"Just re-conning," the General replied. "We don't want to start blasting Union Square until the people have had a chance to get out. The public address cars are still in there, urging everyone to evacuate."
"Watch this exercise in restraint, Winston," Williams said. "Jack, get over on the other net and order High Deal to activate Plan Charlie immediately."
Bogan hesitated, his face contorting in some indecision.
Williams snapped, "Well is it feasible or not?"
Bogan shrugged his shoulders. "I guess if we watched it closely . . ."
"Then do it!"
The General nodded curtly and grabbed another microphone and stepped around the corner of the console.
"High Deal is the Telegraph Hill Armor," Abe Williams explained to Winston. "Now we'll see about the boys in the
heat zone." He punched in the button on the mike and said, "Big Deal Leader, Top Man again. How much resistance are you encountering?"
"Resistance, what's that sir?" came the noisy reply. "A few cops have been trying to write tickets on our foot soldiers. Ha ha. Haven't seen any bluesuits the past ten or twelve blocks, though. Think they've all scurried back to their hutches."
"All right, Big Deal Leader. Call off your dogs as soon as you've rejoined."
"Call 'em off, sir?"
"That's right, call them off. The game has changed. Activate Plan Charlie immediately upon rejoining your element."
A brief pause, then: "Understand, sir, order is to activate Plan Charlie immediately upon rejoining. Switching over to Big Deal net. Big Deal Leader out."
"He sounded a bit disappointed, didn't he?" Abe Williams muttered, smiling wryly at Winston.
"What was that all about," Winston murmured.
Before Williams could explain, the speaker crackled again. "Top Man, Top Man, this is Wet Deal Leader. Do you read, sir?"
"I read, Wet Leader, go ahead," Williams responded.
"Does that order apply to my gang, sir?"
"What's your present situation, Wet Leader?"
"I brought my scouter and two light tanks up from the Embarcadero to look over Bluesuit Hotel. We're in the park opposite at the moment."
"That's the police station on Grant," Williams explained, then spoke into the microphone: "Just what is the situation, Wet Leader?"
General Bogan reappeared around the corner of the console, smiling grimly at Mike Winston.
"Could be bad news, Top Man. Squad cars have been coming in by the droves. Going into the underground garage. My guess is they're loading up with riot guns and tear gas. Biggest piece I have with me is the 37's. I've sent for the self-propelled howitzer and two truckloads of infantry. One of my 37's is zeroed-in on the garage exit. First car trying to come up outta there is getting a hot chunk right on the nose. Figure that'll seal them in. Any further suggestions, Top Man?"
Williams had been studying Jackson Bogan's face during the report. He tossed the mike to the general and said, "Talk to him, Jack."
Bogan depressed the button and frowned into the microphone for a second or two, then announced, "All right, Wet Leader, this is Big Boy. You've done just as I would. But get some more of your light tanks up there, and damn fast. Enough to make the Bluesuits sweat everytime they look out a window. Then use your public address. Let them know they can leave on foot and unarmed. Give them ten minutes to clear the building, jailbirds if any included-Soon as you're satisfied the building is secured, send in a company of infantry to occupy. I want a wilco."
"We don't blow this building to hell, Big Boy?"
"Negative. You do not, not unless your evacuation order is ignored. In any event, activate Plan Charlie as soon as the situation there meets with your satisfaction."
"Wilco, Big Boy. Wet Deal Leader out."
Winstooa had been listening in utter fascination. "What is Plan Charlie?" he inquired.
"It's a provisional cease-fire," was Abe Williams' tight-lipped reply. "We sit and watch, and fire only when fired upon. Each element has preassigned stations where they'll do their sitting and watching. Call it psychological warfare."
Winston smiled wanly. His hands shook as he lit a cigarette. Williams took the cigarette from Winston's lips and put it between Ms own. Winston automatically lit another. Jackson Bogan nervously cleared his throat.
"Well, Jack?" Williams asked, slowly exhaling a lung full of smoke.
"I approve, of course," the General replied.
"All right. Have the word passed on the All-Cal Net. Emphasize that each element must use discretion in activating the plan. They are not to jeopardize their
situation. Then you'd better pass the word on the All-States Net. See if you can get a positive wilco from at least each town command."
