Interlude the Seventh
Étampes, 54 kilometres from Paris, July 14, 1951
Colonel Fabien Lebeau was tight lipped as the military car sped towards the outskirts Paris. Or, he thought grimly, perhaps one should say what
had been Paris.
For why else would he have received top secret orders to bring a team of his top atomic scientists to conduct an investigation at Paris? Why else was the military grapevine abuzz with rumours of a mushroom shaped cloud over Paris which they had been ordered not to speak of? Why else had the wireless suddenly dropped any mention of the capital from news reports?
Fabien started unconsciously drumming his fingers on the dashboard, a drumbeat which grew louder and louder as they approached Paris.
***
Montrouge, 14th arrondissement of Paris
The car and the small convoy following it drew to a halt at a military checkpoint in the middle of the street manned by two harassed looking gendarmes and two Spanish soldiers. Then a man in the uniform of a
Général de division detached himself from the shadows at the side of a building and approached Fabien’s side of the car.
“Georges!” he exclaimed as the superior officer drew closer. For it was he. Georges Leblanc, the officer-bureaucrat and his best friend who he had not seen in many years.
“Technically it should be sir,” Georges said in a tone of amusement which did not reach his eyes “but I’ll let it slide for an old friend.”
He looked around.
“A word in private if you would Fabien.”
Fabien got out of the car and followed his friend to the side of the street, away from any ears that might be listening in.
“How much have they told you?” Georges asked abruptly.
“Practically nothing. I was told to bring myself and a team of atomic scientists to Paris for an investigation without delay but nothing more than that. Is it true then? Have the Prussians dropped an atomic bomb on Paris?”
“We don’t know” came the reply. “Two days ago there was an air raid, the usual bombs and incendiaries. Then, in the middle of it, there was a huge explosion. The air caught on fire all across the first to seventh arrondissements, a cloud shaped like a mushroom shot up into the air and thousands are dead - some burned to a crisp and others dead without a mark on them.”
Georges paused.
“But none of the buildings were destroyed. They’re scorched, the glass in Notre Dame is smashed to smithereens and there’s countless other damage across central Paris but the buildings themselves still stand. Yet you’ve seen the photographs of Essen - all the buildings within the initial blast radius were reduced to rubble.
“And there’s another thing,” he continued “when we captured Essen we found hospitals still overwhelmed with people dying from a mysterious sickness which we think was caused by radiation but there have been no cases of that reported here. We’re at a loss. On the one hand it seems like an atomic bomb but on the other hand it doesn’t. We need your experts to work out whether it was or not.”
Fabien swallowed, his throat dry, then nodded.
“I’ll set my men to work immediately. They have these devices caused Geiger counters which measure radiation. If this really was an atomic bomb then they’ll find radiation to prove it.”
“Good. You’re the best, most trusted man we have on this. We need answers quickly. If we don’t get precise information soon, panic will break out - and not just among the civilians.”
“Yes sir,” replied Fabien, saluting before turning away to shout orders to his men to get out of the vehicles and proceed on foot.
As the men in the bulky equipment which was meant to protect them from radiation got out of the vehicles, Georges spoke in a voice which struggled to remain casual.
“You know, they say that this radiation sickness is caused by prolonged exposure to somewhere where a bomb has gone off. I’ve been in the city for two days. I have friends who were here when it happened. If this was an atomic bomb, what are our chances?”
Fabien reluctantly turned back to his friend, loathe to be the bearer of bad news.
“If it was an atomic bomb then we’re dead. You, me, your friends - everyone who’s been this close without protective gear. I’m sorry.”
Georges took out a cigarette with shaking fingers and lit it, offering one to Fabien who silently accepted.
“Ah well,” the bureaucrat said “at least we got to see home again before we died.”
“Yes,” Fabien replied wistfully. “That we did.”