Don Pendleton - Civil War II

by Don Pendleton

  The door to the police car had opened and a tall stringbean of a man in a khaki uniform was standing beside it, both arms draped atop the open door. Two more police cars came up and swung into a cartwheel effect around the first car. Blue-suited policemen were erupting from the open doors of both cars and milling about in some confusion—throwing dark looks across the street at the

  disturbing picture of black military might.

  Davidson made a quick count of the enemy and decided there were no more than a dozen cops on hand. He could take the whole bunch with one sweep of his weapon before they could get their holsters open. He tensed, watching to see their intent, to anticipate it if possible. He did not want to die right here, at the edge of tomorrow.

  The cops were going into a huddle. Davidson raised his right arm and made a sign with his fingers. A tall boy wearing corporal's stripes quickly stepped out of line and moved beside the sergeant. The corporal wore a square box on his back. A small sunflower-like gadget, attached by a cord to the box, was in his hand.

  "I better talk," the sergeant muttered.

  The corporal handed him the sunflower. Davidson accepted it, raised it to his lips and began speaking. His voice floated out across the heads of the assembled crowd in cooly modulated tones.

  "I am Sergeant Davidson, United States Army Special Corps, Occupation Forces. This city is under military occupation. No citizens will be harmed if instructions are followed to the letter. Disperse and go immediately to your homes. Close all businesses except those essential to the public health and welfare. Go to your homes, watch your tele-viewers, and await instructions. I repeat—no citizens will be harmed if instructions are followed."

  A loud murmur arose from the crowd. Two of the blue-suited cops stepped forward into the street, chins thrust forward belligerently. A bottle whizzed through the air and broke at Davidson's feet. The sergeant tossed the sunflower to the corporal. "Keep those boys cool," he cautioned.

  The corporal jerked his hand in understanding and fell quickly back to the line of troops. The two policemen who had moved into the street exchanged quick glances and went for their guns.

  Davidson swung his auto down. It burped briefly, the sound nearly lost in the swelling murmur of the crowd. The two policemen went down, clutching at their chests, falling onto their faces in the street. Another, just behind the two,

  grabbed his arm and spun about into the midst of his fellow officers.

  At the same instant the air vibrated under the roar of a big gun. The shopping center marquee angled forward crazily at the top and exploded downwards onto the crowd. Davidson caught a flicker of motion behind him as the long barrel swung down and left, roared again and a soft-drink truck in the parking lot became a fireball.

  Police were scampering behind squad cars and the crowd was hysterical. Davidson could hear the piercing shrieks of a woman, somewhere in the direction of the marquee wreckage, and a loud male basso was yelling for help.

  The tank lurched forward then clanked out to the center of the street—the big turret angling back and forth like the head of an angry bull elephant—seeking another target. It squared off less than twenty feet opposite the collection of police cars and the long barrel projecting out from the turret yawned onto the official vehicles with a portent of doomsday.

  Davidson waved his men into a fan stack behind the behemoth. He again snatched the sunflower and announced, as calmly as he could manage, "Disperse, disperse. Go to your homes. Clear this area. Disperse."

  The announcement was unnecessary. The crowd was already moving and flowing toward the back of the parking lot. There was no hint of activity from behind the police cars.

  Presently the man in the khaki uniform appeared slowly above the hood of his vehicle. He stood there with a perplexed face, empty hands pressing grimly against the gleaming painted surface of the automobile. He glanced at the yawning chasm of spiraled steel which was staring down on him from the tank, then quickly averted his eyes, opened his mouth, then closed it and stared helplessly at the big sergeant with the machine pistol.

  Then he called over, "There's some people hurt here."

  "You can send for medics if you want to," the Negro called back.

  The Sheriff hesitated ever so slightly, then he climbed into his car and began speaking into a radio. When he left the car again, the parking lot was practically empty except for a few stragglers at the far edge, a dozen or so people who lay moaning in the wreckage of the marquee, and police officers who still crouched behind the cruisers.

  The Sheriff and the Sergeant stared at each other across the silence. "We didn't want to do that," the Negro announced.

  "Yeah, yeah," the Sheriff replied quietly.

  "You can keep it from happening again."

  "I'll try."

  "Fine. We don't want to hurt anyone. But we will, if they make us."

  "Yeah, yeah."

  The chopping noise of a small helicopter stole into the silence, then grew in volume, and presently the whirly-bird swung into view over some treetops, swept once over the parking lot, then settled alongside the police cars. Two white-jacketed men ran out, crouching beneath the still-twirling blades, and began moving swiftiy among the wounded. Another helicopter appeared moments later, then another. In a matter of minutes, they had borne up their fallen and were rising into the sky with them.

  There was no one left but the soldiers and the cops. The oops got into their vehicles, turned off the flashing beacons, and quietly departed.

  The hatch to the tank opened and a smiling black face popped out. "Now that's what I call authority," Ringer said, chuckling solemnly.

  "That's what I call not wanting to die," Sgt. Davidson declared softly.

  No sir. If somebody wanted to die on the edge of tomorrow, it wasn't going to be the heirs to tomorrow. It'd been too damn long a yesterday, indeed.

