Chapter ONE
Red Glare.
In the far corner of his left eye, out of the broadcast booth. Maybe out the far window? No way. It’s so crusted with ivy.
Paulie shrugged that thought away, a wool blanket on a hot morning. Had to be on the big equipment. An arc.
Overpeaking transmitter back in the equipment room, he thought - having seen that before, if you turn the output too high - but he hadn’t seen a peaking needle on the panel.
His ears popped liked he’d just climbed 5000 feet. A rumble.
Fuck did I blow a transmitter?
He checked the digital timer on the current song, a habitual task.
His gangly hands danced across the college station’s panel, a wash of blue-white flannel and black metal. Bulky earphones, brought up on a well-worn paddle, revealed a familiar song, the last 28 seconds of - checking that fucking timer again - Oh, yeah, I played that for Lisha...
That was really bright, he tripped up, mentally doing a ‘second-take.’ Really white and then orangy-red.
Physically, he felt a slight heat. A residue of... smoked 4 hits of decent pot before he came to this shift. So maybe that was just a output spark that seemed really big...
Something must’a fried bad.
He sniffed the air but there wasn’t anything. Transmitters smell of oily metal if they fry. The options were quickly and quietly weighed and surfed. None of the needles were off. He shook his head, saying “no” like he did when his Dad pushed the swing too far... so long ago, it seemed.
“Fuck!” was all he could muster verbally, until he took a sharp breath, and muttered “I didn’t even have it cranked up.” He considered leaving the booth, turning everything off, perhaps popping upstairs for a quickie with Isa, gorgeous auburn Isa, but that idea dropped away.
Isa. There’s a whole book there.
Because he knew he’d hear about this over-wattage tomorrow from Professor Langdon, from the other DJs, and from the newspaper staff if the radio failed, on dummy-up night. It was a connection he felt, because he had another of his series in that paper. He wanted to be there until it was done. It was a ritual. Maybe an obligation.
When the ground wave hit, Paulie dismissed it as a remnant of a tequila shot he’d taken - as a dare at the Delta House pre-function - and physically it was abrupt and it popped his chair off the floor.
In later years, he would say he had initially thought it felt like an earthquake. Not a close one, but a deep roller. Far away. But he felt that first sharp shock, the one that took him for a mental ride. The one that ruined the night.
“It’s The End Of The World” by REM was only 20 seconds from fading to untenable silence.
Paulie knew he had to do a station identification at 11 past the hour. That was gospel.
That’s two songs away. I’m stoned. Get it together Orcutt!
He knew he had a Clash song spun down a quarter-turn on the other turntable. “London Calling” was one of his favorite songs. Also at his disposal, an 8-track cartridge loaded, ready to play Golden Earring’s “Radar Love,” which was always loaded in case of unexpected ‘dead air.’ The 8-track held 4 tapes, the last three slots held public service announcements. Fucking boring ones.
Paul “Paulie” Prince Orcutt was spinning old 80’s vinyl on 90Spot3 FM that Thursday. Some Thursday shifts he’d just play all requests, and run the 100-watt station into the AM hours. He didn’t have to pay for the power, he reasoned, when he kept it on late for the first time last fall. he wasn’t in the MEDIA Department, but he was the only one who wanted that late shift.
The newspaper staff was working two ivy-swathed buildings away, third floor, and they kept requesting their favorites on the phone. Paulie expected this, and welcomed it.
(A tiny - albeit prominent - yellow lamp, a bulb under a scratched plastic dome, gracing the panel’s upper right side, lets you know the phone is ringing. It goes on if people are listening.)
Seth and Marjorie and all associated MEDIA department people were dummying up that week’s edition of the ‘Linkshire Edition.’ Furious editing and copying and pasting was involved, Paulie knew. He’d seen them do it, twice. It is a laborious process. He knew the smell of the wax that bound the words to the page that would head to the printer in Salem by 6 AM. He knew most of the other journalists, and felt no competition at all from them.
Red Glare.
On the mixer panel. Top right.
Two reds.
Simultaneously, on the big box racked in the Equipment Room, off to Paulie’s left a series of lights. The tone in his phones became irritating. Insisting. Frantic. Known.
