More Stories from the Twilight Zone (4 page)

He had to work fast. It was two minutes to noon, which was when he would lose his computer privileges—along with his job. Herb typed in
CASTRO, FIDEL
.

The number of results bewildered him. If world history had passed the man by . . .

But, no. They were all sports-related.

He scrolled to the most recent date, clicked, and waited for the download. “Come on, come on.” Another minute passed as the horizontal activity bar crept across the computer screen at a snail's pace.

At last a video clip staggered onscreen. At a special ceremony preceding the New York Yankees' last game in the venerable stadium, Hall of Famer Fidel Castro was being honored for his long, spectacular career as a starter with the pitching staff. A frail but distinguished-looking old man came out on the field with the aid of a cane and a youthful supporter on either side to accept a plaque and deliver a short, moving speech. He was clean-shaven but for a closely clipped white mustache.

“My English is not sufficient to express my gratitude to this
great land of opportunity,” he began, in his heavy accent. “That it should embrace so humble a stranger to its shores—”

“Baseball?!”

Herb jumped at this cry of rage. He hadn't heard Brian Hurley approaching his cubicle.

“I give you a clear assignment with a deadline, and you waste three hours of company time watching
baseball
? If you're not out of this building in fifteen minutes, I'll have security—Tarnower, are you listening?”

Herb had risen and walked to the elevator, leaving his boss standing there. Whatever personal items he left behind he would never miss—not compared to what he'd lost already.

Driving home, he vaguely remembered hearing somewhere that Fidel Castro had once tried out for the Yankees. The coach was unimpressed, and the dejected athlete returned home to study law and then lead a revolution that would topple the Batista government in 1959. First to go were the casinos owned by the American Mafia, whose bribes to corrupt officials had paid off in huge profits from high rollers who flocked there to drink and gamble. The mobsters fled to avoid firing squads and the casinos were destroyed or converted to uses more in keeping with a Communist state.

But in this alternate reality, none of that had happened. Castro had signed with the Yankees and was too busy throwing strikes to involve himself in politics back home—who wouldn't, given the choice between governing and having his picture on a bubble-gum card? Meanwhile, men named Albert the Butcher and Vinnie Bigs had continued to gain wealth and power and established a sovereign nation devoted to vice. When Batista died, possibly even before, the need to pull strings from behind the scenes existed no longer. Cuban presidents Lansky and Luciano had led the way, and now John “Junior” Gotti, offered his hospitality to a U.S.
president eager to forge an alliance between capitalist countries against the threat from the Soviet Union.

There was an eerie familiarity to it all. No matter how good the first draft, it could always use improvement. Lord knew Herb had burned through reams of paper working his way toward an angle that sold better than all those that had come before. In some ways, things were worse—as few would predict—with one less dictator in the world. In others, they were better. It all seemed to even out, except for Herb's personal anguish. But the pain was his alone; Penny seemed to have made her peace with being childless, so long as he didn't belabor the point. And since Becca and Brian and little Amber had never been born, they had suffered nothing by their passing. In time, Herb himself might learn to come to terms with his loss, and perhaps even forget it. Already he found it difficult to picture their faces, remember the sound of their voices.

Whatever the reason for this . . . this revision (for he found himself thinking more and more like an advertising copywriter), it seemed the race might survive, even benefit. This belated start toward equal rights might mean a smoother transition than had been the case in the rough draft—no riots, no assassinations, no Bobby Riggs vs. Billie Jean King. Maybe he could find a job writing speeches for the leaders. It beat hawking toothpaste.

 

As Herb Tarnower was planning out this bold new future, a pneumatic hatch opened soundlessly in the hull of the Soviet space station
Potemkin,
located approximately one-third of the distance between the earth and the moon, and released an interplanetary ballistic missile armed with a nuclear warhead capable of destroying an area roughly the size of New England. Its purpose was to punish the United States for its friendly overtures to Cuba against Russian interests in the Western Hemisphere, and its primary
target was the World Trade Center, identified in coded radio transmissions as Ground Zero.

 

 

Of course, Fidel Castro was rejected by the Yankees and went on to become one of the most powerful, beloved, and despised dictators in history. Who among his enemies would have thought that in the Twilight Zone that would be good news?

 

The locale is a college campus in Arizona. The featured players are two college professors on their way to hear a lecture on the battle of Midway. Not much of a backdrop for a tale of time travel, is it? Except that this particular university is really parked in the middle of a place where time travel is more a reality than a fantasy. And our two professors are walking toward a lecture hall located somewhere . . . in the Twilight Zone.

The two professors walking toward the lecture hall in the Social Sciences building personified an academic odd couple.

