The Generals of October

by John T. Cullen

  Instinctively, she drew back into the shadow of a tree.

  The cop noticed her and stared, but did not do anything.

  Then she noticed the markings: It was a Military Police car, so this was not his jurisdiction. Then she noticed the shields on the front and back bumpers: “Iowa Proud And Ready: Your Army Reserve Dollars At Work.”

  The opposite light turned from green to orange. The MP noticed the change and got ready to drive on.

  Tory ran into the street waving her arms and yelling. The MP stared at her, open-mouthed. He started to roll forward, but she ran in front of his car. He braked to a halt. She whooped and jumped up and down. He opened the door and rose out of his seat: “Lady, are you nuts?”

  “Yes! I’m having an emergency, and you are the most beautiful man on earth.”

  “Ma’am,” he said in a hushed voice, tucking his chin in, “if you need a taxi or something--”

  “No, no, I need you to drive me straight to General Devereaux right now.”

  He grinned. “Yeah, and I’m Popeye, and you’re Olive Oyl.”

  “No, I’m Tory Breen.”

  “Who?” His face darkened.

  She waved the list that the generals in the hotel wanted to kill her to get. “I am a personal friend of General Rocky Devereaux. Here is a list of the conspirators who have taken over at the Atlantic Hotel--”

  “Ma’am,” he said in a totally different voice, “Drop that piece of paper. I want you to raise both hands and step away from this car.”

  “It’s an important list.”

  “Drop it.”

  She did, and the paper fell down. The wind fluffed it up and it started to roll in ungainly barreling motions. It dawned on her he might be one of them. Her guts froze and she began to tremble. His eyes glittered with deadly plans. He had a .357 Magnum revolver pointed straight at her heart as he stood in a shooting stance. “I want you to walk slowly over here and lie down on the ground.” With a free hand, he jiggled the car’s spotlight, which shone on the ground. “If you make a wrong move I will shoot to kill. This is your only warning.”

  Tory swallowed hard and moved to comply. The list was floating down the street. Better that he shouldn’t get it.

  “Lie down.”

  She lay down on the wet street, smelling stray gasoline and tar, feeling water soaking into her already soggy clothes. Nothing mattered anymore; she’d done all she could. Her fate, and the list’s, were in other hands now. The MP kept the gun pointed at her while he called in on his com button. There was a short, whispered conversation she could not hear. She heard him exclaim: “He will?” He paused. Then: “Go ahead.” In a minute, the MP held his ears as if they hurt. “Lieutenant Breen.”

  “Yes?”

  “Ma’am, that was General Devereaux.” He grimaced.

  “Oh, you got through?”

  “Yes Ma’am.” He held his palms to his head.

  “What did he say?”

  “He said do you have dark reddish hair. I said yes. He said did she say she has a list. I said you said you do. He said bring that woman here now, Specialist, and guard her with your life. So I guess I owe you an apology, Ma’am.” He holstered the gun and helped her up. “I’m truly sorry.” Poor guy, he trembled. “Where’s the list?”

  “That’s it down the street there, that tiny speck.”

  He ran after it. For the first time in a while, Tory laughed.

  ALLISON MIRANDA: There is so much news coming in right now that our servers have trouble keeping up, and we have every available reporter working around the clock to sort the different parts of this giant story out for you. Here is just one of a thousand news stories we are triaging for you right now. This is the American astronaut Linda McGregor, aboard the German orbital shuttle Deutsche Raum-Hansa R.S. Horizont speaking a few minutes ago:

  LINDA: We are 300 miles above Kansas at night, moving rapidly east into the Ohio Valley area. It’s an amazing sight below. Because a major power outage of suspicious origin has crippled most of the U.S. and Canada, it is pitch dark on the continent below. Only the capital still seems up and running, probably on Civil Defense backup power. The other urban centers are blacked out, but they seem to be glowing with a dim orange light. Our pilot, Klaus Gittermann, radioed Transit Control in Mannheim about it, and they in turn queried Houston. It turns millions of ordinary U.S. citizens, who are so worried and scared about the developments in Washington, have gone to their local places of prayer to hold candle-light vigils, or are just standing outside their homes holding flashlights and candles. There are so many millions of these tiny lights all across America, that they are visible from outer space. It looks to us like a dim glow of hope during a very dark hour indeed.

