Amerika (45 page)

“I thank the colonel,” Gurtman said coldly.

When the Milfords and their visitors returned from their walk, Dieter Heinlander invited everyone to the exile camp for dinner.

“We should go,” Devin told Jeffrey. “These are people you should know. They’re the ones who’ve really suffered and yet hung on to their dignity.”

“Can we film?” Jeffrey said.

Devin shook his head. “Don’t ask me, ask them,” he said.

At dusk, they crossed over the hill to the exile camp, where they were greeted with hugs and cheers. Dinner was a huge, savory stew—“Don’t ask what the meat is,” Dieter warned—and after dinner they all gathered in the bam. They sang for a while—‘You Are My Sunshine” and “This Land Is Your Land” and “On Top of Old Smokey” and “Blowin
⁵
in the Wind” and “We Shall Overcome,” a grab bag of gospel songs and love songs and protest songs from better days—and in time the singing gave way to political talk.

One man said he’d buried his guns ten years before but now he was ready to use them.

Another man protested that violence only begat more violence.

A woman defended Peter Bradford and his support for Heartland, but others denounced Peter as a puppet and a traitor.

The talk flowed back and forth like that; some wanted to take up arms, others to turn the other cheek, and there seemed to be nothing on which everyone could agree.

There were cheers when Ward Milford declared, “The trouble is we’ve been spineless for ten years. I stood there and did nothing while those bastards stole our land, even burned our house. I took it. But I’m not going to take it anymore.”

Then another man quickly defended Peter Bradford. “I’ve got no love for the Russians,” he declared, “but maybe Bradford’s right, maybe this new country, this Heartland business, is the fastest way to be rid of ’em.”

“Dammit, we’re Americans!” one man cried.

Another demanded, “What the hell difference does it make, anyway?”

Devin was seated quietly on the floor, against a bale of hay. Amid the general clamor, his voice was gentle. “I think I know the difference it makes,” he said.

The people around him raised their hands for silence.

“I think deep inside, we all know,” Devin continued. “We don’t want to be afraid anymore. Fear is driving us away from being Americans. Fear of pain, fear of suffering, fear of death. When I ran for president, I was afraid if no one followed my lead, it would prove I was wrong. When they sent me to prison camp, I was afraid I’d lose my ... my understanding, my clarity. When I was released and came back here, I was afraid that someone would notice me, ask me to participate—to live.”

He was speaking so softly that people began to inch forward, so they could hear. Ken was quietly filming the scene.

“Thank God for this town,” Devin continued. “Thank God for an Exile from this camp, a black doctor who saved my life. Thank God for an Episcopal minister who lost Ms faith in the church, but not the people. Thank God for my father and my sister, who reminded me about our ancestors. They showed me that tragedy and nobility are the same thing, that the human condition demands that we endure the pain and simply live our lives.

“My son. The miracle is that my son spent the last two days in that dugout, just like his great-great-grandmother and great-great-grandfather did. My son’s survival is worth any price I have to pay. My son taught me the most important lesson, and I’m not afraid anymore.”

People leaned forward intently; they nodded but did not speak.

“Our ancestors fought for an idea, sacrificed for it, died for it, and we are the result. The idea of America lives in us, and how can we give it up? I know I can’t. Because ultimately I have to be true to my forefathers, just as I have to be true to my son. He’s here, free, and no price is too great to keep him just as he is.”

Devin raised Ms hand and Billy ran and nestled in Ms
arms. He tousled the boy’s hair, and Billy contentedly leaned his head on Ms shoulder. The bam was silent and soon the Exiles began moving out into the night, nodding and wMspering to one another.

Devin spent most of the next day working with Ms father, brother, and son, digging the foundation of the new cabin. In the late afternoon, Ward insisted they call it a day, and Devin took Billy for a walk, down by the stream. When they returned, Ward was waiting for him, along with Jeffrey, his cameraman Ken, and Alan Drummond.

