“Well now,” Ike said, lowering his CAR-15. “I reckon they’ll soon be enough ol’ boys here to put what’s left of Hartline plumb out of business.”
Dan winced. “Colonel McGowen, you certainly have a way with the English language. How many in your team?”
“Twenty-one, all told. Rest will group with me in the morning. Hour ‘fore dawn.”
“That gives us just a bit over fifty fighters,” Dan said with a grin. “Oh, my, yes. More than ample for the task ahead. Let’s get our teams settled in for the night and make our plans.”
* * *
General Altamont removed a piece of paper from his briefcase. The single sheet of white paper had been placed in what looked to Ben an oversized Baggie. “This was delivered to me this morning—at my office at the Pentagon. The messenger was from a courier service. Allied. I tried to find that service listed in the phone book. No such courier service.”
He placed the plastic-enclosed sheet of paper on Ben’s desk. Ben read through the plastic.
WE HAVE THE ULTIMATE WEAPON. CHECK STORAGE AREA OUTSIDE KIRTLAND IF YOU DOUBT US. BEN RAINES BEWARE.
Ben looked up. “Kirtland Air Force Base?”
“Yes, sir. I immediately put people checking on any records that still might exist on the movement of old SSTs. We lucked out. A team from New Mexico was dispatched to that storage site. No trace of the drivers, but transport tickets left in the cabs told us what we wanted—wrong choice of word—what we feared. The SSTs were carrying enough materials to make several very large nuclear devices; perhaps a dozen smaller ones.”
“Who sent the message?”
“We have no idea, sir.”
“You are in charge of Air Force Intelligence, are you not, General?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Forgive me. I’m still attempting to put faces with job titles.”
“Understandable, sir.”
“Well, someone obviously doesn’t like me. But what threat is implied here?” he tapped the plastic-encased note.
“I don’t mean to be flip, Mr. President; but your guess is as good as any.”
“From within or from without? Take a guess.”
General Altamont was thoughtful for a moment. “Sir, you have enemies all around you. I don’t believe the Secret Service is in any way involved in this. That’s a gut feeling. Since Cody’s death, you have purged the FBI.” A very slight smile played around the corners of his mouth. “Demoralized it, might be a better word, if you will forgive me. And you are rebuilding it, or reshaping it, back to what it was intended to be. I don’t believe there is any danger there. You have enemies in the armed forces, but none that I am aware of in high or sensitive places. In the House and Senate—yes, surely you know how hated you are among some of those people.”
“Senator Carson,” Ben said with a small smile.
Altamont glanced at him sharply. Then a look of admiration passed briefly across his face. “Not much escapes you, does it, Mr. President?”
“Not much. I wouldn’t trust that old bastard any further than I can spit. And I never was a chewer or a dipper.”
“I don’t have any concrete proof about him. But I can tell you he plays footsie on both sides of the aisle.”
“Don’t I know it.”
“My brother, bless his pseudo-liberal heart, never did let me get too close to the inner circle. So I can’t give you much on them—except their names, and I’m certain you already know that.”
“True.”
“But before I come down too hard on those who lean left, as compared to our thinking, let me say there are some men and women in both Houses who call themselves conservative that are not what I would call in your camp.”
“Yes, and that troubles me, General. Well,” Ben sighed, “stay with this thing,” he once more tapped the letter of warning. “Keep me informed.”
“Yes, sir.” Altamont stood up, retrieved the letter, and left the Oval Office.
When he was certain the general was gone, Ben punched his intercom. “Susie? Have Mitchell put a tail on General Altamont.”
“Yes, sir. Want him to report straight back to you, sir?”
“Yes.”
“Very good, sir.”
* * *
“Did he buy it?” Senator Carson asked General Altamont.
“All the way, Bill,” the general said with a laugh.
“When do we detonate the first one?”
“Next week. I’ll blow it in a deserted town so no one is likely to get hurt.”
“Lovely,” the old senator said. Then he slapped Altamont on the back. The three men shared a laugh in the night.
Altamont turned to the Secret Service agent. “When you report back to Raines, tell him I went straight home.”
“Yes, sir,” the agent responded.
“Does Bob Mitchell suspect anything?”
“Not a thing, General. He’s fat, dumb, and happy.”
“Good. Let’s be sure we keep it that way.”
The three men broke apart, walking out of the small park just a few miles from the White House. They got in separate cars and drove away.
“Cute,” Rosita said, stepping from the shadows. “Con que esas tenemos! Gentlemen, I will show you how my mother’s people deal with traitors—very shortly.”
She walked swiftly back to her car, got in, and drove away into the damp night. Not even the president of the United States knew the Spanish-Irish lady had come to Colonel Hector Ramos’s command from Captain Dan Gray’s Scouts. She was as thoroughly trained in the art of counterinsurgency as a person could be. And she was as lethal as a ticking time bomb.
* * *
Ben sat alone in his office. He had dismissed Susie, sending her home. The White House was quiet, and he was alone with his thoughts. The twins were with their nanny, in their rooms down the hall, but Ben had no desire to go and play with them. They reminded him too much of Jerre. He wished he had someone to talk with.
