Don Pendleton - Civil War II

by Don Pendleton

  Silverman hurried out the door and down the short flight of stairs. When the red light flashed on, he was starely somberly into the camera, his lungs ready. "Good evening, this is Howard Silverman in Washington, speaking to you from the studios of the Federal Broadcasting System. It is eight o'clock here in the nation's capital. In just a moment, FBS will present an address to the nation by the President.

  "This message was video-taped earlier this morning for more effective presentation at this time. Please stay tuned for another surprise presentation immediately following the President's address.

  "Ladies and gentlemen of America, I give you the President of the United States."

  The red light winked off. Silverman strode rapidly to a chair which had been placed in front of the studio monitor. The nation had been waiting all day for this, this word of advice from their Big Daddy Arlington. Silverman felt a little sorry for them; perhaps a bit guilty for the trick he'd played on them. He sighed and sat back in the chair. They'd get Big Daddy, all right. But just his voice. Presently occupying the screen was a still photo of the President. The familiar Arlington oratory was flowing smoothly, the velvety tones which had charmed a nation were still rich and elegant despite the passage of years.

  And while the words flowed on unchecked from their recorded sound track, the presidential image vanished from the screen, to be immediately replaced by the latest thing in television re-runs—from an era dead and nearly forgotten.

  There were films of Maryland and Mississippi, of Arkansas and Detroit, of San Francisco and New York—the bloody integration riots of the fifties, sixties, and early seventies. The Presidential syrup flowed on, oblivious of the scenes of horror which filled the screen. Police dogs bared snarling fangs and nightsticks crunched onto black skulls as the President was saying, "Those we have succored and fed, those we have housed and employed, those for whom we have assumed normal and financial responsibility have closed their hearts to their benefactors and have opened their ears to the evil whispers of those beyond the seas who would pillage our blessed land of plenty.

  "Those in whom we have entrusted the defense and protection of our nation have raised their own black fists against us. This is indeed a dark day, not only for the white citizens of this republic, but for the misguided and misused blacks as well. Let us . . ."

  Silverman blinked back unbidden tears as the Grand Central Heli cameras came on. Thousands of Americans were gathered there to watch the giant screen—and in the background could occasionally be seen a movement of black troops carrying formidable weapons. The white faces showed bewilderment—then, here and there, a smile or a frown as understanding dawned.

  202

  Arlington was just warming up; as he moved, into the next familiar argument, montages of Booker T. Washington, Paul Dunbar, Phyllis Wheatley, Marian Anderson, Paul Robeson, Satchmo Armstrong, Nat Cole, Peter Salem, George Washington Carver, Ralph Bunche, Jackie Robinson, Joe Louis, Willie Mays, Whitney Young —on and on and on, each appropriately subtitled —marched across the television screens of the nation.

  "... and the Negruh has built no civilizations, has made no really significant contributions to the arts and sciences, has had little impact upon the American culture and way of life."

  (The technical script: DUB EST BACKGROUND MUSIC, NEW ORLEANS JAZZ).

  "No, Americans, the white man has no debt to the Negruh. Quite the reverse is true. The Negruhs of this continent have done nothing but take from the white man, and the more he has received the more he has demanded. For more than one hundred years he has despoiled our cities, filled our charity lists, profaned our womanhood, and bloated our labor markets with useless manpower."

  (The technical script: MIX IN APPALACHIN PLATEAU CONSTRUCTION SHOTS. SPLIT, CUT TO. . . .)

  "In the nineteen hundred and sixties, a juvenile and febrile government administration, which I cannot bear to mention by name, (KENNEDY FUNERAL CORTEGE. SWELL IN BACKGROUND SOUND.) nourished and encouraged the Negruh influence in our affairs of state to the absolute zenith of intolerability. This was followed closely by another coddling administration which set this nation afire, my friends, afire—and then another and another. This party found its strength in the ashes of America's 20th century fools, and we followed the dictates of the majority of our people, as we sought to place the Negruh in a true perspective to the American Dream. We sought to free the average American citizens of the burden and pain of daily confrontation with an irresponsible rabble . . ."

  The nation's viewers were treated to long-suppressed

  views of the Negro roundup of the '80s—of crying, frightened children—of the aged and sick, of pregnant women and weeping men, of the truckloads jammed to overflowing with suffocating cargo, bound beyond the barbed wire of various "relocation centers"—and the President was saying, "Even so, this program was not undertaken with malice but with humane and sincere consideration and with all due regard to the needs and welfare of these people. In a tremendous public works program designed to both fulfill Negruh needs and to ..."

  Howard Silverman unashamedly dabbed at his eyes with a handkerchief. He was thinking of another probable viewer of the program, a handsome old man who sat alone but for the cordon of Secret Service bodyguards; he was thinking of the many years of close association, of the campaigns, of the days of glory gone forever.

  ". . . they want to live in your neighborhood, they want to meddle in your affairs of government, they want to dilute your fine educational systems with their backward children. They want what you have and this has been the story of the American Negruh for over two hundred years."

