Don Pendleton - Civil War II (13 page)

"You said Bogan is in it," Tromanno recalled. "If they have the army, what else do they need?"

"Our armed forces are pared to the bone, sir. Quick-reaction teams and hordes of technicians—that's most of the army. The navy is little more than a convoying force to protect our foodstuffs shipments from the desperate nations. Air Force is mostly mothballed except for a few fighter wings for continental defense. Automated Defense Command is the major fist of the nation; it could have no role in a civil war. No sir, it's going to be an old fashioned method of warfare if any at all. It's going to be a people war and they've got the weapons."

"Where'd they get them?"

"Army has been secretly unwrapping the mothballs and stacking them about the country at deactivated facilities. Rifles, machine guns, heavy weapons, armor, munitions of every size and type."

"By God, it sounds like they mean business this time."

"Yes sir, I'm afraid so."

"Don't be afraid, Michael. Hell might descend, yes—but could it be much worse than purgatory? Something good, something
vital,
will come out of this, Mike. You wait and see."

"You, uh, struck a chord there, sir. I've been giving some thought to national vitality myself."

The old man coughed and said, "It's about time someone did. This nation has lost its soul, my boy. It has lost its very soul."

"Yes sir, I agree with that completely. About the Toms, sir. Are you safe here?"

Tromanno laughed quietly. "Yes, I'm as safe as I've ever been. As for Henry and Em, they're like family. Fella I had here a year or so ago, though . . . now he was a hardcase. Temporary help. Used to stand out behind the kitchen and throw the butcher knife into a board, hour after hour. Saw him split a two-by-eight once from a distance of over twenty feet. Had a photo of the Governor, the Governor of Colorado, in his room. Or so Henry told me. Knew the Governor's habits like they came out of the same womb. Went back to town on a weekend off, about a year ago, and never came back. They said he'd died." The old man chuckled. "I don't think he died. I'll bet he's gardening or chauffeuring for the Governor right now. I've been wondering, just wondering, all this time. I'm glad you visited me, Michael. But I don't think I can hold my head up another five minutes. Gravity gets heavier on the old frame every day."

"Well . . . I've enjoyed the visit, sir. And the conversation, as ever, has been entirely stimulating."

"All conversation does is rustle the leaves in the trees, Michael," the ex-president wheezed. "A leaf, you know, falls to the ground and rots or gets burnt. So do a lot of thoughts, produced by stimulating conversation. See to your leaves, Mike. Go on. Go see to your leaves."

CHAPTER 5

The scene at Oakland's Warhole was one of bustling but orderly activity. Ten giant troop copters stood in receiving formation across the artificial turf, great rotary wings whispering softly in a slow idle. Abraham Lincoln Williams sat at the center of the old press box, now a loadmaster's tower, his face close to the glass window in stiff inspection of the activities down on the field. The spectator areas of the massive stadium were filled to capacity with dark young men in U.S. Army combat garb, from which seemingly endless queues extended from all sides to the field.

General Jackson Bogan paced back and forth across the booth behind Williams, speaking occasionally into a hand mike as necessary to give directions to platoon leaders as they moved their troops along the embarkation lines and toward the aircraft.

Suddenly an amplified voice drifted across the stadium, breaking the muted sounds from below. "Aircraft approaching from two o'clock."

Bogan snatched up another headset and spoke briefly into it. He listened for a moment, then instructed, "Let him land if that is his intention. But if he comes within a thousand yards of our traffic pattern and appears to be passing on, then help him land."

The General tossed the headset away and told Abe Williams, "Hover car. Might just be lovers on a moonlight ride." He ran a finger nervously along the base of his nose, then barked into the command net, "Dog Company, take up that slack, move along to Station 10."

"Nuts," he said, glancing at his civilian chief. "Moving this number of troops in such a limited area and keeping this schedule is an exercise I don't care to repeat."

Abe Williams seemed not to have heard. He was gazing into the sky toward San Francisco. "That hover car is coming in," he decided. "And I'll bet I know who's in it. Look at that. He's seen our big birds, and still he comes down. What's the latest from Ritter on that Washington hit?"

"Generally satisfactory," he reported, rather disinterestedly. His main concern was obviously with the operations below. "They lost Winston, though. Just flat lost him. In
church,
of all places. But Ritter believes Winston is neutralized."

"Well I'll bet we're going to find out right quick," Williams declared unemotionally.

"The hovercar wouldn't be one of Ritter's? Don't his people know the recognition signals?"

"No," Williams sighed. "No, I think this must be Mr. Guts himself."

Bogan stared down upon the little hovercar, just beginning to settle onto the turf between two overshadowing copters. "Mr. who?" he muttered.

"Mike Winston. Well that nervy ... Look at that. That's him, all right. Can you
beat
that nervy ... ? Give me that headset, Jack—quick!"

The General tossed him the radio gear and Williams jerked the transmitter to his hps. "Leave that whitey breathing and handle him gently! Bring
him
up herel" His eyes were anxiously on the scene below as a voice crackled back through the earphone. "Yes, this is Top Man. Get him up here!"

He returned the headset to Bogan and told
him
, "You know, you just have to admire that guy. He's like the old British Empire men—crusty and gutsy and absolutely

incorruptible. I wonder how he ever survived the Arlington administration."

"With bruises," the General replied.
"Chopper One, you're loaded. Batten down and get ready."

Williams was watching the distant approach. He grinned and said, "Our esteemed commissioner has had a very frustrating day. Just look at him. Tired, middle-aged hero, and nobody knows it yet, not even him."

