Don Pendleton - Civil War II (14 page)

And in the background, the steady voice of General Jackson Bogan. "
Batten down, Chopper Five, you're loaded."

CHAPTER 6

Private Alfred Hannon, California Guard, propped his rifle against the guard shack and dug inside his jacket for cigarettes and lighter. After he'd gotten the cigarette going, he continued to hold the lighter cupped in his hands, warming them by the flickering flame.

What the hell was the need for a guard post way back there anyway? They had a guy on the gate up front, and one at die rear—what'd they want with posts inside the compound?

Being in the military was all right at times. It had its moments. This was not one of them. The good moments were when you got into your dress uniform and went back to the Marin Strip and showed the girls how a white man looks in a jazzy uniform. Yeah. They went into zots over that uniform. But right now Pvt. Hannon was wishing that his six months of Active was over. There was no sense in this stuff.. . standing around out here in the cold, in the middle of the night, with nothing but the coastal fog for company.

As he was thus engrossed in his thoughts, a peculiar sound bore in on his consciousness, a strange flapping as though a million seagulls had appeared overhead at once. What the hell could it be? Hannon peered up into the

swirling mist which typifies that portion of coastline at night. A chopper?

Yeah, it could be one of those big troop lifters. Nothing else in his experience would beat the air like that. But the young soldier could see nothing, and now he was not even certain that he had heard anything. Feet crunching gravel, somewhere off in the darkness. Hannon quickly pinched the cigarette out and flicked it away, picked up his rifle, and tried his best to look something like a soldier walking a guard post. Who the hell would be out here, in the ... ? He could not remember anyone ever inspecting the guard, not once during the two months he'd been Active—but it would be just like that chickenshit sergeant to try to catch him goofing off. Big deal! If the guy wanted to be the big bad military man, then why the hell didn't he darken his skin and get into a
real
outfit? Yeah. Because, dammit, he'd never make the grade in the Regulars, those big mean blacks wouldn't even let him be a private, that's why.

Runnin' around in the middle of the night, trying to catch a guy warming his hands in the cold. Hell, why didn't... ? It wasn't the sarge. The shadowy figures of two men, walking rapidly, passed in front of him some fifteen to twenty feet away. "Hey, you guys!" he called out.

The two spun about, hesitated a moment, then slowly approached. Hell, he should have given them the proper military challenge. Maybe they were from Sacramento. Damn, what big bastards! And what th' hell were they doing in
combat
uniform? And walking around out here in the cold mists
this
time of night? Then he thought of the big chopper. New outfit coming in?
Here
? To the
motor pool
for Christ's sake?

The two guys were close enough now to spit on. They halted and eyed him. He lowered his rifle and grinned. "What outfit you guys with?"

"Th' Freedom Brigade," one answered, stepping slightly to one side.

"The what?" He craned forward to get a better look at their insignia. He saw the rifle butt instead, a split-second before it crashed into his mouth.

He fell over onto his back, it seemed like in slow motion,

and he was still conscious, but it felt like his face was gone. No pain, just numbness, disbelief. What had they done that for? Just because he wasn't walking his post in a military manner? What did they have to do that for? Didn't they know that he was just Guard, Active?

The roar of the Pacific surf was growing louder and louder. It was taking him over, and he was feeling very poetic.
Cradle me, Mother Sea, hold me in your bosom of eternity.

He was dimly aware that someone was standing over him, but he neither saw nor felt the long bayonet as it entered bis throat.

Private Alfred Hannon, California Guard, Active, age nineteen, died quickly—puzzled and painlessly. And perhaps his soul did join the eternal sea. He was the first military casualty of the Second Civil War.

CHAPTER 7

Patrolman Marvin Taylor, California Traffic Patrol, cruised slowly along the Pacific Park Highway, feeling like the only man alive. He always felt this way when he had the night patrol. This big beautiful six-lane parkway and nobody to use it but the cop on the beat.

It had not forever been this way, of course. He could remember a time when this stretch of the most beautiful scenic highway in the state looked like Bayshore during baseball season, with everybody in the whole damn Bay Area trying to get into Candlestick to watch those slugging Giants. Willy Mays, now
there
had been a power.
Bat
power, not
black
power.

They had lost something when they lost the blacks.
They
meaning the country. They'd lost a lot of grief and turmoil with it, sure, but they'd lost something fine, too.

Yeah, they'd lost a lot. Funny how the human mind never appreciated something until you no longer had it. Like the damn traffic. How he had cussed and sweated the damn freeway traffic back in those days. Now he missed it. Tonight, Marvin Taylor felt like the only man alive. Six beautiful lanes, all for the cop on the beat. It had been this way, especially at night, since the heli-car craze. Then the copters gave way to the hovers. But they didn't use highways, either.

The Patrol had been affected, of course. Most of the younger cops had gone over to the Air Division. That was all right. Let the kids have their damn flying vacuum cleaners. He'd be content as long as there was a berth for an old-fashioned cop in an old-fashioned vehicle. Even if he did feel like the only man alive.

He was coming onto the Sloat Boulevard ramp when an unbelievable sight smote him coming off the loop from Funston. Approaching him was a string of automobile headlamps a mile or more long. He touched his brake and pulled to the shoulder, waiting for the phenomenon to reach him.

And then they were flashing by, and his heart jumped. A
military convoy
? How long had it been since he'd seen a damn . .. ? The patrolman reached for the sheaf of papers clipped to the dashboard and rapidly leafed through them. There was nothing there about a convoy! He reached for his radio mike, then changed his mind and instead cranked the wheel and spun onto the median, up the slight embankment and into the northbound lanes, his rear-end fishtailing wildly for a moment.

