I ran a search on the C-Net file of the week with the key-words McAdam and crisis. It brought up a Senate committee in session. An infonet journal had published notes Alden had sent his agent for a never-written update on the merchants of terror. Alerted by the threats of disorder in his own home state, Senator Finn had called Director Garlesh to testify.
She raised a thick-fingered hand to take the oath and assured him that Kirk’s Terror in America and his tragic death from a letter bomb had created needless alarm about the temper of the nation. Unfortunately, the letter-bomber had not been identified. Agent Botman, the leader of the unit assigned to the case, was still missing. She had put able new men on the case, however, and she was confident of an early resolution.
Kirk’s killer had probably been some isolated fanatic, afraid of what might be written. Benjamin Coon, the suspected militiaman, was still held in the Me Adam jail. A credible witness, however, had named Kirk’s fugitive brother, Clayton Barstow, as the killer of both Ryke and Lydia Starker. Barstow had been traced toward the Washington area, and his capture was only a matter of time. She said nothing about acorns of any number.
“We’re never complacent,” she concluded. “We deplore Alden Kirk’s tragic death, but the Bureau didn’t need his sensational journalism to inform us of the state of the nation—a state far less alarming than his book has led the public to believe. Such reckless alarmists as Kirk are the actual terrorists, a far more frightening threat to the peace of the nation.”
I slept well that night and woke almost myself. I made coffee, worked out in the basement on Marion’s Total Toner, fried eggs and bacon for breakfast. The brown sedan was nowhere in sight when I looked out of Tim’s window slit, but its gray twin was parked on the other side of the street, down near the end of the block and facing toward me. McAdam County was back at the top of the news when I got to the infotel. Ramona Del Rio was on the monitor, a brighter crimson on her lips and a fresh burnish on that streak of silver hair.
“A mob!” She was breathless with an excitement that seemed more real than assumed. “An outlaw gang! A traitor militia! That’s what Kentucky Governor Harlow Train has called the Kentucky Rifles. Led by an ex-convict, Stuart McAdam, they surrounded the Me Adam County jail last night, demanding the release of accused arsonist and killer Benjamin Coon.
“Coon is a militia member. Claiming his innocence, McAdam threatened to storm the jail. Outraged local authorities appealed to Governor Train, who ordered the local guard unit to help them disperse the mob. That tactic failed. The guardsmen deserted in mass, surrendering the armory and their weapons to McAdam.
“Many, it appears, had been secret militia members. Others joined on the spot. The jailer released Coon and promised to sign up himself. The angered governor had ordered the mobilization of the entire Kentucky National Guard. Defying him, McAdam has declared the independence of the county, calling it the Free State of America. The militia is now drilling in the streets, while the townsfolk wait in apprehensive uncertainly for the arrival of the state guard and possible action by the federal government.
“That’s the action here, up to now.”
She waved into the lens with an intimate little wink.
“Until the next news break—and it’s breaking fast—I’m Ramona Del Rio, on special assignment here in this tiny Kentucky county which is daring to take the epic but perilous road that led the Confederate states to defeat and catastrophic ruin a century and a half ago. A madman’s gesture, on the face of it. The odds are too obvious to bear discussion, but the declaration has been enough to terrify the town and concern national authority.
“Governor Train has broadcast an appeal to the outlaw militiamen, begging them to shed no innocent blood. McAdam has made no public response, but his men are setting up an old antiaircraft gun on the town square. The streets are almost deserted now, though earlier I saw a few vehicles loaded with household goods leaving town on the Lexington road. State guard units will soon be arriving.
“A moment of historic drama here in McAdam City.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
RAMONA DEL RIO was gone, replaced by a black-bearded man in an astrakhan cap, the flakes of an early Russian snow swirling round him.
