myself. How dare I leave my wife and son to take risks like this! My own motives are inscrutable to me.
The light changes. Now the sun is being covered. The clear, still air around the train turns deep red. I can see the round orb of the sun behind a billowing cloud.
Then something incredible happens: in an instant it gets pitch dark. This is not the gloom of a storm or the darkness of night. It is the impossible, thick black of a cave.
The storm wails around the car as if the whole land had risen up and was screaming at us, screaming with a rage that went right down to the center of the planet.
The conductor manages to get the lights on. The air is dirty tan, the dust already so thick we cannot see the front of the car.
We are so small in this rocking, shaking train, nothing but a few tattered bits of bone and flesh, eyes flashing in brown murk.
There is a squeal and a jerk, and the train stops.
“There’s a shelter in the Shawnee Elementary School,” one of the trainmen shouts. “Everybody out the second car. Hurry up, and take your stuff.” Shawnee is a suburb of Kansas City. I wish we had made it to the center of town.
We form a human chain across the street, our way lit by tiny orange dots that must be streetlights. Somebody in fall radiation gear is up ahead, waving a flashlight. I can hear the wind whipping his loose coverall. Then I see a black building. I am choking on dust, I can feel it getting deep into my lungs, smell the odor of dry earth, taste dirt.
As we enter the school, the wind whips through the open door, and the dust is soon thick in the hall.
“This way, keep moving, this way.” A policeman with another flashlight ushers us down some metal stairs and we find ourselves in the basement.
It’s well lit, and the roar of the storm is more distant. Still, the building shudders, and I can hear windows shattering somewhere upstairs.
All around me, sitting in neat rows on the floor, are children.
I’m stunned. I didn’t expect a functional school. But why not? Kansas City still exists. There are people who didn’t leave, and these must be their children.
“I’m your civil defense warden,” a young woman in jeans and a cream-colored shirt says. “Welcome to Shawnee Shelter Number Twelve.” She looks at us, forty-odd scared people. “I’m Joan Wilson. I teach third grade.”
Two more policemen come in. They have a geiger counter, which they proceed to sweep over our group. The ticking tells us that we have picked up a light dose.
I find that I take it like I might another blow in a place that has been hit a lot.
Other teachers have been bringing their classes down, and now the room is full. I realize from the blackboards and the desks that have been pushed aside that it is also Joan Wilson’s classroom.
“Let’s talk to her,” Jim says.
“Talk?”
“To the warden. Might be interesting.”
Also, it might take my mind off what has just happened to us.
Being triaged can make you feel very naked at a time like this.
Joan Wilson isn’t forthcoming, which is understandable, considering that she’s got eighteen third-graders to worry about, not to mention the unexpected crowd from our train and the six or seven who have come in off the street.
She will not give us an interview. We have to content ourselves with a few quick questions.
“What are living conditions like here?”
She looks at me. She does not smile. “It
“Do you have many dust storms?”
“This isn’t a dust storm. It’s the land, don’t you understand that?”
“The land?”
Her voice is low and fierce. “The plains themselves are blowing, right down to their core. There’s never been a dust storm like this.
But I’ll tell you something, mister. I don’t care how bad this storm is, or the next one or the one after that. I am staying here. I was born in Kansas City and I am not going to leave, and I’m not the only one. We made this place grow, and we’ll make it grow again.”
She turns away. She doesn’t want to keep talking. But there is one more question. In spite of her feelings, I must ask it. “What about the children, Miss Wilson?”
She looks at me. The air between is brown now, as if a polluted fog had crept into the room. Wind screams