Dr. Alan Petibone, B.S., M.S., Ph.D., headed the department of Astrophysics at the University of Southern Arizona. Dr. Gerald Redmond, B.A., Ph.D., labored in the department of Music, where he valiantly but futiley tried to convince students that the works of such giants as Wagner, Chopin, and Cole Porter were vastly superior to the discordant, tuneless, deafening din regarded as legitimate music by the younger generation.

Petibone was a tiny man whose large head would have been more in sync if attached to the body of an NFL defensive tackle. Redmond, who was tall but reed-thin, had to shorten his stride when he noticed Petibone was beginning to pant while trying to keep up with him. The little man shook his head impatiently.

“We have to walk briskly, Gerry. He'll be starting the lecture in a few minutes.”

“Are you sure it'll be on the battle of Midway?”

“Confirmed it when I talked to Joshua earlier this morning. He was delighted, if surprised, that we're hearing him tell the Midway story again.”

“I don't wonder,” Redmond muttered. “This'll be the fourth time.”

They reached the lecture hall entrance and stopped momentarily so Petibone could catch his breath. Redmond rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Alan, are we
ever
going to tell him?”

“Only when we're absolutely sure he'll keep it to himself.”

Redmond said soberly, “Remember, Joshua Endicott is a distinguished historian. Frankly, I think he'd keep our secret.”

“Maybe. Perhaps if I show him absolute proof.”

“Is our item of proof in that envelope you're carrying?”

“It is.”

“How come you're bringing it today? You didn't at any of the previous lectures.”

“Just a hunch. He came close to triggering a rebuttal
last
year, but not quite close enough. Time to go in, Gerry.”

They found two isolated seats just as Joshua Endicott, chairman of the department of History, waddled to the podium. He was a beer barrel with legs, yet although portly he gave the impression he was made of iron, not fatty tissue.

He spotted Petibone and Redmond, nodding in their direction with a friendly smile. Somehow, that smile increased Gerald Redmond's uneasiness.

“Alan,” he whispered, “how long do we keep this up? It's a wonder he hasn't gotten at least curious.”

“I told him last year he was so mesmerizing, we never tired of hearing about Midway. His ego replaced his curiosity.”

They settled back in their seats to listen, for the fourth consecutive year, to a story they both knew was untrue.

 

“. . . and in summary, I must again emphasize the vital role played by the Doolittle raid in what became the miracle of Midway.
While the raid inflicted very little physical damage on its targets, the psychological impact was enormous. The emperor himself might have been injured or killed, and that alone called for massive retaliation.

“Yet the Japanese military could not believe that twin-engine B-25 bombers could have taken off from an aircraft carrier and must have come from Midway Island. This erroneous assumption marked the turning point of the Pacific war. Thanks to the efforts of band musicians from the sunken battleship
California,
we broke the Japanese naval code, and ambushed the task force that tried to invade Midway. The Nips lost four of their best carriers and many of their top pilots, shifting the balance of power in the Pacific to the U.S. Navy. Any questions?”

A husky black student rose.

“Dr. Endicott, what might have happened if we
hadn't
won at Midway? Do you think a defeat might have cost us not just Midway, but the war?”

“Absolutely not. Remember what Admiral Isoruku Yamamoto is reported to have said after one of his officers congratulated him on the success of the Pearl Harbor attack: ‘I fear we have awakened a sleeping giant.'

“So, even with a defeat at Midway, the sleeping giant already was fully awake. Yamamoto himself warned that America's arms production superiority would inevitably doom Japan. It's almost lunchtime, so if there are no more questions . . .”

He stopped as he saw Alan Petibone waving his arm like a stranded motorist frantically trying to attract someone's attention.

Endicott chuckled. “I see my distinguished colleague, Dr. Petibone of our Astrophysics department, has a question. He has been attending more than one of my lectures on Midway and I appreciate his obvious interest. Alan, what's your question?”

The students stared curiously at the gnomelike Petibone as he
rose. His voice was deep and gravelly, as if the words were rolling over pebbles.

“I have no question,” he began. “I'd just like to respond to the one that young man asked. In a more accurate fashion than the grossly inadequate hypothesis you provided, Joshua, which was pure bullshi—bull manure. No offense, I hope.”

“None taken,” Endicott laughed. “Continue, Alan.”

“With due respect,” Petibone continued, “I think you have greatly underestimated the consequences if Midway somehow hadn't resulted in a decisive victory. As you correctly pointed out, that crucial moment in history hinged almost entirely on two supposedly unrelated events that suddenly became very much related. First, the effects of the Doolittle raid on the Japanese psyche. Second, the application of musical notes to deciphering Japan's naval code.”