“Crisis in the Hermitage!” He gestured across the flat black Neva at the long skyline of the old museum, roofs rimmed with white. “Three Georgian terrorists armed with machine guns have forced their way inside. Gunfire has been heard. A few tourists have escaped, but scores are still held. An unidentified woman was carried out on a stretcher. The men are now said to be demanding ten million new rubles in gold, and an airplane to carry them to Iran. They threaten to bum the museum and its precious contents unless their demands are met. Iran has denied asylum.”
Another channel was showing the devastation from a giant tsunami that had redoubled the hurricane damage in Hokkaido. A Force 7 quake in Siberia had left a hundred coal miners buried alive. Twice as many were dead from a train collision in the Punjab.
Yet most of the world showed little concern for any disaster. I found football games on half a dozen American channels, cricket in England, soccer in the Ukraine, opera in Milan, high fashion in Paris and Tokyo, cosmology from Caltech. Nothing at all from McAdam County.
The sedans had vanished when I looked through my peephole, but a moving van was parked across the street in front of a house that had been for sale. The sign was gone, but the house still looked empty. I knelt to watch it till my knees were aching, and saw no motion about the van though I thought watchers inside must be waiting for me.
As long as nobody got into the house, I felt almost safe. I worked out again, showered, and ran a search for McAdam and crisis on the daysnews index. When that brought nothing new, I added Alden’s name to the search string and found an academic symposium on “The Information Crisis: Panic or Panacea?”
“. . . Kirk said so.” A gray-haired academic touched a copy of Alden’s book on the table in front of him. “Information is a great leveler, the ultimate equalizer. The new information technology is eroding the past. It questions old beliefs, displaces old elites, undermines old authorities. Look at the Soviet collapse, the fate of Red China, Cuba yesterday. The McAdam affair prefigures revolution here in America.”
“Maybe.” The black journalist was younger, his tone cheerier. “Maybe not. Information has always been the key to power. Look back at the invention of the alphabet, printing, the telegraph. Advancing technology will crumble the old power systems, spread new freedoms to all who can learn. It can inspire a more humane faith, create a more creative elite, give us a more just and intelligent authority.”
“In McAdam County?” the gray man snorted. “Is terror authority?”
“Sometimes.” The black man shrugged. “It can be the first phase of a new authority emerging, a new elite discovering itself.”
“What new authority are you expecting?”
“I’m waiting.” The black man grinned. “The infonet is recasting
history, in much the same way that gold and silver from the new mines in the Americas recast it four centuries ago. What new elite will be taking the reins of authority? I want to see.”
They were gone. Ramona Del Rio’s vivid Cupid face filled the screen again.
“That symposium was recorded last night at the New Futures Foundation in Washington. President Higgins will speak to the nation at seven. He is expected to ask the rebels to negotiate with Senator Finn, who is on his way to McAdam as a special official emissary to the rebels. Will they refuse to see him?”
She smirked into the lens.
“Ramona Del Rio with Washintel WebWatch One.”
The moving van was gone when I looked again, but I saw a cherry picker stopped at the light pole at the end of the block. The workman on the platform seemed to be doing something to the light, but he kept looking down the street toward me.
That afternoon I made a stew from meat and vegetables Marion had left in the freezer. I ate a full bowl of it, s
earched the daysnews channel again, and spent another hour on her Total Toner. I was waiting in front of the infotel at seven.
Higgins spoke from the Oval Office, a flag draped behind him. His staff had denied rumors that his childhood leukemia was recurring, but I thought he looked haggard under the makeup. Speaking to “dear friends, good neighbors, and fellow citizens of the oldest and greatest republic on Earth,” he recalled a great-great-great-grandfather who had served as a private in the Union army under General Grant, had been captured at Shiloh, died at Andersonville.
“My fellow Americans, I have come to you to share a terrible concern.” He stopped, his gaunt head bent. The camera zoomed close. I saw tears in his watery eyes and thought for a moment that he meant to speak of his health. “Forgive me, please.” He gulped and went on. “My most profound concern is for my fellow citizens in the great state of Kentucky, but I beg all loyal Americans, wherever you are, to stand beside me in this national ordeal.” He turned to face the flag, his hand on his heart. “I beg you all to join me now as we renew our most sacred pledge.”