Paulie pulled off those ‘Princess Leia’ headphones and swiveled to port, expecting something to fizzle out in that darkened room beyond. He hoped to see something melt, or spew sparks. It could be cool. The fire extinguisher was mounted on the inside of the ‘cage.’
It was...
The Emergency Broadcast System lights. The audio tone of it overrode anything else on his headphones, now discarded to his lap. The amber phone light also lit, as an accent.
Paulie snatched up the telephone handpiece from its cradle, brusquely spat out “Not now!” and hung up. The amber light lit up as soon as he hung up.
The outside hallway began to stir with noise. He looked right, through the large glass panel that held down sound and looked great. Too late for that kinda noise, he thought.
The EBS tone went through its paces. Paulie reached for the black manual, and out fell the two yellowish envelopes distributed monthly to every radio station in America. One was for tests, and the other wasn’t.
If the book’s day-code matched the corresponding card-code, it was a valid message, Langdon had told him, eying him to make sure he’d understood.
And then there was dead air. The dread vampire of radio.
“This is not a test,” it began. “The Emergency Broadcast System has been activated. Stand by for further information.
Sam Stearn popped through the door, out of breath. Paulie made an instant assessment of his state. He was a senior, and knew the whole radio station. He was sweating, his button-up cotton shirt sticking in odd places. His dirty-blonde hair was tussled up. His fly was curiously unbuttoned atop his torn-knee 501s. He was barefoot and didn’t look like he wanted to be.
“Fuck man, you see that?!” he yelled as a question. Spittle flew at Paulie.
“What Sam?! I’m here! The EBS is fired up.” His voice was hoarse.
“That explosion,” he stammered, “Looks like Portland.”
Paulie felt his neck hair stand. The room seemed to chill.
He turned back to the panel and keyed the microphone.
“Be right back.”
It didn’t matter. The EBS overrode the panel.
The tones. He stayed a few moments more. Sam was jostling back and forth on his ankles at the studio desk.
“It won’t work, Paulie...” They both knew the microphone would be disabled.
Shouts from the dorm above became more obvious as the security door cracked open with increasing frequency. You could hear the ‘thud’ below when it found its ‘chock’ again, and locked behind fire-proof steel.
The three floors above were emptying. The rooms had generous windows, and the light and shock had left no one asleep, or stoned, or drunk. (No one slept through it, as far as anyone could tell, was the topic of discussion weeks later in the Student Cafe.)
The ‘Highest Building in Yamhill County’ had a direct view through the oak grove to the north of what had happened, and exits at the west side produced ‘girls in panties and blankets’ to the delight of the guys that cruised out, leaving other dorms. Some migrated to get a better look.
They poured out to the rose garden. “That flash,” was oft repeated. There was an unmistakeable orange glow to the north. And a slow rumble.
Maybe Portland is on fire, like Chicago from that cow and the lantern, Paulie thought.
Adrenaline was getting high.
“This is a broadcast from the Emergency Broadcast System,” it started, as it always did.
No one was in the studio.
"This is not a test."
“An emergency alert is in effect for the following counties: Willamette, Washington, Yamhill...” the feminine voice trailed off, robotic, clipped and impersonal in the din of actual noise. “Stand by for further instructions.”
Sam and Paulie ran back in and caught some of the broadcast.
Once he heard “Yamhill,” he knew ‘the fan was already covered in shit.’
Outside, down the hall. he saw the reflections of bright red and blue flashes that mean that one thing.
Cops.
Outside, now filtering in.
A wall of uniforms started filling the hallway as Sam and Paulie waited for the confirmation transmission. It didn't go out on air.
The waves were temporarily smooth. Silent. Dead Air.
Then it came.
The chaos descended. Young Paulie Orcutt wasn’t at all ready for it.
Sam made an excuse to leave. He'd had weed in his pocket, it later turned out. The cops were too much.
Much later, the physicists would call this the “Garage Job.”
It was a particularly dirty fucker. A Frankenstein Atomic. Bits and pieces. Fallout was off-the charts, so deaths would continue for decades as the cancers settled in.
The burning ruins of Northwest Portland incinerated almost 8 thousand households completely - denizens included - and a untidy 10 square miles around it was dosed so intensely with radiation that they - almost 45,000 living scabs, had a few days.
They wouldn’t be good days.
