In midafternoon, they set out walking again. People moved about, talking first to this person, then to another, but Alethea would have been blind not to see that Devin and Kimberly were often drawn together— he boyish and grinning, she blushing and nervous, in the first flush of their attraction. Alethea felt a sister’s unease at this flirtation, and something more than unease when Ken, the cameraman, let it drop that
Kimberly had until recently been the mistress of Andrei Denisov. Ken went on to tell her how Kimberly had left the Russian and joined the underground and that her broadcast in Omaha had paved the way for Devin’s escape.
A few minutes later, when they stopped by a stream for a drink of water, Aiethea walked up to Kimberly and hugged her. When she backed away, Kimberly smiled uncertainly.
“That’s because I like you,” Aiethea told her. “And because maybe we’ve got more in common than you know.”
They rested by the stream and, at Jeffrey’s insistence, Kimberly sang to them, a sad, haunting song from The Fantasticks. Everyone was touched by the song and applauded when she finished, even Will.
Kimberly buried her face in her hands. “Please,” she whispered, “it’s nothing really.”
On the way back, in the late afternoon, they stopped at the Milford family graveyard. An old iron fence surrounded the plot, where nearly a hundred headstones stood, many of them worn with age, their inscriptions almost unreadable. Will knelt beside his wife’s grave, absently brushing away snow and leaves. Devin knelt beside him, and dropped an arm across the old man’s shoulders. The old man tousled Devin’s hair, a gesture Devin often did with Billy. Standing a few feet away, Billy watched the rekindling of love between father and son. He ran over to them to be a part of it.
Aiethea watched all this, feeling somehow detached, knowing only that life was fragile and these moments precious. As they returned to the camp, huge thunder-heads were blowing in from the west. No one else seemed to share her mood—they bustled about, busy with this chore or that—but to Aiethea the huge dark clouds seemed to dwarf them, to mock their human concerns; their little band, each with his or her loves and sorrows, courage and hope, seemed tiny and helpless, silhouetted against the great brooding sky.
In the face of infinity, Alethea thought, all we have is our love.
Chapter 16
Andrei, in full uniform, paced his Virginian communications center impatiently while technicians prepared for his broadcast. He had much on his mind that afternoon. His intelligence reports showed continuing unrest across Heartland. Party loyalists in several cities had clashed with pro-Bradford partisans. The general strike had faltered but there had been outbreaks of sabotage—the public bus service in Cincinnati had been disrupted by slashed tires, power outages were caused by bombings in southern Illinois towns. A police station in St. Louis captured by the PPP had been retaken peacefully, but there were reports that Marion Andrews planned a new appeal to the party cadres. And since his dramatic television appearance, Peter Bradford had not returned Andrei’s phone calls.
The need was for Peter to use the Heartland Defense Force to restore civic peace with minimal force rather
than for Andrei to unleash the SSU. Of course, the next question was whether Andrei could then control Peter and his troops, but that was the risk inherent in his new policy.
“Ready, sir,” the director called.
Andrei straightened his coat and stepped before the cameras. Across America, a dozen SSU commanders awaited his instructions.
“Gentlemen,” he said crisply, “your role in America is entering a new stage. Effective immediately, you will no longer be responsible to PPP officials. You will take no action that does not have the specific approval of this Command. As of this moment, you are on full readiness alert, but restricted to your barracks. You may defend yourselves, but you will not otherwise involve yourself in local conflicts. Any deviation from this order will result in immediate termination of command.”
The cameras switched off and Andrei turned to Captain Selovich, who stood in the shadows. “Get me Major Gurtman on the telephone,” he ordered.
The call was quickly placed. Andrei remembered Gurtman from their one meeting: a very tall, thin East German, cold and capable.
“Major, I trust you saw my broadcast,” Andrei began.
“Of course, sir.”
“Good. I wished to speak with you directly because of the special conditions in your area. What is the situation now?”