  MANIFESTO

  The Negro Race of the United States, through their agents, the United Negro Army Corps of the United States,

  hereby declare a state of military occupation through the fifty United States.

  All citizens are hereby ordered to desist from violence and to go about their daily routines in an attitude of peacefulness and acceptance of this occupation program.

  No arrests will be made by military occupation forces; however, resistance of any nature and from any source shall be met with immediate and forceful suppression.

  No laws nor civil programs shall be instituted by the occupation forces. All citizens are urged to go about their business in the usual manner. Law enforcement agencies are enjoined to protect the public good.

  A provisional federal government has been appointed by the occupation forces to administrate the re-formation of the nation. State governments have been incapacitated and shall remain so throughout the occupation period. County and municipal authorities are enjoined to continue their functions in the public interest.

  Foreign nationals presently residing or visiting within the national boundaries of the United States are ordered to report to their nearest embassy for immediate transportation to their country of origin.

  Representatives of foreign powers presently exercising diplomatic relations on United States soil are invited to remain, but will be subject to any restrictive provisions of this mGniftsto.

  Early formation of active and free political parties by the American citizenry is encouraged. Charters and platforms of prospective politicd parties must be presented to the provisional government in Washington within fifteen days of the date of this manifesto. No more than three and no less that two such parties shall be commissioned by the provisional government. Party conventions shall be held no later than ninety days and no earlier than forty-five days from the date of this manifesto. National elections, for the purpose of instituting a new federal structure and government of the United States, shall be held as ordered by the provisional government; in no event shall they occur later than one hundred and eighty days following the date of this
manifesto.

  Members of the Negro Race shall participate in neither the provisional government nor in the aforementioned political activities. The American citizenry is reminded that the Negro Race of the United States has been systematically stripped of all such responsibilities by The People of the United States. The Military Occupation shall remain in effect, however, until full and equal rights of citizenship have been restored to the American Negro by The People of the United States; and, furthermore, until such time as all rights of equality are guaranteed by unalterable constitutional provisions.

  The United Negro Army Corps hereby undertakes full responsibility for military defense of the United States of America, and hereby so serves such notice to all foreign powers. The Autotomic Defense System of this nation remains in full operation, and shall so remain throughout the period of military occupation.

  All Americans, white and black alike, are urged to turn the final page of the painful Book of Yesterday, and to go immediately to the clean and unspoiled first page of our nation?s promising Book of Tomorrow.

  /s/ Abraham Lincoln Williams

  for the Negro Race of the United States this Tenth day of March, Nineteen Hundred and Ninety Nine

  CHAPTER 1

  "Ladies and Gentlemen, this is Howard Silverman speaking to you from the nation's capital. It is noon in Washington, an unbelievable, nightmarish noon. The questions now on all lips are: Why? How could it happen? Precisely what has happened? What do they want? What will they do next?

  "FBS has attempted to answer some of these questions, and to piece together the incredible events of these, the darkest hours of this republic's history. But the information is meager; no one seems to know anything other than 'I woke up and there they were.' Even the gentlemen in the White House remain silent, except for vague charges of treason in high places. Obviously, there has been treason. Just as obviously, it has been committed in high places.

  "The President has named few names: Thomas Fairchild, the late chief of the Federal Police Bureau; Michael Winston, an administrator in the Urban Bureau; General Jackson T. Bogan, the nation's highest ranking combat officer. Treason . . . perhaps. But this is no explanation of what happened. This is certainly not the sort of information we desire from our President at such a time.

  "As I look out my window, I see United States Army tanks and troops. The airplanes that whistle low through our skies bear the markings of the United States Air Force. Warships steam along our east coast, just a few miles away, flying commission pennants of the United States Navy. We are a nation occupied ... by our own armed forces.

  "I have, on my desk, wire reports from around the nation. This is another curiosity. Our communications networks have remained virtually intact. Only in isolated instances have we lost contact with the parts of our nation. I shall not attempt to read to you all of the wire reports that continue to flood this newsdesk. That job would require a team of broadcasters, speaking continuously around the clock for days. Just know that wherever you are in this country, the events taking place there are being repeated everywhere.

  "Our nation is occupied by military might. In each of our states at least one city has sustained massive destruction of property—though, oddly enough, with very small loss of life. Assassins have been at woTk, however, in each of the state capitals and of course, here in Washington. And everywhere, if these reports are any indication, black troops with massive firepower and certainly with the capability for rampaging terrorism merely sit and watch. What are they watching for? Eyes upon the nation, America. Eyes more than hands.

  "The facts seem to be these. A sort of limited and unusual form of military coup has taken place. Limited and unusual, I say, because there have been no direct moves upon the chief seat of government. Our Congress remains intact, though adjourned. Our President remains in the White House. No proclamations have as yet been issued to establish military rule. No attempt has been made to seize communications networks.

  "We are, however, very definitely a nation occupied. And something more than a coup is suggested by our present situation. Using simple mathematical extrapolation, FBS has established an estimate of the number of troops in the occupying forces. This reliable estimate amounts to a staggering sum, nearly one hundred

  186

  times more than the known strength of our army regular combat forces.

