Don Pendleton - Civil War II (27 page)

.. the important ones. The President checked out about eight o'clock. I hear he's gone to his farm in Virginia. There's about a hundred newspapermen and magazine writers waiting in there. Silverman has been outlining the ground rules to them." He leaned forward to smile at Winston. "I believe you have a good man there, Mr. Director. He's been berating them for thirty minutes now. I

don't think they'll be giving you a hard time."

Winston smiled and stared stonily forward. John Douglas was the first to address him as
Mr. Director.
The title had a hollow ring to it. For a guy who had been gloating about the thrill of reality just last night, Winston was wondering why everything seemed so unreal to him at the moment. It had been less than forty-eight hours since he'd last come into these hallowed halls and then he'd had to scream, stomp, yell, and finally pull a gun to get in. Now here he was, the very same guy, casually strolling in to take over the joint. And as
Mr. Director.

And then the gravity of the moment descended fully upon him. The entourage was sweeping along the broad passageway toward the press room. Winston called a sudden halt and took Jackson Bogan by the arm. "General," he said quietly, "the first thing I want you to do is get those troops off the White House grounds. I want things to look as nearly normal as possible around here. Okay? The White House is
not
under military occupation."

"You're right," Bogan agreed. "It does look bad."

"Fine. And then you'd better doublecheck your communications with your field commanders around the country. I have a feeling way down inside my bones and o.. well, just be sure you know how to talk to die army any time you need to, wherever you need to."

Winston then turned to John Douglas. "John, I guess I can't avoid this press conference—I may as well get it over with and get it all up on the line. While I'm in there, try to get a line on the status of my executive task force. I want to huddle with those people as soon as possible. As they get aboard, get them collected some place where I can find them all together. Now, let's break up right here. I'll rejoin as soon as I can shake the fourth estate."

Bogan and Douglas dropped out of the group and the remainder of the party went on to the press room. Winston was shaken by the very size of the place. A confused rumble of sound, the concert of a hundred or more busy voices, further intensified the tension within the new chief of state.

Howard Silverman came forward, smiling, and introduced himself. The two men shook hands and exchanged pleasantries. Then they moved together to the rostrum. Silverman held up a hand for attention, though the gesture was totally unnecessary. The beehive of sound had dropped off completely moments after Winston entered the room, and all eyes were glued silently to the largely unknown individual who had suddenly taken over the executive mansion of the United States.

"Just one quick reminder, gentlemen," Silverman intoned. "No questions of a personal nature. You'll get all that in a bio handout later today. Please confine all queries to the present and planned state of the nation. Gentlemen ... the Provisional Director of U.S. National Affairs, Mr. Michael Winston."

Silverman left Winston standing there alone, and
Mr. Director
looked out upon the sea of faces with a growing feeling of panic.
What the hell am I doing here
? screamed an inner voice. His hands were clammy and unsteady as he lay them on the rostrum—his mouth was dry and he felt somewhat dizzy. Then he pointed blindly to a man in the front row of seats, wondering as he did if he was supposed to do so. At least the gesture was understood. The man stood up, cleared his throat, and said, "Uh, do we call you. .. ? Uh, how do we address you, sir?"

"The name is Winston," he replied tightly. He grinned and added, "Why don't you just use that?"

The newsman grinned back, and Winston mentally scored one for his side. "AH right. . . Mr. Winston ... I think most of us are surprised that a military
junta
didn't move into the White House. Would you care to discuss that?"

Winston looked into the man's eyes, and saw something there he'd discovered in himself a few hours earlier. He allowed himself a few seconds to gaze at some of the other expectant faces raised to
him
and he felt himself thawing inside, felt the rapport of human beings caught up in the same nightmare, and when his voice came it was pleasant and warm. "There is no military
junta.
Not in Washington,

not anywhere in this country. This is not a military coup, gentlemen. It was a citizen's uprising. Abe Lincoln Williams, the man who planned and led that uprising, told me a short while ago that he could not give me a letter of authority over the black military establishment. His own authority, he said, was self-evident. I accepted that. I hope that you will accept it. Self-evident authority is a rare thing. It bespeaks a rare state of leadership. Abe Williams is not a soldier. He is as anxious to preserve the American system of civil government as is anyone in this room. I'm sure you've all read the
manifesto.
If so, you'll know that I am here simply to coordinate the formation of the new civil government. There is not, and will not be, I hope, a military
junta.
Does that answer your question?"

"Yes sir, I guess it does. Thank you." The man sat down and said something beneath his breath to the man beside him.

Winston fingered another. The man only half rose and asked, "This manifesto the Negroes issued ... is it really on the level? Are they really going to allow a continuation of political freedom?"

"A continuation?" Winston replied, smiling. "I would use the word
resumption.
Politics in this nation, for the past twelve years, have been a mockery of the constitution. Yes sir, the manifesto is on the level. As for the resumption of free politics, this all depends upon how
we
react to this situation. If the next few weeks are marked by active white resistance to black demands ... if we do not make a sincere effort to re-orient our thinking and to organize a constructive and conscionable government... then I'd say we'll never see another ballot box.

"Even if we remain peaceful yet fail to repudiate the present political climate of this nation—that is to say, if we bring in a new regime with the same ills and goals as the old one, then we surely cannot expect the blacks to merely fold up their tents and return to their towns. If that were to happen, then the blacks will have no recourse except to continue in occupation, throw out the government again, and make us try again. Or as an alternative, they could

decide to put their own people in power, double the guard, and tear up the U.S. constitution. They could do that. They could do it right now.

