"After the agreement of '88 we began quietly bringing the scattered black community together—in the soul, I mean. And we began to understand just what it was they'd done to us. And we decided that we were not going to accept it this time. No more slavery, not by any name. We got a dialogue going with the government niggers, and Ritter became our go-between with the military. He arranged the first meeting between General bogan and meWe've had direct rapport now since the summer 92.' with all elements of the government community-the blacks, I mean. What few holdouts there were came over quickly when Arlington entered the White House."
"You were going to tell me about the philosophy," Winston quietly reminded his host.
"Yes. Well we thought, see, maybe this entire terrible thing could be worked for the eventual good of the black man in America. What have we ever had, Michael? I mean, actually hacP. Nothing. Except a few dreams, a lot of promises, much talk about equality and freedom and opportunity. But it was all emptiness. They niggered us to death. The white people really did not want us to have those things, you see. They didn't applaud our few advances. They niggered us about them. And they squealed with delight every time we fell on our faces. And we began to realize that we'd come full circle in this country. We started in slavery, as nothing more than the white man's tool, we'd gone around the horn and landed on the shores all over again, and nothing had changed.
"These towns are nothing more than government reservations, Michael. So, like I said, we got to thinking. Maybe the thing could be turned to our better good. And that was the way we went at it. We began to look at all the suffering of the seventies and the frustrations of the eighties as the nicest thing anybody had ever done for us. They'd given us back to ourselves, you see.
"And we began to build hope again. We'd been running around half crazy from the forties to the seventies, three decades of insanity, trying to hack a trail through that white jungle out there. And, in the process, we'd lost sight of ourselves and of our true place in the American society. The white man had lost sight of us, also. The Negro image was terribly distorted, entirely out of focus.
"Most Negroes, Michael—and I say this in all sincerity, most Negroes want the same things that most white people want. We want food on the table when we're hungry. We want nice clothes. We want things and opportunities for our kids. We want to feel a bit of pride now and then, and—well, just like all people everywhere, Michael, we want the respect of our fellow man. And what really rankled, you see, was the terrible feeling that the white man was determined that we weren't going to have those things. If it hadn't been for that, the Rap Browns and Stokely Carmichaels and the black bigots could have yelled until they were blue in the face and nobody would have paid them any mind. But, see, that's what made Rap and Stokely scream too. Those same things."
"I guess so," Winston murmured.
"Yeah. Well, this was the framework we hung everything together on. We knew we had to have the power, first of all. And the way Arlington immediately began demilitarizing, we knew we'd have no real trouble in that area. The only reason, now the only reason that the old man cut back so severely on the armed forces is because he was scared silly at the thought of all those armed blacks. And he wasn't willing to pay the price to hire good white men to bear aims. So he demilitarized. We had Automated Defense anyway, he reasoned, so who the hell needed a standing army—especially a standing army of blacks.
"Well, General Bogan could tell you something about that decision. He says that there was no way, not with ADS or anything else, that we could've turned back a determined massive invasion by the Chinese—not the way Arlington went. And the old man knew it, too. Yet he played dice with national security in his determination to keep us pent up in those towns.
"We got the power and we knew we could come out of those towns any damn time we wanted to. But there was a rub. Power could get us out, yeah. But it couldn't keep us out, not unless we wanted to become prisoners to our own freedom. See? We don't want to occupy this country, 'til doomsday, Mike. We want to live here as equal American citizens, in dignity and with respect. We knew that we needed a political base. We needed someone to stand up and arouse the conscience of the nation all over again—and this time, by God, we'd make it work right. We'd make them give us good government and rockbound guarantees that this sort of crap would never happen again.
"And that was the hardest part, getting a political base. Most people in the white community who we knew would be receptive to our cause had just run flat out of time. They were old. They wanted no part in any harebrained scheme to overthrow the nation by force. They could see themselves, I'm sure, hanging from their wheelchairs. And I couldn't blame them.
