“This IS a break,” Mark said to Gwen over breakfast.
Apartment complexes riddled the area. He figured it would take the better part of next week to cover that ground. The phone rang and he grabbed it before the second chime.
“Mark, Neal here,” the Security Pacific president’s tired voice begged for the detective’s ear, “Anything new?”
“Every day we get a step closer,” Marcus tried to sound reassuring, going over Manley’s parking tickets with Emerson.
“You said you were close last time I time,” Neal sounded irritated. “Damnit Mark, I can’t hold up this whip and chair much longer. When can we wrap this up?”
“This case will be over when its over,” Marcus felt his own nerves fraying, “I don’t work any better under pressure, and I certainly don’t need you to nag me. You hired me to find Peregrine, not to cover up for your past errors in judgment. Excuse me, but I have a job to do.”
Best to work all weekend, the detective told himself after Emerson mumbled a curt apology with his good-bye and hung up. He knew that Gwen would not like it. He deliberately kept his mind off of his old friend as he drove to the area within his map’s circle. Things would have to change there. He reminded himself how close he was to wrapping up this matter. How close he was to being done with Neal’s job. Gwen would understand.
“Excuse me, can I have a moment of your time,” Marcus said to the liquor store owner behind the counter of his store. He gave the man his insurance rap. Then he produced Peregrine’s modified sketch, pencil poised over notebook for the store owner’s response. “By any chance, have you seen this man?”
“Hold it,” the store owner took the picture, squinted at it, placed a finger of either hand over the eyes, “You know, I think I have. I think this is one of my customers. He comes in to buy beer now and then.”
“A regular customer?”
“Not really,” the man handed back the sketch.
“Did you also happen to notice the name on his license when you asked his ID?”
“Naw,” the man shrugged, “Only the age.”
“But he does live in the neighborhood?”
“Yeh, I guess. Always see him walk in. Never drive up in a car.”
Truly, a break. Marcus intended to reward Joe for this, once it was all over.
***
The National Guard around Oakland, reinforced with Army units from outside the area, made two moves on Friday to further seal off the rebellious city, and tighten the government’s cordon. First, a column of soldiers seized 580 up to the 580/13 split. The 580 north of the split was left entirely in rebel hands, so through traffic was allowed along 13. Then troops moved up the west bank of the San Leandro Creek to secure Oakland International Airport from potential assault, to maintain the connection with Alameda.
In response, the mutinous Army troops in Oakland visibly displayed the battle lasers they possessed. The rebels positioned them along the bay, ringed them with very visible surface-to-air missile batteries, and aimed them for the heart of San Francisco. The New Afrika Coalition called a community-wide popular assembly. And inner cities all across America erupted into riot.
***
Peregrine ran into a small hitch at In The Raw. The food coop had hastily constructed a double locked cabinet for their money. It delayed him, picking the locks, and he felt uneasy standing, exposed, in the store after midnight while doing so. The coops were catching on, even as he neared his own event horizon in Alabaster. The takings on campus were so good and so easy nonetheless that he quickly discarded the option of doing a job in town. He had work to do for his brother in any case, a job that would substantially pay Hawk back for arranging to sell Peregrine’s arsenal. That deal was so close to done that he could taste its profit, and the marginal freedom it would allow him.
***
Margaret got Greg up around sunrise. After she got off on him and he in her, he showered and dragged himself out of her apartment to meet Smoke.
“Want to come by tonight?” she said from the door.
“Can’t,” Greg said, reluctantly, “I’ve got to do politics.”
“Give me a call.”
As he drove to the campus, he thought about her. The night before, after she started plying him with grass and wine, they had briefly talked about Wednesday’s Hooliganism in the city. To Greg’s surprise, his initial boasting turned into a half-hearted defense of Larry’s position against her far more principled opinions, reversing his and Larry’s roles on that rooftop after their brief street adventure.
“If your goal is to have a revolution, that’s one thing,” Margaret had said, seated cross legged on her futon bedding, sipping her wine. “I can’t see how you can have a revolution without violence. But Wednesday was supposed to be a peace demonstration. I think you have to use peaceful means to work for peaceful ends.”