"I'd like to say this, though. I am convinced that if we behave ourselves and do the right things, no matter how much they may hurt, then the entire nation will profit and grow from this experience. If we do not, then this nation, as constituted, will cease to exist."

Another man arose, out of order, and sneered. "Why did the niggers appoint
you
as their mouthpiece?"

Silverman's feet scraped the floor, as though he were about to leap into the act. Winston headed him off. "I'm glad you asked that," he replied, smiling. "It gives me the chance to assure you that I am
not
their mouthpiece. The Negro, right now, is all eyes and ears. No mouth. He has said all he's going to say. It's all in the manifesto. Now he is listening for some dialogue from the white side."

Another man leapt from his chair and cried, "Are you telling us that you're not just a nigger puppet?" Disorder descended.

This time Silverman did hit the deck, both feet planted solidly beside the rostrum and raising his hands for order. Winston's eyes were slightiy glazed but his grin was hanging on. He touched Silverman lightly on the arm and winked. The veteran newsman gave him an odd look, dropped his hands, and returned to his chair. Winston stood straight, both hands clasped lightiy atop the rostrum. Presently the noise began to subside Not until silence completely gripped the room did
Mr. Director
open his mouth.

Then he said, "Okay, I'm glad to see that the American Press is finding its guts again. Just keep it up. Ride me all the way, watch me as though I were about to steal your most precious possession.... This is what you should have been doing, and did not do, for the past twenty years. You allowed the government to scare you into silence. Don't ever let that happen again. Your nation needs you, gentlemen. / need you. But let's keep the dialogue intelligent. Does anyone out there have an intelligent

question to ask, or shall we call this whole thing off?"

An older man sitting halfway up the center aisle began quietly applauding. Several others picked it up and soon most of the assembled newsmen were on their feet, quietly beating their hands together. The sound swelled, and held for most of a minute. Howard Silverman's face was a study in baffled wonderment, but he was on his feet applauding also.

Norman Ritter leaned toward one of his agents. "I'm starting to see why Abe Williams is so sold on this guy," he muttered. "Gutsy. More than that. Something else. But guts too."

Winston tossed a meaningful glance to Howard Silverman. The new press secretary began calling for order, and quiet quickly returned.

Winston then told the assemblage, "I'm going to answer that last charge just the same and as honestly as I can. because I believe it to be an important point. The question—or the charge—had to do with puppets. I want you all to know that I am not a puppet. Nor are any of you out there. Not at this moment. The day before yesterday, I believe I was a puppet. And you. All of us, the entire nation. Someone pulled a string, or programmed a machine, and we all danced to the tune. Isn't that right?"

Winston was gazing out across the sea of faces, and he was liking what he saw. "Ask Mr. Silverman here," he added. "Ask him how it felt, yesterday, to exercise a prerogative of the free press. Ask him how long it had been since he'd felt that way."

Dead silence gripped the large room. Winston had touched an open nerve. A mild-appearing man at mid-center rose to his feet, gazing steadily at the rostrum. Winston recognized the man with a nod of his head.

"My name is Butterfield, Mr. Winston. Federated Wire Press. In your mention of free press, is this an indication that the provisional government is abolishing the censorship regulations which have been in effect since 1993?"

"Precisely," Winston immediately replied. "How can a

press be both free and ccnsorcd?"

Pandemonium erupted in -the press room. Winston looked at Howard Silverman and grinned. Silverman returned the grin, sat back, lit a cigarette, and let pandemonium reign.

CHAPTER 6

In the corner of his vision, Mike Winston saw the black colonel in the U.S. Army uniform quietly enter the press room and huddle with Normal Ritter, and the look on the colonel's face left little doubt that his business was gravely urgent. So Winston was prepared for bad news when Ritter swung beside him at the rostrum to whisper, "Bogan says you should come to the War Room right away. Something's up."

Winston turned the press proceedings over to Howard Silverman and made a quick exit. He had only the vaguest idea as to the location of the White House War Room, but the colonel was in the vanguard of the little procession of bodyguards and all the new chief of state had to do was follow the parade. They packed themselves into an elevator and descended to the subterranean level.

General Bogan awaited him. The place was a duplicate in miniature of the big combat central at the Pentagon. Uniformed men sat quietly at consoles and peered into viewscreens. Each of them, Winston noted, were commissioned officers and—of course—black.

Bogan was telling him, in that quietly authoritative voice, "Our Automated Pacific Line is picking up some

unusual activity in the air over Eastern China. Automated Defense Command says it's a positive airlift. They can even tell you the type of aircraft if you're interested."

"So what does it mean to you?" Winston asked the military mind.

"It means an airborne invasion, Mr. Winston," the General replied.

"What would be your normal reaction to intelligence of this sort?"

"Our normal course would be to notify the President. With his concurrence, we would then hot-line a formal warning to the offending government and immediately activate the appropriate thermo-magnetic screens."

Winston frowned. "Now unscramble that for me as it applies to this specific instance."

"Our WestPac TM screen follows roughly the 180th longitude, the International Date Line. We need to notify Peking and get those air barriers activated."

"Then do it."

Bogan smiled faintly. "I was hoping you'd be that decisive." He passed brief orders to the colonel who had come for Winston, and the man went quickly to a command console. Then the General told Winston, "The screens aren't that perfect, of course. We can't cover the entire line continuously. We work an alternating pattern, and the Chinese have instruments which can locate those magnetic fields several hundred miles in advance of their flight paths. But this at least serves notice that we are in defense posture. And we'll know pretty soon if they are simply probing us or if they are committed to an all-out attack."