The Tinkerbells                             
Copyright (c) 1994, Ed Davis
All rights reserved


                                  THE TINKERBELLS


         "He didn't even read the letter."
         Peter's anger and adolescence caused his voice to rise sharply and
      further aggravated him.  He flipped the two dice lying on the Samsonite
      folding table and caused them to spin out to sixes.  Boxcars, he
      growled inwardly, his hands still fiercely clenched in his pockets.
      Unsatisfied, he resumed his angry pacing.  Tossing dice, even using
      only his mind, hardly eased his fury.
         Across the room, comfortably reclined in his favorite chair, Walter
      Morrison watched his young friend pace and toss the dice on the table.
      A knock on the door stopped the tossing, but did nothing for the
      pacing.  Peter twisted the door knob, from across the room, and watched
      while Olivia's long blonde hair signaled her arrival.
         The slender young woman held the door for Jimmy, the fourth and last
      member of the Friday gathering.  The familiar whirr of Jimmy's wheel
      chair preceded him into the apartment.  He flipped the joy stick
      control and motored to his customary place at the table.
         "Evenin' everyone."  Jimmy and Olivia spoke together.  When they
      were in the same room, or hooked in their unique tandem, they spoke as
      one.  Their super sensitive minds seemed hooked together, as surely as
      if a thick, black cable were connected to each young head.  Their
      thoughts might start separately somewhere in the swirling mass of one
      brain or the other, but what came out was a duet.
         Walter pushed up from his chair and moved the four steps to his
      place at the plastic topped table.  His pack of Kools followed,,a step
      behind, and nestled alongside his arm when he leaned onto the table.
      Everyone in the room knew Walter would have had to quit smoking, for
      lack of cigarettes and matches, if he didn't keep the green and white
      packages following him with some small piece of his ever active mind.
      The three younger members of the group often teased him about his
      absent-mindedness but were really expressing the affection they felt
      for their mentor and friend.
         Olivia tossed her windbreaker at the clothes tree standing in the
      corner and ignored the nylon fabric, as it moved on its own to rest on
      one of the brass arms.
         Peter relinquished his attempt at setting the indoor pacing record
      and took his seat at the small table.  The meeting was opened.
         A carbon copy of the letter causing Peter's outrage, and the focus
      of the meeting, was lying on the table.  Addressed to The President of
      The United States, the letter asked for an immediate reduction in
      nuclear weaponry and prompt elimination of current uses of
      radioactivity.  A thinly veiled threat of the group's intent to take
      matters into their own hands formed the final paragraph.
      
         Delivered in the daily flood of letters, cards and petitions, the
      letter had been placed in the stack marked Possible Threats and
      forwarded with the rest of the day's crank mail to the F.B.I.  The
      President had never been aware that anything signed with a drawing of
      Walt Disney's Tinkerbell had entered his world.  He was a very busy
      man.
      
         The two week deadline the group established passed without any
      change.  They were meeting to decide which way to move.
         "O.K., what do we do?" Olivia, speaking alone for a change, voiced
      the nagging question on everyone's mind.
         "Show them."  Peter's frustration exploded into the room, up turned
      in pitch as usual.
         "Three Mile Island?"  Jimmy and Olivia queried.
         A third vote for their alternate plan was registered with Peter's
      nod, making Walter the lone dissenter.
         "We are fixin' to put our tushes in a terrible bind."  Walter
      disliked being the devil's advocate, but felt obligated to express what
      could become their collective fate.  "There are a lot of bad guys out
      there.  They, and a lot of good guys wearing their red, white, and blue
      hats, will all want to give us a permanent room in one of their special
      resorts.  If we start playing with their nuclear toys, even the ones
      they wish they were rid of, they're going to get nasty, real fast.  We
      need a safe place.  Safer than this old apartment, anyway."
         "Dad's place in the mountains.  Quiet, remote, and those hillbillies
      hate people in black Fords."  Olivia raised her eyebrows, asking for a
      vote.
         Three heads nodded their agreement.  The plan was approved.
         "Go home, get your excuses made and your things together.  I'll gas
      the wagon and pick you up between seven and eight.  Bring what you need
      for a couple of weeks."  Walter played organizer, despite his lack of
      any sense of order.  The meeting ended.  The youngsters left the room
      subdued, but determined.
         Walter watched through the window as the three young people went
      their separate ways.  For all their mental powers, they still lacked
      the ability to see beyond their adolescent black and white view of the
      world.  They wanted the pristine purity of what should be, not the
      multi shaded reality of life.  While they had experimented with their
      combined mental powers, Walter prayed that they were not like gnats
      trying to eat an elephant.  The joint powers of the Soviet and American
      nations were an awesome meal, especially for three kids and one middle
      aged man.  Walter suppressed the images he was having of dungeons,
      chains fastened to blood stained walls, and husky, dark men with
      leather hoods and large whips.  He called his cigarettes, keys, and
      jacket and turned the lights out by hand.  He rolled his eyes toward
      the heavens, imploring divinity once again and locked the door.
      Tomorrow, he thought.  They'll get the word early tomorrow.
      