“The Hooligans want revolution,” Greg replied, passing her the lit joint.
“Hell they do,” she laughed. They just want to kick butt I don’t see much difference between their attitudes and how good-ol-boy rednecks act. If you ask me, your Hooligans have a touch too much of that old testosterone poisoning.”
He had not been all that into the devil’s advocate position. Wanting to get laid, Greg had laughed and changed the subject. This morning he realized that, while she was interested in his politics and political connections, she was not much impressed with either. She could respect a nonviolent ML King or a revolutionary Malcolm X because both were serious about their beliefs to the point of dying for them. She had been positive about the building occupation and PO blockade, but she considered Hooliganism just a bunch of kids on a political goof. Margaret herself was not a political person. Her sympathies were with the Left. She came down on the progressive side to most issues and causes. But she was not a demonstration goer, let alone an activist.
Smoke waited in his car in a parking space next to the transportation office when Greg roared up.
“Stay here while I do the paperwork,” Greg said. That was routine by this time, and soon he drove a flatbed with rails out of the lot. Smoke hopped into the cab and Greg cruised around the block before turning the keys over to Smoke.
“You still want to go tonight?” Smoke asked.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Greg said, “Nine tonight, then.”
“Nine it is.”
Greg retreated into the library, frantically holing himself away to study amidst the smell of old books. He had come early enough to get a study capsule. The capsule itself was hologrammic, and he had only to fit his hands into the jockey gloves to trigger a response; his claustrophobic surroundings muting into the library’s main honeycomb catalogs all about him. The library ‘some had a no frills adherence to the organic/fractal mathematics of virtual reality, the design emphasizing easy location and access. So deep did he isolate himself that the events of the day slipped by him.
At 10 a.m., the New Afrika Coalition held a news conference and, flushed by the success of their assembly, they declared Oakland to be the first free territory of New Afrika, going on to recognize the Liberated Territories of Mixtecan and Mayapan. Commander Brown resigned his military office and rank by noon. He was promptly and popularly elected Commander of the Liberation Forces by a general assembly of his soldiers. The Coalition held yet another press conference at 2 p.m., this time with the prominent presence of Liberation Commander Brown. The conference downplayed the New Afrika Free Territory’s status, and instead, forwarded a list of demands for “normalizing” Oakland. Prosecution of the sheriffs involved in DL’s assassination on first degree murder charges. Thorough investigation into the identity of the hooded assassins and their prompt prosecution. Resignation of the Oakland PD Chief of Police, the head of the Alameda County Sheriff’s Department, and the Mayor of Oakland. Amnesty for all those involved in the Oakland insurrection. Direct civilian control of the police and sheriff’s departments. A Marshall style Plan to rebuild America’s inner cities. As a toss to
the liberation tendencies, the Coalition also called for UN observers to prevent an imminent US military massacre of Oakland’s citizens. The Zapatista Liberation Front reciprocated recognition of Oakland by 5 p.m., as a kicker.
David and Lori both searched for Greg to change the Solidarity Brigade meeting to that evening, but could not find him. They wanted to respond to the situation in Oakland, even as an extremely far behind Greg pointed to the honeycomb cell of Mathematics and flew easily down its arterial structure of knit information, in search of Statistics.
The library closed at 8 and he had time for a couple of beers at the pub before going to meet Smoke. True to his word, Smoke was on time. The truck was piled high with various sized boxes, all covered by tarps and tied down with rope. Greg got into the passengers side of the cab and Smoke smoothly eased the truck back onto the city streets.
“I take it you were successful,” Greg said.
“Not until we get this cargo into Oakland,” Smoke was solemn.
“We’re going to try to get into Oakland?” Greg frowned.
“Yep, it’s easier than you might think.”
“I hope so,” Greg felt that familiar pang with Smoke, that sense of walking on the edge of an abyss and looking down. So far down. He did not want to appear unrevolutionary, but his caution was roused. “We only rent this truck from the school.”
“Ice it,” Smoke smiled, “I don’t plan to get caught. This cargo’s way too important.”
