Don Pendleton - Civil War II

by Don Pendleton

  Harvey showed him a glassy smile and replied, "Thanks, Commissioner. I appreciate that."

  Winston nodded at the other two, pulled the door shut,.

  and returned without further dalliance to the hovercar. He rose quickly to the transit altitude, then used Ms F-VIP code to request an immediate uncontrolled transit to San Francisco International Airport. The airflow computer responded without hesitation to the F-VIP override and cleared him for direct flight.

  With a bit of scrambling he could make the nine-thirty commuter to Washington. It had suddenly become very urgent that he do so. He wanted to determine if General Jackson T. Bogan, Army Chief of Combat Forces and the country's highest ranking Negro officer, had a spitting-image double. If not, then h© wanted to know if the nation's top government nigger made a practice of donning civilian clothes and visiting towns in the company of Abraham Lincoln Williams, lord Mgh potentate and soul daddy of all town rnggers everywhere—and why they should be so upset over the discovery of their visit to Oakland Town by a lowly Commissioner of Urban Affairs.

  Not that anything had made much sense in the Negro world for the past few years—but there were some things that even a second-echelon bureaucrat could not swallow. Mike Winston could not swallow Bogan and Williams tiptoeing about the back rooms of the Oakland town hall, even if he could accept the mere fact of them being together.

  And somehow he knew, the entire scene with John Harvey had been some sort of silly game. The guy hadn't been really concerned about the budget cuts, and even less impressed with Winston's second-thought offer to personally intervene in the funding settlement.

  So what was he concerned about? And Bogan, and Williams. What the hell were they so concerned about?

  Mike Winston did not know. But he for damn sure was going to find out.

  CHAPTER 2

  It had once bean the home stadium for a national champion football team, and there had been times when eighty thousand and more fans had lifted roaring approval to the heavens over the legal mayhem being committed across the artificial turf of the playing field. Cheers and chants had long since disappeared and the tiers of seats lifting in all directions toward the skies were showing the evidence of years of crumbling neglect. Still, the stadium had become the hope, the dream, and the rallying point for the million black townsmen of Oakland—and was regarded as the unofficial soul-quarters of some twenty million others.

  Now, tall, muscular young men practiced games of another sort here. They were games of survival and death. Here they learned the game of war and the machines of war. They learned to shoot, unemotionally and accurately, and they learned how it felt to be shot at. And here they dreamed of war and plotted for war and prayed for war. This place was called The Warhole, because that's what it was—a hole in space, a place of stealth for men who plotted for dignity and freedom.

  Abraham Lincoln Williams paced up and down the former locker room, now operations central for the

  Western Division of the Black Militia, impatiently awaiting the arrival of Norman Ritter, Chief of Militia Intelligence and also, officially, Special Intelligence Aide to the U.S. Army Chief of Staff.

  The others were already present—General Bogan, in charge of all black military operations, legal and otherwise; Mayor Harvey, senior civil authority for the western region; and Major General Hawley Matthews, Commanding Officer of the U.S. Air Force Tactical Air Command.

  Williams stepped to the open doorway and gazed out Norman Ritter—a thick and powerfully built man of indeterminate age, soft red hair and freckled skin—was moving briskly along the ramp.

  Williams moved back inside as Ritter hit the outer door and all but exploded into the operation center. The man's every movement seemed to be accompanied by an explosive release of stored energy; he moved quickly and bouncily whether the task be climbing a stairway or lighting a cigarette. He passed in front of Williams, showed him an upraised fist, and plowed into a chair witih a backward fling that would have rendered some men unconscious.

  Williams got to the point immediately. "They're onto us," he declared simply, his eyes on Ritter.

  The intelligence chief shrugged. "Had to happen sooner or later," he said mildly. "Who got smart?"

  "Who else? Our esteemed Uncle Mose from the Urban Bureau. Our old buddy-buddy Mike Winston, the white man with a conscience."

  "What exactly does he know?" Ritter asked, smiling grimly.

  Williams dropped into a chair at the head of the small conference table. "I don't know," he replied. "But enough to make him suspicious and wondering, I know that much. That guy is danger, with a capital D. There was a time when he was one of the most awesome men in Washington."

