"Would you care to depose him and take his place for awhile?" Bogan asked calmly.
"He scares the shit out of me," Ritter said, ignoring the sarcastic query. "I've been watching him all day." He tossed a quick look at the General and added, "But I'm not scared of the damn bombs. I'm scared of him?
"I don't believe it," Bogan said, with faint amusement. "The tiger of the towns, afraid of a mere white man?"
"That's just it," Ritter muttered. "There's nothing mere about this white man. Nothing even nearly mere. And he scares the shit out of me, Jackson."
Bogan heaved a long sigh and said, "It's a phenomenon
I've seen many times. Norm. In Korea. In Southeast Asia. Many places. It's called growing into your hat. I'd say that Mr. Winston has mushroomed into his."
Winston turned from the wall and caught the two men staring at him. "What am I now?" he growled. "The new ogre of Pennsylvania Avenue?"
General Bogan smiled and told him, "I guess so, Mr. Director. Yes, I guess that must be it. Welcome to the club."
CHAPTER 8
Henry Chambers was thankful that he had dug that drainage ditch, after all. When Dixie Agro began the condemnation proceedings that Spring, wanting to swallow up Chambers and the other handful of independent farmers in the area—he'd thought, what the heck, why dig ditches or anything else now? No one could fight Dixie Agro, certainly not a poor independent like Henry Chambers.
But now Chambers was glad he'd gone ahead and dug the ditch. It seemed highly unlikely now that Dixie's claims would ever come before a court—unless it was a black court. And that ditch now provided a near-perfect front line defense entrenchment for himself and his two boys, Wayne and Pete, and they'd by God fight the blacks for their land... in a way they could have never hoped to fight the agricultural conglomerate.
They had filled some old fifty-gallon steel drums with dirt and lined them along the road side of the ditch, just for extra added protection, and Chambers figured they were pretty well dug in ... if only them coons didn't start pitching heavy stuff at them. He carefully positioned his old 30.06 between two of the drums, then smiled grimly at his boys and double-checked their positions.
Think they'll be coming soon, Dad?" asked thirteen-
year-old Pete, Ms voice quivering with the excitement of the moment.
"Soon enough," his father grunted. "And don't sound so anxious. We got about one chance in a million if they come up here with tanks or with heavy artillery."
"You're not scared of them, are you Dad?" Wayne asked, the seventeen-year-old's eyes probing into his father for the truth of the matter.
Chambers glared at his eldest son for a moment. Then he smiled reassuringly and told him, "Course I'm scared, Wayne. Think I'm an idiot? Man has to be an idiot not to be scared at a time like this." He pulled a coarse blue handkerchief from his hip pocket and mopped his face with it, then sat on the side of the trench with a loud sigh.
"Now look here, you boys," he said softly. "Let's not play games with ourselves. We got a hell of a chore coming up here. But it is a chore, just like milking a cow or slopping the hogs. We got a chore. And that chore is to keep those coons away from your mother and your sisters. Now that's the whole thing, pure and simple. You know what those coons will do to our women. So we can't let them past us. Understand? That's all there is to it. We don't let 'em past us."
"We won't," Wayne replied staunchly.
"We'll probably die, boys. Face that. We'll die. But if we hurt the coons enough first.. . well.. . maybe they won't be in no mood for anything else. I know this is a bitter pill for boys your age to swallow. But the worst can happen to us is that we'll die. Your mother and sisters . . . well, you know what I mean. Some things are worse than death."
"I ain't afraid t'die!" young Pete declared fiercely.
"Just don't be in no hurry to do it. We gotta hurt 'em all we can first. Remember that. We got to keep our heads."
Wayne cried out a warning and pointed down the dirt road. A faint cloud of dust was lifting above the treetops, far down the hillside.
Henry Chambers huskily cleared his throat and told his troops, "All right, that might be them coming now. Petey, you run back and make sure the women are in the storm cellar. And you make 'em lock it from the inside, now. And
then you get right back here. Wayne, you come with me, We'll set the gas trap now."
