Don Pendleton - Civil War II Read online

President Arlington stared searchingly at the Chief of the White House Secret Service detail. "Are you telling me, Bill, that the people are doing nothing, absolutely nothing? They are simply sitting and waiting for the end to come?"

  "It appears that way, Mr. President," the head bodyguard admitted. "But after the way they treated you on television last night, I guess it isn't too surprising. The nation has become accustomed to listening to Mr. Silverman. I guess most people are rather confused about the whole thing."

  "Nonsense," the President said calmly. "They aren't confused. They are frightened. Frightened rabbits. They have deserted their President, they have deserted their country, and they are sitting around waiting for someone to deliver them from their difficulties once again.

  "Well, it won't be me this time, Bill. I am too old for that task this time, I simply cannot handle it. How soon can you get me out erf here?"

  "Any time you'd like to leave, sir. Where are we going?"

  "I want to go to Streamhaven, Bill. Let the Negruhs have the damn country. Apparendy nobody cares but me, and now 1 don't care either. I simply do not care about a thing. But the Negruhs did not beat me, Bill. Old age. Old

  age beat me. I have given this nation my very life. I will not give it my death as well."

  "I'll contact the FPB and set up a convoy right away, sir."

  "No, Bill, no convoy. Tell the boys over at the bureau to close up 6hop and get out of town. It's every man for himself, and I suppose the Negruhs have a list a mile long."

  "I suppose so, sir."

  "Do you realize, Bill? I am the first American President to be run out of his office."

  "Yes sir," the bodyguard replied. "I guess that's true."

  Arlington laughed. "Don't take it so hard, old friend. It's a distinction, of sorts. Hump Arlington, the last father of the country. Last in war, last in peace, and last in the hearts of his countrymen."

  Abe Williams examined his protege critically and quietly told him, "You're looking frisky as a colt this morning, Michael."

  Winston grinned and replied, "Shows what one good night's sleep can do for a guy."

  "You mean you were actually able to sleep?"

  "I mean I lay down, died, and was resurrected twelve hours later. Or that's the way it feels." He accepted a glass of juice from his host and added, "By the way, to whomever brought me the clothing, thanks."

  "You can thank her yourself when you get to Washington."

  "What?"

  "A very anxious young lady came dragging in here in the middle of the night." Williams was smiling hugely. "From Connecticut, she said. And she left the clothing with love."

  "Well I'll be damned," Winston commented.

  "Yeah. Said you'd know where to find her, in Washington, when you got the time. I invited her to stay and travel with you this morning, but she seemed to think she'd be in the way. I wish I had someone like that dragging clothes around for me"

  "Yes, she's quite a woman," Winston said, smiling modestly. "You'll be seeing more of her."

  "I want you to know how very pleased I am, Michael," Williams told him. "About the way things have shaped up, I mean. I am very happy that you are in our corner."

  "I guess I am, too," Winston admitted. "And I guess I'm ready to travel. Is the General ready?"

  "He is."

  "Then I guess there's just one last item."

  "What's that?" Williams asked.

  "I want a letter of authority."

  "From whom and over whom?"

  "I'm going to be running this country for awhile. Right?"

  "So right."

  "In case I ever get into a stare-down with one of your people, I want to know who's boss."

  "And you want a letter of authority?"

  Winston nodded. "Or an equivalent instrument."

  The black man sighed. "I can't give you anything like that, Michael. I've named you head of the provisional government. How much can I add to that?"

  "You can add that my authority extends to all the occupational and/or insurgent forces. I'm going to need that, Abe. And you know it."

  "I don't have that to give, Michael," Williams told him. "I've been running this black show by virtue of self-evident authority, and no more. It's nothing that has been given me, or accorded me, therefore it is not a power nor even an influence that I can pass along to someone else."

  Winston gave an unhappy grunt and said, "Then my task may be all that more impossible. If I have no influence over the black—"

  "You'll just have to exert influence, the same as I have done. Anyway, don't worry about the black support. You'll have that. Your big worries are with the white populace, don't you think?"

