Amerika

by Brauna E. Pouns

  Petya Samanov was greeted with polite applause as he rose to address the joint session. He wore the brown uniform of a general in the Soviet army, complete with his medals, battle ribbons, and Order of Lenin medallion. He also carried a revolver in a holster on his hip, as Russian officers often did in America. Those members who knew him personally could see how drawn, how haggard, he looked. He spoke from a few scribbled notes, gazing out at his audience through dark-rimmed reading glasses.

  “Thank you for your indulgence,” he began. “You have been patient and cooperative in what we have all hoped would be as peaceful and easy a transition as possible.” Samanov hesitated, as though intending to add something to that thought, and then looked up. “My friends,” he continued, “I have learned much during my time with you, to appreciate much of who and what you are and have been. At one point in my life, I thought of America as an implacable enemy.” He paused. “I no longer feel that. Not because we happened to succeed and you happened to fail—but because I know you better, understand you better. Understanding is a long and difficult road. It requires closeness, a closeness which our two countries were never able to achieve.”

  Samanov let his gaze ramble across the crowded room before he continued. “Our two systems are so different and in many ways possibly incompatible. But we are all of us human beings, after all not so different.” He moved his reading glasses further down his nose and pushed his notes to the side.

  “But there are those who have not had a chance for the closeness—the understanding. When events are seen at a great distance—and seen only as extensions of policy—there can be no understanding. I beg you to cooperate, so that the opportunity for such understanding will be able to develop—somehow.

  “I beg of you—in your own best interests, in the interest of peace, of your people—please accept the inevitable. However great the idea of your country, however noble those original purposes, this body no longer serves them. Please take this opportunity to disband this ...”

  A few cries of “No!” rose up from the chamber.

  “. . . and relinquish its power to the several administrative areas.”

  Many Members of Congress were on their feet now, shouting their protests.

  “And I must ask for an immediate vote,” Samanov declared, his voice rising.

  “Vote, vote!” demanded the PPP delegation, but they were shouted down by cries of “No!” and “Never!”

  Samanov gazed out sadly at the chaos, the long-quiescent remnant of democracy, and when he was sure there would be no vote, that a majority of Congress would not voluntarily disband, he turned and left the chamber. He was tom by conflicting emotions: admiration for their courage and sorrow for the price they would soon pay.

  As Petya made his exit, an armed guard bolted the door behind him. Inside the chamber, various members attempted to leave, only to find all doors circling the room locked. The congressmen looked at one another in annoyance, then dread, as they realized that they were prisoners.

  Petya stepped into an elegant hideaway office, once the domain of the speaker of the house, that boasted a priceless chandelier, Oriental rugs, a wood-burning fireplace with an ornate marble mantelpiece, and a massive oak desk that had once belonged to President Madison. He slumped at the desk. A Soviet army officer stared at him from the doorway.

  “Sir, we are ready,” the officer said.

  “Proceed,” Petya said, the word caught in his throat.

  Peter had agonized over his speech for days, but once he reached the podium it all seemed natural. He hardly looked at his text; the words flowed easily before this vast multitude that filled the stadium and the millions more he knew were watching on TV. He felt wonderful, ten feet tall, and his conviction gave strength to the words he spoke. Andrei’s plan for the division of America could have found no more eloquent spokesman.

  “Heartland is larger than most of the nations of Europe,” he declared. “Our productive capacity is unmatched, our potential unlimited. Our need is to break with the past, to assert our independence and resume our greatness.”

  “What the hell’s he trying to say?” Will Milford demanded. He and Alethea had hiked back to the farmhouse and were watching the ceremony on TV in their kitchen.

  “Regional pride, I think,” Alethea said. She was worried about Billy; his hiding place might be secure, but it was also monumentally depressing. Would he climb out of there and get himself caught?

  “He ought to get to the damn point,” Will muttered.

  “As in the past we were proud to be Americans,” Peter continued, “let us now be proud to be Heart-landers.”