"The point is, we had a tough time. We very strongly considered asking President Tromanno to represent us—he was the greatest white friend we'd ever had, and I guess we damn near got him hung the first time around. But... we were thinking about asking him to lay it out for us again. Our contacts told us the old man was just barely clinging to life, so we left him alone. He's got a place up in—"
"Yes I know," Winston cut in. "I saw him just last night. He's alive and well, and he's probably still your greatest friend. But your information was correct. He is very frail."
Williams shrugged. "So you see our problem. There were some we could have recruited whom I wouldn't have had on a bet. The wild-eyes ones, you know. Those guys are suffering their own special brand of insanity. We sure didn't need it. Anyway, Arlington knows about that bunch, and they're kept under pretty close watch.
"So we started in '96 trying to line up some intelligent white sympathy to our plan. As of yesterday, when you walked in on us unannounced, I had enlisted five white men to help. Good men. I have them now, and they constitute the provisional government." The big black man sighed and added, "They're far from the best I would like to have . . . but they're good men."
"Who?" Winston wanted to know.
"The top man is Simpson Barnes Bancroft."
Winston's eyes showed his surprise. "Senator Bancroft?"
Williams nodded. "He's not the smartest man in the country, but he's honest. I trust him implicitly. Anyway, he knows politics, and he knows politicians, and I guess he's the world's greatest living authority on the U.S. Constitution. I'm depending on him to help set up the new permanent government—under the constitution. Or, rather, under the constitution as it existed in 1980. He can do that. And then I expect the people—the people, Michael—to make the real decision. The people will make the only decisions the Negro will accept."
"Are these men in Washington now?" Winston wondered.
Williams glanced at the clock. "They'll be arriving there most any minute. We are going to leave Arlington in the White House until the people run him out. The provisional government will work around him. But the niggers are not going to drag that old man out of the White House. Hell no. Wait'll you hear about his plot. He was planning on niggering us into another stand for himself in the White House. He thought he was setting us up, and we let him keep on thinking it. He was going to strike at election time, declare a national emergency, and declare himself in for an illegal third term."
"Is that honest-to-God fact, Abe?" Winston asked solemnly.
"That, Michael, is honest-to-God fact."
"Well. .. isn't that a hell of a footnote!"
"Call it what you want, but we're not dragging him out of there. The white man will have to handle his own garbage."
"What a hell of a footnote," Winston repeated.
CHAPTER 3
Norman Ritter charged into the office with his nostrils flaring and eyes blazing. "That damned Arlington!" he raged. "He hasn't given up yet!"
Abe Williams glared at the intelligence man for a moment, waiting for him to continue, then demanded, "All right, spit it out. What's up?"
"What's up is just maybe the whole damned show, that's what's up! He got them! Simpson Barnes Bancroft and all the others, he got 'em all!"
"What do you mean, h
e got them?" Williams asked, his voice suddenly very quiet.
"I mean that he splattered their guts all over Pennsylvania Avenue, that's what I mean! Hell, it's my fault, all my fault. I thought the damn war was over. But it's not, Abe. It's a hell of a long way from over!"
Williams placed both hands on Ritter's arm, led him to a chair, sat him down, and said, "Now, Norman. Exactly what happened?"
"I had my Washington man, John Douglas, meet them at the airport," Ritter mournfully reported. "Thought it might look better that way. I mean, instead of having them marched in by a squad of black troops. And I screwed up. My counter-intel slipped, that's all, it must have. Nobody should have known about those guys."
"Tell me what happened, Norm," Abe Williams said patiently.
"Just like a twenty's movie of Chicago. This car comes, up alongside our car, a machine pistol pokes out the window, and down goes the provisional government . . . every damn one of them, Abe. Every one. So what do we do now? Draft old Arlington for a third term?"
Abe Williams was scrutinizing his friend's troubled face. He mused, "Maybe . . . maybe, Norm. . . ."