He tried Cecil. No, the secretary told him, the VP was out for the evening. A meeting with several department heads.
He knew Dawn had gone out of town; Ike was off in search of Jerre. Lamar was back in Idaho. So many of the old bunch dead and gone.
What the hell was he doing here in the White House? He didn’t want this damned job! Loneliest goddamned job in the world.
And what about those SSTs? The message? Ben Raines beware?
What the hell was that all about?
Damn! but he was tired of double crosses and triple crosses and backbiting and the whole scene.
He wondered if his house in Louisiana was still standing. And suddenly he thought of Salina.
* * *
Ben pulled into his driveway at five o’clock in the afternoon. He had been wandering for almost a year since the bombings. Nothing had changed except the lawn had flowers where none had been before. A station wagon parked in the drive.
Since the outskirts of Shreveport, Ben had seen hundreds of blacks. No one had bothered him; they had all been friendly, waving to him and chatting with him when he stopped.
But the vague and somewhat amusing—to him—thought was: he knew how Dr. Livingstone must have felt.
Ben got out of the truck thinking: there is a lot of land to be had. I’m not going to spill any blood for an acre of land in Louisiana.
He felt kind of silly knocking on his own front door. But as he raised his hand to tap on the door, it swung open.
“Come on in, Ben Raines,” Salina said. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Hello, Salina.” Ben revised his original appraisal of her: she was not just good-looking. She was beautiful.
“I was about to invite you in, Ben, but that would be rather silly of me, wouldn’t it? This is your house.” She looked at Juno. “What a beautiful animal. What’s his name?”
“Juno.”
She held out her hands and Juno and Ben stepped into the house. Not much had been changed except the house was a great deal clean
er and neater than when he’d left it. He said as much.
She smiled. Lovely. “Most bachelors aren’t much on housekeeping. ‘Sides,” she said, a mischievous light creeping into her eyes, “us coons have been trained for centuries to take care of the master’s house while he’s away seein’ to matters of great import.”
“Knock it off, Salina,” he said, then realized she’d been ribbing him. He gave back as much as he got. “You’re only half-coon. So the house should be only half-clean.”
She laughed. “Call this round a draw. Dinner’s at seven. Guests coming over. We knew you were coming.”
“How?”
“Tom-toms!”
Ben grimaced. “I’ll be hungry by seven, I assure you.”
Her eyes became a flashing firestorm of humor. “Got corn bread, fatback, and greens.”
“Salina, you’re impossible!”
She laughed. “You think I’m kidding?”
She wasn’t.
* * *
Cecil and Lila and Pal and Valerie came over. After dinner the six of them sat in the candlelit den and talked.
“Are you planning to stay, Ben?” Cecil asked.
“No. I’m heading over to north Mississippi in the morning, then striking out for the northwest.” He told them about President Logan’s plans to relocate the people; and that most of them were going along with it. Logan’s stripping the citizens of firearms.
It did not surprise Ben to learn they knew more about it than he.
“We won’t bother Logan as long as he doesn’t bother us,” Pal said. “We just want to live and let live.”
Ike’s words, Ben thought.
“You’re welcome to spend the night with us, Ben,” Lila said.
“This is my house,” Ben said.
Lila looked at Salina. “Then perhaps you’d better come with us, Salina.”
“I like it here,” Salina said. Ben could feel her eyes on him.
“It will only cause hard feelings, girl,” Cecil reminded her of Kasim.
“Kasim is a pig!”
“You’re half black, half white,” Lila said, a touch of anger in her voice. “Are you making your choice, is that it?”
“You’re the only one talking color and choices. If Ben is colorblind, so am I.”
Pal and Valerie stayed out of it, as did Ben and Cecil. The two women argued for a few moments until finally, in frustration and anger, Salina jumped to her feet and ran from the room, crying.
After a moment, Juno rose from the floor, stretched, and went into the room after Salina.
Cecil said, “When both man and beast accept a woman, I guess that pretty well settles it.” He lit his pipe. “Be careful, Ben, many of the pressures in an interracial relationship come from within rather than from without.”
“I’m aware of that.”
They spoke for a half hour or more, and Ben found he shared most of Cecil’s ideas and dreams, and that Cecil shared his.
“…You know what I’m saying, Ben. I don’t have to convince you. We both agreed that education on both sides is the key to wiping out hate and racism and all the deadly sins that rip at any society. And we must have conformity to some degree. I agree with that. And I also agree that educated people must get into the home to see that all we’ve talked of is accomplished; but how to do that without becoming Orwellian with it?
“Ben? I didn’t ask for the job of leader down here. One day I looked up and it was being handed to me. No one asked if I wanted it. I don’t want and don’t need any New Africa. I have been accepted in both white and black worlds for years. My father was a psychiatrist and my mother a college professor. I hold a Ph.D.—from a very respectable university. 3.9 average.
“Hilton Logan? He’s a nigger-hater. Always has been. Those of us with any education saw past his rhetoric.
“Kasim? Piss on Kasim. His bread isn’t baked. He was a street punk and that’s all he’ll ever be.
