Of all the nuclear "Close Calls," I have found the least information on the one where I strolled down our old donated carpet hall of the college radio station thinking, "Aw, c'mon, that's got to be a mistake." I ripped-off the paper kids, and the machine above wasn't a damn Apple device. Nasty, hardened PHONE LINES brought me the...wasn't it the National Emergency Broadcast Network? Anyway, I looked at it, gulped hard, and thought, "Wow, this is the end of the world."
Not Howard's grandson, Nazis? Not Howard's grandson, Commies? Oh, "they" hate my stories, don't they? I strode purposefully down the hall, pulled the manual out, opened the mike, said what I was supposed to say. Then, I powered-down our mighty 2,000 watts, leaned back in the control room chair, figured as did "Worf" on Star Trek, "It's a good day to die," turned-on a monitor for the real St. Louis, Missouri civil defense station, heard a commercial, and thought, "Why am I heaaring that? I thought we're getting nuked."
RING, RING. It was my Communications Arts professor. He said, "Turn the radio station back on, Hughes," but what he could not say was, "Your grandpa is pissed at the Department of Defense, so he shot a space-based LASER at one of their early warning satellites." In 1974? As Jed Clampett would say, "Woah doggies!" And I can't figure out anything in 2010? Yes, I can, such as I passed a "test" by being so nonchalant about potential "incoming" ICBM's. Who stole the yellowed copy from that teletype machine?
Who cares, except I'm so "perfect," it "killed" Howard, if 'ya get what I mean.