Young Pete dashed off toward the house, some thirty yards up the hill. Chambers and the older boy ran down the rutted farm road to a point about fifty yards below the entrenchment. Four large gasoline cans occupied the center of the narrow road. The two men feverishly dumped three of the cans, saturating a fifteen-foot stretch of freshly plowed roadbed, then used the fourth can to spew a careful trail back to the entrenchment. Pete had returned from his task when they reached the trench, and he was grunting with exertion and restrained anxiety.
"Now listen to me," Chambers panted. "Don't do any shooting until I light off that gas. And then make every damn shot count. I mean every one. Don't lose your heads. Putting a bullet through a coon's head is no different than putting one through a squirrel's head. Remember that. And maybe we'll even come through this. They're going to be coming upgrade and that fresh earth will slow them even more. If we're lucky, and I mean damn lucky, we'll blow them to kingdom come, or at least roast their tails good. Okay now. Get your heads down. Here they come."
Henry Chambers took a last long look at his two sons, his throat constricting with a swelling pride as he noted the unflinching determination upon their too-young faces. His eyes roved slowly and wetly across the fields he'd spent his sweat on for so many years, finally coming to rest upon the big house he'd built with his own two hands.
He tried to visualize his Judith and the two girls, huddled together in the storm cellar, awaiting God only knew what—but he simply could not call up a vision of such an impossible thing. What a funny thing, he thought. What a funny thing to be happening to him and his on their own land and in their own country. It simply could not be happening. But it was.
The cloud of dust was no more than a city block away now. They would be coming over the rise any second now. God help me he cried out in the anguish of his mind. God help me do what I got to do
Several minutes before Wayne Chambers had spotted the dust cloud, a small armored column moved swiftly northwest along the highway out of Yazoo City, Mississippi Then suddenly the column came to a quick and unexpected halt. The point jeep, which had a good hundred-yard lead on the heavier vehicles of the column, burned rubber on the deserted asphalt pavement for thirty feet or more before halting its forward motion.
Sergeant Paul Battel, seated alongside the driver, rose to gaze back at the column. He conversed briefly with the C.O, through a two-way radio, then commanded the driver, "Okay, lets go back."
The little vehicle weaved wildly in reverse motion, coming to rest beside the scout car at the head of the column. Bartel stood up in the floor of the jeep and gazed back along the column, taking a mental inventory of the six light tanks and three troop-carriers, then he shifted puzzled eyes to the lieutenant who sat in the observation turret of the scout. "What's up, sir?" he asked.
The C.O. pointed to a rural mail box which was supported by an unpainted post just off the shoulder of the highway. A deeply rutted dirt road led off just beyond the mail box, disappearing over a small hill several hundred yards distant "Must be a farmhouse up in there, maybe a bunch," the lieutenant said. "Go on up and spot for us. If there's a decent target, call back the coordinates. Otherwise just chop up what's there with your fifties and get on back here."
Sergeant Bartel grimaced distastefully. "One lousy farmhouse, Lieutenant?"
"One lousy pigpen, Sergeant, if that's all there is up there. You know our orders and you've got yours. Now get to it"
Bartel touched his helmet in a limp salute, slid into the seat, and motioned resignedly to the driver. The jeep leaped forward, swerved onto the dusty roadway, then jounced alon
g in second gear up the incline.
To Sergeant Bartel, this was not a war. Nothing in all his years of training had prepared him for the horrors he'd witnessed this day. The lieutenant was sure a cold one.
Hell, Bartel had seen that road when they passed. But, God, what was going to be gained by slaughtering everything they passed? What a great new start for the bright new future of the American Negro! Be happy, children. Laugh, sing, and be merry. You're dancing in a graveyard—but we can't help that. The whole damn country is a graveyard. A couple hundred million dead people are under your feet, and that squishy feeling between your toes is nothing but millions of gallons of whitey blood trying to soak into the earth. It never will, of course. It'll never soak in. You'll be walking around ankle deep in blood for the rest of your lives. But we couldn't help that. That's what war is like.
