http://uber.nu/2001/05/23/

   Code Name: Betty Crocker
   -----------------------
   by James Stegall
   originally published on 2001-05-23

   Godzilla is stumbling through Belgrade.

   An  air  raid siren winds up as the bombs start falling again: boom of
   monster footsteps.

   I'm  so  thirsty I've been sipping a pint of vodka. It's making things
   worse.  Earlier  I was arguing with my mother. How she found me hiding
   in an executive suite beneath the bombed Chinese embassy I don't know.

   I'm  wearing  a Viking helmet with plastic horns and a red superhero's
   cape.  Prior  to  the cruise missile strike there was a Chinese party.
   Now it's dark.

   "There is a microwave in here," a voice is saying. "I know it is here.
   I saw it. Where is it?"

   I  open  my eyes but can't see anything. "It's in the kitchen, mom," I
   call. "Next to the fridge."

   I  am  grabbed  by  my  cape and now I can see a face close to mine --
   pointed, unshaven, bad breath -- demanding: "Who are you?"

   "I'm a war correspondent."

   He stares. Then: "A journalist." He spits, "A liar."

   "I  wouldn't  quite  put  it that way, man. I dropped out of school to
   come over here."

   "School? University?"

   I nod.

   "You're a fool, then."

   "I've been stringing for the AP, man. My stuff's been in the Times."

   "Gah!"  He tosses me back on the couch. "There was a microwave oven in
   this apartment," he says. "I saw it during a meeting. Where is it?"

   "In the kitchen, man. Like I said."

   The  thin  outline  of his body becomes clear. A Yugoslav soldier. The
   onion  smell  of  body  odor  is  overpowering. He disappears into the
   kitchen  and  then  returns carrying the big box of microwave. It's an
   Eighties model: huge with a dial. He plants it in my lap.

   "Carry this," he says. "Go."

   I step on the power cord and nearly trip myself as I stand.

   "Be careful," he hisses.

   "It's just a fucking microwave, dude."

   I  feel  the cold touch of what I assume to be a pistol muzzle against
   my cheek. "Move," he says.

   I  lead  the way up stairs and through a bent metal door into the damp
   midnight  outside.  All  the  buildings  are dark. The air smells like
   burned  plastic.  He directs me: Down this street. Go there. Turn. The
   streets are wet. My red cape snaps in the wind.

   Then he's muttering: "We have a Soviet SA-2 -- surface to air missile.
   Air   Defense   System.   We'll  use  the  microwaves  to  trick  NATO
   anti-radiation missiles, then fire on their bombers. Their bombers are
   slow."

   I'm struggling with the bulky tin box. "Microwaves. You're kidding me.
   How many microwaves?"

   "Many.  As  many as we can get. We will deploy them all throughout the
   city."

   "You're  in  charge  of  microwave  oven deployment? How the hell is a
   microwave going to divert a bomb?"

   "Same  type  of  radio  frequency as the SA-2 radar. The bombs fall on
   parachutes  until the seeker head tracks RF, then they let go and fall
   to target."

   I blink. "You just set the timer, leave the door open and go? Power on
   high?"

   "Yes. Yes."

   "That's  wild,  man.  That's  like  Anarchist's  Cookbook stuff. Betty
   Crocker's  recipe  for  bomb-diversion.  Microwave  ovens  everywhere,
   pointed at the sky."

   I  stumble on a brick and he shoots me a grimace. I tighten my grip on
   the  box.  We're  going  deeper  into the toppled city. The terrain of
   World War II documentaries. The cityscape is like broken teeth.

   Then  his  girlfriend, Margo, joins us. She's a masseuse. She says she
   likes touching people. She asks if my shoulders are sore.

   "Yes."

   When  she  asks  what  I'm doing here, her boyfriend sneers: "He's not
   writing about the war, anymore. He's part of the action." He waves his
   pistol at me. "Isn't that what journalists always want?"

   "I'm carrying the microwave," I say. "That's what I'm doing here."

   "Don't  listen  to  him,"  Margo tells me. "A journalist for the state
   newspaper  wrote  an  article  about his father, and Milosevic had him
   murdered."

   She  touches  the  soldier's  cheek  and his hard face softens. "If we
   could all simply touch each other there would be no bombs," Margo says
   wistfully.  Then she glances at me, asking: "My being here changes the
   entire tone of your article, doesn't it?"

   Before  I  can  respond there is a whistle: a short high scream in the
   air  that  strikes  so  suddenly  we  can't  even move. I hear him say
   "Cruise  Missile,"  and  then  the  sky is white. A wave of concussion
   shocks  through  us, and when I open my eyes I am lying in the street,
   ear  on  the  wet concrete. The microwave lies smashed not far away. I
   take my hand away from my ear and see the wetness is blood.

   "You'll  be  fine,"  Margo  is  saying.  I  can barely hear her. We're
   sitting  on  the  curb.  Everything seems distant. She's drying my ear
   with the dirty hem of my cape.

   "The poet hallucinates by firelight while the cities burn," I say.

   "You're  in  shock."  She  nods  toward  a  pair of boots jutting from
   underneath  a collapsed concrete wall, Wicked Witch-style. Margo holds
   up a GPS receiver and then puts a finger on my slack lips.

   "Special   Forces,"   she   explains,   smiling.  "They  can't  divert
   Tomahawks."

   She takes my reporter's notebook, saying "I'll need this," and adjusts
   the  Viking  helmet  on  my  head.  I look around like a toddler, head
   bobbing. Dawn is glowing beyond the smashed buildings.

   Margo's  eyes  are  deep  brown.  She  is still smiling as she stands,
   executes a slight skip, and kicks me in the face.

   James Stegall lived through that one