by Leon Uris
Nonetheless, de Forest was a great cop.
“What’s your read, Lucas?” Tomtree asked after they were bolted in.
Lucas looked like a cop, and even more like a boxer, whose face had caught its fair share. Yet he was a rock. He turned to Hugh Mendenhall.
“We’re only a couple hours into this thing,” Lucas said. “Hugh, what’s going on with the Internet?”
“Every little neo-Nazi and White Aryan Christian Arrival website is beating the keys. Real puss stuff.”
“What about the TV media?”
“Utter confusion amplified by their panels. No one has called O’Connell a flat-out liar .. . yet.” “For the moment, I think we are in good shape,” Lucas went on. “If the outburst is confined to the hate groups, we’ll have no problem dealing with them .. . and I don’t feel any of them has a great reach into the mainstream, or the stamina to make a continuing fight.”
“What worries me,” Jacob Turnquist said, “is the inner cities. The conditions are in perfect alignment to have a black pogrom against the Jews, cossack-style. “Now is the time, brothers, to vent all your frustrations against Jewish slum lords,” et cetera, et cetera.”
“You’re right,” Lucas answered directly. “We can’t allow brush fires to flare up in the inner cities.”
“Do you believe the situation will deteriorate that much?” Tomtree asked.
“Mr. President, a riot takes on a life of its own,” Darnell
answered.
Mendenhall whispered over the phone in the attached pantry. Knee-jerk reaction was coming in from the Christian Right, careful criticism with a tinge of rancor. Yet no one outside the hate groups had branded O’Connell as a flat-out liar. More hot spots were developing from the Aryans and the Klan.
“I think we’d better make a statement,” Darnell said.
“Press or TV?”
“Right now a press release will have to do,” Tomtree said.
“Those news dogs are hunting out there,” Mendenhall said.
“A statement will hold things for a while,” Darnell reckoned.
“Jacob:1”
“You are on to the events of tonight,” Jacob said as he stopped to ponder. “Something to the effect that nothing has changed, i/O’Connell is telling the truth. Then go on to say you hope all the facts are in before the election.”
“That’s accusatory,” Darnell said.
“I don’t think so,” Turnquist answered. “He doesn’t say Jew, he
doesn’t say liar—“
“He says,” Darnell interrupted, “if the dog hadn’t stopped to take a shit, he’d have caught the rabbit.”
Thornton closed his eyes and mumbled lightly as he ran through the words.
“Wall Street Journal editorial, Mr. President.” Mendenhall read, “The waters have been muddied. The safe course is to stick with the President.”
A thump of delight, of tension falling.
“Jacob, jot out my announcement. If O’Connell is telling the truth, and we hope we can learn that before the election, we can save the nation from a perilous direction.”
“Dammit! Cut the last part,” Darnell said, “we don’t have to issue a warning citation. Everyone knows what we’re talking about. Mr. President, you have a chance here to make a statesmanlike, brilliant, meaningful pronouncement.. .”
“Such as?”
“Well, try this on,” Darnell answered. “I’ve read the Constitution, and nothing in it says it is illegal for an orphan to find his parents. The question has no part in this election.”
Turnquist winced. Mendenhall winced. Lucas de Forest was politically noncommittal, but Thornton seemed unable to stop himself from taking a free kick at his opponent.
“We’ll go with if O’Connell, before the election. We’ll cut the part about saving the nation, for now,” the President said.
“Mr. Director, what kind of contingency plan do we have for this?” he asked Lucas de Forest.
The director took a large three-ring binder from his worn old briefcase, put it on the coffee table, and bent down to it.
TOP SECRET—OPERATION JOY STREETS, the title page read. “In the event of civil disobedience by anti-government groups-this is not a plan that includes students.”
“Don’t the damned campuses always erupt?” Tomtree asked.
“Mr. President, there is no occasion where a campus has rioted against the Jewish population,” de Forest said, “but we can’t rule them out. This is a unique situation.”
“Run this Joy Streets past me,” Thornton asked.
“Phase One, alert FBI; Bureau of Alcohol, Firearms, and Tobacco; U.S. Marshal Service; establish local communications to Washington headquarters.”
Lucas buzzed down the page with his finger, omitting the details.
“Okay, here we go,” he read. “This is also part of Phase One: Contact our moles, informers, spies in suspected groups. This is key to Phase One .. . namely, ascertain from our infiltrators if their cell, group, Klavern, et cetera, have preselected bombing targets or persons to be assassinated. Name and address of cell leaders.”
“How many moles have we planted?” the President asked.
“A couple a hundred,” Lucas answered. “Of these, two or three dozen have totally infiltrated and are reliable. The rest from luke cold to luke warm.”
Thornton waved for Lucas de Forest to continue.
“Mr. President, let’s take a look at this Phase One. If we can have our people at the controls and if we can stop three or four bombings, it is going to disrupt their attack.”
“I disagree,” Thornton said. “If we initiate this first call-up only on the suspicion of what might happen, then the people will think we are trigger-happy, overplaying our hand and the like.”