"Yeah, maybe Norm Ritter is slipping," the other growled. "It's a miracle I didn't lose John Douglas, too. The limousine smacked into a light standard and rolled twice. I don't know how he managed to walk away from that."
"There's a psychological overtone to this thing, Norm," Williams commented faintly. "This marks the first decisive and successful retort for the white establishment. We have to play this very carefully. It could snowball. It could snowball fast."
"Well I won't mention it if you won't," Ritter said.
"Neither of us will have to. Arlington will be screaming it over the rooftops."
"Then let's cut their communications."
Williams shook his head. "Wouldn't help. Might even hurt. No, we can't cover it up."
"Then let's disclaim Senator Bancroft. Let's say that—"
"Uh uh, no good," Williams said quickly. "We need a better hand than that. Tell me something, Norman. In view of all that's been said publicly by the White House today ... if you were Whitey, who would you expect the niggers to move into the White House?"
"Well... let's see... I don't know if I follow your line of . . . hey! Of course! The traitorous jackal! The nigger-tender! Old Uncle Mose himself!"
"Right," Williams replied softly. "So right."
"I know what you're thinking!'' Ritter said. "I know what you're thinking!"
"Go get him for me, Norm. He's all pegged-out, exhausted, over-used, soul-sick, but he's the only one can turn this for us now. Go get him, Norm."
Mike Winston peered glumly at his fingertips and told Abe Williams, "You don't know what youre asking me do. You're asking me to confirm to oviiy while im>n in the country that I sold them out. You're asking me to stand up there and say, 'Well, I screwed you, Charlie. Now I'm going to lead you.' I don't think I can do it, Abe. Besides, I'm simply not qualified. I've never run a nation before."
"You've run the entire black nation for the past three years," Williams pointed out "Almost single-handedly. That requires considerable ability. Now that I think of it, you're a whole hell of a lot better equipped for the job than Bancroft. He was a good man, and I am sincerely shaken by his death—I hate to lose him in that manner. But face it, Michael. I was looking to Bancroft primarily for his organizing talents and his political footwork. We can find someone else for that part of it, after we get a provisional establishment in operation. I'm sure that many good men will come over, and gladly. But right now we need a head of government. Right now! And before Arlington can make any political capital from this brief little victory of his."
Winston sighed. "I just don't know, Abe," he muttered. He ran a hand across his forehead. "I'm liable to botch things for good, you realize that. Hell, I'm just not in that league. Not anywhere near it. I wouldn't know where to start."
"You start by seizing the reins of government. That's where every man starts. Then you take each problem as it presents itself. I know you can do it. But that isn't what is really worrying you, is it? If s the traitor tag that is chewing you to pieces, isn't it?"
Winston went to the desk and helped himself to one of the black leader's cigarettes, lit it with steady hands, and exhaled vigorously. "I guess I could live through that part of it," he declared.
"Then don't worry about the rest. Men grow, Michael. I've seen men grow from midgets to giants in the space of a heartbeat. All it takes to lead is the wisdom to know what is right and the strength to do it. I believe that you have both those qualities. Growth is a natural consequence of
that exercise. How many men enter the White House with presidential experience?"
Winston took another slow drag on the cigarette, then angled an oblique gaze to the status boards depicting the progress of the occupation forces. "You think you really need me, Abe?" he asked quietly.
"There is no one else, Michael."
"Well... I believe I feel a wind at my back."
"What does that mean?"
Winston grimaced. "I guess it means that the show must go on."
Williams' face split into a restrained grin. "I never thought for a minute you'd say anything else."
"Yeah," Winston growled. "Me too, I guess. But . . . back when I made that decision, Abe, I didn't realize that such a big role was being written."
"I don't get you," the black man replied, smiling quizzically.
"Private joke. I'll explain it to you some day. If I don't fall flat on my face. But . . . brrrr, what a hell of a bitter wind."