“You’re going to look up someday, Ben—one day very soon, I believe—and the job of leader will be handed to you. Like me, you won’t want it, but you’ll take it because you believe in your dreams of a fair world, fair society. I read you, Ben, like a good book. You’re heading west to the states Logan is leaving alone for a time. And you’re going to form your own little nation. Just like we’re attempting to do here. Good luck to you—you’re going to need it. I—we—may join you out there.”
“You’d be welcome, Cecil. There are too few like you and Lila and Pal and Valerie.”
“And Salina,” Lila said with a twinkle in her eyes.
Ben smiled.
“And you’re right, Ben,” Cecil said. “The root cause is in the home.”
Cecil leaned back and reminisced. “One of my earliest recollections is of Mozart and Brahms. But do you think the average southern white would believe that? Not a chance. He’ll put down soul music—which I abhor—while slugging the jukebox, punching out the howlings and honkings of country music.
“Ben, my father used to sit in his study, listening to fine music while going over his cases, a brandy at hand. My mother was having a sherry—not Ripple—” he laughed,—“going over her papers from the college. My home life was conducive to a moderate, intelligent way of life. My father told me, if I wanted it, to participate in sports, but to keep the game in perspective and always remember it was but a game. Nothing more. No, Ben, I did not grow up as the average black kid. That’s why I know what you say is true. Home. The root cause.
“I went to the opera, Ben—really! How many violent-minded people attend operas? How many ignorant people attend plays and classical concerts? How many bigots—of all races—read Sartre, Shakespeare, Tennyson, Dante?” He shook his head.
“No, you find your bigots and violent-minded ignoramuses seeking other forms of base entertainment. And not just music.
“Do you know why I joined the Green Berets, Ben?”
Ben shook his head.
“So I could get to know violence firsthand. We didn’t have street gangs where I grew up.” He laughed and slapped his knee. “Well, I found out about it, all right; I got shot in the butt in Laos.”
Lila punctured his reminiscences. “Let’s not refight the war. I’ve heard all your stories. Tomorrow is a work day, remember?”
After they all said their good-nights and good-byes, Ben walked into the bedroom. “Are you all right, now?”
“Of course, I am,” Salina’s voice was small in the darkness. “I always lie about bawling and snuffling.”
“You heard everything that was said?”
“Of course, I did. I’m not deaf.”
“Well—you want to head out with me in the morning?”
“Maybe I like it here.”
“Sure. You could always marry Kasim and live happily ever after. Or get killed by Kenny Parr’s mercenaries.”
“The latter preferable to the former.”
“I repeat: would you like to head out with me in the morning?”
“Why should I?”
“You might see some sights you’ve never seen before.”
“Ben, that is a stupid statement for a writer to make. If I haven’t seen the sights before, of course I’d be seeing them for the first time.”
“What?”
“That isn’t a good enough reason, Ben.”
“Well… goddamn it! I like you and you like me.”
“That’s better. Sure you want to travel with a zebra?”
Ben suddenly thought of Ike’s wife, Megan. “I’ll tell everyone you’ve been out in the sun too long. But let’s get one thing settled: when I tell you to step-and-fetch-it, you’d better hump it, baby.”
She giggled. “Screw you, Ben Raines.”
“I also have that in mind.”
She threw back the covers and Ben could see she was naked. And beautiful. “So come on. I assure you, whitey, it doesn’t rub off.”
* * *
Ben shook himself back to the present and all the woes it
brought with it.
Threats and atomic bombs; unions screaming at him for putting people back to work (that made absolutely no sense to Ben); Congress fighting him on a national health plan while people died from lack of medical care (that had always infuriated Ben); teachers outraged because Ben wanted to nearly double their salaries and have them teach ethics and morals. It seemed that no matter what was good for the nation as a whole, some group or organization howled about it.
“People don’t care, boy,” Lamar’s words returned to him in a whisper of memory. “They don’t care—and never have cared—what is good for the entire population; only for their own little group. Woman shows her titty on TV it’s a sin—never mind that half the babies in America were breastfed and that is their earliest memory. Make sense, Ben? Hell, no! Some church groups want to ban and burn any book that says ‘fuck’ in it while others want to make it legal to have sex with children.
“It’s out of control, Ben; has been since the ‘60s. You just do the best you can in the time given you… then get the hell out of that man-lulling office.”
Ben rose from his desk, stretched, and walked to his quarters. He ordered dinner sent up to him and flipped on the TV.
News. If one wished to call it that.
Organized labor was meeting in Florida, the leaders calling President Raines a dirty communist for practically forcing members to go to work at substandard wages.
Ben chuckled grimly. Only about five percent of the world’s population was working and 3.5 percent of that was in America; he really didn’t see what the union members had to bitch about.
Certain religious groups were screaming at him because he believed what a woman did with her body was that woman’s business and no one else had a right to tell her she could or couldn’t have an abortion.
Civil liberties groups were howling about the death penalty.
The rich were shrieking about Ben’s plans to make the tax laws more equitable.
On and on and on.
Ben turned off the set.
Then something hit his consciousness: The press wasn’t taking sides. No editorials. No not-so-subtle vocal innuendoes. No facial giveaways as to how the reporters really felt. What the hell was going on with the fourth estate?
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