Don Pendleton - Civil War II (19 page)

"The Chief of the White House Secret Service Detail has emphasized, however, that the President has not been threatened, nor is he considered to be in immediate danger. The presidential apartment is fully protected, and it should be noted that the military garrison at Arlington has already commenced movements to safeguard the city of Washington."

Norman Ritter chuckled.

"It is hinted," Silverman continued, "that last night's dirty work was either inspired by, or carried out by, certain elements of the political lunatic fringe which was forced underground some years back. Arrests may be announced at any moment."

"Don't bet on that, Howie," Ritter commented, with a grin at Bogan.

"Perhaps connected somehow to the savage bloodletting in the nation's capital are the inexplicable events in our airspace a few hours ago. The Federal Broadcasting System is at this moment attempting to piece together a coherent analysis of these events. It is noted, by the way, that the father of electronic airways control, George Reamer, is dead—also as of several hours ago. Perhaps there is a connection here with the chaos in our skies last night. Perhaps not. But let us not be programmed by wild rumor. Let us, Americans, await the facts and then act with reason and common sense."

"You'll need more than common sense, buddy," Ritter told the televised image.

"FBS is pre-empting all local programming to maintain this vital communications link with the nation. We shall endeavor to keep the public fully abreast of developments in this stunning situation. In the meantime, our editorial staff at the network studios in New York have prepared special video clips of the murdered officials. Stay tuned. This is Howard Silverman at the White House, just a zot

away. And now to Andy Anderson in New York."

A likeness of the late Attorney-General appeared on the screen, and a nervous voice began a recounting of the dead man's career.

"They still don't know," Norman Ritter declared in a somewhat disappointed tone.

Abe Williams smiled faintly, winked at Ritter, then returned his attention to the viewer. Ritter was on the verge of saying something else; Williams cleared his throat, impaled the intelligence man with a harsh stare, and shot a meaningful glance toward Mike Winston.

Winston himself was totally preoccupied with the television program. His chin rested in a cupped palm and he was staring somberly at the likeness of his late alcoholic boss of the Urban Bureau, Chuck Waring.

Ritter studied the wan face of Mike Winston for a moment, then he lit a cigarette, blew the smoke toward the ceiling, watched it dissipate, and stared thoughtfully at the glowing tip of the cigarette.

"I was just going to say that I always thought of Howard Silverman as pretty sharp," he quietly declared. "Now I don't know. Hell. He doesn't even know yet that Washington is occupied!"

"Wait!" Abe Williams said loudly, sliding forward in Ms chair. "Something's coming off."

The usual procedure of network television was going amiss. A photo of the Secretary of State occupied the screen. Some unseen person was cursing with hushed eloquence. The Secretary of State disappeared, to be replaced by the likeness of the White House commentator in a rear-angle shot as he stared gravely into a television monitor. There followed an instant of startled reaction as Silverman saw his own backside in the monitor, then the scene shifted abruptly to outside the WMte House, the camera picking up a procession of U.S. Army tanks as they rambled along Pennsylvania Avenue. After another second or two of silence, the voice of Howard Silverman was once again in command of the situation.

"We wished to bring you this shot of military activity," he announced smoothly. "It looks like ... yes you'll notice

(hat two of the larger tanks, updated M-60's I believe liav. dropped out of the formation and have stationed themselves in front of the White House. You can see how seriously the military view the current situation in Washington. They are taking no chances with the life of the President. We have been attempting to contact the office of the joint chiefs without success. All incoming calls to the Pentagon are being automatically rejected.

"John Tetrazini, of our technical staff, is outside the White House at this moment with the mobile equipment. Can you pick up a long shot, John, with the telescopic lens? We'd like to see ... it appears that there are some covered military tracks a half-block or so down the street . . . can you bring those in closer?"

The lens of a long-distance camera was moving slowly into focus on a military column, which was moving along Pennsylvania Avenue toward the White House. The commentator's voice was telling the viewers, "Yes, that's what they are. Troop transports. I would not be surprised to learn that they are a special White House guard. Can you gjve us a better angle, John? Oh . . . there . . . what's that? An armored car. A
scout
car, I believe they are called in the military. Just look at those fellows. Our stalwart Blacks, often the butt of jokes and ridicule, but when the cards are on the table, America . . . Well, they certainly look businesslike now, don't they? Our nation should take pride in these young men, dedicating their lives to the defense of their nation ... a nation which has not always been particularly kind or understanding. . . . Uh, John that ensign flying from the scout car, can you get a... ?"

A muscle had been working in General Bogan's jaw. His eyes clashed with Mike Winston's eyes and locked there momentarily, then fell away.

"The Stars and Stripes, ladies and gentlemen. Take comfort in that. . . . But. ... Sharpen that focus, John!
Stars
and stripes? That's not Old Glory! What
is
that design in the. . . ?"

Norman Ritter was wheezing in an attempt to remain silent. Williams and Bogan were staring intently at the television screen and Mike Winston was impassive. Mayor

Harvey reached over and slapped Ritter lightly on the shoulder and the two men erupted in spasms of repressed laughter.

"But how could it... ? That's a
fist,
a
black fist I Tha
t
s not the stars and stripesl"

A confusion of sound followed, accompanied by microphone-feedback squeals and the clatter of a chair being upset. Someone whispered loudly, "Get that other camera outside!
Outside!'

And back at Oakland Town, Norman Ritter was hunched over in his chair, shuddering and gasping in the emotional release of the moment and struggling for control. Mayor Harvey had a hand to his face, dabbing at tears and chuckling merrily. General Bogan had risen to his
f
feet and was watching the confusion on the telescreen with dignified amusement. 

