Nightmares – 2006
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His head was splitting, and he couldn’t quite remember how he'd got to this room. It wasn't as if it was some down-and-out fleabag place. There was a television in one corner and the furniture was good. Still, it wasn't the place he’d thought he'd checked into. He must have really had a binge the night before. So just where was he? He couldn’t remember arriving or coming to the room, he was just here. Time to find out where here was.
David Peterson started to dress, then stopped. His clothes seemed, well, very casual somehow. Not the ones he remembered. And he couldn't find his hat. That upset him, he was very proud of his fedora, brought back from a trip to Cuba. If he lost it on a bar crawl, he'd be really fed up about it. And Judith would give him hell when he got back. Come to think of it, why wasn't she with him, she usually came along on his business trips. Of all people, she knew that their time together wasn't unlimited and she made the most of every day they had. That was another matter though, he had to find his hat, it wasn't in his room, so it had to be in one of the bars he'd visited the night before. A quick look for his room key showed that was also missing, instead, he had a card of some sort. Just what sort of hotel was this?
Out on the street, he was relieved to see the clothes he'd thought were too casual were pretty much average. People were dressed as if it was a weekend or something, he couldn't see one person wearing a suit and nobody had a hat. Well, some kids did but they were obviously suffering from some sort of mental shortcoming, they all had their baseball caps on backward. Peterson shook his head and looked around a bit more. The cars were a bit odd as well. Small, econoboxes all of them. Even the largest didn't really measure up to a real American car. They had to be Indian imports, but there were a lot of them.
That was what finally told Peterson what was going on, this had to be a college town. That explained the small cars, nobody expected a college kid to be able to afford anything better than a curry mobile, and a casual dress. And the backward caps, everybody knew college kids were strange. He nodded to himself and continued down the street, looking around. For a college town, the prices sure were high. Mind you, he was looking at a Main Street store, they always charged more than the big chain outlets. The prices were a major markup though, he was surprised the locals tolerated it. There were some cars parked outside a 7-11 and, almost by instinct, the automobile buff in Peterson made him stop to look at the names. Then he froze.
A Mitsubishi? What was a Chipanese car doing here? And there was a Toyota parked alongside? Very, very few Chipanese cars were imported into the USA, they were hopelessly underpowered for American roads and why buy a cheap Chipanese car when a man could buy a much better Indian car for the same price? Now, Australian cars, they could give American vehicles a run for their money. Finding two Chipanese cars side-by side in a parking lot was really weird. Peterson read some more, just what the devil was a Hyundai or a Kia? They didnt sound Chipanese but hed never head of either being an Indian marque.
Peterson was getting a very uneasy feeling about this. He'd heard that college towns were strange and people there didn't do normal things but this was pushing it. The Chipanese weren't quite the enemy, if they were, they wouldn't exist any more, but they were hardly a friend and trading partner. He shook his head and continued his walk. Still looking at car names of course. Audi? Mercedes? Volkswagen? He'd only ever seen those in museums and the factories that made them were long gone, blasted into slag during The Big One. So what were they doing here? And they didn't look like old museum pieces either. Had one of the East European countries taken the marque over? That didn't seem likely but it was the only explanation that fit. Perhaps one of the East European countries had decided that the nostalgia attached to the old names was more significant than their German linkage.
A few dozen yards down the street, he came upon something he'd been looking for. A diner. He'd been made aware that he hadn't eaten breakfast by the rumbling noises in his stomach, and it was a good guess from the volume hed missed dinner the night before. A good meal was just what he needed.
Peterson went in and took a seat at the bar. There was a waitress behind it, she pushed a menu at him. "Coffee Sir?"
Peterson nodded. "Please," he paused while the girl filled his cup. "Thank you, black will be fine."
The menu was a shock. They wanted five ninety five for a cheeseburger and fries? That was outrageous, back home a place like this would charge a dollar fifty, perhaps a quarter more if the diner was known for quality. Still, he hadn't seen anywhere else to eat and he needed something.
"Cheeseburger and fries please. I'll have the burger very rare."
"Sorry sir, can't do that. We'll get prosecuted, rules say burgers must be cooked through. We've bent the rules a couple of times for customers and once the owner got fined. Somebody gets sick, we could be closed down."
Peterson nodded again but he was shocked. A diner wasn't allowed to serve its customers food the way they wanted it? Everybody knew there was a slight risk of getting food poisoning off meat cooked rare, but if they chose to eat their burgers that way, well, it was their responsibility. Just who were these busybodies who went round telling a man how he should eat his food? This had to be a college town, nobody in any normal place would tolerate that.