"We'll probably have some back-yak from the southern tong."
Williams sighed heavily. "This isn't a war, Jackson. It's a slaughter. I had no idea it would go off this smoothly. Try to sell them that idea. We've showed Whitey our capability. Now let's show him our restraint. Push that line."
"Right."
"And Jack. This wll help the political war. Make sure they understand that. It will help. We don't want to inherit chaos. Push that idea."
Bogan smiled, squeezed Williams' shoulder, and disappeared once again behind the console.
Norman Ritter sailed up, his face set in angry lines, glaring at the black leader with baleful eyes. "What's this shit?" he asked loudly.
Williams took a drag on his cigarette, then said calmly, "What shit?"
"This Plan Charlie shit! We're not ready for that yet!"
"No?" His glance flashed to Winston, then back to Ritter. "Who says we're not?"
Ritter was glaring at the white man. "What's this fuckin' guy doing here, lolling around the command post!"
"He's lolling here at my invitation, Norm," Williams said smoothly. "Now if you've got something to say, get it off ytnrr chest."
Ritter's fury was building by the moment. "Historians will call this the ten-minute war!" he snarled. "They think those Jews and Arabs had it quick, wait'll they get ahold of this]"
"I'm not worried about war historians, Norm. Are you?"
"We can't do this, Abe. Now we just can't do it." The redhead was still in high dudgeon, but he was now working at controlling it. "These boys have a right to a bit of mayhem. You just can't take that away from them. God look how easy it's going. We're like steam-rolling them. Let's keep hitting them while they're off balance. Dammit, Abe. Dammit!"
He turned Ms rage on Mike Winston I can see ishould have seen this bastard dead last night! he's got you all fucked up!"
"Maybe," Williams said, his eyes on the floor. "I ......
claim that Winston hiasn't influenced me. I saw it all Hu n in Ms face, the misery that we were buying ourselves. I started off showing something to this wMtey, an exercise in restraint is what I fancied it. I wound up showing something to myself, Norm. I watched Winston squirm, I watched him tremble and suffer, and I saw a man dying inside. Just like this country would die inside, Norm, if I turned people like you loose on it. Now you calm yourself—goddammit." The eyes were up now, and blazing at the intelligence man. "As an exercise in vengeance, I had Winston by the ass. I knew it, and he knew it. But as an exercise in tomorrow, Winston has me by the ass, and I know that also, so does he. Tomorrow is going to be made by men like Mike Winston and me. Isn't that right, Winston?"
"I suppose so," Winston replied woodenly. His voice sounded hollow in his ears. "Unless you want to spend the rest of your life 'sitting and watching.' You can't kill us all, Abe. And those you don't kill, you're going to have to watch for a long long time. Unless . . . unless some accomodation can be made—as much as I detest that word."
The conversation was getting away from Ritter. His eyes snapped rapidly back and forth between the two men. Presently he opened Ms mouth and said one word. "Bullshit!" he growled.
"I'll accept that, Norman," Abe Williams said, chuckling. "I'll accept that as your farewell address to
yesterday ... a damn long and a damn black and a damn miserable yesterday. Now let's hear your welcome word to tomorrow."
CHAPTER 2
Howard Silverman's eyes danced excitedly above the mouthpiece of the control headset. "Look, Andy, I'm telling you. The Press Secretary is dead. Cold, dead and already gray. No, I cannot get to Arlie. Now we're just going to have to go without the clearance. Well don't be chickenshit about it, I'll take full responsibility. Okay, then, okay. I'll say it again, and you record it. I, Howard Silverman, accept full responsibility for the White House telecast of March 10th, 1999.
"Now shut up and listen to me. The units are set up. Camera One is positioned atop the steps. Two and Three are here in the press room.
"Dammit, can't you understand anything I've been telling you? The President is not going to appear! I don't know how I know ... but I am here, aren't I? And you are there. Okay so I'm telling you that Arlie is not going to appear this morning.
"Now listen to me, Andy. With the biggest story in ten years maybe breaking right under our noses, we're not going to let the network setup go to waste. Are we, Andy?