  The television audience was being shown a forty-year-old film of Mississippi's one-room unpainted clapboard shacks, of incredible big-city ghettoes, and the President was saying: "What they have is never good enough. They will never be content to take what is theirs and leave the white man alone. They want the fruits of your labors, my people. Are you going to give it to them?"

  Video tape recordings of the destruction of Los Angeles and San Francisco appeared on the viewer, followed by still shots from around the nation, hospital scenes, morgue scenes, horror scenes from March 10th, 1999. One shot showed an armored column as it moved ponderously along Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington, this quickly replaced by motion picture footage of another armored column speeding along the Hollywood Freeway, spitting death and destruction to each side of the raised structure. And the President was telling the nation, "... no, we will not open the doors of the nation to this rabble. We are going to let

  them sit in their metal prisons and fry, we are going to let them gnaw on the wooden stocks of rifles in hunger. And we are going to sit with butcher knives and paring knives, and with squirrel rifles and target pistols and we are going to wait them out. Let them dare try opening the doors to America.

  "In this entire country there are less than twenty million of them. We number a full two hundred strong, my friends. So courage, America. Already your President is pleased to announce that the traitors among us have been destroyed. The provisional government named in the Negro Manifesto is no longer in existence. We have wiped them out And now we say to the military, throw down your arms and go back to where you belong. Do so immediately or suffer the consequences of your ill-considered and infantile actions.

  "And I say to my people, my people, stand up. Stand up with your President, stand up in freedom and in dignity, stand up and stare the savages back into their holes! Give them not a foothold, not one, or they will take all that you have.

  "Goodnight, America. God be with us all. God is with us all."

  Howard Silverman was back on his mark, right on cue, staring somberly into the camera. "Ladies and gentlemen, please be assured that no one at FBS is gloating over the technical triumphs implied in this evening's programming. None of us have found any pleasure in making a fool and a liar of the President of the United States. But truth must out, and this day in our destiny is certainly no time for any American to attempt to
find comfort in half-truths, in deliberate distortions, or in meaningless rationalizations. The harsh truth, quite simply stated, is this: We are a nation occupied. Those of us who have missed death thus far have missed it very narrowly indeed. All of us, if we simply admit the truth to ourselves, know that the American Negro has suffered a long history of injustice and mistreatment at the hands of the white majority. And now the Negro holds our fate in his hands. These are not stupid hands, as the President implied. They are not children's, hands, nor obviously are they frightened hands.

  But they are very angry and very powerful hands.

  "Before responding to the President's call to combat, every American has a right to know the true circumstances of our present situation. The black forces have complete and uncontested control of every military installation in the nation, including even the Automated systems. The Negro holds all the weapons, and therefore all the cards. The President has pointed out the fact that we outnumber the Negro. What comfort can we find in this sort of number's game? How long would numerical superiority prevail in a duel between target pistols and heavy artillery? And how much comfort would the citizens of Los Angeles and other of our cities have found in butcher knives on this fateful morning?

  "No, I found no joy in my task this evening. But I would find even less joy tomorrow in the total and complete destruction of this nation. And, of course, this is the course being demanded by the President. The annihilation of a people. After a quarter-century of close association with the President, I feel that his address tonight had nothing whatever to do with the responsibilities of his office. I feel most strongly, in fact, that President Arlington is suffering from some form of mental derangement, and that his plea to the nation tonight represents nothing more than a madman's folly, a desperate and emotional bid for support of his personal and lifelong and perhaps psychotic grievances with the black race. In short, I feel the President was not thinking in the best interests of the nation. I believe that he would rather see the nation perish than to admit his and our mistreatment of the Negro citizens of this country. This is the way Howard Silverman sees it. With so much at stake, this is the way Howard Silverman must say it.

  "I promised you a surprise presentation to follow the presidential message I have been in short-wave radio contact with one of the men who stands accused of treason. Contrary to the President's claim, the provisional government of the occupation has not ceased to exist, not by any means. It waa this man's wish to deliver a personal statement to the nation. FBS engineers recorded that statement directly from the short wave. It is my good pleasure to present that radio transcription at this time. There is no video accompanying this presentation. Your screens will go black. No adjustments to your sets are necessary. May I suggest that you extinguish or dim all lights wherever you may be, and that you listen with great attention to the following message. It is time for each American to deliberate the fate of his nation. Please do so now.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the new Director of National Affairs, representing the provisional government of the United States, Mr. Michael Winston."

  TEXT OF MICHAEL WINSTON'S STATEMENT

  My name is Michael Winston. I am a native-born citizen of the United States. I have been a government employee for the past fourteen years. My position for the past three years was that of National Commissioner of Urban Affairs. I exerted government controls over approximately eighteen million human beings. Black human beings. My AMS passcard carries an FVTP override. I am not married. I have no family living. A few hours ago, I was officially charged with high treason against my country.

