Amerika

by Brauna E. Pouns

  And there were the kids, too. He was so busy with his work, and they with their passions—Jackie’s dancing, Scott’s basketball—that they barely had time to speak. Jackie loved her new Russian ballet teacher, and she’d thrown herself into her studies, but she worried constantly about Justin. Amanda had made inquiries, but it was as if he’d vanished from the face of the earth. The one time Peter had tried to discuss it with her, she’d turned away, as if he were somehow to blame for the boy’s disappearance.

  Peter was startled by a knock at his door. He looked up to see General Fred Sittman’s ruddy, pockmarked face in the doorway.

  “Burning the midnight oil, chief?”

  “Just working on this damn speech,” Peter said.

  “The rehearsal looked sharp,” the general said.

  “Your men looked sharp,” Peter said. “But of course they always do.”

  “Never bullshit a bullshitter, chief. See you in the morning.”

  Peter grinned. Fred Sittman was turning out to be one hell of an interesting character. At first glance he looked like your basic short-haired, thick-necked, gung-ho marine officer. And it was true that as a young man, he’d proved his courage in Korea, and he’d gone on to be one of the most decorated officers in Vietnam. Sittman had them all: the Purple Heart, the Congressional Medal of Honor, and a list of wartime commendations as long as his arm.

  But that wasn’t all; Peter had done some checking into Fred Sittman’s record. After the war, when a New York Times reporter interviewed him at the Pentagon, the general declared that the Vietnam War had been a colossal mistake, a blunder that pigheaded civilians had forced on military men who knew better. “It was the wrong war in the wrong place at the wrong time for the wrong reasons,” Sittman had declared. It had been the Times’ Quote of the Day.

  There had been a flurry of protests from the Pentagon and Congress, and some talk that Sittman would be reprimanded, but his record was too outstanding for that. He continued as one of the marine corps’ top generals, and just in case anyone missed the point, he proceeded to write a book about what went wrong in Vietnam.

  The irony was that all this “radical” behavior had made him one of the highest-ranking American military men in the country. The Transition had not been an easy one for the U.S. military. The Soviets were willing to deal with American lawyers, politicians, journalists, and corporate executives, but they hated and feared the American military. Peter had heard rumors that dozens of senior Pentagon generals were assassinated during the first months of the Transition, and that hundreds of others were sent into exile, or to prison for “reeducation.” And if you believed the rumors, many others were somewhere in the mountains, leading an armed resistance.

  Fred Sittman was a dramatic exception. Because of his opposition to the Vietnam War, the Soviets had decided to use him as an example of a “good” general; they needed “good” generals to lead and maintain order among the national guard. They had asked Sittman to serve as a national guard commander during the Transition, and he replied, “I’m a soldier, and I serve my government, whatever it may be.”

  There were those who called him an opportunist, or worse, but the fact remained that he was the national guard commander for Heartland, and thus the most important American military man in the new, demilitarized America.

  Peter’s door flew open again, this time without anyone knocking, and Marion stormed in, head high, eyes flashing.

  “What is this about your wife going to see Devin?” she demanded.

  Peter was taken aback. It had been only a few hours since Amanda had spoken to Andrei—how had word reached Marion so fast? Someone standing nearby must have told her—unless Andrei himself had. As always, it was impossible to know who was playing what game. Still, it amused him to see Marion so agitated. She liked to keep others guessing; let her have a turn.

  “I sure wish I knew what was going on as well as you do.” He smiled.

  “That’s why I’m invaluable as your deputy,” she said coldly.

  “I thought it would be a good way to try to find out where your son is.”

  Marion looked at him with less suspicion and more respect. “Really?”

  “And possibly work out a way for Devin not to be killed.”

  “What makes you think his life needs saving?”

  “Just an educated guess, Marion. But I’m saying that if you get Billy back, no purpose would be served by Devin’s death, except to make you look bloodthirsty, which won’t help either one of us.”

  Marion studied him thoughtfully. He had a knack, she had to admit, for seeing all sides of a solution. “If he cooperates in finding my son, I might agree to a program of behavior modification. Or prison.”

  Peter thought about his choices. The recollection of Devin’s behavior at the interrogation office gave him a shiver. “Prison,” Peter said. “A short term.”

  “If he cooperates.”

  Peter nodded, sealing the deal.

  “Perhaps we can work together, Peter,” she said, with a cool smile.

  “You’re tough. You don’t give much for nothing,” he said, not without respect. This woman made him very uneasy. He wondered what had attracted Devin to her in the first place. Or had she changed? Did all wives change? Did any man at forty know the woman he had loved at twenty?

  “No, I don’t,” she said. “Not for love or money.” She smiled again. “Or old time’s sake.”

  * # *

  Devin did fifty pushups, rested three minutes, then did fifty more. Before the night was out he would do five hundred, and an equal number of situps. He’d let his exercises lapse while he was free, but a prisoner could not afford such sloth. He had to be diamond-hard again, in mind and body, to survive what lay ahead. He was refusing the food they brought him, except for a cup of water and a piece of bread each day, and he would not sleep more than two hours at a time. They could kill him, but short of that there was little they could do to him that was more harsh than what he would do to himself.