“But the call-up is secret,” de Forest argued. “Hell,” Hugh Mendenhall popped in. “Five minutes after you initiated Phase One the press would know it.”
“You see, we’ve branded O’Connell, with some success, as being the reckless gunfighter,” Thornton said.
“But, sir,” de Forest persisted, “if we hesitate in putting Phase One into motion, it could entirely lose its effectiveness. The idea behind Joy Streets is to beat them to the punch.”
“Keep reading please, Mr. Director,” Tomtree ordered.
“Phase Two, deputize all urban police forces and county sheriffs to round up and detain suspects. Phase Three, call up the National Guard in threatened locales. National Guards to maintain a peace-keeping posture.”
“It’s starting to sound like the Keystone Kops,” the President said.
“How, sir? Once we have a list of priority people and buildings to defend and have the National Guard on the street and we have rounded up their leadership, we’ll snuff it by the middle of the day, tomorrow.”
“Let’s hear the rest of this plan,” Thornton said, knowing he’d made up his mind.
“The rest of the phases deal with a full-court press on the streets—curfews, ultimatums, finally call up the Army and Marines for martial law.”
“Bad news,” Mendenhall interrupted. “Jewish community center in Los Angeles was just bombed.”
“We can’t count this as a trend,” Jacob Turnquist grunted academically.
“Just sporadic incidents.”
“If we do not put Phase One into motion, we’ll be playing in a game we can’t win. If we allow fires to erupt, the fires will consume everything until they burn themselves out,” de Forest warned.
“And I say that jumping the gun sends a bad signal to the American people. It might be all over with by dawn,” said Tomtree.
“I wouldn’t count on that,” de Forest said. “This is a matter of public safety, sir ...”
“Mendenhall.”
/-i
Sir.
“Run off a copy of this Joy Streets for my personal use. You’ve got to know when to hold and know when to fold. What else have you got there, Mr. Director?”
“Release form, Mr
. President. An executive order to be signed by you to put Joy Streets into motion.”
“Just leave it here. Thank you, gentlemen,” Thornton said, nodding to each. “Mr. Jefferson, remain, please.”
The three left, consumed with apprehension. Hugh Men den hall ran Joy Streets through a copier. A note was handed to Director Lucas de Forest.
“Shit. Synagogue torched in Baltimore.” He glared at Mendenhall, who threw up his arms.
“I don’t know why,” Hugh said defensively. “The chief plays a mean poker hand.”
Thornton unlaced his shoes and rubbed his feet. He’d never seen Darnell Jefferson suddenly become so haggard. “I think we’re on the right track, Darnell, but you looked like you were ready to explode.”
“Because,” Darnell said hoarsely, “I know something that I didn’t know before.”
“What would that be?”
“I really don’t think you can comprehend what I’ve got to say, Thornton.”
“It’s too late to speak in riddles, and we’ve got a bitch of a day
tomorrow. I’m wondering now, how do we approach the last days of the
campaign:1”
“Well, just travel right into the riot spots.”
“That could be messy. I think ... I think we buy two thirty minute time slots a day, one at noon, one at eight in the evening, and we’ll do a combination infomercial/upto-the minute report.”
Darnell Jefferson turned on his heel. “Darnell! Do not leave!” Darnell’s hand dropped from the doorknob, “Now, what is it you know you didn’t know before?”
“All about my life,” Darnell said. “It isn’t very interesting.”
“Sit down, have a drink,” Thornton said. “This thing could be
volatile, because—“
“Because you want it to become volatile,” Darnell said, looking down, then into the President’s eyes. “You want some more bombs to go off, cemeteries desecrated, synagogues burned to the ground, Kristallnacht, you want a Kristallnacht. Then their big daddy president will move in and save the day. You want to deliberately start Joy Streets late so you can take on the role of savior.”
“Are you trying to say I’m orchestrating these riots?”
“You knew they would happen, brother. And you knew you could have stopped them dead in their tracks a half hour ago. But there is more. You want some blood on the streets as well. Every time someone is killed or wounded, the pressure mounts on O’Connell to quit and withdraw.”
“That’s diabolical!” Thornton protested.
“It sure is. Thornton, stick this in your craw. Every casualty that puts pressure on O’Connell puts even more pressure on you.”
Thornton turned his eyes away.
“It’s down to simple math. If the people believe O’Connell, they will vote him into office next week,” Darnell said. “If they believe you, they will vote to reelect you.”
Tomtree averted his eyes from his friend’s piercing glare in a manner he had not done since they were teenagers.
Darnell became a bundle of sweating, pleading. “God, man, stop these riots!”
Knowing that Thornton was not going to budge, Darnell backed off, broken, to whine: “I’ve been following a black hearted man all my life. My daddy believed there was a bright star in the east the night you were born. Like Jesus! “Thornton’s mind can go into places where no one can follow. He will achieve ultimate greatness for himself and for the human race.” I believed that, too. I believed you would never make a decision that knowingly put America in danger.”
“That’s enough, Darnell.”
