by Dick Stivers
Brushing his face over her hair — she wore no perfume, used a shampoo without scent — then putting his face against the side of her neck, he smelled her sweat. The sweet yet acrid scent of her summer-sweating flesh struck memories, which came like flames, memories of the previous night, of her sweat glistening on her body…
His hands clawed her against him in the passenger lounge.
Flor laughed as she eased away. “We’re in public, you animal.”
He pulled her against him again and whispered,
“We’ll go to another motel. Maybe a hotel. The Bonaventure. Soon as we drop them off.”
“Think it makes a difference, a motel or a hotel?”
“Not to me. Someplace where we can laugh.”
Lyons glanced past the waiting crowd.
No passengers came from the jet bridge. Then a technician opened the doors to the lounge. The first passengers came a second later.
Hand in hand, Lyons and Flor went to meet his partners. They passed returning vacationers, businessmen, elderly travelers, women with babies in their arms. Friends and families welcoming the passengers talked and laughed all around them. But many of the travelers had returned to Los Angeles reluctantly. Lyons heard snatches of conversation.
“Think we’ll be safe on the way home?”
“Did you bring a gun for me?”
“The east-coast news people — they say it’s a war zone.”
“The newspaper made a joke of it. Crazy Californians on cocaine.”
“Is it true they’re cannibals?”
Then Flor saw the two ex-Green Berets in casual clothes. Gadgets Schwarz and Rosario Blancanales followed the flow of the departing passengers. Gripping Lyons’s hand, she pulled him through the crowd.
Gadgets blinked when he saw Flor. “Long time no see, Senora Meza.”
“Thought you were on business,” Blancanales remarked, giving Lyons a wink. The Puerto Rican charmer put an arm around Flor. “Glad to see you again. But why do you have to hang around with him? It won’t do your reputation any good.”
“Cut the crap,” Lyons told his partners. “Let’s go. You brought luggage?”
“You expect us to wear the same clothes all week?” Gadgets said. “Or do you think we can do this overnight?”
Lyons shook his head. “I got other plans for tonight. We’ll take you downtown, introduce you to the blue-suits…”
“Ix-nay, Ironman,” Gadgets interrupted as the group went to the escalator leading down from the passenger lounges. “Even if they’re your friends, we got to stay far, far away.”
“More congressmen call the Man?” Lyons asked.
Lyons rode shoulder-to-shoulder with Flor, Gadgets one step ahead, Blancanales one step back. They effectively blocked out any possibility of the nearby people overhearing them as they talked.
“You mean Hal, or the Main Man?” Gadgets said, turning to ride backward on the escalator.
“Any congressmen calling anybody.”
“Just standard paranoia. Nothing special going on back east.”
Blancanales leaned forward and spoke quietly. “But elections are coming up. One of our national voices of reason and social compassion would very much enjoy putting any one of us in Leavenworth. That would get him on the news three nights straight. So we need to stay invisible all the time.”
Gadgets stared at Blancanales for an instant, his eyes and mouth wide with mock shock. Then he grinned to Flor. “The Pol never used to talk like that. Used to be soft words and brotherly understanding. It’s hanging around with him…” Gadgets pointed at Lyons “…that’s got our Rican talking this reactionary hardcore line.”
“Me?” Lyons startled, actually offended. “Me, reactionary?”
Gadgets put up his hands, whispered, “I’m your friend, don’t kill me. Don’t kill me. Remember, you’d have to carry fifty percent more equipment.”
“Calmatese, mi hermano,” Blancanales laughed, his hands on Lyons’s shoulders. “Perhaps he meant it as a compliment.”
“I’m calm, just quit the clowning.”
They left the escalator. Walking in a tight group through the underground corridor from the passenger lounges and the terminal, the four counterterrorists hurried past slower travelers.
“Your luggage heavy?” Lyons asked his partners.
Gadgets nodded. “Very heavy. Someone steal our suitcases, they could start a war.”
“Don’t even say it,” Lyons commented.
“L.A.‘s got one army of crazies out there already. An army of doper zombies.”
They continued to the crowded baggage pickup area. Knowing the traps and frustrations of international airports, Lyons waited until Gadgets and Blancanales took their bags from the oval conveyor belt before he and Flor went for their parked rental car.
Minutes later they sped from the international airport. Lyons navigated the car through the stream of traffic on Century Boulevard. They passed high-rise hotels and rows of pornographic bookstores and “adult cinemas.” Gadgets peered out at the neon and lurid billboards.
“This specialist work we do is so amazing,” he said. “One day in Bolivia, the next in California. I never get tired of this — the places we go, the things we do.”
Flor turned to the men in the back seat and said, “Do you think we can make any difference? Only the four of us?”
Blancanales laughed. “Miss Trujillo, if you only knew…”
“We make things different,” Gadgets nodded. “Wherever we go. Good or bad, things get changed. In fact, dig it, Ironman — Konzaki’s taking a seminar in robotics. Says he’s going to replace us. With titanium Godzillas.”
Flor waited for the laughter to stop, then pressed her question. “But there are many police — thousands — already working. How can only four more make any difference?”
“We’ll see what we can do and do it,” Gadgets responded.
“That’s it,” Lyons agreed. “That is it.”