  "In the Urban Bureau?" the air force general asked humorously.

  "Hell no, before that," Ritter put in. "He was one of the first federal oops when the FBI was revamped. Got into some kind of trouble. But don't think he's not just as dangerous. I've been uneasy as hell, frankly, ever since they transferred that guy into Urban."

  "You think maybe it was a cover transfer?" Williams asked. "And you're just now mentioning it?"

  "All you had to do was ask me," General Bogan said. "I've known about Winston all along. His trouble was genuine, nothing put up about it. He got busted, pure and simple. And I can tell you why. He wouldn't go along with their programmed suppression of the blacks. It's as easy as that. So old Arlington thought he was being cute by transferring an Uncle Mose into Urban. An act of mercy, he called it at the time. Mercy!"

  The general laughed, a gentle wheezing. "By presidential direction, Mike Winston was transferred to the Urban Bureau instead of being drummed out of federal service. And after all these years, it probably tums out to be the smartest move old Arlington ever made."

  "All right," said Williams, "let's forget about Winston's troubles and talk about our own. When that guy starts digging, what's he going to find?"

  Ritter shuffled his feet nervously but said nothing.

  Mayor Harvey spoke up, almost apologetically. "I imagine he'll start by looking at the Toms."

  "Why that?" Ritter, the intelligence man, asked quickly.

  Harvey shrugged the massive shoulders. "Because I think he's already starting to wonder about that. You've been gobbling them up too fast, Norm. Faster than we can shove in replacements. Yeah. That's next. He'll start wondering why so many Tom requisitions these past few years."

  "Well, then, that will really cut it," Williams declared angrily. "I warned you to be discreet about that business, Norm."

  "Oh bullshit!" Ritter railed back. "Where else am I going to get operatives who can move about freely?"

  "Norm's right, of course," General Bogan put in quietly. "Let's not fall into what-if's and what-might-have-been's.

  Let's talk about the current problem."

  "Is there any way to head Winston off at the pass?" General Matthews inquired.

  "I'm looking into that," Ritter growled. "I got a position report on him just before I came over .He hopped the commuter to Washington—" The intelligence chief glanced at his watch and frowned. "—just about twenty minutes ago. Don't worry, he'll be picked up on the other end and we'll be on his every move."

  "Why not just discreedy dispose of him?" Matthews mildly suggested.

  "Not until we know for sure how deep he's gone," Ritter shot back. "We want no loose ends flapping about."

  "Norm's right, of course," Williams said. "So okay. Assume that Winston is definitely onto the Omega Project. What will he do? What cm he do?"

  "He'll have to present his case to Arlington, of course," Bogan murmured.

  "Clear to the top, immediately?" Williams asked.

  The General nodded his head and replied, "Wouldn't you? Besides, he's gone back up the ladder rather quickly in Urban. There's no one between him and the President but the bureau chief. And that guy is a total zero. Yes, that's where I'd go with it. Directly to the top. Where else can he go?" Bogan smiled. "Not to the military, that's for sure. And the fede
ral police . . . well . . ." The old soldier shrugged his shoulders. "I imagine he wouldn't feel too comfortable there."

  "I don't know," Mayor Harvey put in. "Winston is gutsy. He'd go to the FBI if he thought he had a case."

  "Just what I was thinking," Abe Williams agreed. "That's exactly where Arlington would go, too. He'd have to. He would be moving for a quick and quiet bust, no fanfare, no panic, no loss of face to the administration. The federal cops would be swarming us like hornets in no time at all, and we'd all just quietly disappear." He smiled grimly. "Never to be seen or heard again in the world of living things."

  "That wouldn't stop anything," Ritter pointed out.

  "No, but Arlington would probably think it might. He's

  smart enough to know how long it takes to set up a thing like this. He'd have no way of knowing how far it has gone."

  "Any move they make now will simply cause wider bloodshed," Bogan observed. "If they get to us first..."

  "Right," Williams said. "The boys would run wild. Okay. We have to stop Winston. We have to stop him dead."