Smoke geared the vehicle off campus and onto Main for the long night ride.
“So, what’s in the back?”
“Necessary supplies for the revolution,” Smoke said in a warning tone, “The less you know, the better.”
“That’s not too encouraging,” Greg bridled.
“We’re dealing with a revolutionary situation here.” Smoke turned on 101 at Marinwood. “As they say, a revolution ain’t no pink tea. Besides, there is the remote chance, the remotest chance, that well be stopped on entering. Theoretically, if you don’t know, no one can hold it against you.”
“So, how are you connected up with Oakland?” Greg settled his irritation for the road south.
“Through my brother,” Smoke said tersely, “He’s made quite a few friends and connections with this country’s underground from...from where he’s at now.”
“And you really think Oakland’s a revolution?” Greg asked.
“Don’t you? I mean, there are very few places in the world where the people are standing up against the US military with arms and pure courage. Oakland’s one of them.”
“Another liberated zone?” Greg commented.
“For the moment, yes,” Smoke grinned, authentically pleased, “And we’re helping it stay liberated for as long as possible.”
“Hope its more liberated than San Francisco was last Wednesday.”
“One individual can be a liberated zone,” Smoke said. “Basically, it begins in your head and comes out in your actions. The Hooligan actions, I’d call them precursors to a liberated zone. We don’t hold any territory for any length of time, and most autonomists and anarchists are white middle class kids on a revolutionary lark. Hooligans may be violent and bothersome to the powers-that-be, but most of them aren’t serious. Now the people of Oakland, they’ve been backed against the wall, most of them since birth. No jobs, grinding poverty, substandard education, racism, gangbanging, drugs and police murder; young black men are dying faster in Oakland then they are on the front lines of southern Mexico. Their actions come from their guts. Now they’re holding territory and facing down the might of the US military. That’s serious.”
“Do you think Oakland can win?”
“No,” Smoke shook his head, “Not in the long run. The government will bomb Oakland into absolute rubble rather than let it stand as an example. I mean flatten every building and shoot every citizen. Look how brutally they’re suppressing sympathetic riots around the country. In many ways, Oakland was a fluke. The right combination of forces and the right expression of outrage taking advantage of an opportune constellation of circumstances to create a brief revolutionary situation. As such, Oakland has already won. Now, if they had something to back them up, other than their foolhardy courage. Say, an atomic bomb...”
Smoke glanced knowingly at Greg and he caught the glance.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Greg frowned.
“Nothing,” Smoke continued to watch the road, “Just that I’d heard, strictly on the grapevine you understand, that you and a few others might know where that stolen riemanium just might be.”
“No more than anybody else.” Greg looked straight ahead and made a point to himself to have a talk with Larry. “Last I heard that guy, Peregrine, the thief who escaped on the Piccoli robbery, he has the stuff.”
“Oh, right,” Smoke smirked, “Well, say, if this Peregrine, or whoever has the riemanium, gave it to Oakland with the capability to build it into a bomb, well then, I think the government might have to reconsider annihilating the Oakland Insurrection. Outright.”
The East Bay north of Oakland proved a nightmare of police, national guard and army troops, consolidating the equivalent of a police state around Berkeley. Nevertheless, Smoke kept his cool. He got them onto Ashby east and then 13 south, into an incredible traffic jam that inched along under Army scrutiny. The military had all exits west off 13 barricaded and manned by soldiers. Only eastern exits, into military-held territory, were permitted. Smoke got off the freeway east on Redwood Road. A right on Campus Drive amidst sleepy suburbs, and they drove through the deserted east campus of Merritt College. The authorities had closed down the school as a potential flash point in military held territory. The air smelled of eucalyptus. A confusing set of winding suburban streets followed, until Smoke idled the truck on Leona Street. He jumped out and strolled casually to the corner of Kuhnle, glanced about, then ambled back to the truck. He produced several burlap flaps from the flatbed and fixed one to each of the truck’s license plates. Then he climbed back into the cab.
“This is it,” Greg said. A night dove cried.