  "This nation is blanketed, ocean to ocean, Canada to Mexico, with grimfaced soldiers of an occupation force. II all the black, uniformed men who now calmly gaze upon America are indeed themselves Americans, then it would seem that the entire black nation is participating in this action. And this, it appears, is indeed the case. The only alternative is much worse. If these black troops are not Americans . . . then they are Africans. And if they are Africans, then the charges of treason in high places are indeed ominous. Let us pray that these are American Macks wearing our uniforms ... and let us so assume.

  "Perhaps it is now appropriate that the people of the United States re-direct their questions. Perhaps now we should ask the White House: what do you intend to do? Black soldiers are camped on the White House grounds, directly outside your windows. Their tanks prowl our streets, unopposed and unchallenged. Their bayonets point at our unprotected bellies. Dozens of our great cities he in rubble. Every executive branch of government throughout these states has ceased to exist, including your very own.

  "How does the AMS Society get itself out of this predicament, Mr. President? Which slot do we feed for personal protection? Which one for national survival? You have been telling us for most of two decades that AMS is the purest form of democracy and the most certain solution to our racial problems. Look out your window, Mr. President, and tell us: do we still have that solution?

  "And please, sir, do not speak to us in vague terms of foreign plots, of unlikely traitors or of the great American dream. Do not flower your answer with mentions of patriots, of fine old institutions, of inferior and superior races, of noble instruments of government. Simply look out your window, Mr. President, and tell us where we go from here.

  "This is Howard Silverman saying good day from Washington. May we—God willing—meet again."

  Silverman peered somberly into the camera until the red light winked out, then be sighed and pushed his chair away

  from the desk. Lou Washburn, the technical director, j moved nervously to the desk and declared, "Jesus, Howie, you're going to get hanged from the highest point in Washington."

  Silverman sighed and tried to fish a cigarette from a crumpled pack. "It's the end of an era, Louie," he said, with a tired smile. "For us, anyway. All I've done for twenty years is bitch about things. But never where it could be heard."

  The cigarette package was empty. Washburn handed the newsman a smoke and lit it, then peered at him with troubles eyes. "The word is run. Run, Howie, not walk."

  "What's that you have there?" Silverman asked, glancing at the paper.

  "Came in just as you were winding up, so I held it. It's their manifesto."

  The newsman took the creased message paper and opened it, grunted something unintelligible, then began reading intently. He finished the reading, then raised clouded eyes to his companion. "Well, that answers all the questions," he quietly declared. "But it's not the end to anything."

  CHAPTER 2

  Abraham Williams was bringing Mike Winston up to date regarding the history of Negro thought during fifteen years erf institutionalized servitude. "AMS was the final straw," he pointed out. "That's what really broke our backs. Just as Arlington knew it would. The guy that controls your pocketbook controls you, and I guess it's the oldest idea in history. All the kings and emperors used it, the commies used it, and I guess every power bloc has used it, consciously or not. Economic power is the ultimate power. When Arlington AMS'd this country he knew exactly what he was doing."

  "The first American coup d'etat," Winston commented.

  "That's right. I don't think he could have pulled it off except for the cond
ition the country was in. Everyone in panic, people going hungry, the economy in disarray. The population flowing back to the land. AMS seemed like the logical blueprint to a lot of people to get the country back in shape. Not many people realized they were selling their souls to a devil machine. The black people least of all. We couldn't get anyone to believe that those litde cards weren't the goldmines Arlington promised. The majority of blacks had gone to the cities anyway, and nobody would take them back on the land. The minority of us who still owned land were pushovers for the power bloc. They AMS'd us right out of there and into the Towns, and it wasn't done all that gently either."

  Winston murmured, "Yes I remember the land sweeps."

  "So do a lot of us," Williams said, sighing. "I had twenty acres of the prettiest, rolling. ... Ah don't let me start talking about that."

  "They threw you off," Winston said quietly.

  "Yeah. The law of eminent domain. Sounds nice and legal, doesn't it." The black man smiled ruefully. "Well, I'm digressing. What was I. . . ? Oh yeah. It was in the autumn of '88 when most of us finally started singing the same tune. By then most of the hotheads had cooled somewhat and the upbeat ideas were beginning to sound more inspirational than the 'burn, baby, burn' dialogue. Don't—uh—don't think that Norm Ritter's attitudes are the prevailing ones. And don't sell Ritter himself short. He runs around making bad noises, I know, but I believe most of it is show. He's a deep one, really. You never know what the man is really thinking. Personally, I admire Ritter.

  "To give you a bit of insight into this guy, Mike ... he lost his wife and baby in the Oregon land purge of '87. Not to violence, nothing like that. But conditions were appalling in some of those temporary relocation centers. You'd have to live through it to know. Gertrude Ritter and the baby just weren't physically up to it. They died of pneumonia. And they weren't the only ones to go that way. I had it better than some. I was at the Camp Roberts Center, for three months only .The weather was pretty good, and there happened to be a health service medic there who believed that nigger babies needed vitamins and things the same as white babies. My kids came through okay. But this is all old history. I want to give you the late history.