Bogan grunted and resumed his pacing. Presently Mike Winston appeared at the glass door, dwarfed between two enormous black soldiers. One of die escorts opened the door and called in, "You want him, in there, sir?"

"Yes, leave him," Williams instructed.

"We took a gun off him, sir. Watch him."

The black leader waved the soldiers away and watched Winston walk into the press box. He glanced at Williams and went directly to the window to gaze soberly upon the scene below.

"Nightmare alley," Winston muttered. "First time I'm sorry to be right."

"If you thought this was happening, why'd you come?" Williams asked, a faint smile playing at his lips.

Winston sighed. "I wasn't
that
sure. I overheard an Air Police signal about troop 'copters over Oakland. I wanted to see for myself."

"Now you see."

"Yeah, now I see. Pretty cute. Wargames cover and all. You feel really ready for this, Abe? You think you can take on the United States of America?"

"What do
you
think, Commissioner?"

"I think you're out of your mind. I can't let you do it, Abe."

Williams laughed. "And just what do you propose to do about it?"

"I didn't come here to plead with you," Winston said. "Reason, maybe. I doubt that you know what you're walking into. Arlington's been onto you for some time. He has some counter-strategy going."

"Like what?"

Winston shook his head. "I don't know like what. But

he's a crafty old fox. I think he's working something on you, Abe."

"He just
thinks
so," Bogan declared, joining the conversation.
"Okay, Chopper One, assume flight station."

"Yes, we know OF White Devil's master plan," Williams told Winston. "He's been setting us up for a total knockover for the past four years. He'd planned to unveil it a week before election day. You tell me why."

Winston rubbed his forehead and continued staring at the activities on the field. "I don't know why, even assuming your information is correct. But let's hold this operation a moment while we discuss it, eh?"

Abe Williams laughed in his face. "Hear that?" He jerked a thumb toward the playing field and the sound of huge rotary blades whipping the air.

Chopper One rose slowly from the deck, heeled over at sharp angle, and side-slipped beyond the enclosing walls and toward San Francisco.

"Too late for reasoning, or for pleading, or for anything, Commissioner. Oh, and it's even too late to be calling you
Commissioner.
Your commission expired, Winston, three hours ago."

"What?"

"Oh, didn't you hear about that? The President fired you. Publicly."

"Chopper Two, you're loaded,"
Bogan declared, in the background.

"Fired me on what pretense?"

Williams chuckled. "You're an enemy of the state. Carousing around with town niggers, always making trouble for your country, keeping the niggers stirred up all the time and unwilling to accept their heaven-declared fate."

"Well, it figures," Winston said, sighing.

"He said you were even going to marry one once."

A muscle twitched in Winston's jaw. "Did he actually bring her into it?"

Williams nodded. The smile was gone. "He did. On nationwide television."

"Bastard," Winston muttered.

"Chopper Two, assume flight station."

Williams was watching the white man closely. "It's all over for you, Winston. Those men done you wrong, the same way they done me wrong—and I'd guess for precisely the same reason. They don't care if you're blaok or white. They only know you're weaker than they are, and they're going to do you wrong come hell or fair acres."

"This is all crazy. Arlington is crazy.
You
are crazy."

"Sure I am," Williams replied agreeably. "Crazy enough to play their game, their way. And at dawn, which is just a couple hours away from Washington right now, the balance of power is going to change. The President's cabinet is going to die. Your boss dies. The Inter-Military Coordinator dies—all of the hatchet men, the henchmen, all the crazy devils die at dawn, Mr. Winston. Your friend Fairchild is already dead—his woman too, regrettably. We tried to make
you
die, Winston. You wouldn't stand still long enough. So now here you are, ex-Commissioner, standing still for us."

Winston watched Chopper Two rise from the pad.

"All right, kill me. If I can't stop you, then you'd better kill me. Before I strangle you with my bare hands."

"Talk sensible, man. How could
you
stop it? How could / stop it? This thing didn't start today. It didn't start yesterday, or last year. I couldn't stop it right now if I
died
trying, which I wouldn't. You've got twenty million people eating shit, Winston. How long did you expect to get away with it? These are
Americans
you're shitting on, Whitey."

"Yeah, Americans," Winston murmured.

"Chopper Three, you're loaded. Batten down and get ready. Third Platoon! This's no damn drill! Pick it up there. Move on station!"

"You want to know how determined we are? Can you imagine the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs standing out here directing a local combat operation?"

"Whatever logic you want to use, Abe, this is wrong. It's wrong right down to the pit of my stomach and yours. I know you, I know the kind you are. And dammit
you know this is wrong1"

"Lift off, Chopper Three, lift off!"

"You go to hell, Winston. Don't you stand here in this black town that betrayal built, and argue right and wrong with
me.
We're breaking out. It's that simple. I might let you live awhile. I
might.
But you keep remembering where you are and who you're talking to. You keep
remembering
it!"

"Chopper Four, what the hell! Hold that bird steady. Third Platoon, shake it, shake it!"

Winston sighed and turned away from the terrible sight. "Well," he declared in a hushed voice, "I guess all I can do now is pray for a miracle."

"Won't do any good, Winston," Abe Williams told him. "I tried that twenty years ago, and I tried it ten years ago, and I tried it five years ago—and thousands before me have been trying it for two hundred years. And it never has done any good." He jerked a thumb toward the window as Chopper Four slid past. "There's my prayers now, Winston. Angels with rotary wings, come to carry my people out of hell. You get some prayers like that going, maybe you can do some good." He paused to gaze down at the endless stretch of uniformed men. "Otherwise, Whitey, otherwise . . ." He turned his thumb down, in the classic symbol of death.