“Yep, so hold onto your seats,” Smoke grinned, “This is gonna be rough.”
Smoke geared up to speed before taking the turn on Kuhnle faster than Greg thought possible. They barreled down onto the flimsy barricade just shy of the freeway; two soldiers and a line of portable wooden, municipal saw horses west of MacArthur.
“Get down,” Smoke yelled, honked the horn, and flashed the headlights.
Greg could not.
Fortunately, the traffic on MacArthur dutifully cleared and stopped. The soldiers started waving frantically, but Smoke simply gunned the engine. One of the soldiers managed to aim his handgun and fire, high, to hit the cab’s metal hood before they both dove out of the way. The truck slammed through the blockades, scattering wood in splinters everywhere.
They were now in liberated territory.
Smoke braked enough to make another hair-raising turn onto Seminary. They drove until Foothill, where they turned north.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Greg managed to breath when his heartbeat once more approached normal.
“We made it,” Smoke laughed and slapped the steering wheel.
They encountered insurrectionary forces soon thereafter; a group of five 14-16 year old boys with handguns at an improvised checkpoint at Fremont High.
“Who you be?” One of the boys asked, cocked his gun, but did not aim it.
“Friends,” Smoke grinned wide and held up open hands, “We’ve got supplies for Captain Morris Johnson.”
“How you know Captain Johnson?” the boy asked, eyes narrowing.
“Ask him yourself,” Smoke said, “Tell him Wisdom’s younger brother is here with the supplies. As promised.”
“I’ll do that.” Another boy handed him a CB mike, and the young warrior called in their arrival.
“Captain Johnson say he comin’ to meetcha,” the young insurrectionist said.
“Fine,”
Smoke said. They didn’t get out of the cab, and their guards didn’t bother them. They reminded Greg of the Azanian comrades of South Africa’s riotous late-90’s, youth properly too young for any military service, yet taking up the insurrectionary front lines with zeal. They were in a celebratory mood; not a sign of alcohol or drugs, nor of military discipline for that matter. It was a Saturday night. Normally they’d be partying down, getting high, and sweet talking girls. Now, they were revolutionaries.
A jeep and two uniformed men pulled up, perhaps forty minutes later, all Army issue. As the driver and the armed passenger stepped out, the comrades saluted.
“So,” the black driver of the jeep approached the cab, captain’s rank above a colorful, red-green-black-gold arm band, as Smoke stepped down from it, “You’re Wisdom’s younger bro. How’s the Hawk doing?”
“Good, considering his current circumstances,” Smoke kept his hands open, his arms loose at his sides, “Told me to tell you he appreciated your Kwanzaa gifts. Especially the Julius Nyerere pamphlets. They made it to Barruka in max.”
“Gene,” Captain Johnson grinned from ear to ear and hugged Smoke. Jaws dropped and eyes widened among the comrades, “So, what’d you bring us?”
“Mostly medical,” Smoke laughed, “From Sacto. Lots and lots of field temp plasma. And, a few surprises.”
“Looks like we’re gonna need every bit of it,” Johnson frowned, then waved a hand, “Alright then. Heard you’re making a contact as well.”
“At the Center,” Smoke explained, “Someone who needs to get himself and his ‘property’ out of Oakland, before any crackdown.”
“Just where we were headed,” Johnson said, “Follow me. Stay right behind my jeep and well cut right through.”
Smoke removed the license plate covers, then jumped back into the cab to stay right on the jeep’s back bumper. And Greg marveled that they were, in truth, in liberated territory. Liberated Oakland. New Afrika. People were all over the city’s streets, walking, gathering, casually and without fear. Again, he detected little overt drunkenness, and no disorderly behavior. The night was solid with friendliness, palpable, like the rich smell of a Horaisan rose. Many people, men and women, carried guns. And they were not all black, though most were people of color, Latino, Asian, African, and all the shades in between. The few whites there were mixed amiably with the rest. The atmosphere was jubilant as well, and peaceful. The crowd, in places, casually blocked the streets, but they made room for Captain Johnson’s jeep to pass, occasionally giving Smoke and Greg a curious eye.
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