“The situation is serious, sir. The people of Milford are armed. They are protecting the two fugitives, Devin Milford and his son. I urgently request permission to retake the town and capture the fugitives.”
“Permission denied.”
Helmut Gurtman struggled to hold back his anger. “May I ask why, Colonel?”
“The townspeople may be armed, but at the moment they have no one to shoot, except perhaps each other. As for the Milford boy, it is not the role of the SSU to pursue missing children, no matter how impassioned their mothers may be. As for Milford himself, I will ask Peter Bradford to see to his recapture, using the defense force if necessary.”
Helmut Gurtman was beside himself. To be confined to his base while the occupied townspeople ran rampant was an outrage to everything he believed as a military man. And to have his former mistress’s family leading this rebellion added insult to injury; it was almost more than he could bear.
“Sir, one further question,” he said stiffly.
“Yes?”
“We may defend ourselves—fire back if fired upon?” Andrei nodded wearily. “Yes, Major, I thought I made that'clear: you may fire back if fired upon.”
“I thank the colonel,” Gurtman said coldly.
When the Milfords and their visitors returned from their walk, Dieter Heinlander invited everyone to the exile camp for dinner.
“We should go,” Devin told Jeffrey. “These are people you should know. They’re the ones who’ve really suffered and yet hung on to their dignity.”
“Can we film?” Jeffrey said.
Devin shook his head. “Don’t ask me, ask them,” he said.
At dusk, they crossed over the hill to the exile camp, where they were greeted with hugs and cheers. Dinner was a huge, savory stew—“Don’t ask what the meat is,” Dieter warned—and after dinner they all gathered in the bam. They sang for a while—‘You Are My Sunshine” and “This Land Is Your Land” and “On Top of Old Smokey” and “Blowin5 in the Wind” and “We Shall Overcome,” a grab bag of gospel songs and love songs and protest songs from better days—and in time the singing gave way to political talk.
One man said he’d buried his guns ten years before but now he was ready to use them.
Another man protested that violence only begat more violence.
A woman defended Peter Bradford and his support for Heartland, but others denounced Peter as a puppet and a traitor.
The talk flowed back and forth like that; some wanted to take up arms, others to turn the other cheek, and there seemed to be nothing on which everyone could agree.
There were cheers when Ward Milford declared, “The trouble is we’ve been spineless for ten years. I stood there and did nothing while those bastards stole our land, even burned our house. I took it. But I’m not going to take it anymore.”
Then another man quickly defended Peter Bradford. “I’ve got no love for the Russians,” he declared, “but maybe Bradford’s right, maybe this new country, this Heartland business, is the fastest way to be rid of ’em.”
“Dammit, we’re Americans!” one man cried.
Another demanded, “What the hell difference does it make, anyway?”
Devin was seated quietly on the floor, against a bale of hay. Amid the general clamor, his voice was gentle. “I think I know the difference it makes,” he said.
The people around him raised their hands for silence.
“I think deep inside, we all know,” Devin continued. “We don’t want to be afraid anymore. Fe
ar is driving us away from being Americans. Fear of pain, fear of suffering, fear of death. When I ran for president, I was afraid if no one followed my lead, it would prove I was wrong. When they sent me to prison camp, I was afraid I’d lose my ... my understanding, my clarity. When I was released and came back here, I was afraid that someone would notice me, ask me to participate—to live.”
He was speaking so softly that people began to inch forward, so they could hear. Ken was quietly filming the scene.
“Thank God for this town,” Devin continued. “Thank God for an Exile from this camp, a black doctor who saved my life. Thank God for an Episcopal minister who lost Ms faith in the church, but not the people. Thank God for my father and my sister, who reminded me about our ancestors. They showed me that tragedy and nobility are the same thing, that the human condition demands that we endure the pain and simply live our lives.
“My son. The miracle is that my son spent the last two days in that dugout, just like his great-great-grandmother and great-great-grandfather did. My son’s survival is worth any price I have to pay. My son taught me the most important lesson, and I’m not afraid anymore.”