“Could we talk to you?” Ward asked solemnly.

Devin nodded and sent Billy off to help Alethea with dinner.

The men gathered under an oak tree. Devin looked from one face to another, waiting.

It was Alan Drummond who spoke first. “The tMng is, Devin, everyone felt strongly about what you said last night, about not being afraid anymore, about being willing to pay the price of freedom.”

Devin nodded.

“But it’s not enough to tell fifty people here,” Jeffrey injected. “We want the whole country to hear what you’re saying, millions of people. Then it could make a difference.”

Devin had to smile. “Well, then we’ll just have to reserve me a half hour on Natoet and I’ll make the greatest speech you ever heard.”

None of them returned Ms grin.

“Actually, we’ve got something sort of like that in mind,” Ward said.

Jeffrey broke in. “See, Ken here isn’t just a cameraman, he’s kind of an electronics genius. We’ve filmed on a couple of SSU bases, and they’ve got some real fancy communications equipment. Ken figures that if we can get onto the base and find the satellite frequencies, he could use their transmitter to intersect the Natnet satellite. Then you
would
be on Natnet, for five or ten minutes, before they caught on and jammed you out.”

Devin leaned against the tree, Ms face grim, as he felt the weight of what they were saying.

“These satellite frequencies, where would they be?”

“Most likely in the commander’s safe,” Ward said. “But, Alethea, she’s been out there, and knows where the safe is.”

“To get onto that base, to get into the safe, to make the broadcast—-it’d be life robbing Fort Knox.” Devin shook his head.

Ward ran his fingers through his thick white hair. “Thing is, Devin, we’ve got us a plan,” he explained.

As the delegation was leaving, Devin took Ms brother aside. “Would you drive me over to Peter Bradford’s house?” he asked. They had an agreement that, for safety’s sake, none of them would leave their property without a partner.

“Peter’s not there,” Ward said.

“I know. It’s Justin I want to see.”

Ward winced. “Devin, I went by there this morning and it’s not easy—-”

“I know,” Devin said. “But I still want to see Mm,”

“Sure,” Ward said. “I think it was seeing Justin that made me understand what you meant, about not being afraid anymore. After I saw what they’d done to my son, I knew there wasn’t any more room for compromise.”

They drove to the Bradford house in silence. Ward spoke to the defense force lieutenant in charge of the
unit there, and after a few minutes Devin was admitted; Ward waited in the car.

Jackie opened the door. “I’ll take you up,” she said. “I’ve been reading to him.”

He remembered her as a child and he was startled by her grace and beauty. “You remind me of your mother when she was your age,” he told her as they climbed the stairs. “You don’t look so much like her, but you’ve got that same ... I guess you’d call it determination.” Jackie smiled but didn’t respond. She led him into the guest room, where Justin was sitting in his wheelchair. “He’s put on weight,” Jackie said. “He looks real good. He just doesn’t. . . speak.” Her Ups trembled but she kept control of herself. “Do you want me to leave?”

“No,” he said. “No, not at all.”

He knelt beside Justin and held his hand and began to speak softly, but there was no response, nothing at all. The boy’s eyes were open, he blinked sometimes, his heart was beating, but his mind, his soul, were somewhere far away. Devin had seen men in shock in Vietnam, but never anything like this.

He continued to talk to Justin, just as if he were perfectly conscious, until he realized that Jackie had fallen asleep and he shouldn’t stay too late. They all had a big day ahead tomorrow.

“Sure could use you, Justin. If you can hear me—you know I need you for this. We all need you,” he said.

“You know nobody’s accepting this. We’re just going to pound away until you come back. You’re a Milford, one of the best of ’em, and we need your heart and your head—America’s got some big battles ahead. We can’t afford for you to miss ’em.”

He stood and touched the boy’s silky blond hair, then hurried out of the bedroom, leaving the two young people there, Justin staring into the darkness, Jackie asleep.

