Don Pendleton - Civil War II (24 page)

"Who?" Winston wanted to know.

"The top man is Simpson Barnes Bancroft."

Winston's eyes showed his surprise. "
Senator
Bancroft?"

Williams nodded. "He's not the smartest man in the country, but he's honest. I trust him implicitly. Anyway, he knows politics, and he knows politicians, and I guess he's the world's greatest living authority on the U.S. Constitution. I'm depending on him to help set up the new permanent government—
under
the constitution. Or, rather, under the constitution as it existed in 1980. He can do that. And then I expect the people—
the people,
Michael—to make the real decision. The people will make the only decisions the Negro will accept."

"Are these men in Washington now?" Winston wondered.

Williams glanced at the clock. "They'll be arriving there most any minute. We are going to leave Arlington in the White House until the people run him out. The provisional government will work around him. But the niggers are not going to drag that old man out of the White House. Hell no. Wait'll you hear about
his
plot. He was planning on niggering
us
into another stand for himself in the White House. He thought
he
was setting
us
up, and we let him keep on thinking it. He was going to strike at election time, declare a national emergency, and declare himself in for an illegal third term."

"Is that honest-to-God fact, Abe?" Winston asked solemnly.

"That, Michael, is honest-to-God fact."

"Well. .. isn't that a hell of a footnote!"

"Call it what you want, but we're not dragging him out of there. The white man will have to handle his own garbage."

"What a hell of a footnote," Winston repeated.

CHAPTER 3

Norman Ritter charged into the office with his nostrils flaring and eyes blazing. "That damned Arlington!" he raged.
"He
hasn't given up yet!"

Abe Williams glared at the intelligence man for a moment, waiting for him to continue, then demanded, "All right, spit it out. What's up?"

"What's up is just maybe the whole damned show, that's what's up! He got them! Simpson Barnes Bancroft and all the others, he got 'em all!"

"What do you mean, he
got
them?" Williams asked, his voice suddenly very quiet.

"I mean that he splattered their guts all over Pennsylvania Avenue, that's what I mean! Hell, it's my fault,
all
my fault. I thought the damn war was over. But it's not, Abe. It's a hell of a long way from over!"

Williams placed both hands on Ritter's arm, led him to a chair, sat him down, and said, "Now, Norman. Exactly what happened?"

"I had my Washington man, John Douglas, meet them at the airport," Ritter mournfully reported. "Thought it might look better that way. I mean, instead of having them marched in by a squad of black troops. And I screwed up. My counter-intel slipped, that's all, it must have. Nobody should have known about those guys."

"Tell me what happened, Norm," Abe Williams said patiently.

"Just like a twenty's movie of Chicago. This car comes, up alongside our car, a machine pistol pokes out the window, and down goes the provisional government . . . every damn one of them, Abe.
Every one.
So what do we do now? Draft old Arlington for a third term?"

Abe Williams was scrutinizing his friend's troubled face. He mused, "Maybe . . . maybe, Norm. . . ."

"Yeah, maybe Norm Ritter is slipping," the other growled. "It's a miracle I didn't lose John Douglas, too. The limousine smacked into a light standard and rolled twice. I don't know how he managed to walk away from that."

"There's a psychological overtone to this thing, Norm," Williams commented faintly. "This marks the first decisive and successful retort for the white establishment. We have to play this very carefully. It could snowball. It could snowball fast."

"Well I won't mention it if you won't," Ritter said.

"Neither of us will have to. Arlington will be screaming it over the rooftops."

"Then let's cut their communications."

Williams shook his head. "Wouldn't help. Might even hurt. No, we can't cover it up."

"Then let's disclaim Senator Bancroft. Let's say that—"

"Uh uh, no good," Williams said quickly. "We need a better hand than that. Tell me something, Norman. In view of all that's been said publicly by the White House today ... if you were Whitey, who would you expect the niggers to move into the White House?"

"Well... let's see... I don't know if I follow your line of . . . hey! Of course! The traitorous jackal! The nigger-tender! Old Uncle Mose himself!"

"Right," Williams replied softly. "So right."

"I know what you're thinking!'' Ritter said. "I
know
what you're thinking!"

"Go get him for me, Norm. He's all pegged-out, exhausted, over-used, soul-sick, but he's the only one can turn this for us now. Go get him, Norm."

Mike Winston peered glumly at his fingertips and told Abe Williams, "You don't know what youre asking me do. You're asking me to confirm to oviiy while im>n in the country that I sold them out. You're asking me to stand up there and say, 'Well, I screwed you, Charlie.
Now
I'm going to lead you.' I don't think I can do it, Abe. Besides, I'm simply not qualified. I've never run a nation before."

"You've run the entire black nation for the past three years," Williams pointed out "Almost single-handedly. That requires considerable ability. Now that I think of it, you're a whole hell of a lot better equipped for the job than Bancroft. He was a good man, and I am sincerely shaken by his death—I hate to lose him in that manner. But face it, Michael. I was looking to Bancroft primarily for his organizing talents and his political footwork. We can find someone else for that part of it, after we get a provisional establishment in operation. I'm sure that many good men will come over, and gladly. But right now we need a
head
of
government.
Right now! And before Arlington can make any political capital from this brief little victory of his."

Winston sighed. "I just don't know, Abe," he muttered. He ran a hand across his forehead. "I'm liable to botch things for good, you realize that. Hell, I'm just not in that league. Not anywhere near it. I wouldn't know where to start."

