“I know about Raven Rock . . . and Mount Weather,” Zig said, referring to the government’s two most secret military bunkers—one underground, one in a mountaintop—that were still in use today, including on 9/11 when Dick Cheney and other top officials were evacuated there. “I’ve buried fallen from both.”
“Then you also know that both bunkers are solely for government honchos and military employees. That’s a fraction of the picture. What happens to everyone else—the millions of U.S. citizens around the country? When the bombs fall, who takes care of them?”
Swaying there a moment, Zig stayed quiet, noticing a gray Buick pull into the parking lot.
“It’s a potent question,” O.J. added, both of them now eyeing the Buick as its door swung open and a middle-aged woman with hip cat-eye glasses got out. Edna from Veterans Affairs. No one to worry about, though the way O.J. was turned toward the window, Zig noticed a small sweat stain in the armpit of his flight suit. Whoever he was waiting for, this wasn’t a friendly visit. “In 1954, to find the answer,” O.J. explained, “the organization that specialized in keeping civilians safe, the FCDA—Federal Civil Defense Administration—was moved out of Washington and into an old sanitarium in Battle Creek, Michigan . . .”
“And this is real?”
“Look it up. The goal of the FCDA was crystal clear—civilian defense during an atomic disaster, which they quickly narrowed to three possibilities: dispersal, evacuation, or shelter—or as they put it, ‘dig, die, or get out,’ and c’mon, you really think anyone wants to die?” O.J. asked, turning back to Zig and pushing his glasses up on his nose.
“I still don’t see what this has to do with Grandma’s P—”
“This is where it was born. Mount Weather was code-named High Point. This Michigan sanitarium was called Low Point, a place where the government would consider every different invention and scenario to protect civilians if a hydrogen bomb hit: two-hundred-bed pop-up hospitals that could fit inside a tractor trailer and be driven to a radiated area within four hours of an attack, collection teams that would mobilize to ID all the bodies . . . They even came up with an emergency plan to move the dead: seven thousand Post Office trucks that, instead of carrying mail, would carry corpses.”
“Upbeat place to work.”
“You do realize we’re now standing in a mortuary?” O.J. asked, still locked on Zig. “The point,” he continued, “was that by 1955, the best ideas were turned into actual exhibits, sent to tour around the country and to state fairs.”
“And people enjoyed that?”
“In 1955? People loved it. Atomic fever and bunker building were in full swing, especially when it came to one of the most popular campaigns, named . . .” O.J. paused.
“Is this where you want me to say ‘Grandma’s Pantry’？”
“Grandma’s Pantry,” O.J. said. “A campaign that urged families to stockpile enough food and water to last seven days. Even had its own slogan: ‘Grandma was always ready for an emergency.’”
“Catchy.”
“You have no idea. It became so popular, Sears started putting Grandma’s Pantry displays in stores around the country, encouraging people to buy supplies and food to save their families. As the Cold War escalated, billions were poured into civilian shelters, massive stockpiles were built, and the Continuity of Government movement was born—focusing around every doomsday scenario imaginable, especially as the FCDA evolved to FEMA, then got folded into Homeland Security. But at the heart of it all was this simple truth . . .”
“None of it would work.”
“None of it,” O.J. agreed, stealing another glance outside. “If a war began and a nuclear bomb really hit U.S. soil, top officials might make it to a shelter, but the rest of us would be leveled.”