Don Pendleton - Civil War II Read online

  The playground was about emptied, some minutes later, when young Cecile Greene, the first-grade teacher, came running up. "I can't find Jimmy Hartman!" she cried, dancing about in a near panic.

  Claudia placed a steadying hand on the younger teacher's shoulder and told her, "Go on back to your class. I'll find Jimmy. Look in on my gang, will you? Make them behave."

  Qaudia watched Cecile spring back towards the building, then she rounded the corner by the zap-ball court in search of strays. A little girl of about seven collided with her. "Say, you're supposed to be inside," Qaudia told her. "Didn't you hear the bell?"

  The dimpled doll gave Qaudia a con-girl smile and declared, "I didn't have time."

  "Well you go on in. Do you know Jimmy Hartman?"

  "Nope I don't."

  "Well have you seen a little boy out here any place where he should not be?"

  "Yes'm I did." She leaned far to the right, as though compensating for the perverse obscurities of geometric objects, and tried to point around the building, the corner

  of which was several yards beyondoutstreyched hand "Talkin' to a chok-lut man."

  Claudia pantomined a gross reaction to a stretched

  truth, patted the littie girl on her bottom, and sent her on

  her way. Then Claudia went looking for the boy who talked to chocolate men.

  And she found him, talking to a chocolate man. Claudia did not realize at once that this was indeed the truth of the matter. She could see that there was a soldier involved in Jimmy's AWOL status. He was a large man, kneeling in front of the boy, an automatic weapon slung onto his back, muzzle down, his helmet riding loosely at the back of his neck, and he was talking earnestly to the six-year-old.

  Somehow the sight of military virility and the armed jeep which stood at the curb just beyond was not nearly so disconcerting, nor did it seem so unusual to Claudia's mind on this particular morning as it would have been on, say—Tuesday morning. Somehow, what with her failure to properly discharge Tuesday, and with the incomprehensible disclosure by Dorothy Brannan such a short while earlier, the military seemed quite fitting and entirely proper. Even if they were, indeed, "chok-lut." Claudia could almost, in fact, have passed her hands back across her face and wept in the sudden joy of released responsibility.

  Claudia was one of those rare whites who actually missed the black presence in Louisiana. One rarely saw a soldier and there were but two black towns in the entire state—no one went there. She found herself gazing at the soldier with a welling sentimentality. He looked good, by golly, no matter what anyone said—black was beautiful.

  Jimmy Hartman's chubby little hand was placed trustingly upon the cheek of the soldier, and Jimmy was staring into the soldier's eyes with that unpaintable gaze of childoood fascination.

  "Sure," Claudia heard the soldier saying in that soft organ voice of the black man, "I like to be a soldier and shoot guns. Haven't you ever shot a gun before?"

  Then Claudia moved in and took charge. Little boys

  could not be expected to distinguish between black and white . . . not when a uniform entered the equation especially. Chocolate and vanilla were simply flavors of ice cream, and what child did not like chocolate best of all? Claudia placed a hand atop the fair head and quietly announced, "You're needed inside, mister. You skedaddle."

  Jimmy reached out and touched the sergeant's chevrons on the OD sleeve, shot a reproachful glance at his shepherd, and ran a looping trail toward the building.

  The soldier rose slowly to his full height, gazed down upon the white woman with the shining hair, smiled faintly and flicked a glance toward the school. "Sentimental sidetrip," he said softly. "I went to this school once, long time ago."

  "I—I did too," Claudia stammered, suddenly aware that she was actually conversing with a black. She managed a bright smile and went on in a rush. 'T mean, I was a student here, also. Now I teach here." She felt the need to keep talking, as though if she stopped for a moment it would suddenly be Tuesday again. "I was here from '77 to '83—as a student, I mean. And I've been here since '94 as a teacher. Fifth grade, now. I started all over again, you see, in '94, with the first grade. Now I have made it up to the fifth. Maybe some day I will—"

  The soldier seemed to understand that she was running without a brake. "I was here then," he told her, giving her a chance to breathe. "I mean, '77 to '80, or part of '80. Say, I'll bet we were in the same room together some of that time."