  The preceding statements are factual, and are given only to indicate that I have been a quite comfortable member of the American society—which, in itself, is certainly the most comfortable society in the history of the world... for many of us. I am not a revolutionary. I am not a wild-eyed fanatic, reformer, or zealot. What I am, or what I was until a few hours ago, was a comfortable American.

  As this moment, I am anything but comfortable. I have found myself suddenly thrust forward into the consciousness of my fellow Americans in a setting which could hardly be considered comfortable. I stand before you an accused traitor. I am speaking at this moment from within the military stronghold of the Black forces in Oakland, California. And I come to you as an appointee to the provisional government established by the occupation forces. No ... at this moment, I am not a comfortable American.

  The rest of my own personal story is of little importance to the present moment. The present state and ultimate fate of the American Republic far outweigh any personal considerations or discomfort of Michael Winston and of any other individual citizen of this land. Only the most careful handling and sensitive understanding of the present situation can prevent further violence, bloodshed, and destruction of the nation.

  The American Negro has searched his conscience. He desires no pound of flesh. He does desire reinstatement into the American community. He has come out of these towns where the people had, in effect, imprisoned him, and he has come out fighting, as would any of us indeed. And now the Negro is out of the towns and back onto the main streets of the nation. He belongs there, he has a right to be there, and—believe me—he intends to remain there. I applaud him.

  I applaud the Negro because ... at a moment when he has the power and the ability, for the first time, to fully avenge the unspeakable crimes committed against his race for centuries, he has exercised a humane restraint and a love of country that is difficult for me, a comfortable American, to understand. He came out of those towns and he lashed out in a brief—believe me, a very brief—destructive trumpet-blast of freedom found. But he has not run amuck. Blood does not flow in rivers through the streets of America. The Negro has withdrawn that big fist. He came out, he bade us look at him, and now he stands back, waiting to see what we intend to do about it.

  Make no mistake, however, that black fist is still cocked. It could lash out again, either in blind reflexive action or in cool calculation. Whatever the mode, the results for the white American and for the nation as a whole can be nothing but destruction, disaster and genocide.

  This is my primary message to the people of the United States. Think. Act rationally. Consider the state of the nation, and conduct yourselves accordingly. Make no mistake ... this is no mere uprising or momentary flare-up. What has happened in this country today is a military operation of the highest calibre, the fruits of painstaking

  years of planning and preparation. The Negro controls the military might of this nation today, he controls us.

  I stated earlier that my own personal involvements were of no consequence to our present situation. But I want to be entirely honest, and I want every citizen of this nation to know precisely where my sympathies lie. I am not sure, you see, that I would erase the events of the past twenty-four hours even if I had the power to do so. I feel that what has happened has served as an awakening from some hallucinogenic dream or illusion. I have no desire to return to that dream. The air is clean and crisp out here in reality. There is a noticeable tugging at the soul and a vigorous recognition of the values of life ... out here in reality.

  I am not a child, I am thirty-six years of age. I am not an idiot, my present station in life attests to that. I am not politically naive ... my survival through fourteen years of government service should verify that. Yet... in the most important issues of life itself I have habitually surrendered my thinking mind to the emotional braying of the jackasses among us. I have accepted—no, I have welcomed, the fanatic and his hatreds, the opportunist and his greed, the professional hater and his ruthlessness. I have wrapped these in a mantle about me and walked among you as a responsible citizen, as an average American, as a patriot And of these guises, only one is true. The one of average American. I have, you see, been like you. At this moment, I am only like myself. I intend to think for myself. I will not surrender that unique consciousness of mine to a dream of national narcosis.

  The President
has said that the present quote unrest unquote is foreign inspired. My reply to the President is that unrest is an American institution, or it was at one time. I would remind the President that these people who have risen up in our midst were not born into a slave consciousness. They were born with American minds, and they were educated in American ideals and philosophies.

  Since when, Mr. President, does the home of the free and the land of the brave require an injection of foreign inspiration to produce a feeling of anger, frustration, and rebellion against tyranny and injustice? But this is the

  saddest part of all, for it seems that this reaction can be felt only by those Americans who are themselves suffering the fruits of tyranny and injustice. Is the American Negro the only one who can lift his head and cry out against the things this nation has come to stand for? Is this true, America? Can we look at our brothers, and seeing that they are black, forget that they are Americans? Can we look at tyranny and degradation of the American ideal and, secure in the knowledge that it is not being directed against ourselves, forget American principles?

  A wise old man in Denver told me, not many hours ago, that character is an exercise of principle, and that an exercise of principle usually amounts to doing something we don't particularly want to do, or something that we will not personally profit from. Is the principle of freedom and equality still alive in the home of the free?

  As tile black man searches his conscience for the right course of action in this, his moment of triumph, cannot the white man do likewise in this, his moment of truth? Let us each, white and black alike, paraphrase an early American patriot, and say: I may not like the color of your skin, American, but I shall defend to the death your right to wear it, in freedom and with pride.

  CHAPTER 5 - THE CHANGING OF THE GUARD