  Chapter 34

  While Bellamy dozed near the window, David found a com button lying loose and dusty in a corner. He tried it out and--wow!--it worked. He tuned in to radio news, careful that nobody saw him with the button. Bellamy looked bruised and had a sprained ankle. David wasn’t anxious to get the same treatment.

  He listened with the button to one ear. The only stations on the air were those broadcasting local feeds of ANN News. Generally the tone was not the hyped up sound of news anchors talking up a story; rather, it was the subdued, shocked tone appropriate to events like wars or assassinations. The anchors were as scared as everyone on the street.

  In a far corner of the room, amid blankets and a coffee pot, several of the young commandos liked to hang out and rest during their breaks. They had a viewing screen plugged in, on which to watch local and ANN news, and admire their handiwork in service of God. David and Bellamy managed to glimpse what was happening in the Second Constitutional Convention. The assembly hall looked a lot different now that the regular Army MP’s had been replaced, and the drunks chased off. There were no more delegates urinating in hallway corners or trading favors for bribes. The corridors surrounding the assembly hall were thronged with young men in blue-yellow camouflage fatigues. They brandished assault rifles, wore full combat gear, and appeared utterly dedicated to the cause they’d trained for in the Texas desert. The thousand delegates were seated inside, some talking earnestly among themselves, others staring numbly at one of history’s unexpected twists. A woman was seated at a table on a low stage near the podium, formerly reserved for Chairman Mattoon. She was sleek, dark-haired, well coifed and manicured, in an austere civilian business suit. She spoke in a crisp, coldly-enunciated voice with the barest hint of a drawl that could be from anywhere in the South or the Midwest. As she spoke, she held aloft a Bible. Her face seemed emotionless. Each deliberate syllable, spoken in a near monotone, sent ice water down David’s spine. “It’s quite simple,” she said as she waved the book in the air. “All you have to do is sign this book and you can walk out of here, having done your duty. You just sign this book and you can leave because your job here in Washington will be completed, a job well done. The only Constitution to come out of this Convention will be a Biblical one, and I am asking you to sign the inside of this book I am holding, indicating your support for the New Constitution, One Nation Under God. If you do not comply, you may eventually be freed, but you will be held here at the convenience of the acting government of America Under God as long as we find necessary, which could be a while.” Sure enough, David watched a stream of these foundering fathers file lamely to the table to sign, eager at the promise of escape.

  “They’ve taken over CON2,” Bellamy said, shifting painfully. His ankle looked swollen, and he favored that leg. “When the shooting starts, we’re gonna be right in the crossfire.”

  Sure enough, about three in the afternoon, a group of commandos came in with ammo boxes, heavy machine guns, and a canvas bag of bayonets. A half dozen men unscrewed and removed the broad windows. Preparations for battle, David knew. The cold night air teased at him, blowing the drapes in and out. The distant sounds of the city rose up, traffic, an occasional horn, almost like normal. Each commando knew what he had to do, and there was littl
e conversation. Under heavy guard, David and Bellamy were led out of the former gymnasium, across the hall, and locked in a small office but not shackled. The only furniture was a small table. The parting word from a darkly grinning young man as he jangled keys was: “If you’re smart, you’ll stay in there and when you hear shooting, lie down flat.” He put a Bible on the table. “You’d better think about surrendering to Jesus, because you’ll want to go to heaven when hell breaks loose.”

  “Oh great,” Bellamy said when they were alone. “You should make a run for it.”

  “Not if it means leaving you here like this.”

  “Don’t be stupid. I can’t run. I’d get us both killed. Maybe you could get away. Bring back help when all this is over. If the building is still standing.”

  “It will be standing,” David said. “They don’t want to shed any more blood than they have to. The delegates are worth gold--as long as they have them, they can probably hold off the entire Army.”

  “Just think,” Bellamy said. “if they capture CON2, they can claim they are saving the country somehow. That’s the kind of thing that’s gone on for centuries in Latin America. They could “--his face darkened as a new realization sank in--”they could reject both the old Constitution and the one coming out of CON2, and substitute one of their own.”

  “Not a happy day for democracy. Or for our hides.”