  Claudia stared at the big man, her eyes searching his face for a clue to yesterday, all the while wondering why she was not fleeing back across that schoolyard toward the safety of today.

  "My name is Paul Fulton," the soldier volunteered, looking at her strangely. "They used to call me Buck Rogers, cause I always had a toy space gun stashed on the playground, and I ran around zapping everybody during recess."

  Buckyl Claudia's inner voice screamed. Black Bucky

  Fulton? "I remember a 1-little boy like that . . . vaguely," she said aloud, feeling faint.

  Sergeant Fulton was watching her now with ill-concealed friendliness. "I remember a little red headed girl," he said. "Don't remember the name but I used to zap hell out of her with that gun of mine. She was, uh, a whitey, you know, a little white girl, and she wouldn't pay me no attention, but uh . . ."

  Children do not change from one generation to another. Of course she paid you no attention, Bucky, but not for the reason you think! Claudia was certain that she was going to faint.

  The sergeant pulled his eyes away from her and gazed again at the school building. "Well.. . I'm not supposed to be over here. But I was just a few blocks away. Thought I'd come over and take a look, for old times sake." He laughed softly. "Believe it or not, I liked this place."

  "Yes, I know," Qaudia whispered through bloodless lips.

  "Got to thinking about my old zap gun. I still remember where I kept it stashed. Things don't really change that much, do they. You think the world must've flopped finally all the way over for good, then you come back to a little bit of yesterday, and there it all still is, just the way you left it. I, uh, you'll think I'm silly. I thought I'd look for that old toy gun. After all these years. Silly, huh. Things do change, just like people."

  "Your gun isn't here, Bucky," Qaudia heard herself saying. "I knew where you kept it. And I took it home with me. But I... I forgot what ever became of it."

  "Well I'll be," the soldier said, his voice awed. "You're her, the little redheaded white girl. I knew there was something. .. . Well I'll be. So you're a teacher here now. I don't even remember your name."

  "Qaudia," she replied quietly. "Qaudia Sanderson."

  "Well sure! Claudia Sanderson! You're as pretty as ever, Qaudia. I, uh, I guess I shouldn't say that, huh. Well listen, I have to get back to my unit. You, uh, take a tip from an old buddy, eh? You go back in that school house and you stay there. Don't come out all day or all night. You stay

  there and you'll be safe. Do you know what I mean?"

  Vaguely, Qaudia knew what Bucky Fulton meant. It had something to do with a crossover from yesterday, it had something to do with Dorothy Brannan's overwrought face and the loss of a government and the sudden appearance of black troops in Lake Charles. Yes, she knew—somehow—just about what Bucky meant.

  She told him, "Thank you. And I'm sorry I lost your zap gun."

  He smiled, a big happy showplace of his soul, and he told her, "Nothing is ever lost forever, is it? There's always tomorrow."

  "Yes, there's always a tomorrow," she agreed breathlessly. With sudden fervor, she cried, "You come back, Bucky. You hear me? You come back!" Then she spun about and ran blindly across the play yard. Not once did she look back, and when she reached the door of her classroom she passed her hands in a slow slide across her face and went inside. Dorothy Brannan stood inpatiently just inside the other door.

  "For goodness sake, Miss Sanderson," the Principal greeted her in standard classroom formality, "we thought you'd become lost. Didn't we,
children?"

  "Lost or found or something," Qaudia replied quietly, not giving a damn for classroom formality. "IH take over now. Thank you, Miss Brannan."

  The Principal edged out the door, leaving it standing ajar. Qaudia went over and firmly closed it. Yes—lost or found or something. She had finally become rid of Tuesday.

  Claudia faced her class and told them, "All right, you luckies, no more school today, but you must go straight home, straight hone, and no fooling around on the way. I want you to dismiss orderly, file out by rows just like in a fire drill. Go out through the playyard door, go straight home, and do not stop to talk to any chocolate soldiers."

  A titter of giggling rippled through the class. "Oh, oh, I almost forgot, didn't I?" Qaudia quickly caught herself. "Just because you go home early doesn't mean you get off without the daily message. Live all of today there is to live

  before you get in bed tonight. Then, when you get into bed, let go of today. When you wake up tomorrow, be sure you find tomorrow, and not a left-over yesterday."