Huskily, he intoned the pledge of allegiance.
“I honor that pledge.” Swaying on his feet, he swung back to face the camera. “I have sworn a solemn oath to defend our Constitution and the unity of our nation. I intend to do so with all the sovereign power vested in me and with whatever means that noble duty may require. But I want no violence. Our nations needs no violence. I pray to Almighty God that no blood is shed.”
His graying, thin-haired head was bent for half a minute. I saw a large brown mole on a patch of pink bald scalp.
“Remember with me.” Hoarse with emotion, he drew himself unsteadily straight. “Remember the heroic history of all the toil and blood and sacrifice that went into the building of America. I know that some of you feel unhappy with the state of things as they are. So do I. Many of you have suffered misfortune; that’s our common human destiny. Some of you may feel threatened by the claims and deeds of others, but don’t forget that your own deeds and claims may sometimes seem to threaten them. I beg you to understand, to compromise, to reason together.
“A final a word to my unhappy friends in Kentucky: I have asked Madison Finn, a faithful patriot and your own able senator, to undertake a vital mission. He is now on his way to that troubled state. I beg its leaders to sit down with him, listen to his proposals, and seek a path to peace. American blood has always been sacred. Let’s not waste it now.”
Tex Horn came on the screen, the wide white hat pulled aggressively low. He echoed Higgins’s words with somewhat less feeling and effect, and then repeated a public statement from the President’s Bethesda doctors that they had found his health superb, with no basis whatever for the rumored recurrence of any childhood malady.
“And that’s the scat for now.” He relaxed into his trademark drawl, pushing the hat to the side of his head and grinning engagingly into the lens. “For the hottest hype on every happening, watch Washintel WebWatch One.”
“Look at the rebels!” Ramona Del Rio smiled from the tube with the delight of a child about to open an unexpected gift. “They’ve seized the county courthouse. Scattered the local officials. Civil authority has been assumed by a group now called the Liberation Congress.”
The camera shifted from her to sweep the conference room at the McAdam city hall—I’d been there with Pepperlake, covering a city-county council meeting for the Freeman. I recognized Kit Moorhawk at the head of the long table, Cass Pepperlake and Rob Roy McAdam sitting beside him.
“The Haven,” Del Rio trilled. “That’s what they’ve named their new nation. It’s to be a fortress of freedom and a safe refuge for its defenders when times of trouble come. So they say.” Her tone was lightly sardonic. “Here you see Provisional President Kit Moorhawk, seated with the two other members of their executive council. I am speaking with Stuart McAdam, their military commander.”
She turned to Stuart, who stood close to her, lean and ramrod straight in a new green jacket.
“Freedom—”
His voice fell. Solemnly, he shook his head.
“Sadly, my fellow friends of liberty, I had to stand silent through the president’s pledge today, because the great America I once loved has failed us. It was established as a true democracy, its laws to be enacted and its government administered by citizens selected for integrity, education, and intelligence. It was designed to guarantee our most precious rights—life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. But look at us today!”
Grimly scowling, he slapped the table.
“Generations of fools have squandered those sacred rights. We walk in terror on our crime-ridden streets, our lives in danger every day. Our individual liberties have been surrendered to tyrannical majorities, ignorant idiots whose vacant minds change with every infonet broadcast. I’m sick of federal meddling—”
“Really, sir?” Del Rio broke into his tirade with a spirit that surprised me. “Does our government do nothing good? What about the federal marshals just sent here to defend the rights of a woman to her own body?”
He scowled at her impatiently.
“What about the Ryke clinic?” she demanded, with an impudent wink at the camera. “What about that Rifleman of yours, arrested for burning the building with Dr. Ryke inside? Why did your own men storm the jail to set him free.”
“Ben Coon?” He blinked as if in astonishment. “Ben, trying to rescue the unfortunate doctor, was trapped in the blast. No criminal, he’s a wounded hero. Our action to set him free was forced by the idiot judge who denied his bond. So what’s your point?”