  The concrete corridor outside rumbled with the passage of booted men carrying equipment. “They must have been planning this for years,” Bellamy said.

  As darkness fell, a sickly calm descended. It reminded David of visits to an aunt in a desolate old-age home, when he was a boy, an aunt who had been dying of Alzheimer’s. Nights there’d had the same depressing, wrenching hopelessness, a diseased hospital peacefulness.

  David heard occasional laughter as the commandos of the 3045th prepared to offer their lives--fanatical young men dedicated to the incomprehensible cause of wrecking democracy to impose moralitarianism on others. David checked the com button for any voice mail, especially from Tory. He was disappointed, then worried, and finally relieved to find no messages from Tory. Had something happened to her? Should he call Jet? Better not. The skinheads might find out. To think that she might be in this same building, and he could not get to her!

  About two hours after dark, David and Bellamy heard distant explosions, seeming to move closer. David remembered the Civil War--a previous time when America’s children had turned on each other in a blood bath. There was a stirring among the young commandos. Not laughing anymore. Soft talk. Sincere prayers. More explosions--closer yet. Quick boots as men moved into position. Clicks of steel muffled by canvas as slings tapped against rifles.

  There was a particularly loud blast. A massive explosion. It shook the walls and rattled windows throughout the hotel.

  Bellamy said after a moment of analytical silence: “The power stations. Somebody is knocking them out. We’ll be on emergency generators before long.”

  Chapter 35

  Specialist Owens drove Tory to Rock Creek Park, where thousands of tents reminded her hauntingly of another terrible time. Maybe Union troops had camped there long ago. Owens’s car inched through checkpoints manned by Iowa reserve infantry, and he parked it among military vehicles. An adjutant led them to Devereaux’s large tent. Tory had a sense, somehow, that ghosts watched in the faintly foggy air, this dark night in the hollows of the park. She walked among canvas walls and parked infantry vehicles, past shadowy sentries who were little more than a cough or a glint of steel or the glow of a cigarette in gloom.

  General Devereaux’s headquarters consisted of several large, dimly lit tents joined in a cross shape with connectors to other tents all around. Inside, the floors were raised wooden slats over nylon tarps. Rows of desks were empty, except one occupied by a night clerk. The long tables with their rolled charts and maps were quiet. Gas-burner stoves hissed comfortingly, and the air had a dry smell of books, hay, and machine oil. Rocky Devereaux came forward with his hand extended. A cigar loomed in the other hand. “Hello, what have you gotten yourself into?” He pumped Tory’s hand. “I want to hear your story--the whole thing, beginning to end. I have the feeling it’s going to be a long night. Trust an old warrior’s sixth sense.”

  “Sir, this is Specialist Owens. He did a remarkable job out there.”

  “Specialist, I am personally giving you a commendation and a promotion. Step inside the office and see the Command Sergeant Major. You are now a sergeant.” He stuck out his hand. “Congratulations.”

  Owens stammered: “Sir, that’s--why, I’m--my wife will be so--”

  “What do you want, a parade? Go see the sergeant major, sergeant.”

  “Yessir.” Owens shook Tory’s hand. “Good luck, Ma’am.”

  She squeezed his hand. “Good luck, Sergeant Owens. I’m glad that, after General Devereaux, I’m the first person privileged to call you that.”

  “Go on, Sergeant Owens,” Devereaux said. “I’m glad I could have been the first. I may seem a little loud at first, but you get used to me. I’m a fair man, and I always put my people before myself. I take care of you guys, you take care of me. It’s always worked out really swell.”

  “Thank you, Sir.” Sergeant Owens saluted. “I’ll give it all I’ve got.”

  As Devereaux watched the newly minted young sergeant hurry off to his MP duties, he murmured fondly after him: “I know you will, son. I know you will.”

  The General led Tory to a separate wing of this tent headquarters, to a large office with desk, long table, wall map of Washington, and chart-easel. “Sit down,” he ordered. He called for refreshments, sat behind his desk with his feet up, and sucked on the cigar.

  Tory handed him the list.

  Devereaux put on his reading glasses. He shouted over his shoulder: “Bielicki!” As Devereaux read, a young infantry major rushed into the office. “Yessir!”