         No one saw the grey and brown haired man leave the brick apartment
      building.  If someone had noticed, they would not have given him a
      second thought.  Walter looked quite ordinary.
      
         Despite her sharply focused efforts, the First Lady of The United
      States could find no mention of Three Mile Island in her foot thick
      stack of morning newspapers.  She did not understand why, but when
      George wanted her to search the papers for something, she obeyed.  The
      strident ringing of the telephone, at five thirty, had set this search
      into motion.  She had only caught pieces of the Presidential end of the
      conversation.  Phrases drifted across the king sized bed and teased her
      mind.  She couldn't make any sense from the little she heard, but
      George's ramrod stiff back and the terseness of his replies told her
      that important events were taking shape.  Phrases, tantalizingly brief,
      followed her while she dressed.  Phrases like; absolutely clean...?
      Where was security?  The whole mess?
         None of it made any sense, but it tore the hell out of sleeping.
         George remained silent, as he paced the floor, his hands making
      little progress toward rearranging his pillow smashed hair.  She smiled
      gently at the familiar display of Presidential nakedness and waited for
      his mind to sort out his next actions.
         The change came suddenly when he snatched his glasses from the night
      stand and started stabbing numbers into the telephone.  She hurried to
      the small desk and retrieved a note pad and pen for his drumming
      fingers.  She turned her back and rushed to the bathroom to bring her
      husband his false teeth.  He definitely sounded more presidential with
      his teeth in place, that was important even at nearly six in the
      morning.
         The president, his skinny, naked buttocks clenching and relaxing as
      he waited for his sleeping Vice President to answer the ringing
      summons, was amused.  The world might explode, but he would damn well
      be properly adorned, if the First Lady had her way.  He shook his head
      and smiled with pleasure, as his wife of twenty five years hurried to
      win her self imposed race with the V.P.  Her next effort would be to
      get his skinny carcass hidden under some respectable clothing.
         The First Lady beat the V.P. by ten seconds and maintained decorum.
      She accepted the hastily scrawled note from her husband, followed its
      request, and began sifting through the morning editions for mention of
      Three Mile Island.  She thought the issue long dead, but perhaps
      something new had happened.
         The Vice President listened sleepily as the President detailed the
      incredible news.  Three Mile Island, expected to be deadly with
      contamination for centuries, was suddenly pristine and pure.  "In
      fact," the President relayed with amazement evident in his voice,
      "there isn't even the normal background radiation the technicians
      expect anywhere in the world."
         The two men agreed on who needed to know, and broke the connection.
      The Vice President would gather the forces of democracy and assemble
      them to tackle this newly risen Phoenix.  The only problem he faced was
      getting anyone to believe the story he himself was barely able to
      accept.
      