  "And advance our timetable," Ritter declared.

  "Will that be necessary?" Williams murmured.

  Bogan sighed and said, "Yes. We have everything to lose and absolutely nothing to gain by idling along now."

  A silence of some thirty seconds followed Bogan's declaration. It was Abe Williams who broke in. He cleared his throat noisily and said, "All right. Let's advance the timetable. Let's move tonight."

  Another brief silence, then Harvey said, "Can we do it?"

  Williams was watching the military chief. Bogan scratched his head and turned his gaze to his military aide. "What do you think, Norm?"

  Ritter jerked his head in a quick nod. "My boys have been up and ready for over a month now. From my end, yeah: Go."

  The Air Force Chief said, "Naturally, TAC is always ready. Just give me an hour's notice."

  Bogan sighed and turned his gaze to Mayor Harvey. "Well, my adjutant just completed a nationwide inspection of the militia. They seem ready, but I'm still a bit concerned about the discipline. They're eager and they've been penned up all their lives. I just hope we don't have a blood orgy."

  Harvey blinked his eyes rapidly and said, "You don't have to worry about the Oakland units."

  "I'll vouch for the readiness of the militia," Abe Williams said quickly. "They're ready. I guess the only loose ends we have are political. But we can work out the politics by ear."

  "Okay," Bogan said, sighing heavily. "But just remember that the militia will be carrying the brunt. The regular army forces are largely specialists in the quick-reaction philosophy—brashfire teams." He glanced at Abe Williams. "I see no reason for a change in the battle order, do you?"

  Williams shook his head. "None at all. Do you want me to contact Admiral Parks, or will you,"

  "I'll get with him," Bogan replied. "I'm going to be busier than a cat covering up crap, though, so you'll have to work the readyline with the other units."

  "I'll get them in," Williams solemnly assured the general.

  "Then I guess that's it," Bogan said. "We hit tonight."

  Ritter leapt to his feet and did a little dance alongside the conference table. "Hot damn, hot damn," he cried. "I can't hardly believe it. Tonight's the night, and oh what a night! Burn, baby, burn—and watch my fucking smoke. We're gonna jerk old whitey apart at the seams. Wait'll you see the chao3 in the skies when I blow the whistle on automated airflow. And the gas mains, the power stations, communications—man, I got the whole world in my hand. I got the water systems, the fuel lines, the—"

  "Don't forget your assassins," Harvey put in icily.

  "Hell yes, I got death in my hand, too—and why're you all sitting around so gloomy? This is the day we've been awaiting for twenty years! Why the hell are you all looking so gloomy?"

  Abe Williams smiled faintly and said, "The day of the black cat."

  "Yeah," Ritter cried happily. "The day of the big black cat."

  "Let's just leave ourselves someplace to live," Williams said. "Remember that. We have to live more than one day. So knock off the Sambo act, Norm. And I don't want any kill orgies. Understand? We stick precisely to the battle

  order."

  Ritter's big moment was not to be dampened by censure from the chief. He laughed loudly and told Williams, "Sure, Abe, sure. You mad at me? Hell, I'm not mad at anybody. Hey, Jackson, I want one final review with you, I don't want our boys getting in each other's way. For God's sake, Jack, do you know what this means? Do you know what day this really is? God, I don't believe it, I just can't believe it. Tonight's the night, and we're going to tear old whitey apart at the seams!"

  "You'd first better be doing something about Mike Winston," Bogan pointed out.

  "I'll do that. He'll be the first to come apart. First man out, Jackson, good old Uncle Mose Winston. And then just watch my fucking smoke!"

  CHAPTER 3

  Winston stepped from the moving sidewalk into the vestibule of the commuter, walked over to a battery of plastic boxes, selected the proper one, fed in Ms AMS card, then stepped over to the escalator gate. His card popped out of a rectangular tube and the gate opened to admit him. He shoved the card into a pocket and moved on to the upper deck of the giant aircraft. There, another plastic box awaited. He inserted his monetary card through a slot at the bottom of the box. An instant later it clicked out on top, bringing with it a thin rectangle of cardboard.