His meal arrived, for all his forebodings it looked good. He took a bite, the meat was pink, not as rare as he liked it but better than he'd feared. As the waitress turned away, she winked at him. Now, that was more like his America, a stupid rule got ignored. The coffee was good as well. Peterson was about to take a second sip when he only just retrained himself from spraying the contents of the cup across the floor. It wasn't the coffees fault, it was that the television over the bar had started a news broadcast. The headline echoed around in his mind.
Today, the Pentagon announced that two more American soldiers have been killed in Iraq.
"What the hell?" The question slipped out of Petersons mouth almost without his consent. America invading Iraq? That was ludicrous, nobody in their right mind would even propose it. Bomb the place flat, perhaps, the way SAC had done back in '72, but send ground troops in? It wasnt just mad, it was obscene. Peterson began to get an ugly feeling that this wasn't his country. But if it wasn't, where was it? What was going on?
"I thought that as well." It was the man sitting on Petersons right. Peterson wasn't even aware hed spoken out loud. "Said at the time we shouldnt go in."
"Damn right." Petersons voice was heated. "If the place wasn't a threat, we shouldnt be there. If it is a threat, it shouldn't be there. That's what we've got our bombers for."
The man on Petersons right looked disgusted and left. There was a chuckle from his left. "You'll have to forgive Jerry, he's a nice enough guy but a bit messed up. One of the lets blame us crowd. Every time something happens its the rolling eyes and what did we do to provoke this. You look like you're from out of town?"
"Yeah, in for a sales trip. Dave Peterson, I'm in construction. You?"
"John Reeman, trucking. This is a nice town, my route takes me through here twice a week. Just off the Interstate, hello, what's she up to?"
There was a woman up on the television screen, Peterson recognized her immediately. Hillary Clinton. She was going on about a mass shooting at some college down in Virginia. Somebody had gone on a rampage and shot down thirty or more students. She was using it to support some sort of gun control law. What on earth was she talking about? Gun Control was a dead issue, a concept that had been ruled unconstitutional almost fifty years ago. And everybody knew people were much safer with guns around. If one of those kids had been armed, the rest would still be alive. Peterson looked around casually, that was another oddity, nobody seemed to be armed. In any diner like this, there should be a couple of customers with holsters casually attached to their belts.
The trucker paid for his meal and got up "If it isn't a threat, we shouldn't be there, if it is a threat, it shouldn't be there. I like that. Have a nice day Dave."
Peterson finished his burger and started to pay the check. He was going to add a dollar tip but doubled it, then added the loose change, the way prices were in this town the girl behind the counter deserved every penny she got. She looked at the tip with ill-concealed delight. "Miss, could you tell me where the library is? I need to do some research." There was something very wrong and Peterson wanted to find out what. Was he the victim of some enormous prank? Hed heard of television shows where they played elaborate tricks on unsuspecting victims. That had to be what was happening here.
"Sure Sir, straight down Main Street, about three blocks. Watch the traffic, its mean this time of the morning."
Peterson thanked her and left. Sure enough, the traffic was rough. Didn't seem as well disciplined as he was used to. Even as he watched, one driver ignored the red light and blew straight across the junction, blasting his horn at people in the way. Damned fool, Peterson thought, then he heard the siren and saw the driver being pulled in by a cruiser. Serve him right, Peterson knew the penalty for running a red light. Three grand or thirty days. And an insurance bill that virtually doubled. Much worse if running the light caused an accident, put a man in hospital doing that and the driver responsible would have to make good his salary until he got out. Or his insurance company would and they would get their pound of flesh back with savage interest. No, that driver had to be a damned fool.
Then, another incongruity struck him. He'd been walking around for over an hour now, and he still hadn't seen a rotodyne going overhead. Back home, he'd have seen at least three or four by now. It wasn't as if there was a shortage of suitable buildings, there were two multi-story parking lots he could see. That was the standard inner city airport, a multi-story parking lot with the top floor equipped as a rotodyne pad. So where were the rotodynes? Did nobody fly around here? Or had the busybodies whod tried to ban rare hamburgers also decided flying was too dangerous?
The library was ahead of him and Peterson let himself in. There was an old lady behind the counter, reading something or other.
"Excuse me ma'am, do you have a copy of the Citizens Almanac I could look at?"
"Sorry Sir, don't know what you mean. What do you need to know?"