"Dammit stop thinking and just do what I say. Yes, I'll give you your cues, but you keep your eyes on the monitors and select anything that looks interesting.
"Whattaya mean, technical direction? You fuzzy-ass -sling, can't you do anything without a script? Listen, we just have twenty seconds . . . just smile now and say goodbye. Leave the worrying to me. Are you with me? Well are you? Fine. Good boy. Here goes."
Silverman quickly adjusted the headset and stepped to a mark on the floor, a few feet to the side of the Presidential box. He checked the remote relay, a small box studded with pearl buttons designed to fit the palm of the hand, then gazed into the lens of a television camera a few yards a way. A red light atop the camera illuminated. Silverman released half the air from his lungs and began speaking in (lie round tones of the seasoned, broadcaster.
The men at Oakland's Warhole had moved to the more comfortable quarters at Operations Control, in the converted locker rooms of the stadium. A Ml OpCon crew was on duty there in the miniature duplicate of the Pentagon's war room. Huge floor-to-ceiling sliding wall charts were providing intelligence display, and these were being continually posted by a swarm of control specialists.
Michael Winston sat in the company of Abraham Lincoln Williams, General Jackson Bogan, Intelligence Chief Norman Ritter, and Oakland Mayor John Harvey. The mayor was half-asleep, his chin drooping onto his chest and eyes fluttering in an effort to remain open. The other three blacks were quietly sober, their faces reflecting the strain of the past twenty-four hours. The white man appeared somber, morose and emotionally wearied. He was quietly smoking a cigarette and watching the postings on the status boards when a radio engineer strode over to announce, "The Presidential Address is coming up. I'm throwing it on the big screen."
"Wouldn't want to miss Arlie's big moment of truth," Williams declared, sighing. He swiveled his chair about and pointed to the telescreen set into the far wall. The others turned expectant eyes toward the screen, Winston scooting his chair around to stare morosely across the room as an image of the Presidential pressbox appeared,
the Seal of the United States emblazoned across the front of it.
The box, empty and silent, occupied the screen for perhaps five seconds, the battery of microphones almost poignantly telling their story of desertion and neglect. Then the camera panned slowly to the figure of a suave man of about sixty.
"Good morning, America, this is Howard Silverman at the White House." How often, thought Winston, he had heard those familiar words. "There is hardly anything good about this morning in the nation's capital. The scheduled address by the President has been temporarily cancelled. In just a moment, you will understand why this has been necessary."
Silverman paused to gaze soberly at the millions of viewers across the country, then went on in a gravely urgent tone. "At this sad moment in national history, ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States stands alone at the helm of government. At this time yesterday, the President enjoyed the support of ten cabinet members and twenty-two able men and women of the White House staff. This morning, there remains only the President and his personal administrative aide, Miss Jane Byrn. All the others are dead. I repeat. The President's entire cabinet and staff are dead. These thirty-two members of the Federal Executive were murdered in their beds sometime during this past night. The word, of course, is not murder. The word, America, is assassination."
The newsman again paused to allow the disclosure to register on the viewing audience. Then he resumed in a voice of choked restraint. "These grim discoveries are but a few minutes old. There has not yet been time to fully assess the implications of this stunning situation. But mark this day on your calendars, America. Draw a circle around March 10th, 1999, and draw that circle in blood. Today the President stands alone. The Congress is not in session. The Supreme Court of the United States stands adjourned. And the Federal Executive, but for the Chief, is no more.
"Information gleaned from reliable sources inside the Executive Office indicate that the President is attempting
to contact the Speaker of the House of Representatives and the President pro tern of the Senate. These men are, of course, in the line of presidential succession, an important item to remember in view of the death last year of Vice President Burridge.
"The Chief of the White House Secret Service Detail has emphasized, however, that the President has not been threatened, nor is he considered to be in immediate danger. The presidential apartment is fully protected, and it should be noted that the military garrison at Arlington has already commenced movements to safeguard the city of Washington."
Norman Ritter chuckled.
"It is hinted," Silverman continued, "that last night's dirty work was either inspired by, or carried out by, certain elements of the political lunatic fringe which was forced underground some years back. Arrests may be announced at any moment."
