“How?"
“Tom-toms!"
Ben grimaced. “I'll be hungry by seven, I assure you."
Her eyes became a flashing firestorm of humor. “Got corn bread, fatback, and greens."
“Salina, you're impossible!"
She laughed. “You think I'm kidding?"
She wasn't.
* * * *
Cecil and Lila and Pal and Valerie came over. After dinner the six of them sat in the candlelit den and talked.
“Are you planning to stay, Ben?” Cecil asked.
“No. I'm heading over to north Mississippi in the morning, then striking out for the northwest.” He told them about President Logan's plans to relocate the people; and that most of them were going along with it. Logan's stripping the citizens of firearms.
It did not surprise Ben to learn they knew more about it than he.
“We won't bother Logan as long as he doesn't bother us,” Pal said. “We just want to live and let live."
Ike's words, Ben thought.
“You're welcome to spend the night with us, Ben,” Lila said.
“This is my house,” Ben said.
Lila looked at Salina. “Then perhaps you'd better come with us, Salina."
“I like it here,” Salina said. Ben could feel her eyes on him.
“It will only cause hard feelings, girl,” Cecil reminded her of Kasim.
“Kasim is a pig!"
“You're half black, half white,” Lila said, a touch of anger in her voice. “Are you making your choice, is that it?"
“You're the only one talking color and choices. If Ben is colorblind, so am I."
Pal and Valerie stayed out of it, as did Ben and Cecil. The two women argued for a few moments until finally, in frustration and anger, Salina jumped to her feet and ran from the room, crying.
After a moment, Juno rose from the floor, stretched, and went into the room after Salina.
Cecil said, “When both man and beast accept a woman, I guess that pretty well settles it.” He lit his pipe. “Be careful, Ben, many of the pressures in an interracial relationship come from within rather than from without."
“I'm aware of that."
They spoke for a half hour or more, and Ben found he shared most of Cecil's ideas and dreams, and that Cecil shared his.
“...You know what I'm saying, Ben. I don't have to convince you. We both agreed that education on both sides is the key to wiping out hate and racism and all the deadly sins that rip at any society. And we must have conformity to some degree. I agree with that. And I also agree that educated people must get into the home to see that all we've talked of is accomplished; but how to do that without becoming Orwellian with it?
“Ben? I didn't ask for the job of leader down here. One day I looked up and it was being handed to me. No one asked if I wanted it. I don't want and don't need any New Africa. I have been accepted in both white and black worlds for years. My father was a psychiatrist and my mother a college professor. I hold a Ph.D.—from a very respectable university. 3.9 average.
“Hilton Logan? He's a nigger-hater. Always has been. Those of us with any education saw past his rhetoric.
“Kasim? Piss on Kasim. His bread isn't baked. He was a street punk and that's all he'll ever be.
“You're going to look up someday, Ben—one day very soon, I believe—and the job of leader will be handed to you. Like me, you won't want it, but you'll take it because you believe in your dreams of a fair world, fair society. I read you, Ben, like a good book. You're heading west to the states Logan is leaving alone for a time. And you're going to form your own little nation. Just like we're attempting to do here. Good luck to you—you're going to need it. I—we—may join you out there."
“You'd be welcome, Cecil. There are too few like you and Lila and Pal and Valerie."
“And Salina,” Lila said with a twinkle in her eyes.
Ben smiled.
“And you're right, Ben,” Cecil said. “The root cause is in the home."
Cecil leaned back and reminisced. “One of my earliest recollections is of Mozart and Brahms. But do you think the average southern white would believe that? Not a chance. He'll put down soul music—which I abhor—while slugging the jukebox, punching out the howlings and honkings of country music.
“Ben, my father used to sit in his study, listening to fine music while going over his cases, a brandy at hand. My mother was having a sherry—not Ripple—” he laughed,—"going over her papers from the college. My home life was conducive to a moderate, intelligent way of life. My father told me, if I wanted it, to participate in sports, but to keep the game in perspective and always remember it was but a game. Nothing more. No, Ben, I did not grow up as the average black kid. That's why I know what you say is true. Home. The root cause.
“I went to the opera, Ben—really! How many violent-minded people attend operas? How many ignorant people attend plays and classical concerts? How many bigots—of all races—read Sartre, Shakespeare, Tennyson, Dante?” He shook his head.
“No, you find your bigots and violent-minded ignoramuses seeking other forms of base entertainment. And not just music.
“Do you know why I joined the Green Berets, Ben?"
Ben shook his head.
“So I could get to know violence firsthand. We didn't have street gangs where I grew up.” He laughed and slapped his knee. “Well, I found out about it, all right; I got shot in the butt in Laos."
Lila punctured his reminiscences. “Let's not refight the war. I've heard all your stories. Tomorrow is a work day, remember?"
After they all said their good-nights and good-byes, Ben walked into the bedroom. “Are you all right, now?"
“Of course, I am,” Salina's voice was small in the darkness. “I always lie about bawling and snuffling."
“You heard everything that was said?"
“Of course, I did. I'm not deaf."
“Well—you want to head out with me in the morning?"
“Maybe I like it here."