A librarian didn't know what the Citizens Almanac was? The Federal Government published it every year, or rather the Contractors did in their name. Full statistics about the U.S., who the Federal officials were and what they earned, all sorts of useful stuff. Extracts from their speeches, records of the way they'd voted, everything a citizen needed to make up his mind on who to vote for. Then there were the details on the armed forces. Who had what, where, the number of troops, their equipment in service, being built or on order. It wasn't a small book but everybody had one. The Petersons had two copies, the public one and a private one her friends circulated.
"I just need some data on America, government, economy, armed forces and so on."
She pushed her lower lip out. "Here, try these. The economic stuff is in the International Monetary Fund International Financial Statistics, the military stuff is in this one. Its a British publication, got lots of military information in it."
Peterson took the books away. The economic data was an eye-opener, one that confirmed that, wherever he was, it wasn't his home. The GDP listed for America was almost twice that of his America, but the price indexes were savagely greater. He thumbed through the book and got to the more detailed price and wage information. In this America, people got paid twice as much as back home, but prices were at least three times higher. He did a quick calculation, if there was a David Peterson in this strange place, well he was a poor man by comparison. Peterson had worked out that he was over 40 percent better off than his notional equivalent.
Time to look at what was really important, the military side of things. After all, thats what governments were for. The British book was fascinating, The Military Balance it was called. There was even a listing for Germany and Peterson was grimly amused at the concept of Germany having any armed forces He turned to the page that dealt with the US and saw the heading deployments. Dear God, there were 150,000 troops in Iraq? That told Peterson that either this was a joke or something was very wrong. There weren't 150,000 troops in the whole US Army. And the list of deployments went on and on, there were US troops scattered all over the world. That settled it, this wasn't his America. Then he turned to the Air Force. No SAC! The strategic bomber force was a handful of B-52s? The Air Force had scrapped those twenty years ago. Some ballistic missiles! What sort of insanity was this? He flipped to the strategic defense section. Nothing, nothing at all. Where were the squadrons of fighters? Where were the missile batteries? There were a handful of anti-ballistic missiles up in Alaska. Madness, America had its troops scattered all over the world and the country was open and defenseless? It was insane, quite insane.
NO.
Peterson household, Alexandria, Virginia, 2007
Peterson's shout woke him up, he was sitting erect in his bed at home, his wife gazing at him, deep concern mixed with sleepiness on her face. David Peterson had reached his mid-60s, the age where she was concerned about his health. Age was not something she worried about of course, not for herself, but for her husband it was different.
"Nightmare. A horrible nightmare." Petersons voice was croaking as he tried to rouse himself from a half-awake state.
"Tell me about it, hon. It'll help."
"I was in a world, like ours but different. Everything cost more, there were German and Chipanese cars on the roads, everybody drove like idiots. But the worst thing was, the Government had troops all over the world, in the Middle East, the Balkans everywhere. For all that, we had nothing to protect us, no fighters, no missiles, no bombers, nothing."
Judith Peterson clucked over him for a few seconds, soothing noises to calm him down. "I'll get you something to drink." She glanced at the bedside clock. 3 am. That gave her an idea. "Why don't you watch television for a few minutes." She picked up the remote control and flipped on the Discovery Channel. She'd thought so, the timing was serendipitous, the program was just starting.
"And now, an encore presentation of this evenings Family Favorite's. Tonight, we are visiting the 100th Bomb Group based at Kozlowski AFB in Maine. General Eamis, I understand something very important has just happened for the 100th?"
"That's right Bill, we've just finished re-equipping with the new B-106B, the Aurora in place of our old B-70s. We thought wed been left out when the 35th got the B-103 but the new 106 is something really special. The Turboscramrockets give us full sub-orbital capability and, with drop tanks, we can even get up into orbit. The engines are the thing of course, and were on a big learning curve there. But perhaps Sergeant Winslow could tell you more about that."
The scene cut to one of the hangars where a slightly self-conscious Sergeant was standing in front of a brand-new B-106. He talked for a few minutes about his work in maintaining the new engines, losing the self-consciousness as he got involved in the subject. The interviewer steered him neatly around material that was too technical or classified, then brought him to a conclusion. "So, Sergeant, I understand your wife is still in Pasadena and you haven't seen her for more than three months now. Well, she asked us to tell you how much she loves you and looks forward to joining you here next month. In the meantime, she asked us to play your favorite song, the original Betty Smith version of House of the Rising Sun for you."
David Peterson relaxed back into the pillows, listening to the old classic while the memories of the nightmare faded. He should have known it had all been a crazy nightmare, no sane government could really let things get that screwed up.