  “What is this Heartland shit?” Will grumbled. “We live in goddamn Nebraska.”

  On the screen, Peter lifted his arms to the heavens. “I ask you, all of you, to join me in proclaiming our new identity, our future . . . Heartland! Heartland! Heartland!”

  The throng in the stadium picked up the chant. The camera panned around, showing tens of thousands of midwesterners on their feet, their fists raised, chanting “Heartland! Heartland!”

  As Aiethea shouted her anger at the screen, a line of black SSU vehicles was racing up the road. A moment later Helmut stepped from one of them and marched toward the house, his narrow face a cold mask.

  The regular Capitol police had been sent home that morning when General Samanov’s crack Soviet troops arrived. Now they controlled the building. Explosives experts moved about its corridors setting their charges. Heavily armed troops dressed not in SSU uniforms but in guerrilla garb waited outside the doors to the house chamber where more than five hundred Members of Congress were captive. At a nod from their commanding officer, they threw open the doors to the chamber and stormed in, firing as they went.

  Members of Congress fell to the floor, dead or dying. Others raced about, shouting for mercy, hiding beneath their desks, seeking refuge—but there was none. Soon the chamber was awash with blood, and still the carnage continued. Only PPP members were spared— herded out a side door—and a few others, women and old men for whose lives Samanov had been forced to negotiate. The massacre had not yet ended when subterranean explosions began, deep in the bowels of the Capitol, rocking the monumental old building that had stood like Gibraltar for almost two centuries.

  Petya Samanov, alone in the elegant office, heard the explosions and the crackle of gunfire. The chandelier trembled as the blasts drew nearer. This was the darkest moment of his life. He had devoted thirty years to the study of America, and the past ten years to achieving a responsible Soviet occupation of its once-great rival. He had dreamed that the Soviet actions there would live in history as a monument to the wisdom and decency of the Russian people. Now all his dreams were shattered by hotheads in Moscow who understood only hate and power and inevitable destruction. They would have their victory, their conquest, their symbolic rape of a great nation, but generations yet unborn would curse the Russian leaders, would equate them with Attila and Hitler and other of history’s most despised monsters.

  Petya Samanov buried his face in his hands. Amid the disaster he had won one small victory: in the years ahead, if all went well, Andrei would be able to build a better America out of the ashes of this tragedy. But that was little consolation. He wondered now, listening to the sounds of destruction and death from below, how he could ever have agreed to come here and carry out these orders. Why had he not had the courage to refuse?

  Another blast broke the windows of his office. The officer in charge rushed in. “General, it is time to go. The building may collapse at any moment.”

  “It’s done?” Petya said, as if in a trance.

  “Yessir. The helicopter is ready. We only have a few minutes.”

  Petya nodded slowly, as if he did not understand. “Give me a moment,” he said. “Wait for me outside.”

  When the officer was gone, Petya crossed the hallway to the now-silent house chamber. The scene there chilled his heart. Bodies were tossed about like rag dolls. Men of honor, m
en who had served their people as best they could, were killed; some were still sitting at their places, and now, in death, seemed oddly normal. The walls of the chamber had started to bum.

  Samanov walked slowly to the chair in which he had sat. He was devastated—his eyes beyond tears—his spirit killed by what he had caused. He felt the walls tremble as another charge of dynamite racked the building.

  Yes, Petya thought, it is time to go. Time to go with honor, with dignity, with a final gesture that perhaps a few would understand, would even respect.

  He unsnapped the holster at his side and drew out the small revolver. The building trembled as he did what his honor demanded. He looked out upon the carnage one last time, shook his head slightly, and pulled the trigger.

  The SSU troops jabbed them with rifles and forced them to sit on the ground—Will, Alethea, Ward, Betty, and Dieter—while six troopers searched the house and outbuildings. Helmut personally supervised the search, and when it proved fruitless, he marched up to them, seething.

  “I will ask one last time. Where is the boy?”