  “Bielicki, this is a list of the names of some of the people who have decided we need to be saved from ourselves. I want you to make me a copy, just a hip pocket kind of thing. I want you to put the original in the safe. Then I want you to start broadcasting this all over the world. Don’t stop.”

  “Yessir.”

  “First, I want it to go on world wide military communications. Then I want it to go to every news station in town, with a press release from me saying this is a list of conspirators against CON2 and against the people of the United States, drawn up by Vice President Cardoza an hour before he was murdered by agents of the people whose names are on this paper.”

  “Yessir!”

  “Write it up. Send it out. Keep sending if it takes all day and all night. I want everyone on earth to have those names so they can’t cover this thing up any longer.”

  “Yessir!” Bielicki saluted and jogged away to another office.

  “Now I want to hear your story,” Devereaux said. “First you’d better take a shower, put on some dry clothes.”

  A female sergeant took Tory to a tent reserved for women, where Tory took a hot shower. The sergeant had the quartermaster issue her a sweat suit that fit her fairly well, though it was a little baggy in the hips. Tory regarded herself in the mirror and realized she must have lost ten pounds today. The sergeant poured Tory a cup of hot tea, wrapped a blanket around her, and escorted her back to the General’s office.

  Devereaux listened with half-closed eyes, nodded occasionally, and did not betray any emotion until Tory had poured her heart out.

  “Okay,” Rocky said, cigar clenched in his teeth.”You want to surrender to me?”

  “I guess so,” Tory said. Her heart was on an elevator, going down.

  “Okay, I’ll take you into custody.” He winked. Reaching into a desk drawer, he pulled out an old .38 Special in a chapped holster. “Go get some rest, okay? There are some cots in the orderly room. Blankets. Take what you need. Be ready when I need you.”

  Ten minutes later, in a darkened room under an Army blanket that sm
elled vaguely of floor polish, Tory’s thoughts raced and she could not sleep despite her tiredness. Mentally, she still ran for her life. As she lay in the dark, she listened to her heart beat. She heard the hiss of a gas burner and watched the flicker of its glow under the shadowy canvas ceiling. She drifted into a half sleep in which she could almost hear the neighing of long-ago Army horses. She smelled cigar smoke, maybe General Grant’s, amid the sweet smell of oats.

  “Lieutenant Breen!” a man said. “Lieutenant Breen! General Devereaux wants to see you right away!” Tory swung out of her bunk groggily and rubbed her mussy hair. The man speaking was elderly, with white hair and round glasses, as he held out a clean fatigue shirt, a folded field jacket, and a helmet. “Hi, I’m Joe Ciampi. You remember me from the Pentagon last week?” She did--the tall, rumpled command sergeant major who’d seemed more like a tailor or bookkeeper than a warrior. Ciampi continued: “One of the lieutenants looked in his duffel bag. We figured you’d like to be in proper uniform to go back to the hotel.”

  “Back to the hotel?” Tory asked. A pain, like pliers twisted tightly, grabbed her gut. “He’s going to send me back?”

  “Not exactly,” the sergeant major said gently. Tory donned the shirt, jacket, and helmet, and followed Ciampi out of the orderly room. Instead of MP insignia, the shirt lapels bore crossed infantry rifles. Devereaux was on the phone in his office. “Hello, General Montclair?--Yes, how are you? This is General Devereaux, 399th Infantry Division.--Glad to hear it.--Fine, fine. Hey listen, I’ve got one of your lieutenants here in front of me.--Breen--Told me a godawful story.--What’s that?--No, she’s been disarmed.--No problem at all. I’ve got four guys holding her down. She’s got a kick like a horse, that girl. If it’s okay with you, I was gonna toss her in my car and stop by.--That’s right, maybe you and I can chat and sort things out. That okay with you?--Great. I should be there in about an hour. What’s that?--Sure, front steps of Tower One.” He hung up. Another phone blipped, and he picked up. “Devereaux.--Oh, Ernie. How are you?--Yeah, Joey says hi. Hey, remember that little chat we had the other night at poker? You were right. Montclair is an asshole--yeah, you win; will you take a check?--Same to you, buddy.--This might be it. I’ll see Montclair in one hour.--Okay, buddy, break a leg.--Yeah, yeah, same to you.” He hung up and noticed Tory: “Ready to roll?”