People leaned forward intently; they nodded but did not speak.
“Our ancestors fought for an idea, sacrificed for it, died for it, and we are the result. The idea of America lives in us, and how can we give it up? I know I can’t. Because ultimately I have to be true to my forefathers, just as I have to be true to my son. He’s here, free, and no price is too great to keep him just as he is.”
Devin raised Ms hand and Billy ran and nestled in Ms arms. He tousled the boy’s hair, and Billy contentedly leaned his head on Ms shoulder. The bam was silent and soon the Exiles began moving out into the night, nodding and wMspering to one another.
Devin spent most of the next day working with Ms father, brother, and son, digging the foundation of the new cabin. In the late afternoon, Ward insisted they call it a day, and Devin took Billy for a walk, down by the stream. When they returned, Ward was waiting for him, along with Jeffrey, his cameraman Ken, and Alan Drummond.
“Could we talk to you?” Ward asked solemnly.
Devin nodded and sent Billy off to help Alethea with dinner.
The men gathered under an oak tree. Devin looked from one face to another, waiting.
It was Alan Drummond who spoke first. “The tMng is, Devin, everyone felt strongly about what you said last night, about not being afraid anymore, about being willing to pay the price of freedom.”
Devin nodded.
“But it’s not enough to tell fifty people here,” Jeffrey injected. “We want the whole country to hear what you’re saying, millions of people. Then it could make a difference.”
Devin had to smile. “Well, then we’ll just have to reserve me a half hour on Natoet and I’ll make the greatest speech you ever heard.”
None of them returned Ms grin.
“Actually, we’ve got something sort of like that in mind,” Ward said.
Jeffrey broke in. “See, Ken here isn’t just a cameraman, he’s kind of an electronics genius. We’ve filmed on a couple of SSU bases, and they’ve got some real fancy communications equipment. Ken figures that if we can get onto the base and find the satellite frequencies, he could use their transmitter to intersect the Natnet satellite. Then you would be on Natnet, for five or ten minutes, before they caught on and jammed you out.”
Devin leaned against the tree, Ms face grim, as he felt the weight of what they were saying.
“These satellite frequencies, where would they be?”
“Most likely in the commander’s safe,” Ward said. “But, Alethea, she’s been out there, and knows where the safe is.”
“To get onto that base, to get into the safe, to make the broadcast—-it’d be life robbing Fort Knox.” Devin shook his head.
Ward ran his fingers through his thick white hair. “Thing is, Devin, we’ve got us a plan,” he explained.
As the delegation was leaving, Devin took Ms brother aside. “Would you drive me over to Peter Bradford’s house?” he asked. They had an agreement that, for safety’s sake, none of them would leave their property without a partner.
“Peter’s not there,” Ward said.
“I know. It’s Justin I want to see.”
Ward winced. “Devin, I went by there this morning and it’s not easy—-”
“I know,” Devin said. “But I still want to see Mm,”
“Sure,” Ward said. “I think it was seeing Justin that made me understand what you meant, about not being afraid anymore. After I saw what they’d done to my son, I knew there wasn’t any more room for compromise.”
They drove to the Bradford house in silence. Ward spoke to the defense force lieutenant in charge of the unit there, and after a few minutes Devin was admitted; Ward waited in the car.
Jackie opened the door. “I’ll take you up,” she said. “I’ve been reading to him.”
He remembered her as a child and he was startled by her grace and beauty. “You remind me of your mother when she was your age,” he told her as they climbed the stairs. “You don’t look so much like her, but you’ve got that same ... I guess you’d call it determination.” Jackie smiled but didn’t respond. She led him into the guest room, where Justin was sitting in his wheelchair. “He’s put on weight,” Jackie said. “He looks real good. He just doesn’t. . . speak.” Her Ups trembled but she kept control of herself. “Do you want me to leave?”
“No,” he said. “No, not at all.”