"You start by seizing the reins of government. That's where every man starts. Then you take each problem as it presents itself. I know you can do it. But that isn't what is really worrying you, is it? If s the traitor tag that is chewing you to pieces, isn't it?"

Winston went to the desk and helped himself to one of the black leader's cigarettes, lit it with steady hands, and exhaled vigorously. "I guess I could live through that part of it," he declared.

"Then don't worry about the rest. Men grow, Michael. I've seen men grow from midgets to giants in the space of a heartbeat. All it takes to lead is the wisdom to
know
what is right and the
strength
to do it. I believe that you have both those qualities. Growth is a natural consequence of

that exercise. How many men enter the White House with presidential experience?"

Winston took another slow drag on the cigarette, then angled an oblique gaze to the status boards depicting the progress of the occupation forces. "You think you really need me, Abe?" he asked quietly.

"There is no one else, Michael."

"Well... I believe I feel a wind at my back."

"What does that mean?"

Winston grimaced. "I guess it means that the show must go on."

Williams' face split into a restrained grin. "I never thought for a minute you'd say anything else."

"Yeah," Winston growled. "Me too, I guess. But . . . back when I made that decision, Abe, I didn't realize that such a big role was being written."

"I don't get you," the black man replied, smiling quizzically.

"Private joke. I'll explain it to you some day. If I don't fall flat on my face. But . . . brrrr, what a hell of a bitter wind."

CHAPTER 4

Howard Silverman had the full staff of film librarians working feverishly. Two editors, flanking him at the long table, were peering at rolls of video film and jotting notes on large program sheets.

Silverman snagged a passing librarian and told her, "Bring me this S-87-121."

The girl stopped to consult the catalog in Silverman's hand. "That one's in the security file, also," she informed him. "It's never been cleared for release."

"Hell, I know that," he snapped. "Bring it."

The librarian walked away, resignedly shaking her head. Silverman stabbed his pencil toward the film editor to his left. "I remember that S-121 very well," he ruminated. "Now here's what I want out of it. There are some good shots of old nigger patients being carried out of a Virginia hospital on stretchers. That's when they were moving them into the relocation centers. Later on, there are some shots of the field hospitals they set up at Parris Island. I want you to splice that up to show the continuity between the county hospital and Parris Island. Got it?"

The editor nodded and nervously cleared his throat.

"Okay. And there's one shot in there that shows daylight right through the ceiling where they're setting up the cots.

No wonder we never got this stuff cleared, eh? All righ You run those frames along with that statement in his speech." He leaned forward and stabbed the program she with an index finger.

The editor scribbled a note on the program sheet an murmured, "Christ."

"You getting the general slant now?" Silverman asked "See this right here? Where Arlie is saying, 'with all due; regard to the needs and welfare of these people. . . ? All right, there's your continuity slice. You bang it in there."

He turned to the man at Ms other side. "Now to Eddie. This film you're working was shot while the Appalachin Plateau was being built. Early construction phase. See these cats in the plows and dozers? It's hard to tell here, but it shows clear as hell in projection. Those guys are niggers. Yeah, all of them, the whole mess. Now run on down... a little more... okay, here. See these cops beating hell out of these guys? Know what that is? Got any idea? That, Eddie, is the end of organized labor in America. This was the last picket line. Arlie used all nigger labor on those land recycles. How do you think he got the job done so cheap? Like making a man dig his own grave, isn't it. Think on that angle and try to work it in. And remember that no black man has ever lived in Appalachin Strip, or raised so much as a single apple on that plateau. You know how to play it? All right, you guys get busy."

"This scares the hell out of me, Howie," the editor said quietly. "Leavenworth, here I come."

"You got more to worry about than Leavenworth, Eddie. A whole hell of a lot more. You just do the job. I'll take the responsibility."

An excited older man hurried into the room. "Hey, Howie! You're wanted over in the communications section."

"What's up?" Silverman asked, struggling to his feet.

"Damnedest thing I ever saw. This MCW transmission blasts into our monitor right on top of our press carrier. They must have fifty gillion watts of output. We cut our transmitter and listened. This guy says it's Oakland Warhole, calling for Howard Silverman."

"Well Christ let's go!" Silverman cried, pushing the other man along with him. "You got MCW capability on that transmitter, Walt?"

"Sure. Harry's peaking it up for voice now. The guy says that a Michael Winston wants to talk to you, Howie. Do you know a Michael Winston?"

Silverman's face was beaming like the northern lights. "Not personally, Walt, no—not personally. But I guess I'm going to. I'll bet you an old fashioned American dollar that I'm going to."

The time had arrived for the long-awaited presidential address to the nation. Howard Silverman entered the large control booth and stood slightly to one side of the technical director. The countdown clock had moved to the ninety-two-second mark. "You all set?" Silverman asked.

"All is ready," the director replied tensely. "I just hope you know what you're doing."

"Let me worry. You just concentrate on mixing this stuff according to the script."

"You're blocking my Central Station monitor."

"Sorry." Silverman moved, slightly aside. "Hope everything goes smooth."

"It will, unless the cops descend on us. I filtered the background noise out of the Winston recording. The guy speaks well." The director jabbed a finger toward the wail clock. "Better get on your mark."

Silverman hurried out the door and down the short flight of stairs. When the red light flashed on, he was starely somberly into the camera, his lungs ready. "Good evening, this is Howard Silverman in Washington, speaking to you from the studios of the Federal Broadcasting System. It is eight o'clock here in the nation's capital. In just a moment, FBS will present an address to the nation by the President.