  When he was not exercising, he spent most of his time thinking of Billy. He remembered how casual and easy they’d talked on the shores of Lake Michigan a few days before. Now, with time, miles, and bars between them, he knew Billy was thinking of him. Devin knew his son was in Nebraska now, that Clayton had helped him through to be reunited with his grandfather and the rest of the Milfords. Devin could feel that; it was a truth. It was the most real thing in the world to him.

  Enjoy your family, son, he thought to himself. They’re a little crazy, like most families, but they’re your flesh and blood, and they’ll give you more love than anyone else in the world.

  Chapter 12

  When Andrei arrived at Petya’s Virginia mansion, Petya’s chief of staff, a plump young major named Josef, announced that the general was at the Pentagon.

  “At the communications center,” the young officer said. “He’s been there all day, on the secure line to the Kremlin. I don’t know when he’ll return.”

  Andrei smiled to hide his annoyance. “Shall I join him there, Josef? He may want my assistance.”

  “No,” Josef said. “He left word he was not to be disturbed.”

  “I have flown a long way,” Andrei said. “He sent for me. Will you tell him I’m here, please?”

  Josef, normally a ruddy, robust fellow, was pale and grim. “He is upset, Andrei. It is something very serious. If he summons me, I will tell him, but you may simply have to wait.”

  Josef left, and Andrei settled in by the fire. After downing two brandies but receiving still no word from Petya, he went up to his room and tried to sleep. Outside, a cold March wind howled over the dark fields where presidents once laughed and rode.

  Amanda went early, just after dawn. Everyone at the jail was very polite, but it seemed almost surreal to be walking down those long corridors, past locked bars and guards, not twenty minutes after she had left the presidential suite of Chicago’s finest hotel.

  Then someone turned a key and s
he was standing in the doorway, looking at him, and she thought her heart would break. She had desperately wanted to be there, but suddenly it was too painful, like seeing a bird in a cage, its wings broken but its eyes still blazing. The strange thing was, he didn’t seem to mind; he rose slowly, an odd smile on his face, and waved her into his cell. She guessed he took a certain perverse pride in being here, but it did her no good to see him like this.

  He gestured for her to be seated in a straight-backed chair, and perched on the edge of his bunk.

  “How are you?” she asked.

  “I’ve had nicer vacations.”

  It was the wrong beginning, but what did you say when you had said so very little for so very long?

  “Really,” she said. “How do you feel?”

  He shrugged. “Sad for my sons, but not for myself.”

  She remembered the day they’d met in the refugee camp and talked at his little tent beside the stream. He’d seem dazed, withdrawn. Now, even here, he seemed more sure of himself, more at peace.

  “What will happen to you?”

  “Probably prison again. Only I don’t think I’ll make it so easy for them. Actually, I’m a little surprised, given what Marion’s become, that they haven’t just executed me, gotten it over with.”

  “How can you talk that way?”

  He shrugged. “Because, it’s a reality that has to be faced.”

  She looked at him and the years tumbled away; the memories of so long ago seemed almost tangible, hanging in the air like the very dankness of the cell. “I don’t want to lose you,” she said.

  The words jumped out by themselves. She lowered her eyes. “But I have no right to say that, do I?”

  He touched her face. In that moment he had remembered their young love, yet he felt no sorrow for what might have been. He thought his life had been inevitable, from Vietnam to Marion to Congress to this prison cell, and he could not regret what could not be changed. He only felt a certain bittersweet sadness, for this was the sweetest, kindest woman he had ever known. She simply had not been his destiny.

  “You have the right if you want it,” he said.

  Now she made another leap. The words popped out too quickly here, in this frightening place. “If you’d let them have Billy ...”

  “Is that what you came to tell me?” he asked, not unkindly.

  “Peter wants to help you. But he thinks you’ve got to give her Billy. For God’s sake, Devin, don’t you think it’s better to think about helping your children after you’re free?”

  He shook his head emphatically. “No, the time has come to resist. My life isn’t what’s important. We need a deeper kind of resistance, something with roots. It’s got to stand for something, not just against the Russians.”

  His words meant nothing to her. It was like when Peter spoke of compromise and lesser evils—political talk, abstractions. She was talking about flesh and blood, life and death. “You’ve given enough,” she said. “Five years in prison camp. Why should you have to be the one who takes the stand? Look at what you have to lose.”

  “Most people have their lives to live,” he said. “It’s been hard for them, just to survive, to draw each breath, eat, make sure their children don’t starve, have enough clothes to keep warm. But they haven’t given up. They aren’t broken. I saw them, heard them, on the courthouse steps yesterday. Their spirit is still alive. They just need someone to remind them, encourage them. It’s not me, it’s all of us, in this together. I’m not what matters.”

  She looked at him for a long time. It was as if they were speaking two different languages. He was saying that life arid freedom didn’t matter and she believed they were all that mattered. Perhaps he was right, perhaps he glimpsed some greater reality, but she could not accept that.

  “You matter to me, because I love you,” she said.

  Those words popped out too. She stood up, wondering if she should leave, and he stood too.