  Winston returned the AMS card to his pocket and glanced at his berthing assignment, printed on the cardboard. He grunted with satisfaction, noting that he had drawn a forward dayroom, which meant more head-space for one thing. He decided, once again that there were compensations for the F-VIP coding on his AMS card. The "F"—-indicating Federal—qualification to the VIP rating had usually managed to work against him, but the airlines must have known who was buttering their bread. And this was one time when Winston was prepared to appreciate it. He was unnerved, excited, his thoughts jumbled—and he needed that hour and a half of flight time to collect himself and try to pull together several years of casual observations of goings-on in Black America. Not one thing, standing alone, meant a damn thing. But. .. put it all together and ... it was enough to worry a guy.

  He located his room, a six by ten cubicle, closed the accordion-type plastic door and immediately undressed. He AMS'd his suit through the tube to the valet shop even before the big craft left the ground and as soon as the safety light extinguished, indicating that they were airborne, he stepped into the shower stall and refreshed himself.

  He could have been in a hotel room, for all the sensation of flight or even movement a guy got from these new supersomics. Had to hand it to the French—those people knew how to build flying machines. As Winston soaped down, he thought vaguely of the old lumbering airplanes of the eighties, the terribly inept, uncomfortable and dangerous cracker-boxes of the seventies and he was glad it was 1999. Imagine wasting half a day just getting from one coast to the other. He recalled his first air trip back in '70 or '71. He'd been about six. He smiled, remembering the excitement of that adventure. Some adventure! Two hours to get a thousand miles! Still, he had to admit, there'd been a vitality to that age. A vitality. Where had all the vitality gone? Had technological smoothness and monetary order sucked the guts out of the world?

  Winston hadn't experienced thoughts such as these for years. They bothered him. What was it Abraham Lincoln Williams had said to him on that chance meeting in New Orleans a few months earlier? Williams was supposed to be an urban lobbyist, and that was something that had never rung quite true for Winston. What was the sense in lobbying? Nobody on Capitol Hill gave a damn for black problems anymore. Williams would be the first man to recognize that fact. The blacks had screwed themselves completely out of the national political picture when they all went to town. The way the country was apportioned now, they couldn't even get a seat in the House of Representatives.

  Oh yeah, he remembered now
what Williams had said to him. "There was a time," he told him in that quietly

  troubled voice he managed so well, "when the black man thought he had a friend in you, Mr. Winston."

  Well, shit! Winston hadn't turned the Negro's world over, they'd done it themselves. What the hell could they logically ask of anybody now? What was a guy supposed to do? Get up on a soap box and start preaching? And wind up with his ass nailed to a willow tree?

  Thanks, Abe, no thanks, you quietly troubled black bastard. The world has seen enough crucifixions, they're not getting Winston's ass too. They almost did once. Once, Abraham Lincoln Williams, you people damned near got Winston's ass. And for what? Screw you, Black Abe, and your Buck Rogers' ghettoes, too. You asked for them, buddy, and you got just what you asked for. Call me an Uncle Mose, eh?

  Winston turned off the shower, caught a glimpse of his snarling face in the revolving mirror, and laughed outright at the fierce countenance. But he still felt nettled as he stepped into the cabin—he could not get rid of it all simply by laughing. He went over to the table, lit a cigarette, studied the service box, decided he didn't want anything, then took his cigarette to the recliner and made himself comfortable. Windows! That's one thing he remembered and missed on these modern jobs. Windows! Once there were windows on airplanes. You could sit there at the window and look down to the earth, far below. Well, what the hell . . . never could see anything anyhow. You sure couldn't sit around bare-ass on one of those old crates. You couldn't get your suit pressed, or take a shower, or take a stewardess to bed. Hell, he didn't miss the damn windows.

  He lay there in a quietly troubled reverie and finished the cigarette, then dropped the butt into the tube, puffed the pillows beneath his head and began trying to put the pieces back together in his head. His door opened and a pretty young woman stepped in. She wore the familiar sky-blue shortie smock of the Accomodations Stewardess. She smiled and moved to the table, picked up his AMS card and ran it through the service box, then shrugged out of the smock and posed for his inspection.