"Don't bet on that, Howie," Ritter commented, with a grin at Bogan.
"Perhaps connected somehow to the savage bloodletting in the nation's capital are the inexplicable events in our airspace a few hours ago. The Federal Broadcasting System is at this moment attempting to piece together a coherent analysis of these events. It is noted, by the way, that the father of electronic airways control, George Reamer, is dead—also as of several hours ago. Perhaps there is a connection here with the chaos in our skies last night. Perhaps not. But let us not be programmed by wild rumor. Let us, Americans, await the facts and then act with reason and common sense."
"You'll need more than common sense, buddy," Ritter told the televised image.
"FBS is pre-empting all local programming to maintain this vital communications link with the nation. We shall endeavor to keep the public fully abreast of developments in this stunning situation. In the meantime, our editorial staff at the network studios in New York have prepared special video clips of the murdered officials. Stay tuned. This is Howard Silverman at the White House, just a zot
away. And now to Andy Anderson in New York."
A likeness of the late Attorney-General appeared on the screen, and a nervous voice began a recounting of the dead man's career.
"They still don't know," Norman Ritter declared in a somewhat disappointed tone.
Abe Williams smiled faintly, winked at Ritter, then returned his attention to the viewer. Ritter was on the verge of saying something else; Williams cleared his throat, impaled the intelligence man with a harsh stare, and shot a meaningful glance toward Mike Winston.
Winston himself was totally preoccupied with the television program. His chin rested in a cupped palm and he was staring somberly at the likeness of his late alcoholic boss of the Urban Bureau, Chuck Waring.
Ritter studied the wan face of Mike Winston for a moment, then he lit a cigarette, blew the smoke toward the ceiling, watched it dissipate, and stared thoughtfully at the glowing tip
of the cigarette.
"I was just going to say that I always thought of Howard Silverman as pretty sharp," he quietly declared. "Now I don't know. Hell. He doesn't even know yet that Washington is occupied!"
"Wait!" Abe Williams said loudly, sliding forward in Ms chair. "Something's coming off."
The usual procedure of network television was going amiss. A photo of the Secretary of State occupied the screen. Some unseen person was cursing with hushed eloquence. The Secretary of State disappeared, to be replaced by the likeness of the White House commentator in a rear-angle shot as he stared gravely into a television monitor. There followed an instant of startled reaction as Silverman saw his own backside in the monitor, then the scene shifted abruptly to outside the WMte House, the camera picking up a procession of U.S. Army tanks as they rambled along Pennsylvania Avenue. After another second or two of silence, the voice of Howard Silverman was once again in command of the situation.
"We wished to bring you this shot of military activity," he announced smoothly. "It looks like ... yes you'll notice
(hat two of the larger tanks, updated M-60's I believe liav. dropped out of the formation and have stationed themselves in front of the White House. You can see how seriously the military view the current situation in Washington. They are taking no chances with the life of the President. We have been attempting to contact the office of the joint chiefs without success. All incoming calls to the Pentagon are being automatically rejected.
"John Tetrazini, of our technical staff, is outside the White House at this moment with the mobile equipment. Can you pick up a long shot, John, with the telescopic lens? We'd like to see ... it appears that there are some covered military tracks a half-block or so down the street . . . can you bring those in closer?"
The lens of a long-distance camera was moving slowly into focus on a military column, which was moving along Pennsylvania Avenue toward the White House. The commentator's voice was telling the viewers, "Yes, that's what they are. Troop transports. I would not be surprised to learn that they are a special White House guard. Can you gjve us a better angle, John? Oh . . . there . . . what's that? An armored car. A scout car, I believe they are called in the military. Just look at those fellows. Our stalwart Blacks, often the butt of jokes and ridicule, but when the cards are on the table, America . . . Well, they certainly look businesslike now, don't they? Our nation should take pride in these young men, dedicating their lives to the defense of their nation ... a nation which has not always been particularly kind or understanding. . . . Uh, John that ensign flying from the scout car, can you get a... ?"
Don Pendleton - Civil War II Page 13