  Winston frowned. "I guess you could be right. Well, okay. I'll play it by ear. How about my task force? Is it all set?"

  The black leader soberly nodded his head. "All but the economist from UCLA. Unfortunately, he was killed

  during the strike on Los Angeles yesterday. But I contacted the alternate, Dr. Mackay. He agreed to join you in Washington."

  Winston's face had fallen over the news of the death. A muscle bunched in his jaw and he said, "Okay, that's fine." He glanced at his watch. "I guess it's time to be shoving off."

  "Uh, there's one more thing, Michael. Concerning Ritter."

  "What about Ritter?"

  Williams seemed mildly embarrassed. "He, uh, felt terrible about that goof-up in Washington yesterday. When we lost Senator Bancroft and company. He, uh . . . I believe that he wishes to hover about your person. He wants to accompany you to Washington."

  "It's fine with me," Winston declared soberly. "So long as he knows who's boss."

  "You'll have no trouble from Norm Ritter," Williams assured him. He chuckled suddenly and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone. "Know what that big faker told me this morning?"

  Winston grinned and shook his head.

  "He told me he could almost pass as white, with that red hair, if I was worried about having a bunch of niggers around the White House."

  The two men laughed together. Then Mike Winston took a last look around, as though perhaps he would never see the place again. History had been made at this unlikely place. Living history. Vital history. Williams noted the "last look" expression on Winston's face. Their glances crossed, and each other saw the other, for a fleeting instant, through the other's eyes. Then they went out, side by side—one white, one black—to step upon the stage of another chapter of America.

  The helicopter settled gentiy to the White House lawn, in the center of a circle of black infantrymen. Norman Ritter was the first man out, leaping energetically to the ground before the ladder was emplaced, and he was engaged in an

  animated conversation with the troop commander when Mike Winston and General Bogan de-planed. A special security guard, provided by Ritter, swept in to enclose them in a protective circle, then the thick knot of men set off rapidly for the main building. The infantry ranks split to let them pass, performing a ceremonial salute with their rifles, then regrouped into a wedge-shaped escort formation.

  Ritter maneuvered alongside Winston and told him, "The troop commander says that Arlington bailed out a few hours ago, bag and baggage. They have your offices set up in the east wing, per your request. Silverman accepted the job as press secretary, and he's already selected a White House press corps. I understand he's pretty happy about that. Hasn't been an official press corps here since Arlington took office. He's got them assembled and waiting, requests that you step in and at least say hello to them right away. Thinks it's important."

  Winston nodded his head mechanically. "I'd sooner not. But I agree with Silverman. It's probably very important to get off on the right foot with the press."

  The military escort was left behind at the south portico. As the party moved up the steps, a tall dignified-appearing man ran down to greet them. He swung in beside Ritter, who performed perfunctory introductions. "Mike Winston, General Bogan, this is John Douglas, heads up the Washington intell
igence unit. How's it going, John?"

  "Very well," Douglas replied, panting a little. He was a graceful man with silvery hair who carried his Negro heritage proudly. "The entire White House staff volunteered to remain on—for awhile, anyway. I mean, the cooks and bottle washers, you know, the ..." He chuckled.

  .. the important ones. The President checked out about eight o'clock. I hear he's gone to his farm in Virginia. There's about a hundred newspapermen and magazine writers waiting in there. Silverman has been outlining the ground rules to them." He leaned forward to smile at Winston. "I believe you have a good man there, Mr. Director. He's been berating them for thirty minutes now. I

  don't think they'll be giving you a hard time."

  Winston smiled and stared stonily forward. John Douglas was the first to address him as Mr. Director. The title had a hollow ring to it. For a guy who had been gloating about the thrill of reality just last night, Winston was wondering why everything seemed so unreal to him at the moment. It had been less than forty-eight hours since he'd last come into these hallowed halls and then he'd had to scream, stomp, yell, and finally pull a gun to get in. Now here he was, the very same guy, casually strolling in to take over the joint. And as Mr. Director.