         Later that same morning, after his early morning meeting with a
      stern President and a silent Vice President, Matthew Simmes called his
      most reliable investigator and paced the floor while the younger man
      crossed Philadelphia from his separate office complex.  The two men
      were part of an elite branch of the National Security Agency.  Their
      activities were so classified that only their boss knew they existed.
      Their assignments were so sensitive they seldom met face-to-face.
         Today was obviously an exception, Robert Blanton thought, as he rode
      the elevator to his supervisor's eleventh floor office.
         "Have a drink, Bob," the lean figure behind the desk offered,
      looking up over the newest additions to the clutter of reports covering
      the desk top, extending a quart mason jar of murky water.
         Robert Blanton hesitated, he did not wish to insult his boss nor did
      he wish to taste any of the cloudy liquid.
         "What's in here?" he inquired, holding the jar up to the light
      streaming through the east facing window.
         "Water...  From the core container at Three Mile Island."
         "Jesus Christ!"  Robert lowered the jar to the cluttered desk
      instantly, flinching as some splashed out onto his hand.  He hesitated
      before wiping his hand on his pants leg, half expecting his fingers to
      turn black, or hurt, or something.  Nothing happened.  He looked
      questioningly at Matthew Simmes, who was grinning like a fourteen year
      old boy watching his first carnival girlie show.
         "That stuff's safer than mother's milk.  The lab boys say they can't
      detect any radiation, not even what's present in tap water.  Last
      night, someone neutralized all the radiation in that whole damn
      reactor, including the core.  The FBI, NRC and NSA are swarming around
      down there like flies on a fresh turd.  Nobody knows a damn thing, but
      they're busy trampling each other to find out what, or who, and most
      important...  How."
         Silence filled the room as both men mentally gnawed the bone before
      them.  One man was savoring the unlikely feast for the first time,
      while his dining partner and superior was struggling to grasp the
      subtleties of his second portion.  Neither man got much pleasure from
      their efforts.
         Both men were charged with surveillance of and security against
      those who would wreak nuclear havoc on the country.  They were not
      concerned with military weaponry except when it fell into the hands of
      paramilitary or civilian splinter groups who might use their new found
      power for extortion or punishment.  The missing radioactivity, however
      it vanished, was sufficiently powerful to constitute a weapon;
      therefore, the jar of water, a freshly calibrated Geiger counter, and a
      puzzle arrived a Matthew Simmes' home at seven thirty that morning.
      The two couriers had insisted he read the letter bearing the embossed
      Presidential Seal.
         The hand written missive urged his complete and speedy resolution of
      the mystery and made the usual references to national security and
      welfare.
         Matthew shared his suddenly tasteless morning coffee with his wife
      and shuddered occasionally, as permutations of what had occurred at
      Three Mile Island began to cross his mind.  Radiation, the silent,
      stealthy killer of the Atomic Age was containable, within limits.  The
      death dealing potential of the radiation contained within reactor
      number one was enormous, yesterday.  Today, the water, concrete, steel,
      and exotic metals inside that giant dome were inert, normal.  Actually
      less than normal, speaking radioactively.
         If the same person, persons, or power, decided to help themselves
      again...  Generators would stop, bombs would be mere pieces of junk,
      medical equipment would cease to function, and....  The list of
      civilian, military, and industrial uses of shattered atoms was too
      extensive to worry through, over one cup of coffee.
         Matthew's greatest concern was that the phenomenon was affecting
      only United States atoms.  Lets face facts, he told himself, the
      Soviets would hardly be willing to admit that one of their underground
      tests went click, much less that the radioactivity of the fissionable
      material had vanished like a stripper's G-string.  When it was gone, no
      one could recall seeing it leave.
         "Damn." Matthew swore aloud, the third venting of frustrations since
      he had finished the President's note.
         "Damn it."
      