  The teacher clapped her hands smartly together. "That's it, you lucky stiffs. Melanie, get the door, dear. Tommy ... Tommy Grayson, you help her. Get up there and help that poor litde thing with that heavy old door, what's a man for in this world anyway? You stand right there with Melanie and help her hold that door. That's my man. Row One, rise now and file out, orderly I said, orderly. Goodnight, you lucky stiffs. God bless tomorrow. God bless all our tomorrows."

  CHAPTER 5

  "Niggers! Sure they're niggers! What'd you think? Overdone beach boys? Hey, monkey face! Who let you out of the cage?"

  "It's some kinda stunt. I bet they're making a movie."

  "Hey, Nig! Where's your cotton sack?"

  "Where's your banjo?"

  "Lookout for that gun, jungle boy! It's a nigger-eater!"

  "Got any ivory for sale, boy?"

  "I don't think they're niggers. I think they're made up for something."

  "You guys got AMS cards for this town? Ain't you about fifty miles lost?"

  Sergeant Basie Davidson fingered the safety of his automatic weapon and watched the faces of his squad. The boys sure weren't liking this. Well, they hadn't expected to find roses strewn in their path. They should have been prepared for this kind of stuff.

  "Don't one man get down off this tank," the squad leader growled, then he crawled over to the hatch and grinned at the tank commander. "Getting hot in there?" he asked.

  "It's great in here," Sgt. Ringer replied. "I'd say it's hotter out where you are." He gazed solemnly at the

  rapidly building congregation of white youths in the parking lot of the shopping centerjust opposite their position. "I don't like the looks of this at all, not at all he. added grimly.

  "Too quick on Plan Charlie," the infantry squadleader

  muttered.

  "I'm gonna disperse them," Ringer said. The words had not left his mouth when a small rock banged off the turret. "Yeah, I think I am."

  Davidson grunted, "They're not hurting anything yet. Just kids. Leave 'em be for awhile, let's see what happens."

  "Hey You jungle boys want a snack 1 think I got some dried monkey's nuts you can have"

  Sergeant Ringer's face wrinkled in a troubled frown. "What do they want to talk like that for? Now what's that gonna get them?"

  "They're just showing off," Davidson calmly suggested. "Let 'em scream. Long as they're screaming they're not doing anything else."

  "I think I'll throw a round of HE into that tower there on the corner."

  "The shopping center marquee?"

  "Yeah. That thing must weigh a couple of tons. That'd scatter them."

  "Those are just kids, Al."

  "Yeah, and this is Florence, Alabama too. My Daddy was tore apart by a gang of kids like that."

  "Yeah?"

  "Damn yeah. Not thirty miles from here. I'm not going to give 'em too much steam, Basic. They start making threatening motions, I'm going to clean 'em out."

  "Well let's, just wait awhile and see," Basie Davidson urged, squinting anxiously across the way.

  "That's what I'm telling you, Sheriff," Warren Mallory said excitedly. "There's a tank sitting out there and there's a bunch of nigger soldiers sitting on top of it. It's not whits militia, it's black regulars and they're sitting in our city and armed to the teeth!"

  Sheriff Butch Cunningham smiled indulgently, took

  another sip of his coffee, and stepped casually over to his fax-vue message box. "I told Don Spain to take it easy on those promotion stunts," he declared good-naturedly. "Last time he decided to double his sales he had little fuzzy purple people from Venus on top of the marquee."

  "This's no stunt, I'm telling you!" Mallory cried, smashing his fist onto the sheriff's desk.

  "Well, it's right on the city line. Why don't you go tell Chief Welch about it." The sheriff turned the vue knob on the message box, slowly rolling the messages out of sight as he quickly scanned the routine notices which daily seeped out of Montgomery. Suddenly he stiffened and bent hawkishly over the small box. His coffee cup slid around on his fingers, up-ending. Coffee poured onto the floor, onto his shoes, splattering onto the cuffs of his immaculate trousers. He turned to Warren Mallory, his face ashen. I "The Governor's dead, Warren."