He knelt beside Justin and held his hand and began to speak softly, but there was no response, nothing at all. The boy’s eyes were open, he blinked sometimes, his heart was beating, but his mind, his soul, were somewhere far away. Devin had seen men in shock in Vietnam, but never anything like this.
He continued to talk to Justin, just as if he were perfectly conscious, until he realized that Jackie had fallen asleep and he shouldn’t stay too late. They all had a big day ahead tomorrow.
“Sure could use you, Justin. If you can hear me—you know I need you for this. We all need you,” he said.
“You know nobody’s accepting this. We’re just going to pound away until you come back. You’re a Milford, one of the best of ’em, and we need your heart and your head—America’s got some big battles ahead. We can’t afford for you to miss ’em.”
He stood and touched the boy’s silky blond hair, then hurried out of the bedroom, leaving the two young people there, Justin staring into the darkness, Jackie asleep.
Amanda was waiting at the foot of the stairs. She wore a simple pink cotton dress, sleeveless and with a high neck, and her hair was bound up with a scarf. He thought she looked strong, yet so delicate too—the wonderful paradox of femininity.
“Alan says he’s improving,” she said.
“It must be subtle.”
She nodded. They stopped at her front door. She had her back to the door and he made no move to leave.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Starting the revolution.”
“Are you serious?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“The revolution against Peter,” she said flatly.
“It doesn’t have to be.”
“Except you want to be an American,” she said bitterly.
“You do, too.”
She turned away, then faced him again, her eyes glistening. “It’s been hard,” she said. “Hard to know what’s right and what’s wrong. Hard to know what to do when you love somebody but you hate what he’s doing. Or even love two people and hate what both of them are doing.”
He had to smile. “Can we both be wrong?”
“Maybe you’re both right, I don’t know,” she cried. “All I know is that I’m afraid . . .”
“Don’t be,” he said. “Please don’t be.”
Her laugh was pained and harsh. “How the hell could I not be?” she asked in anguish.
He took her hands and her arm
s reached out to embrace him. They kissed, tentatively at first, then greedily. It was he who was cautious, and she who wanted to keep him, to become part of him, to have as much of this stolen and delayed moment as possible. But he knew that there could be no more, not here, not now. His hands loosened on her arms; she understood the signal and stepped back, as if she had been the one to break away.
“Raincheck?” he said.
“You bet.” She nodded, doubting the future, fighting back her tears.
The town square was silent and empty when Puncher set out on his mission, with the first hint of morning light. He rode his old Harley, much like Justin’s but even more battered, gliding serenely along the road out of town, beneath branches just starting to bud. He wore his black leather jacket and a cocky, lopsided smile, as if he weren’t worried at all. His assignment was not too difficult: he could get shot but, besides that, not much could go wrong.
When he came in sight of the SSU base’s front gate he muttered, “This one’s for you, Jus,” and gave the Harley full throttle.
The guards in the watchtower, all four of them, watched openmouthed as Puncher drove full throttle toward the gate.
The tallest guard hoisted his rifle instinctively, although they were in no danger—it was the kid who was in danger of killing himself; the iron gate was built to stop cars.
“Be cool,” one of the others muttered. He was young and slim, and had recently made sergeant. “We got our orders, you know?”
Puncher hit the brakes at the last instant and skidded to a halt beneath the tower.
“Hey, you cocksuckers, wanna fight?” he yelled. “Come on down, I’ll blow your asses away!”
As he shouted at them, Puncher was gunning the Harley, spinning in mad circles—to shoot him they’d have to hit a moving target.
The young sergeant frowned in annoyance. “Go away, kid,” he yelled, and waved at Puncher to leave.
Puncher waved back, mimicking him. “Screw you, Pancho,” he shouted. “Chinga su madre—you dig?”
The guard stiffened. The tall one laughed, but sighted his rifle on the cyclist. “No!” the other snapped. “We have orders not to shoot. We’ll send someone out.”
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