  And then the gravity of the moment descended fully upon him. The entourage was sweeping along the broad passageway toward the press room. Winston called a sudden halt and took Jackson Bogan by the arm. "General," he said quietly, "the first thing I want you to do is get those troops off the White House grounds. I want things to look as nearly normal as possible around here. Okay? The White House is not under military occupation."

  "You're right," Bogan agreed. "It does look bad."

  "Fine. And then you'd better doublecheck your communications with your field commanders around the country. I have a feeling way down inside my bones and o.. well, just be sure you know how to talk to die army any time you need to, wherever you need to."

  Winston then turned to John Douglas. "John, I guess I can't avoid this press conference—I may as well get it over with and get it all up on the line. While I'm in there, try to get a line on the status of my executive task force. I want to huddle with those people as soon as possible. As they get aboard, get them collected some place where I can find them all together. Now, let's break up right here. I'll rejoin as soon as I can shake the fourth estate."

  Bogan and Douglas dropped out of the group and the remainder of the party went on to the press room. Winston was shaken by the very size of the place. A confused rumble of sound, the concert of a hundred or more busy voices, further intensified the tension within the new chief of state.

  Howard Silverman came forward, smiling, and introduced himself. The two men shook hands and exchanged pleasantries. Then they moved together to the rostrum. Silverman held up a hand for attention, though the gesture was totally unnecessary. The beehive of sound had dropped off completely moments after Winston entered the room, and all eyes were glued silently to the largely unknown individual who had suddenly taken over the executive mansion of the United States.

  "Just one quick reminder, gentlemen," Silverman intoned. "No questions of a personal nature. You'll get all that in a bio handout later today. Please confine all queries to the present and planned state of the nation. Gentlemen ... the Provisional Director of U.S. National Affairs, Mr. Michael Winston."

  Silverman left Winston standing there alone, and Mr. Director looked out upon the sea of faces with a growing feeling of panic. What the hell am I doing here? screamed an inner voice. His hands were clammy and unsteady as he lay them on the rostrum—his mouth was dry and he felt somewhat dizzy. Then he pointed blindly to a man in the front row of seats, wondering as he did if he was supposed to do so. At least the gesture was understood. The man stood up, cleared his throat, and said, "Uh, do we call you. .. ? Uh, how do we address you, sir?"

  "The name is Winston," he replied tightly. He grinned and added, "Why don't you just use that?"

  The newsman grinned back, and Winston mentally scored one for his side. "AH right. . . Mr. Winston ... I think most of us are surprised that a military junta didn't move into the White House. Would you care to discuss that?"

  Winston looked into the man's eyes, and saw something there he'd discovered in himself a few hours earlier. He allowed himself a few seconds to gaze at some of the other expectant faces raised to him and he felt himself thawing inside, felt the rapport of human beings caught up in the same nightmare, and when his voice came it was pleasant and warm. "There is no military junta. Not in Washington,

  not anywhere in this country. This is not a military coup, gentlemen. It was a citizen's uprising. Abe Lincoln Williams, the man who planned and led that uprising, told me a short while ago that he could not give me a letter of authority over the black military establishment. His own authority, he said, was self-evident. I accepted that. I hope that you will accept it. Self-evident authority is a rare thing. It bespeaks a rare state of leadership. Abe Williams is not a soldier. He is as anxious to preserve the American system of civil government as is anyone in this room. I'm sure you've all read the manifesto. If so, you'll know that I am here simply to coordinate the formation of the new civil government. There is not, and will not be, I hope, a military junta. Does that answer your question?"

  "Yes sir, I guess it does. Thank you." The man sat down and said something beneath his breath to the man beside him.

  Winston fingered another. The man only half rose and asked, "This manifesto the Negroes issued ... is it really on the level? Are they really going to allow a continuation of political freedom?"