         "Walter, your cigarettes."   Peter called from the couch.  Peter
      disliked cigarettes, but Walter's single vice was tolerable.
         Walter held his right hand up, snapped his fingers, and waited for
      the package of Kools to levitate and scamper to him.  The older man was
      beginning to think there was some truth to the idea the youngsters had,
      maybe he was really slipping.  He shook his head and walked down the
      hall of the cabin, to make certain Jimmy was resting comfortably.
         Jimmy could move a mountain, if the idea struck his fancy, but
      Walter feared the night's activities had strained even Jimmy's vast
      powers.  Walter was also concerned that all the moving around and
      hassle had done the delicate looking young man some unrevealed harm.
      Jimmy never complained, despite being a captive inside a body that
      resembled something made from the fire sale rejects from a mannequin
      factory.  His shriveled limbs were the result of drugs his mother had
      taken just before his conception.  Jimmy had never walked a step or
      lifted a fork, but his cerebral power had become evident very early in
      his life.  His mother had been watching when he caused his stuffed toy
      to move from the foot of his crib to a more comforting closeness next
      to his cheek.  His mother had maintained her exuberance until her
      husband returned from work.  Jimmy was awakened and summarily deprived
      of his plush puppy.  He unknowingly reassured his mother of her sanity
      and moved the puppy back to its proper place.  His dark eyes closed
      again and slumber claimed the miniature marvel.
         Those awesome powers grew and twenty years later were coupled with
      the strengths of his friends to deprive the officials of the nuclear
      agencies of one gigantic worry bead, while adding to Walter's list of
      concerns.  The radiation was changed but the concern was not.  The
      reactions from officialdom were slowly trickling into the papers, and
      the everyone seemed to want back what had been theirs.  They seemed to
      cherish worries.
         The group had just concluded their final draft of the letter they
      were mailing to the White House.  Jimmy had participated through Olivia
      and their amazing rapport, while he allowed the body he seldom felt to
      rest in bed.  The envelope bore the admonition that the writers were
      responsible for Three Mile Island.  Since no one at the White House
      could have remained uninformed of the most recent events at that ill
      fated piece of real estate, this letter was expected to reach The
      President.


             Dear Mr. President,
                You are, I am sure, aware of the recent events at
             Three Mile Island.  I am proud to be a participant in the
             nuclear cleanup that is sweeping our country.
                I am writing in the hope of enlisting your assistance
             in this enterprise.  You may signal your agreement by
             announcing, prior to 1800 hours, December twenty-fourth,
             that unilateral disarmament has begun.
                You will find enclosed a copy of the letter I have
             dispatched to the Soviets.  Neither country need worry
             about the other cheating.  I will be watching, along with
             many of my friends.
                I trust you will join me in celebrating the coming new
             year, without the threat of atomic weapons.
                All production, assembly and distribution of nuclear
             weapons must stop before December twenty-fifth.
                Merry Christmas to you and yours.

         The letter was signed with a drawing of Walt Disney's Tinkerbell.
      
         A thick snow storm blanketed Washington, D.C., as more than fifty
      people read the copies of the letter that were floating around 1600
      Pennsylvania Avenue.  Like the snow flakes turning the dirty grey of
      the city into virginal white, belying the reality below, smiles
      accompanied the circulating copies of the letter, but did little to
      mask the terror the letter evoked.
         Inside the oval shaped room housing a dressed and properly betoothed
      President and seven of his top advisors, there was no laughter.  The
      President had just asked the question that everyone had been skirting,
      like something freshly deposited by an errant dog.
         "How do we stop him, or them, from carrying out their threat?  If
      there was a threat."
         "Stop 'em hell.  Three Mile Island was locked up tighter than an old
      maid's virtue.  They walked in, neutralized tons of red hot radioactive
      shit and walked back out again.  Not one friggin' alarm chirped.  We
      can't even find which direction they moved the stuff.  Don't bet your
      ass on stoppin 'em."
         The Chairman of The Joint Chiefs-of-Staff was not usually given to
      profanity or excessive conversation.  Saturnine, cool, and aloof were
      the adjectives most often attached to his name.  He had, however, never
      faced the possible loss of his entire arsenal of atomic weapons.  He
      was understandably upset.  The muscles of his powerful jaw line were
      flexing and relaxing, exercising to some unheard music, or perhaps
      chewing on his image of someone who would dare screw up the entire
      world.
         All eight men in the room had just returned from the War Room.  They
      were fully aware that the room would be obsolete in less than ten
      hours, if the threat was real.  The room, like the men who held the
      reins of power, had been framed and built of the seasoned timber of the
      atomic tree.  No power yet devised by man was more feared and less
      seldom used in anger than the modern thermonuclear bomb.  The crude
      devices dropped over Japan were as unrelated to the modern weapons as
      grandmothers and girlfriends.  While both were female, they were
      definitely treated differently.
         The American leadership knew, from the frenzied visits of Soviet
      diplomats based in Washington, that the U.S.S.R had also enjoyed some
      missing isotopes.  K.G.B. agents, spotted by the stepped up security at
      international airports, were pouring into the U.S.  Moscow had pulled
      out the stops in their efforts to locate this newest, and most
      dangerous terrorist before he could destroy the normal insanity
      everyone thrived upon.
         Terrorists, worldwide, no matter how preposterously remote from
      being able to perform the feats of magic that were confounding
      everyone, were suddenly accompanied by men with both Slavic and Anglo
      appearances.  Anyone buying books, spare parts, or equipment connected,
      no matter how remotely, with radioactivity were detained, photographed,
      followed and generally harassed.  Three teachers from Dallas and their
      friend, a librarian, were arrested when they attempted to purchase the
      usual books they used in science fair projects.  Their indignation
      would cost the taxpayers two million dollars in a false arrest and
      invasion of privacy suit.  The feeding frenzy of effort expanded with
      each passing day, until it seemed the nation was completely captive
      beneath a microscope of surveillance.
      