“Innocent?” Her perfect eyebrows rose. “The firemen swear they caught him in the act of arson, crashing the fire-car into the clinic and tossing a flaming torch back at it before he fled. You spoke of federal meddling. Is it meddling when the courts send federal marshals to protect a woman’s rights?”
“The right to murder an unborn child?”
The camera caught Moorhawk’s impatient glance.
“Your own opinion, Stuart.” Pepperlake raised his hand with an air of deferential protest. “Kit and I have ours. But we aren’t here to disagree.”
Stuart was turning pink, glowering at him. “Let me tell you—”
The camera swung.
“Liberator Pepperlake?” Del Rio turned to him hopefully. “Can you tell us where you do agree?”
“We both beg for liberty.”
“Thank you, sir.” She nodded brightly. “That’s what the world wants to hear about. Your revolt is hard for many of us to justify.” She frowned demurely and touched her shining hair as if briefly puzzled. “It has troubled the nation. Any resistance from you seems doomed to certain defeat, perhaps with tragic bloodshed. Can you give us some sane sense of your position?”
“If you want the sad history—”
“We do,” she said. “If you can make it brief.”
“We want to save our skins,” he said. “If you want it brief.” “Not that brief.”
‘Then here’s a little more.” Thoughtfully, Pepperlake pushed up his wire-rimmed glasses. “For Kit and me, it begins with Alden Kirk’s visit here when he was at work on Terror in America. We got to know him. He shared his concern about the shadow of trouble over the nation. Living here in McAdam City, a very typical American town, we had only been dimly aware of the germs of terror already infecting us.
“A handful of us gathered to talk about how we might get the drug-dealing gangs off our streets and their fat-cat agents out of the courthouse. County politics has always been a life-or-death sport here in Kentucky, right next to racing Thoroughbreds. Kirk’s inquiries had alarmed some of our local kingpins. When they needed a sacrifice for a coming election, they picked us. Our meetings were spied on. We were raided. Somebody seems to have persuaded the FBI that we were involved with the letter bomb that killed Kirk.” He paused to grin into the lens.
“Director Garlesh, I hope you’re listening. I don’t know all your people have don
e, but I think they got too close to some of our county officials. At the Freeman, our circulation manager found several pounds of marijuana stashed in his filing cabinet. He dropped it into a dumpster down the block before anything happened, but I think the county bosses meant to bust us and shut the paper down. Liberator Moorhawk was harassed on trumped-up charges of tax fraud. And Liberator McAdam has a brother—” “Rob Roy.” Stuart was loud and bitter. “He’s invented a new telephone. The Feds tried to confiscate it. They put his CyberSoft Corporation out of business when he wouldn’t give it up. and threatened him with prison.”
Pepperlake lifted his hand. “Stuart, please—”
“They never stopped.” Stuart was on his feet. “Not just the feds, but the state and the county. We have means to deal with the courthouse gang, but the state has declared war on us. Governor Train is mobilizing the National Guard. Senator Finn is on his way here now, with an ultimatum from the president. They give us no choice—”
“Excuse me, Liberator McAdam.” Del Rio checked him. “If the senator does deliver an ultimatum, what will your answer be?”
“If he wants war—”
“Cool it, Stuart. Please!” Pepperlake waved to halt him. “Let me answer.”
Grumbling under his breath, he sat down.
“Miss Del Rio, I want to thank you for this opportunity to state our case.” Pepperlake bent his head toward her with the courtesy of an older generation. “That’s a hard indictment you’ve just heard from Liberator McAdam. I don’t want you and your audience to get us wrong.
“Speaking for myself, I have a deep respect for President Higgins. an honest and able man, caught now in a tragic dilemma. I’m sure most of those around him are men and women of good will. Unfortunately, they’re all trapped in a corrupt and perverted system which frustrates every effort to do what they know they should.
The Silicon Dagger Page 13