“Sure. You could always marry Kasim and live happily ever after. Or get killed by Kenny Parr's mercenaries."
“The latter preferable to the former."
“I repeat: would you like to head out with me in the morning?"
“Why should I?"
“You might see some sights you've never seen before."
“Ben, that is a stupid statement for a writer to make. If I haven't seen the sights before, of course I'd be seeing them for the first time."
“What?"
“That isn't a good enough reason, Ben."
“Well ... goddamn it! I like you and you like me."
“That's better. Sure you want to travel with a zebra?"
Ben suddenly thought of Ike's wife, Megan. “I'll tell everyone you've been out in the sun too long. But let's get one thing settled: when I tell you to step-and-fetch-it, you'd better hump it, baby."
She giggled. “Screw you, Ben Raines."
“I also have that in mind."
She threw back the covers and Ben could see she was naked. And beautiful. “So come on. I assure you, whitey, it doesn't rub off."
* * * *
Ben shook himself back to the present and all the woes it brought with it.
Threats and atomic bombs; unions screaming at him for putting people back to work (that made absolutely no sense to Ben); Congress fighting him on a national health plan while people died from lack of medical care (that had always infuriated Ben); teachers outraged because Ben wanted to nearly double their salaries and have them teach ethics and morals. It seemed that no matter what was good for the nation as a whole, some group or organization howled about it.
“People don't care, boy,” Lamar's words returned to him in a whisper of memory. “They don't care—and never have cared—what is good for the entire population; only for their own little group. Woman shows her titty on TV it's a sin—never mind that half the babies in America were breastfed and that is their earliest memory. Make
sense, Ben? Hell, no! Some church groups want to ban and burn any book that says ‘fuck’ in it while others want to make it legal to have sex with children.
“It's out of control, Ben; has been since the ‘60s. You just do the best you can in the time given you ... then get the hell out of that man-lulling office."
Ben rose from his desk, stretched, and walked to his quarters. He ordered dinner sent up to him and flipped on the TV.
News. If one wished to call it that.
Organized labor was meeting in Florida, the leaders calling President Raines a dirty communist for practically forcing members to go to work at substandard wages.
Ben chuckled grimly. Only about five percent of the world's population was working and 3.5 percent of that was in America; he really didn't see what the union members had to bitch about.
Certain religious groups were screaming at him because he believed what a woman did with her body was that woman's business and no one else had a right to tell her she could or couldn't have an abortion.
Civil liberties groups were howling about the death penalty.
The rich were shrieking about Ben's plans to make the tax laws more equitable.
On and on and on.
Ben turned off the set.
Then something hit his consciousness: The press wasn't taking sides. No editorials. No not-so-subtle vocal innuendoes. No facial giveaways as to how the reporters really felt. What the hell was going on with the fourth estate?
Did somebody up there really like him?
Ben decided it had to be a fluke.
He looked at his half-eaten dinner, pushed it from him, and went into his bedroom. He showered, stretched out on the bed with a book, and was asleep in two minutes.
Seven
“The C-4 is placed, timers set to go in twenty minutes,” Ike was told. “We should kill or cripple fifty of Hartline's mercs with that alone."
“Smoke?” Dan Gray asked.
“In place. We stayed in radio contact with Ike's group all the way. The smoke will go same time as the C-4."
“Okay.” Ike looked at Matt. “You and me, boy—we're going heads up and straight in Hartline's house. I'll take the front, you come in the rear.” He glanced at two of Gray's Scouts. “You two grab that Jeep-mounted fifty and get behind that block wall by the side of Hartline's house. North.” He looked at two more Rebels. “You two on the south side. Rest of you know your jobs.” He looked at his watch. “Let's do it, boys."
“Don't forget us, you sexist pig!” a woman spoke from the darkness of the home. She chuckled.
“'Scuse me, honey,” Ike grinned, glancing at the three women of Gray's team. “I keep forgettin'."
“You didn't forget last night,” she fired back, her white teeth flashing against the deep tan of her face.
“Darlin',” Ike smiled. “That was the most memorable moment of my life."
“Lying Mississippi bastard,” a woman muttered, no malice at all in the statement.
The men and women chuckled, breaking the slight tension.
“Let's do it, lads and lassies,” Dan said.
They moved out. It was five o'clock in the morning.
* * * *
Sam Hartline buckled his web belt around his lean waist and looked at Jerre looking at him from the big bed. The only light was a small nightlight.
“You're a class act, Jerre-baby,” he said. “And I intend to keep you for my own. You understand that?"
“I hear you."
He chuckled. “No other man will have you, baby. I promise you that. You're mine. My property. Mine to do with as I see fit. Be honest—has it been a bad life?"
She had to admit it had not. He had never laid a brutal hand on her. She had the best clothes, the finest food, the nicest treatment any prisoner ever had.
But she was still a prisoner.
Worse yet, she had to fight to keep from responding to his lovemaking, for he was skilled and had more equipment than she had ever encountered.
And last night, the memories flooded back, her reserve had broken, and she had clutched at his shoulders as one raging climax followed another.
And that shamed her.
She still hated him.
“Ta-ta, love,” he grinned at her. “You go back to sleep now and dream about my cock."