  Huddled together on the hard ground, they did not answer, did not even look at him.

  “We have searched the town and the exile camp. We have information that he is here with you. Produce him or suffer the consequences.”

  Still the Milfords would not reply. Helmut drew his pistol and pressed its muzzle against Will’s forehead. “Where?” he demanded.

  The old man looked straight ahead.

  Helmut stepped back. He would gladly have shot them all, but he had specific orders against bloodshed. He turned away in frustration, then fixed his gaze upon the hundred-year-old farmhouse that stood tall and proud in the midday sun.

  His orders had said nothing about farmhouses. The thought brought a smile to his thin lips.

  “Burn it,” he called to his men. “Bum it to the ground.”

  Long before he crossed the Potomac, Andrei saw the smoke rising from the Capitol. He landed there on the grounds and rushed up to the officer in charge. He could see the shattered windows, fallen columns, the dust and debris rising, the smoke and flames, as new explosions tore at the building.

  “The general never came out,” the officer said grimly. “He told me to go ahead, that he would come, but he did not follow. I attempted to reenter the building, but ...” He gestured to indicate the futility of such an action.

  “I am in command until he is located,” Andrei said. “I want this entire city cordoned off. The roads, railroads, airports—no one is to enter or leave without my personal approval.”

  “Yes sir,” said the officer, who watched in amaze

  ment as Andrei raced into the burning remains of the Capitol.

  Peter’s speech was a glorious success. He knew that from the cheers that swept over him like a great wave, lifting him up, giving him strength, and he knew too from the way the other politicians flocked to him as he left the platform. PPP officials, governors of the states, generals, reporters—they all gazed at him with new respect now, they all wanted a word, a handshake, a moment of his time.

  The Bradfords rode back to the hotel in silence. Peter was lost in his own thoughts, savoring his triumph. The children were exhausted by the day’s events, and Amanda stared out the limo’s bulletproof window in moody silence.

  She didn’t speak until, back in their suite, he started talking about the evening’s reception for the governors.

  “I’m not going,” Amanda announced.

  “You have to go. It’s important.”

  “I’m an American, Peter. I’m sure you don’t want too many of those around.”

  Peter was immediately on guard. “Come on, Amanda. I doo’t have time for this.”

  “Was that the plan all along? You just neglected to tell me that you and the Russians were starting another country.”

  His face darkened. He had changed into his tuxedo pants and shirt and, as usual, had reached an impasse when it came to tying his black tie.

  “You heard that crowd today,” he declared. “They know we need a change. They know this is our best chance of having any freedom again. Look, we’re midwestemers. Do you know anybody in California? In South Carolina? When we finally get the North Ameri-

  can Alliance set up, we’ll still be Americans, but more in the sense that Frenchmen or Germans are Europeans.”

  “But, Peter, at least France still gets to be France. What they’re saying . . . what you’re saying is that America doesn’t get to be America.”

  He turned away from her, his voice choked with emotion. “Amanda, there is no America anymore. The Russians could destroy us—some of them would like to—but instead they say we’ll call these five states Heartland, and then we’ll have more autonomy. That’s the reality I face. The rest is sentiment and emotionalism and history.”

  She sank onto the edge of the bed and began to sob. “We’re Americans, Peter. It’s worth fighting for.”

  He might have comforted her but he did not. He thought they might as well have this out now. He was sick of her, and some others, treating him like some sort of traitor.

  “You know, Amanda, I get awfully tired of people giving me this ‘I’m an American’ bull. Where was all that patriotism when it counted? There hasn’t been any real American spirit, any willingness to sacrifice, since the Second World War, and that was before we were bom. Who wanted to serve in the army? Who gave a damn about us poor bastards in Vietnam? How many people wanted to perform any public service? How many of our best people went into politics, except for personal advancement? How many people even bothered to vote? You’re a fine woman, but your interest in public affairs, as best I can figure, started just a few weeks ago, when you saw an exile kid digging in our garbage—or was it when Devin came home?”