“No, it isn’t. The reason you are doing this tonight is that seed already planted in a gangly, pimply excuse for a basketball player in Pawtucket. You were pissed then, and you’re pissed now. World! T3 is going to even up the score for his friendless life.”
“I said, that is enough!”
Darnell ignored him. “The Bulldog Network, absolute secrecy guaranteed. A paragon of human achievement. Why did Thornton Tomtree love that? Big-time greed is where the power is, where the big bucks play. Greed is the curse of making yourself a deity in your own eyes up to a point where you cannot manage a human relationship. Greed is justifying any and all means of control. You’re an electronic monster! We have a president uncaring of how many people are killed on the streets so long as he wins his reelection.”
“I knew you’d end up weeping on your knees, big-time, when the going got tough. You didn’t know what the presidency is all about,” Thornton said.
Hugh Mendenhall slipped in.
“Muslims stirring up a riot in Detroit. That’s a very incendiary place. Michigan governor Grayson McKenney has just called up the National Guard.”
“Goddammit! Grayson’s a Republican. He should have called me first!”
“At the moment AMERIGUN is setting up for a TV and web site blast starting in the morning. Otherwise, these brush fires continue to pop up.”
“Colorado?” Thornton snapped. “Has O’Connell called up his guard?”
“Negative. Nothing seems to be happening in Denver.”
“Any idea how we might set Denver off?” Thornton asked.
“I don’t fucking believe this!” Darnell cried.
“Sit down and shut up, Darnell.”
More news of rioting. The downtown areas of a dozen cities began to flame to the beat of broken glass!
*
Kristallnacht!
Thornton moved to his study, adjoining his bedroom, where he had a setup of a dozen TV monitors. Snips were arriving of tear gas, swinging batons .. . now water cannons!
“Okay, buster,” Thornton said to himself, “so let us play chicken, O’Connell, let’s play chicken!”
Ben Horowitz was damn near inconsolable, taking the blame for turning the devil forces loose.
Quinn’s calm calmed them all. No chinks in the armor, no wringing hands, no shouts to God. He spoke softly as the news reached him and gave quick, thoughtful responses.
“Nebraska has just called up the Guard,” Greer said.
“I didn’t think we were doing that well in Nebraska. How many call-ups?”
“Nine states, six states pending. Twenty-eight states report no rioting activity .. . but, Jesus, if the President doesn’t issue an order .. . how long?”
A car bomber plunged into the plate-glass window of Feldman Toyota on the auto mile of San Francisco.
A gunman entered the Lew Singer Deli on lower Broadway and sprayed the place with automatic fire. Six are known dead, twenty wounded.
A bonfire of books from the Judaica sections of the Jacksonville Library licked the sky while encircling neo-Nazis saluted and chanted.
Ketchum, Idaho, Bank hit by a dozen militia. Half million dollars taken. One dead.
As the night settled in, the question at hand was the upcoming day.
Bitter O’Connell haters watched how the authorities were responding to see what situations would be ripe for daylight exploiting.
And the governors and mayors watched, to use their forces gingerly and not get into a situation of putting a thousand of their citizens against their own arms.
And the sound of Kristallnachtl
The Reverend Amos Johnson was the surviving icon of the early civil rights movement. He had risen to challenge for the presidency twice in primaries and walked off with eighteen percent of the vote.
His personal ambitions chilled by the white establishment, Amos became a dynamic wellspring of hope for his people and gathered in a large Hispanic following as well.
There was a time of separation between a liberal Jewish activism and the black community. Some African American leaders scolded their former allies as pious do-gooders looking down with pity on their black brothers.
Into this mix crept the inevitable ancient tentacles of anti Semitism. The slum lord, Jewish wealth, Jewish power, now grated on those downtrodden ghetto dwellers.
Amos Johnson himself took the view that the Jews were
patronizing them without either deep love or conviction.
Attempts to heal a widening rift by covering the issues with a Band-Aid did not help.
The Black Muslim movement fanned a constantly smoldering pall of anti-Semitism. The Jew is the enemy!
The Reverend Amos Johnson had worked closely with too many Jewish politicians and leaders not to realize that the two communities were inexorably bound together by tragedies.
The Jews, as a people, had reached many of their goals. This angered some and enraged other blacks whose gains came slower and with more pain.
A cycle emerged of black for the sake of black. Reverend Amos Johnson always gave a wide berth to the hate teachings of the Muslim Nation. Despite his high regard in the country, Reverend Amos never publicly rebuked them on any issue.
It was not as though the history, leadership, and white citizens deserved better. They had wrought a system of injustice that was ending in black-white polarization. Black juries proved as prejudiced as white juries had always proved.
The firebrand days were behind Johnson, and three of his children, two of them daughters, were members of Congress. They badgered him constantly to lead the African American community out of perpetual victimhood.
As soon as the riots started, his children rushed to his home, held hands, and prayed for guidance. Outside, a crowd of believers started numbering in the thousands, backing up clear to both street corners.
The media included black cable TV channels and a black press.
“Now hear me!” Amos began.
“We hear you,” was the response.
“We have been driven to the wall time and time again throughout our tragic history in this nation. We are in pain!”