Abraham Williams was watching Mike Winston. The white man's eyes were watery; he felt Williams' attention and turned to him with a gaze of abject pathos. Williams
J
was sm
ili
ng faintly. His eyes sent a message which Winston received, understood and returned. Then the two men turned their attention to the viewer.

Howard Silverman's excited face appeared on the | screen. His headset was askew, one earphone dangling and I the mouthpiece perching jauntily midway between nose and ear. Then the screen went black and a new voice, crisp and unemotional, uttered two words, very calmly: "Please stand by."

Now they knew.

CHAPTER 3

Oakland, California March 10, 1999

Dear Michael,

Just a short few hours ago, before my world disappeared, a very wise and noble man instructed me in the matter of leaf-tending. He likened mental stimulation to the wind that sets leaves free, and noble thoughts to the leaves themselves.

"See to your leaves, Michael," was his admonishment to me.

In this first letter to myself, I must confess a lack of experience in this matter of leaf-tending. And perhaps this is why 1 gropingly set out to press my first leaf with a borrowed pencil and some crumpled paper salvaged from a wastebasket in the War Room of the Oakland headquarters.

After such an introduction, how do I begin this letter to myself? What am I trying to accomplish by this? 1 must confess, Michael, that I do not know what or why. I believe I am groping for myself. Yet all there seems to be to work on, as I sit here amidst the litter of coffee cups and overflowing ashtrays, are rambling emotions and stirring

impulses. I am frightened. I am sad. I am unhappy. 1 am brave. I am courageous. I am bold. I am frustrated. I am challenged. I am defeated. I have not yet begun the fight.

I feel that I am standing on the Universal Date Line, an artificial device which marks the gateway between yesterday and tomorrow. I stand here a ghost, in no-time, with one eye fixed upon yesterday, the other upon tomorrow, and wondering what has become of today. I know that I cannot stand here for long, because the world continues to turn, and no-time is also no-place. I am momentarily suspended, and I must very quickly come down in some-time and some-place.

I have been wrong, Michael. How difficult a thing to say! But, yes, I have been very long wrong. I have known it for some time. I could just not say it, not even to myself. So why, Michael? Why have I drifted along in wrongness, clasping weakness to me in a forge of ignorance, and in dedication to a basic immorality? If anything of life be of value to the human mind, can it be found in any such framework?

No, it cannot. And I know now that 1 am about to step outside that framework. I knew it a little while ago, as I sat watching television in the War Room. What these men have done, as terrible as it may seem, is no more than a natural expression of the human spirit. They are right, and we have been wrong. So, now Michael. Will 1 find the courage to take the proper side in this dispute? In the face of those who call me Quisling, or traitor, or coward—or in the mere prospect of such—will I be human enough and
man
enough to suffer through the courage of my convictions? We shall see, Michael, my lifelong companion. We shall see.

So I have disposed of one vein of the leaf. There is no issue here between right and wrong. That issue is settled. I know now where my sympathies lie. So now I am pursuing a new growth tickling at the fibres of my leaf. Here goes, Michael, just for thee and me. I do not know every Negro in the United States. I am acquainted with a few. I strongly admire one or two. I once loved very much, a fraction of one, and I still cherish that memory. It is not necessary that

I know every Negro to understand that a terrible wrong has been visited upon a few, or upon one or two, or
even
a
fraction of one. I can find no rationalizers to justify the wrongs committed. Within the realm of my personal observation and experience, the Negro race—personified by that small number whom I have known—has, with great dedication and vigor, been thoroughly and unequivocally crapped on. Excuse my earthiness of expression, Michael. This is an earthy matter, and no other expression quite fits the crime.

So here goes. I, Michael Winston, with my own bare hands, in whatever pit is opened to me, and without worrying about what creeps beneath my fingernails, must begin the task of shovelling that crap from my brothers' heads. I do not flatter myself that much will be accomplished by my hands alone. My black brothers have a rather formidable steam shovel of their own at the moment. But I must get my hands down in there just the same.
They belong there.

And now, what is this? Another vein for the leaf? Let us pursue it, Michael. I cannot condone the spilling of American blood this day. Yet, at the same time, I cannot condemn it. It is as though the nation has been marching inexorably toward this moment since the day the nation began. We came to these shores, in the beginning, as mistreated men with lo
f
ty ideals concerning justice and freedom and human dignity. But we also carted over with us some rather confused ideas about this business of justice and dignity. And we bound men, and took slaves, and lorded our supposed superiority over the poor and the weak and the black .. . and especially the black. And
God
what a landscape of misery and injustice and human cruelty lies about the edifice of this democratic nation, Michael. There is no more pervading form of tyranny than that exercised over a minority by an unconscionable majority.

So, yes, the nation has been marching toward today, and to the blood that has been shed, and to all the other horrors. And all of us here are so many actors in the drama that is America. We change our costumes, apply our makeup, make our entrance upon the proper cue, speak our lines, add our part to the action, bring whatever life we may to the role being played, then exit. Some of us will be around for the curtain call, some will not; but this has no bearing upon the success of the play itself. I cannot rationalize my cue, I cannot write my own lines. 1 can only bring vigor and clarity to the role as allowed by the depth of scene and action.

Thank you, Michael. I guess tha
t
s one leaf abstracted and blown free. Since 1 cannot read my own scribbling, 1 will hand it to Abigail Foster, John Harvey's secretary, in the hopes that she can . . . and that she will type it up for me.

Don't return this to me, Abby. Drop it into a drawer, or press it in a book, or mail it—To Whom It May Concern, in care of the Universal Date Line. Someday I hope someone will send it on to me, but not too soon a someday, so that I may determine whether this, my first freed leaf, fell into the mud to rot with yesterday, or was borne aloft upon the cleansing winds of tomorrow.