He swiveled about to glare back into the motionless line of armor on the highway and he sighed. This courageous and powerful armored light attack force was gonna slaughter the enemy—boy wasn't that something! Probably one lousy farmhouse, probably an old weatherbeaten man and woman and a bunch of raggedy kids. And this was the enemy. Hell, what an enemy. These people out here probably didn't even know the war was on. Bartel smiled grimly, smarting at the taste of dust in his mouth. The cause of liberty and equality must not falter. The sergeant grunted and tried to find a comfortable hand grip. They topped the rise and plunged down the other side, the little jeep shuddering and jouncing along the washboard roadbed, then started up another gender incline.
Bartel stood up, gripping the top of the windshield with both hands, trying to get above the dust and get a better look at the terrain ahead. The private who was manning the rear-fifty swore loudly. He was all but obscured in the backwash of finely powdered dust being kicked up by the jeep's wheels.
"Slow the sunabitch down!" the gunner cried. "You're bouncing my balls off!"
The driver grinned and shifted into first gear, slowing to a crawl. Bartel leaned forward suddenly and waved violently at the driver. The jeep jerked to a halt, swinging almost broadside across the road as the brakes grabbed and held.
The Sergeant stepped onto the road and took several paces up the incline. They had halted just a few feet short of what appeared to be a mudhole. He was thankful he'd seen it in time. Nothing he'd like worse than getting stuck in the mud in this forsaken spot. He dropped to one knee and dug his fingers into the soft earth, plumbing for depth, then withdrew his hand quickly in surprise and raised it to his nose. Gasoline? A gasoline-soaked country road?
He slowly stood up and cautiously surveyed the surroundings. He noted the steel barrels alongside the road a short distance ahead, stared at them thoughtfully for a long moment, then he walked around to the driver's side and stood silently rolling the wet earth between thumb and forefinger.
"What's the matter?" the driver inquired, dabbing at dusted eyes.
"Ambush, I bet," Bartel said softly. "Don't let on we know. Act casual. Behind those barrels up there, I'd say." He took a backward step and placed a hand on the gunner's knee. "See those barrels up there on the right, Smitty? Well just look for now, but get that baby-doll of yours limber and ready and do it casual-like."
The Sergeant went to the rear of the jeep and pretended to inspect the undercarriage, then he moved back alongside the gunner. "When Ace and me hit the dirt, you tear hell out of those barrels and everything within five yards to either side. Ace and me will be sweeping in from the flanks, so keep us in sight. Now. Wait until I get around to the front. I want them to think I'm going around to climb back in. Get ready. The instant we hit the dirt, you cut loose—and man don't stop to wonder what you're shooting at, just do it."
He stepped back to stand beside the driver. "Lucky we're not fireballs already," he said. "Swing your feet out, Acey, but keep the upper part of your body straight ahead until you jump. Roll under the jeep if you—"
The world suddenly seemed to come aglow, as though a new sun had been added to the heavens, halting Bartel's instructions in mid-speech. The face of Ace Jenkens, behind the wheel of the jeep, glowed bright despite his
heavy pigmentation. Jenkins' jaw dropped and he was staring mutely into the sky behind the Sergeant's head. Bartel whirled around and immediately clapped a hand across his face.
"Cover your eyes!" he cried. "Don't look at it!"
But the Sergeant did not heed his own warning. Spreading his fingers carefully, he peered through at the awesome mushroom-shaped cloud of fire boiling up into the higher heavens, growing and spreading in silent majesty, many miles to the northeast.
The gunner had come to his feet with both hands clenched in front of him, his lips moving soundlessly in unspoken tribute which mere mortals reserve for absolute power. In a small corner of his awareness, Bartel heard the shrilly terrified piping of a young boy's voice crying, "What is it? Dad, what is that?"
Then the sound arrived, like ten thousand freight trains thundering overhead at once.
"Hit the deck!" Bartel screamed. He flung himself forward into the new-plowed earth and burrowed frantically with his body, burying his face nose-down in the smelly mixture.
Something seemed to be tearing at his backside. He pulled his face out of the mud, gulped air wildly, then fought the unseen centrifugal-like force to get his head back down again. His right leg was suddenly ripped from the mud mooring and he found himself tumbling madly across an open field.
Then, as suddenly as it had come, it was gone. Bartel raised to an elbow and gazed into the sky. The ball of fire was still there and still expanding, but it seemed higher than before. The sound continued, but distant now and like constant thunder.