CHAPTER 4
Howard Silverman had the full staff of film librarians working feverishly. Two editors, flanking him at the long table, were peering at rolls of video film and jotting notes on large program sheets.
Silverman snagged a passing librarian and told her, "Bring me this S-87-121."
The girl stopped to consult the catalog in Silverman's hand. "That one's in the security file, also," she informed him. "It's never been cleared for release."
"Hell, I know that," he snapped. "Bring it."
The librarian walked away, resignedly shaking her head. Silverman stabbed his pencil toward the film editor to his left. "I remember that S-121 very well," he ruminated. "Now here's what I want out of it. There are some good shots of old nigger patients being carried out of a Virginia hospital on stretchers. That's when they were moving them into the relocation centers. Later on, there are some shots of the field hospitals they set up at Parris Island. I want you to splice that up to show the continuity between the county hospital and Parris Island. Got it?"
The editor nodded and nervously cleared his throat.
"Okay. And there's one shot in there that shows daylight right through the ceiling where they're setting up the cots.
No wonder we never got this stuff cleared, eh? All righ You run those frames along with that statement in his speech." He leaned forward and stabbed the program she with an index finger.
The editor scribbled a note on the program sheet an murmured, "Christ."
"You getting the general slant now?" Silverman asked "See this right here? Where Arlie is saying, 'with all due; regard to the needs and welfare of these people. . . ? All right, there's your continuity slice. You bang it in there."
He turned to the man at Ms other side. "Now to Eddie. This film you're working was shot while the Appalachin Plateau was being built. Early construction phase. See these cats in the plows and dozers? It's hard to tell here, but it shows clear as hell in projection. Those guys are niggers. Yeah, all of them, the whole mess. Now run on down... a little more... okay, here. See these cops beating hell out of these guys? Know what that is? Got any idea? That, Eddie, is the end of organized labor in America. This was the last picket line. Arlie used all nigger labor on those land recycles. How do you think he got the job done so cheap? Like making a man dig his own grave, isn't it. Think on that angle and try to work it in. And remember that no black man has ever lived in Appal
achin Strip, or raised so much as a single apple on that plateau. You know how to play it? All right, you guys get busy."
"This scares the hell out of me, Howie," the editor said quietly. "Leavenworth, here I come."
"You got more to worry about than Leavenworth, Eddie. A whole hell of a lot more. You just do the job. I'll take the responsibility."
An excited older man hurried into the room. "Hey, Howie! You're wanted over in the communications section."
"What's up?" Silverman asked, struggling to his feet.
"Damnedest thing I ever saw. This MCW transmission blasts into our monitor right on top of our press carrier. They must have fifty gillion watts of output. We cut our transmitter and listened. This guy says it's Oakland Warhole, calling for Howard Silverman."
"Well Christ let's go!" Silverman cried, pushing the other man along with him. "You got MCW capability on that transmitter, Walt?"
"Sure. Harry's peaking it up for voice now. The guy says that a Michael Winston wants to talk to you, Howie. Do you know a Michael Winston?"
Silverman's face was beaming like the northern lights. "Not personally, Walt, no—not personally. But I guess I'm going to. I'll bet you an old fashioned American dollar that I'm going to."
The time had arrived for the long-awaited presidential address to the nation. Howard Silverman entered the large control booth and stood slightly to one side of the technical director. The countdown clock had moved to the ninety-two-second mark. "You all set?" Silverman asked.
"All is ready," the director replied tensely. "I just hope you know what you're doing."
"Let me worry. You just concentrate on mixing this stuff according to the script."
"You're blocking my Central Station monitor."
"Sorry." Silverman moved, slightly aside. "Hope everything goes smooth."
"It will, unless the cops descend on us. I filtered the background noise out of the Winston recording. The guy speaks well." The director jabbed a finger toward the wail clock. "Better get on your mark."
Don Pendleton - Civil War II Page 17