         On December twenty-fourth, the deadline passed, as the quartz
      accuracy the Pentagon obeyed with Pavlovian regularity marched past six
      P.M.
         The rooms did not move.
         The air remained breathable.
         People sat in hushed groups waiting and gradually began complaining.
      After all it was Christmas Eve and the Bigwigs could solve this crisis
      at a more convenient time.  If they tried.
      
         Sixty quartz clicks later the announcement came that all those below
      the rank of Major General could leave.  The trickle of those who had
      snuck out early became a flood, as people dashed for their cars.  They
      hurried to be first at the traffic jams, and were soon joined by their
      slower coworkers.
      
         Word came to the President nearly eleven hours after the deadline.
         "Mr. President, sorry to disturb you, sir."
         "Go ahead, Major.  Who did we hear from?"
         "One hundred and seventy-sixth Missile Group, between Topeka and
      Kansas City.  They have forty-eight Minute Man missiles..."
         "Well, for God's sake, son.  What happened?"
         "We have confirmed the telex by phone, sir.  They haven't had time
      to open all the warheads, but twenty-seven are filled with pop corn.
         The president swung his feet off of the ottoman and slipped into his
      house slippers.
         "Anything else?"
         "Beg your pardon, sir."
         "Anything unusual left behind?"
         "Well... I didn't ask, sir.  Is it important?"
         "No, Major.  Please keep me posted.  This looks like it will be a
      long day."
         "Yes, sir."
         The president wondered idly how much butter was buried in government
      warehouses.
      
         By ten o'clock the President requested an hourly summary from
      communications.  The calls had quickly become continuous, all
      delivering the same message.  The United States military might was
      heading toward cornering the market in impotent military hardware and
      pop corn.
         By six P.M., twenty-four hours after the deadline, the reports were
      nearly complete.  Including the most secret locations in outer space,
      and the most public silos in Kansas, there was not a single nuclear
      warhead in the United States that was anything but a very expensive
      snack can.  One report arrived by courier and included a drawing of
      Tinkerbell.
         A six thirty hot line call to the Kremlin, delayed by the usual
      clicks and snaps of recording devices and eavesdroppers, produced a
      weary Russian Chairman.  From the Chairman's denials and the angry and
      confused discussion in the background, the President knew that The Iron
      Curtain had not delayed the green garbed fairy.  He considered, for one
      devilish moment, asking if the Premier could use Captain Hook's help.
      He bit his tongue, remembering the Soviet sense of humor.
         "Mr. Premier, we will be forced to forego the pleasure of meeting in
      May.  Not much need discussing arms limitations, now."
         "Da.  Some other time, perhaps.  Or some other subject."
         "Merry Christmas, Mr. Chairman."
         "We do not celebrate your Christmas."
         "Well then, Happy New Year."
         "Da."
         The phone went dead.