  “Peter, that’s not fair.”

  “Just let me finish. I may not be the smartest guy in the world, but I’ve thought this through, and I think I’m doing the right thing. I’m trying to help my fellow Americans—yes, Americans, whatever we’re called— as best I can. Maybe I’m not a sensitive soul like some people, but I’m trying to look to the future, the world our kids will live in, and not wallow in the past and what might have been. That’s why I’m here today, that’s why I’m going to this damn reception, and that’s why I wish you’d go with me.”

  She looked at him for a long time. She felt more angry than anything else. She realized that their lives had changed, that Peter was a different man now, and yet she still loved him, as much, perhaps more, than when they were married.

  “I’ll go with you tonight, Peter. Not because what you’ve just said is anything more than half truth, but because I still believe that you’re trying to do the best thing. That you’re not like the Russians or Marion and the party people. You really do want to do some good. And there are a lot of forces ready to drive you away from that good part of you, so I guess it’s my job to stick by you.”

  Peter smiled. “Like a thorn in my side.”

  She walked over to where he stood. “Something like that.” She studied his undone tie. “Do you want me to tie your tie?”

  He smiled again, a boyish grin, and held out his hands to her. “If you don’t, I’m darned if I know who will,” he said.

  She smiled, allowing herself to be taken in his embrace.

  Chapter 13

  Andrei entered through the Rotunda. Shafts of light fell through gaping holes in walls and ceilings, the flames glittering off the cluttered broken glass and chunks of marble strewn across the floor. He moved through the debris, past smoldering images from America’s past. The enormous paintings of the revolution, of Columbus discovering America, the embarkation of the Pilgrims, all the priceless artifacts of the beginning of the American dream, were ripped and burned. The majestic statue of Thomas Jefferson lay broken across the floor. Glass showcases filled with replicas of the Declaration of Independence, the Articles of Confederation, the Constitution, and the remnants of other cornerstones of Ame
rican society were smashed.

  He raced along the smoke-filled corridor until he came to the house chamber. All that he knew had not prepared him for the gore and devastation he found.

  He grew dizzy and grabbed for support against an unburned railing. As he leaned forward, he recognized the upturned face of a senator, a Californian with whom he had once played tennis. The senator’s face was a mask of anguish, staring up at him. He leaned against the wall and sobbed, trapped in the reality of the massacre. The room was only partially damaged by the fire, scorched but almost too preserved amid the rest of the carnage. Andrei stood there, unaware of his own tears until an involuntary sob wracked his body.

  He looked across the room and finally saw Samanov, awkwardly sprawled on the floor, next to his chair. Andrei walked numbly over and gently rolled over the body of his closest friend. He removed the gun that had remained tightly clutched in Petya’s grip, and slipped it into his pocket. In a gesture of respect to the man who had been almost a father, he struggled with the body, finally lifting Petya into a semisitting position; no great man should have to die looking like that. He gently closed Petya’s eyes. It was all too much to comprehend.

  Darkness was falling as Andrei emerged from the building alone. Captain Selovich of the SSU stood with the fire and police chiefs, a national guard colonel, and an officer from the old army, as well as a couple of men in civilian clothes from the Committee on Information. Selovich stepped forward as Andrei approached.

  “May the rescue crew proceed with the removal of bodies?” he asked.

  Andrei nodded. “Have our men help. The . . . general is to be removed immediately. I will accompany the body to headquarters.”

  An SSU security official stepped forward. “Sir, a resistance group called the Fourth of July Brigade has called the media and claimed responsibility for the attack.”

  A man from the Committee on Information said, “Colonel Denisov, with your permission, we need to issue a statement, to head off rumors and misinformation.”

  Andrei nodded thoughtfully. “Yes,” he said. “You may announce that the Fourth of July Brigade, representing militarist and reactionary elements of the former government, has committed this outrage, and that General Samanov died a hero’s death while fighting to save the lives of the members of Congress whom he so admired and had served so well.”