He laughed aloud.
A huge explosion shook the darkness of early morning. Fire shot into the predawn skies as a fuel depot went up with a swooshing sound.
His back to her, Jerre jerked the bedside radio from the nightstand and threw it at him, hitting the mercenary leader in the back of the head, dropping him to his knees, blood pouring from a gash in his scalp.
The sounds of gunfire rattled in the morning, shattering the stillness after the blasts. The sounds of the front and back doors being kicked in ripped through the house. Hartline staggered to his feet and jerked his .45 from leather, aiming it at Jerre.
He pulled the trigger.
* * * *
Ben woke with a start. He thought he'd heard gunshots. He lay very still; but the only sound he could hear was the pounding of his own heart. Then he picked it up: the fall of rain. It must have been thunder he'd heard—not gunshots.
But he couldn't go back to sleep.
He tossed and turned for half an hour, while the red luminous hands on his digital clock radio glared at him almost accusingly.
Ben glared back. “Hell with you,” he muttered.
He threw back the covers and fumbled for his jeans. Ben never wore pajamas and detested robes.
He fixed a cup of coffee and two pieces of toast and took that into the den. He sat in the darkened den by a window, watching the rain gradually turn into sleet.
* * * *
Dawn tossed and turned in her own bed, in an apartment across town. She had not heard Rosita come in, and she had not been in when Dawn went to bed. She wondered where her friend was. Something was just not right with Rosita. But Dawn couldn't pinpoint what it was. The woman seemed ... well, too sure of herself. She guessed maybe that was it.
But she knew it was more.
* * * *
Tina lay in her bed, in her apartment, and wondered how long it would be before her dad exploded and told some of his critics where to get off. And when he did, she knew it would be done in such a manner as to leave an indelible impression on the recipient's mind—forever. If he confined it to a vocal explosion. He might just take a swing at someone and break a jaw.
She was sorry she had pushed him into the job of president. Very sorry.
She wished they could all just pack up and head west.
* * * *
Roanna Hickman sat by her window, watching it sleet, a cup of steaming coffee by her hand. With a reporter's gut instinct, she felt something was about to pop. Jane had suggested as much to her only hours before.
But what?
That she didn't know.
She picked up the phone and called the station, asking if anything had happened during the night.
“Starvation in Africa. Plague in parts of Asia. Warfare in South America. Europe struggling to pick up the pieces. Some nut reporting seeing some half a dozen or so mutant beings in the upper peninsula of Michigan..."
“What? Say that again."
“Mutant beings. Not quite human but not quite animal either. Very large."
“Did Chicago send that?"
“No. We got it off AP. Oh, and there's something else. Rats. Mutant rats being reported. Big ones. ‘Bout the size of a good-sized cat."
Roanna felt a tingle race around her spine. Where had she heard that before? Sabra! Sabra had told her that VP Lowry had mentioned ... where had he heard it? From both Hartline and Cody. Yes!
She fought to control both her fear and her excitement. “Okay, George. Thanks."
What a story. If true, she cautioned. Who could she send? She should call Chicago about the Michigan thing, but they'd probably laugh it off. No, she'd send someone from her own staff up there. Who? S
he mentally ticked off the list. All right.
Jane had been itching to get out into the field. She'd send her to Michigan and ... Bert LaPoint to Memphis. Urge them both to BE CAREFUL.
She showered, dressed, and hustled to the office.
* * * *
Rosita was in a stew. Damn Captain Gray for taking off. He had sent her here, in a roundabout way, for just this reason and then the man goes traipsing off. She didn't know what to do. Dan had told her if it became necessary, to blow her cover and go to Ben Raines. But was it time for that?
She didn't know.
She decided to wait one more day.
She did not see the shadow of the man behind her as she turned the corner of the street. She walked swiftly toward her car, parked in front of an apartment building. Rosita maintained a small apartment in the building; there she stored her high-powered tranreceivers, her C-4, her assassins weapons—the tools of her trade. She hoped no one tried to force their way into the apartment, for if they did, someone would be picking them up with a shovel and a spoon. Once any intruder stepped into the door, placing just fifteen pounds of pressure on the carpet, a modified claymore, positioned above the doorjamb, directed downward, would send enough death to blow the head off a lion. And that was just one of several booby traps scattered around the apartment. All lethal.
Rosita's taillights faded into the rainy-sleety gloom of early morning. The man walked to a phone booth and punched out the number.
“She is not what she appears to be,” he said to the voice on the other end.
Carl Harrelson, still smarting from the dressing-down he'd received from Robert Brighton—in front of a crowd, no less, asked, “What name is she using?"
Jim Honing, a reporter for the Richmond Post who occasionally worked with Harrelson said, “Susan Spencer."
“Wait for me,” Harrelson said. “We'll toss the place together. I'll be there in half an hour."
* * * *
Jerre rolled from the bed just as Hartline pulled the trigger, the slugs tearing smoking holes in the sheets and mattress.
“Girl! Stay out of there!” she heard Ike's voice shout.
“Miss Jerre!” Lisa called.
“Setup,” Hartline snarled.
“Lisa!” Jake Devine called. “No!"
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