  "What?

  "Assassinated, it says. Him and the whole bunch. All of them.

  Mallory lunged toward the fax-vue, gaped at the message, then exclaimed, "Well Jesus Christ!"

  "You weren't kidding about those niggers, were you, J Warren," the sheriff said, his voice suddenly coldly ] composed. "That's regular army out there. Now why are they. . . ?"

  "God, do you think we're at war?" Mallory cried.

  At that moment, the radio dispatcher appeared in the doorway, his face white and confused. He steadied himself , against the doorjamb and gasped, "Howard Silverman says all of Arlington's people were murdered last night. ; Assassinated!"

  "Same thing in Montgomery," Warren Mallory yelled back. "We're being attacked! I bet it's China!"

  "Hold it, hold it," came the cold tones of Sheriff Cunningham. "Let's take this one phenomenon at a time. | Sparky, you contact all the units, tell them to meet me at the south side of Spain's Center." The sheriff was moving quickly toward the gun rack. He paused to twist around toward Warren Mallory and snap, "Run down and tell

  Chief Welch! I want every man he's got!"

  "At Spain's!"

  "That's right."

  "But the black army makes sense now, Butch! They're here to protect the—"

  "How the hell do you know that?" Cunningham yelled. "How do you know we're not in a civil war?"

  "Oh my God!" Mallory exclaimed. He jerked his head toward the radio dispatcher, lurched around the sheriff's desk and ran out of the office.

  The crowd at the shopping center had more than doubled in less than five minutes. It was not just kids now, either. Adult men and women could be seen here and there throughout the throng, casting glances at the tank, talking quietly among themselves. And Basie Davidson had about reached his moment of truth. Something would have to be done. He sure wished they'd been able to Phase II a bit of this town before Plan Charlie had gone into effect You don't'just rumble into a town this size, one lone tank and one weapons squad, to occupy the whole damn town. You had to smash them up a little first, soften them up, shock them out of old habit patterns, put some fear into them, make them wonder if they're going to live or die, let them know that it could be either way. Maybe then a tank and a handful of foot soldiers could have some influence. A hurting man doesn't go looking for more hurt. He likes to he back and lick awhile.

  The sergeant crawled back to the hatch and stuck a hand inside. Ringer's head popped into view immediately.

  "I guess we better do something about now," Davidson muttered. "The natives are getting restless."

  "Well, I'm ready. You wanta give me the targets? Or you want me to pick my own?"

  "I think your first idea was good. Proba
bly wouldn't hurt too many people, and it'd show them what a big rifle can do." He stared out over the crowd Man, it was point blank range. "Yeah, I guess that's best. Go ahead and bring that tower down. That's easy. Line up on it slow, though. Let them see what you're doing. Let them watch this big baby track up onto the target. And let's give them a double feature. See that truck over to the left, the delivery truck?"

  "You mean that cold drink track?"

  "Yeah. Work your coordinates for a quick second round. Give them a good show. Set it up for automatic second round onto the truck. They won't know any better, they'll think you're shooting from the hip, like the fastest gun in the west."

  Ringer grinned. "Okay. Better get your boys down. This turret will be swinging."

  Davidson slid off the side of the big tank, with an arm-signal to his squad. They quickly regrouped on the ground beside the vehicle. The sergeant moved them into a line formation, on the sidewalk and to the safe flank of the mammoth, then he quickly moved along the line, repeating the brisk command, "Fire only on command, then fire for effect." He swung his own weapon out of the shoulder-sling, slipped off the safety, and held it poised in the crook of the arm, the muzzle up. Then he walked back to the tank and raised his palm to slap it smartly in the all-clear signal. He hesitated, however, to watch a police car whiz across the intersection, light flashing, and pull in at the edge of the crowd.

  Ringer's head popped out of the hatch and he glared down at Davidson. "What the hell are you waiting for?" he snapped.

  "The law just arrived." The sergeant flicked his eyes in the direction of the police car. "Let's see what they're going to do. Maybe they'll save us some trouble."

  Ringer grunted. "I'm calling it from here on out. I'll be watching." He disappeared from view and the hatch clanged shut.