Amanda was waiting at the foot of the stairs. She wore a simple pink cotton dress, sleeveless and with a high neck, and her hair was bound up with a scarf. He thought she looked strong, yet so delicate too—the wonderful paradox of femininity.

“Alan says he’s improving,” she said.

“It must be subtle.”

She nodded. They stopped at her front door. She had her back to the door and he made no move to leave.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Starting the revolution.”

“Are you serious?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“The revolution against Peter,” she said flatly.

“It doesn’t have to be.”

“Except you want to be an American,” she said bitterly.

“You do, too.”

She turned away, then faced him again, her eyes glistening. “It’s been hard,” she said. “Hard to know what’s right and what’s wrong. Hard to know what to do when you love somebody but you hate what he’s doing. Or even love two people and hate what both of them are doing.”

He had to smile. “Can we both be wrong?”

“Maybe you’re both right, I don’t know,” she cried. “All I know is that I’m afraid . . .”

“Don’t be,” he said. “Please don’t be.”

Her laugh was pained and harsh. “How the hell could I not be?” she asked in anguish.

He took her hands and her arms reached out to embrace him. They kissed, tentatively at first, then greedily. It was he who was cautious, and she who wanted to keep him, to become part of him, to have as much of this stolen and delayed moment as possible. But he knew that there could be no more, not here, not now. His hands loosened on her arms; she understood the signal and stepped back, as if she had been the one to break away.

“Raincheck?” he said.

“You bet.” She nodded, doubting the future, fighting back her tears.

The town square was silent and empty when Puncher set out on his mission, with the first hint of morning light. He rode his old Harley, much like Justin’s but even more battered, gliding serenely along the road out of town, beneath branches just starting to bud. He wore his black leather jacket and a cocky, lopsided smile, as if he weren’t worried at all. His assignment was not too difficult: he could get shot but, besides that, not much could go wrong.

When he came in sight of the SSU base’s front gate he muttered, “This one’s for you, Jus,” and gave the Harley full throttle.

The guards in the watchtower, all four of them, watched openmouthed as Puncher drove full throttle toward the gate.

The tallest guard hoisted his rifle instinctively, although they were in no danger—it was the kid who was in danger of killing himself; the iron gate was built to stop cars.

“Be cool,” one of the others muttered. He was young and slim, and had recently made sergeant. “We got our orders, you know?”

Puncher hit the brakes at the last instant and skidded to a halt beneath the tower.

“Hey, you cocksuckers, wanna fight?” he yelled. “Come on down, I’ll blow your asses away!”

As he shouted at them, Puncher was gunning the Harley, spinning in mad circles—to shoot him they’d have to hit a moving target.

The young sergeant frowned in annoyance. “Go away, kid,” he yelled, and waved at Puncher to leave.

Puncher waved back, mimicking him. “Screw you, Pancho,” he shouted.
“Chinga su madre
—you dig?”

The guard stiffened. The tall one laughed, but sighted his rifle on the cyclist. “No!” the other snapped. “We have orders not to shoot. We’ll send someone out.”

Some other soldiers had gathered near the gate. Puncher saw them and knew the fun and games were over. Smooth as silk, he lit his Zippo, reached inside his leather jacket, touched flame to wick, and tossed the homemade bomb with precise nonchalance at the watchtower’s base. The explosion rocked the tower, set it leaning precariously, but did not quite topple it.

All four guards, knocked to their knees, came up cursing and firing, but by then the crazy kid was rocketing away.

“Go after him!” the young sergeant cried, opening the gate, but when the first troops stepped outside they were raked with gunfire from a distant treeline.

The tall guard scrambled down the ladder. “Wait. We are under attack,” he yelled.

Alarm sirens bit into the morning calm. Helmut was already strapping on his gunbelt, running toward the sounds of battle. The tall guard quickly explained what had happened. “It was a plan to draw us out, but the plan was bungled in execution. We have only one wounded. Shall we pursue them now?”