Private First Class Jerry Conlon glanced from the radar screen to the other five of his Atomic Gun Post team on the outer perimeter of the city. The look in their eyes was one of dazed alarm. Automatically he ed them in zipping shut radiation suits, and then they went for the gun controls, knowing it was too late. A flash of intolerable brightness faded out the sun. One of the boys—Conlon saw him still struggling with his radiation suit—didn't make it in time. He paid for his slowness with his life.

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