Bartel shivered, shook his head viciously, ran fingers into both ears and manipulated his numbed organs, his jaws straining in an effort to unblock the ears. His eyes smarted and he felt like he'd been trampled by a herd of steers. He pulled himself erect, examined his person gingerly, then set off at a slow and uneven trot across the field and towards the jeep. His two companions were nowhere to be seen.
Three white people stood in the roadway, gazing with hand-shaded eyes into the heavens.
One of these, a middle-aged man wearing Levi's and a flannel shirt, turned to stare dumbly at the sergeant.
"What do you make of it?" Henry Chambers asked the black soldier.
"Damnedest thing I ever saw," Bartel exclaimed.
"But what do you think it means?"
"Damned if I know. Carried me into the middle of that field over there. I don't see my buddies anywhere. You see them?"
The man was shaking his head and continuing to stare into the sky. He told the soldier, "We were lucky. We had good cover in that ditch. Thought for a minute it was going to pull us all out, though. Would've sucked Petey out for sure if / hadn't had hold of him. Man... would you look at that thing. What the hell could it mean?"
"It's the Asians, Dad," Wayne Chambers solemnly declared. "They're attacking us."
"God I bet . . ." Bartel said.
"Look look!" yelled young Pete. He was pointing toward the northwest, in the general direction of Arkansas, where another mushroom was boiling into view.
"Guess I'd better get back to my outfit," the soldier muttered.
"Good God, what could it mean?" Henry Chambers asked in a horrified voice.
"I guess it means we got a real war on our hands now," the Sergeant told him. "Listen. Are you folks going to be all right here? I mean . . . maybe we could give you shelter."
"No ... no ... we'll be okay. We have the storm cellar. Thanks, we'll be all right" Chambers was like a man in trance. "Good Lord, look at those things!"
"Well, I better find my buddies and rejoin." Bartel fidgeted slighdy, realizing for the first time the bizarre nature of this conversation on a rutted farm road. "Uh, listen. If you folks need it, we got a field hospital outside Yazoo City. You come there if you have to. Hear?"
"Yes, I hear," said Henry Chambers.
The black sergeant turned h
is back on the white people and walked dazedly to his jeep. It wasn't until he'd crawled behind the wheel that he realized that his face was caked with evil-smelling mud. He clawed at it with his fingertips as he backed the little vehicle down the torturous road. He leaned on the horn, hoping his driver and gunner were somewhere within earshot and able to hear.
And far to the south, another sun appeared in the sky.
CHAPTER 9
Some ten minutes before Sergeant Battel collected his dazed and battered comrades, Abraham Williams pushed a microphone back across his desk and sagged wearily forward onto his elbows. "It's all lost, Ned," he told the radio engineer. "Just when we had it all wrapped up, just when a bright new tomorrow was in sight for the black man, the damned hooligans messed it up again."
"Sort of like history repeating itself, Mr. Williams," the engineer replied quietly.
"I backed the wrong men down there. Damn me. I let the wrong element get in control down there."
"Well. . . you're not God, Mr. Williams."
"That's for sure," Williams snorted. "I guess I thought I was, though. I ordained myself one and look what it's turned into."
The engineer was trying to be comforting. He obviously did not believe his own words as he said, "Maybe something will happen yet. Maybe it can still turn out okay."
Williams raised his head with a grim smile. "And maybe not. You heard them, Ned. You heard the way they talked to me."
"Well ..."
"All of them. Jacksonville, New Orleans, Atlanta, Birmingham, all of them. They've lined up solidly behind Hatty. The tong, Bogan calls them. Small men of narrow vision who cannot handle power. How much longer can the world survive such men, Ned? Dammit. Dammit I don't know what to do now. I've forgotten how to pray."
"Aw, you never forget how to do that, Mr. Williams. Tell you what ... I'll get us some coffee." The engineer departed, disappearing around a Rube Goldberg arrangement of radio sending and receiving equipment.
Williams stared around him, as though seeing for the first time the immensity of what had been accomplished by a defeated people in such an incredibly short time. All the years, all the work, all the ingenuity, all the prayers, all being tossed away for one glorious day of vengeance and insanity.
Don Pendleton - Civil War II Page 21