Then he was straightened out and tearing along the inside lane, beacon flashing, laying on the coals and passing vehicle after vehicle of the long procession. This was exhilarating! How long had it been since he'd had a chance to be a real cop! Too long, much too long!

The convoy was slowing. In less than a minute the patrol car was running abreast of the command jeep. Yeah, by God, it was Regular Army. Two black mercenaries in that jeep. Taylor touched his siren and gave a friendly wave. The jeep immediately swerved ahead of him, into his lane, and one of the soldiers was standing up in the jeep and waving the convoy on by. Taylor was forced to stand his car on its nose to avoid hitting the slowing jeep, then the little vehicle swung onto the Observation Access and pulled into the Seal Rocks Overlook.

The patrol car followed, Taylor feeling a bit sheepish

about the entire incident. Hell, he hadn't meant to screw them up. The convoy was flashing past, however—maybe the boys had meant to pull off here anyway.

He left the patrol vehicle and walked over to the jeep. A young lieutenant half-stood in the seat beside the driver, watching his convoy by. His eyes flashed to the patrolman and he asked, "Your beacon burning for our benefit, officer?"

"Hadn't meant to stop you," the cop apologized. "Just trying to get up front to clear the way for you. That's all."

"On
this
highway,
this
time of night?"

The cop smiled. "You might've hit some trouble up at the bridge interchange. Where you headed—Presidio?"

"Yes, that's where we're headed."

"Well, hell, I'm sorry you stopped." He turned back toward the patrol car. "I'll call ahead and have a unit take you in."

"Just a minute, officer," the Lieutenant said. "Uh . . . the driver thinks his left front wheel is loose. I'm afraid neither of us is very mechanically inclined. I wonder if you'd .. ."

So that was it. "Sure, be glad to," Marvin Taylor assured the military. Hell, he was glad they hadn't stopped on
his
account. "You young people spend all your time floating through the air and in those whiz cars. How could you learn anything about wheels?" He chuckled and walked around the front of the jeep. The driver was already on the ground, his hands gripping the tire. "Well, let's have a look."

The patrolman knelt beside the soldier and examined the lugs of the wheel with his pocket flash. Without warning, he was seized by the neck. Another hand looped into his leather belt, and he felt himself being hoisted into the air.

There was no time to react, nor to assess the situation, nor even to wonder about it. All Marvin Taylor realized was that he was floating free, and that the foam-flecked rocks he'd gazed at so reflectively a few minutes earlier were now rushing up to meet him.

The patrol car followed seconds later, crashing through the guard rail and spinning crazily as it sought to find its place in the law ... the law of gravity.

But Patrolman Marvin Taylor, California Traffic Patrol—was the first official civilian casualty of the Second Civil War. For this old cop, the day ended before it fully began, when a black cat crossed his path.

CHAPTER 8

Mrs. Floyd Benton Hewgley raised her eyes from the magazine and followed her husband's progression from the door of their bedroom to the window.

"I was wondering if you were ever coming to bed, Governor," she said, pouting a litde.

"I've . . . been thinking," he murmured, from the window. His hands were thrust deep into pants pockets, his shoulders slumped, his entire manner one of dejection.

"Thinking? Or drinking?"

"All right, both," he admitted. "Why am I always so depressed, Myra? Isn't this what we always wanted? Look at that out there, those rolling grounds, that beautiful expanse of the best grass in Arkansas, never used by a damn soul but the gardener. No kids to play on it, not even any of our own. Is this the Executive Mansion, Myra, or is it the Executive Jailhouse?"

"You think too deeply for me, Floyd Benton, your excellency," she told him. She returned to her magazine, then looked up again suddenly. "It's going to be daylight soon. Will you get in this bed so we can go to sleep."

"A friend of mine killed himself tonight, Myra."

"Oh? Who this time?"

The Governor swiveled about, leaned a shoulder against

the window, and stared at Ms shoes. "Tom Fairchild. We went to school together. Remember?"

"Of course I remember!" She put down, the magazine. "Well imagine that. Isn't he in charge of the federal police?"

" Was
is the word, my dear. Right now he's in charge of a pine box. Success! Tom was a success! But he blew his brains out. That's success, Myra."

"Well I'm not at all surprised," the Governor's wife declared, knowing-it-all.

"You're not at all surprised," he confirmed with heavy sarcasm.

"Well I'm not. Everybody knows what that wife of his is. Poor man. She's a nympho."

The Governor winced. "Bettina's dead too, Myra."

"Well for God's sake! What'd he do—kill her, then shoot himself?"

"Something like that."

"Well, I'm still not surprised. It's that Washington atmosphere. They allow all those Negruhs to live there, they should run them all out."

"Oh, for God's crying appetite, Myra!"

"Don't you swear at me, Floyd Benton. Next I hear, you'll be wanting to turn little Rock back over to them."

"I have never expressed any such intention," the Governor replied dully.

"You should run them out of
Nawth
Little Rock. That's too close, Floyd Benton. It's just too close."

"The mighty flowing Arkansas protects you, my dear."

"It doesn't keep away the
stinkl"

"Oh for God's crying. .. . Myra, I believe I will have to get drunk before I come to bed."

"What
ever
is the matter with you, Floyd Benton? Every
time
I try to strike a
serious
conversation with you, you want to go off some place and get
drunk."

"I don't belong here, Myra. Not in this mansion. I don't know where I belong, but it isn't here."

"You are a
fooll A fooll"

"The Governor is a fool. How true. How true. Arlington's southern fool. I wish I could tell you about his

current plot. Maybe I should. Maybe I should tell the whole world."