  “There. How do you like that?” she asked, more to herself than to him. “I always have. I guess we just never had the chance to destroy it. When I saw you at the exile camp, I knew in an instant, it was all still there.”

  “Amanda,” he said, and took a step toward her.

  “No, don’t touch me,” she cried. “I’m so damn mad at you. That you would risk your life when you don’t have to.”

  He smiled at her. He couldn’t help it.

  “And don’t laugh at me,” she said. “I thought of you so much, for so long. You were always there. My God, do I sound like I’m sixteen?”

  He put his arms around her and she entered his embrace gladly. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, and she found herself doing a little of both.

  “You really thought about me? All those years?”

  “I tried to shove you down, out of the way, but you were there. Peter knew. We didn’t deal with it. I said it was absurd. But he knew. He lived with it.”

  “And he wants me out of here?”

  “He’s your friend. In some crazy way I loved you both. His reality and your memory. I guess I always knew you’d come back. That’s why I can’t bear to lose you again.”

  “But ... if I get out of here, you’ll stay with Peter.” “Of course. I love Peter. He needs me.”

  Devin smiled. “So after all this you’re going to stay with your husband.”

  She laughed. “Yes.”

  He lifted her and swung her around and gently set her back down. “You’re much stranger than I remembered,” he said.

  It was far past midnight when Andrei fell asleep in the big canopied bed in Petya’s guest room, and it was dawn when the squeak of the door awoke him.

  Andrei leaped to his feet—KGB officers sleep lightly —only to see that the intruder was his host.

  Petya put a hand on his arm. “Sit down, Andrei,” he said. “I am sorry to disturb your rest.”

  Not until Petya had eased himself into a Louis XIV armchair did Andrei pull on his robe and settle nervously on the edge of the bed. He had never seen Petya looking like this—pale, distracted, unfocused, his uniform disheveled.

  “What is wrong?”

  Petya sighed, staring into space. “Much is wrong. There have been several major reverses worldwide. Eastern Europe is a powder keg and more sparks are being ignited. Shipments through the Panama Canal have been halted because of terrorism—due to the destruction of one of the locks. I’m afraid we miscalculated there, too. Premier Castro acts as though he’s still the revolutionary. The Afghans have taken one of our generals hostage. And the Kremlin, despite all my assurances, continues to fear the Americans and to think that all of the disturbances worldwide exist because of a belief that somehow America will rise again.”

  “It isn’t America,” Andrei cried. “It’s an idea, one that is universal.”

  Petya shook his head wearily; he had not slept in thirty hours. “Our colleagues in the Kremlin see the world through reports and monitors. They are not very good at running the world. They are unworthy of the power you and I gave them, Andrei. How much easier it is to conquer than to rule.”

  “We are making progress,” Andrei said. He was almost pleading now. “Today Peter Bradford will be sworn in as governor-general of Heartland—a major ceremony to be televised nationally, and the beginning of our new policy. Within weeks Heartland will form a separate nation. Soon other nations will be formed. The United States will cease to be; we will have Balkanized it. In one or two decades it will be only a memory. My God, what more do they want?”

  “Much more, Andrei. The hotheads have gained control of the politburo. I spent the night arguing

  against their plan to explode low-yield nuclear weapons over three American cities, as an example to America, and the rest of the world, of our resolve.”

  “My God, are they mad?”

  “Worse. They are frightened.”

  Andrei walked to the window and stared out like an imprisoned man. Sunlight glistened like gold on the frost-crusted
fields outside, and its beauty made Andrei all the more depressed. For years he had felt in control of Ms world; now he sensed his certitude, Ms power, slipping away.

  “What was decided?” he said.

  “A compromise of sorts. Not the nuclear explosions. Instead, I will give them ... a symbolic victory. One that will convince them that America is finally dead. It will not be pretty, but neither will it kill innocent millions.”

  “For God’s sake, Petya, tell me . .

  “No. This is my responsibility. I must begin immediately.”

  “But what . . .?”

  “You will know when the deed is done. Meanwhile, wait here. Begin making plans. The other areas must secede within two weeks.”

  “They’re not ready. They—”

  “They must. The alternative is worse. As soon as possible, the new regions must form the North American Alliance. You must see that this is done. You will receive credit. Then they cannot keep you off the central committee. But you must do your job, Andrei, as I must do mine, however repugnant it may be.”

  He rose heavily to his feet. Andrei rose, too, and stepped toward him. For an instant he thought Petya might fall. “What can I do?” he asked.

  Petya lifted his head and gazed into Andrei’s eyes. The proud, tough soldier Andrei had admired for a dozen years now seemed a broken old man. “You have done so much for me already,” he said. “Now you must carry on this difficult task we have undertaken. Remember always that we are a noble people, whatever evil the extremists may force upon us.”

  He awkwardly reached out and touched Andrei’s face. They embraced. Samanov stepped back and held him at arm’s length. “You are a son to me.”

  They embraced again.

  “And you a father.”

  Petya released Andrei and started slowly to the door. “I will be in Washington,” he said.

  “Petya, is there anything at all I can do?”