  "A continuation?" Winston replied, smiling. "I would use the word resumption. Politics in this nation, for the past twelve years, have been a mockery of the constitution. Yes sir, the manifesto is on the level. As for the resumption of free politics, this all depends upon how we react to this situation. If the next few weeks are marked by active white resistance to black demands ... if we do not make a sincere effort to re-orient our thinking and to organize a constructive and conscionable government... then I'd say we'll never see another ballot box.

  "Even if we remain peaceful yet fail to repudiate the present political climate of this nation—that is to say, if we bring in a new regime with the same ills and goals as the old one, then we surely cannot expect the blacks to merely fold up their tents and return to their towns. If that were to happen, then the blacks will have no recourse except to continue in occupation, throw out the government again, and make us try again. Or as an alternative, they could

  decide to put their own people in power, double the guard, and tear up the U.S. constitution. They could do that. They could do it right now.

  "I'd like to say this, though. I am convinced that if we behave ourselves and do the right things, no matter how much they may hurt, then the entire nation will profit and grow from this experience. If we do not, then this nation, as constituted, will cease to exist."

  Another man arose, out of order, and sneered. "Why did the niggers appoint you as their mouthpiece?"

  Silverman's feet scraped the floor, as though he were about to leap into the act. Winston headed him off. "I'm glad you asked that," he replied, smiling. "It gives me the chance to assure you that I am not their mouthpiece. The Negro, right now, is all eyes and ears. No mouth. He has said all he's going to say. It's all in the manifesto. Now he is listening for some dialogue from the white side."

  Another man leapt from his chair and cried, "Are you telling us that you're not just a nigger puppet?" Disorder descended.

  This time Silverman did hit the deck, both feet planted solidly beside the rostrum and raising his hands for order. Winston's eyes were slightiy glazed but his grin was hanging on. He touched Silverman lightly on the arm and winked. The veteran newsman gave him an odd look, dropped his hands, and returned to his chair. Winston stood straight, both hands clasped lightiy atop the rostrum. Presently the noise began to subside Not until silence completely gripped the room did Mr. Director open
his mouth.

  Then he said, "Okay, I'm glad to see that the American Press is finding its guts again. Just keep it up. Ride me all the way, watch me as though I were about to steal your most precious possession.... This is what you should have been doing, and did not do, for the past twenty years. You allowed the government to scare you into silence. Don't ever let that happen again. Your nation needs you, gentlemen. / need you. But let's keep the dialogue intelligent. Does anyone out there have an intelligent

  question to ask, or shall we call this whole thing off?"

  An older man sitting halfway up the center aisle began quietly applauding. Several others picked it up and soon most of the assembled newsmen were on their feet, quietly beating their hands together. The sound swelled, and held for most of a minute. Howard Silverman's face was a study in baffled wonderment, but he was on his feet applauding also.

  Norman Ritter leaned toward one of his agents. "I'm starting to see why Abe Williams is so sold on this guy," he muttered. "Gutsy. More than that. Something else. But guts too."

  Winston tossed a meaningful glance to Howard Silverman. The new press secretary began calling for order, and quiet quickly returned.

  Winston then told the assemblage, "I'm going to answer that last charge just the same and as honestly as I can. because I believe it to be an important point. The question—or the charge—had to do with puppets. I want you all to know that I am not a puppet. Nor are any of you out there. Not at this moment. The day before yesterday, I believe I was a puppet. And you. All of us, the entire nation. Someone pulled a string, or programmed a machine, and we all danced to the tune. Isn't that right?"

  Winston was gazing out across the sea of faces, and he was liking what he saw. "Ask Mr. Silverman here," he added. "Ask him how it felt, yesterday, to exercise a prerogative of the free press. Ask him how long it had been since he'd felt that way."

  Dead silence gripped the large room. Winston had touched an open nerve. A mild-appearing man at mid-center rose to his feet, gazing steadily at the rostrum. Winston recognized the man with a nod of his head.