On the freeway, Blancanales and Gadgets noticed the empty lanes. On most weekday evenings, drivers commuting home late from work or early for the theaters and nightspots of the metropolis would crowd the freeways. Not tonight.
“Where is everybody?” Gadgets asked. “Usually, there’s more traffic than this after one in the morning.”
“The murders?” Blancanales asked.
“What do you think?” Lyons asked him. “After a day and night of continuous media hype and on-the-spot video gore…”
“Fear City,” Gadgets commented.
Half an hour of driving took them to the Civic Center. Lyons drove down into the guarded and patrolled underground garage for city employees. Their “federal” identification persuaded a uniformed officer to issue a guest sticker.
At the reception desk of Parker Center, Lyons again flashed his federal identification. “We’re here to talk to Detective Towers.”
“Took you long enough to get here,” the desk cop answered. “Detective Towers told me to expect you. Interrogation’s been going on for two hours.”
” Interrogation of who?”
“Not anything I know about. But they got him the room with the mirrors.”
As soon as the desk officer issued four identification badges, the group rushed for the third floor. Uniformed and plainclothes officers crowding the corridor glared at the strangers.
“Who are you?” a sergeant demanded.
“Towers invited us to listen in,” Lyons told him.
“Oh, yeah?” The sergeant turned to another officer, “Check with Bill.”
“Who have they got in there?”
“That’s for Detective Towers to say.”
“Hey, Sergeant,” Lyons protested, offended by the interdepartmental hostility. “We’re on your side.”
“Yeah, they all say that.”
Bill Towers rushed from the interrogation room. He opened another door and motioned the four Federals inside. He waited until the door closed to tell them, “We got our break.�
�
“One of the punks?” Lyons asked.
Grinning, Towers shook his head. “Not a punk. A superpunk. We got the one who gave them the rifle. He recruited the punks, his organization trained them, and he gave them the rifle.”
The four Federal specialists glanced to one another.
Bill Towers continued, his voice rising with enthusiasm. “We got a chance. We got a chance to break them. Tonight!”
9
Shabaka, a mullah of Allah and a warrior in the Holy War against the white devils of Satan, received the command to disperse his soldiers and dismantle or destroy his indoctrination center.
At seven o’clock, Mario Silva, the chairman of LAYAC, telephoned Shabaka with the information of the capture of Ruiz. Silva told him that Ruiz would undoubtedly betray the organization to the police to save himself from prison. Shabaka had answered in monosyllables, then hung up the telephone.
Abdul Shabaka, born with the devil name of Leroi Jackson, had known from the first day that the betrayal of the bourgeois front organization would be only a matter of time.
As a veteran of the Black Panthers, the Death’s Angels and the Black Liberation Army, he knew any organization risked infiltration and betrayal. The FBI had infiltrated and neutralized the Panthers. Informers had betrayed the holy Muslim warriors of the Death’s Angels to the San Francisco police. Informers had broken the Black Liberation Army.
Even as a teenage recruit in the Black Panthers, Shabaka recognized the inevitable defeat of any open organization. The Panther leadership had welcomed him, a rapist and petty thief, because of his juvenile record of crimes against whites. They knew little else of his life. He had expected a careful check into his past and a long interrogation. But the Panthers had accepted him after listening to his stories of “revolutionary acts against the slavemakers.” This easy entry to the revolutionary organization surprised him. As the numbers of Panthers grew, each new recruit joining with the same ease, he knew the organization had swallowed the seeds of its own destruction.
The Panthers made no secret of their goals. The leaders published manifestos of racial hatred. At rallies, they pranced and posed in their leather jackets and preached social justice through the murder of police officers. They spat out their black racist diatribes from stages or in front of the microphones of radical radio stations.
The Panthers knew all about the police surveillance. Police followed the Panthers everywhere, recording their words, photographing each leader and his aides and their friends. The ex-con leaders of the Panthers gloried in the surveillance. They accepted surveillance as an affirmation of the Black Panther Party as a threat to white racist society and the fascist corporate power structure.
At meetings and rallies, the teenage Leroi Jackson looked at the young militants around him and wondered who worked for the police and who worked for the FBI. Other Panthers — the hardcore felons who’d had experience with prison informers — also believed the police slipped agents into the organization. The hardcore Panthers developed techniques to discover the agents; they initiated surveillance of one another, they investigated backgrounds, and they launched “actions.”
The Panther leadership had often talked of “strikes against the fascist monster.” The hardcore Panthers screened the membership and identified the recruits they doubted. Then they invited these recruits on actions: the assassination of a detective, the driveby strafing of a police station, the bombing of a city councilman’s office.
At first, the police acted immediately on their agents’ information and struck the Panthers. But they found the hardcore killers waiting quietly in their apartments, without explosives, without illegal weapons, without any weapons whatsoever.
Antiterrorist detectives cautioned their remaining agents and informers to wait until the Panthers actually put a conspiracy in motion. But the Panthers varied their techniques; sometimes they organized an attack, then as the “front line brothers” approached the target, they canceled the hit, replanned and announced another time. This forced the agents to contact their officers again and again. That was how the Panthers caught them. Some agents died. Others fled.
Leroi Jackson fled the Panthers for the closed society of the Nation of Islam. He joined a radical sect obsessed with hatred and racism, where he found many other young blacks who shared his lust for violence against whites. In obedience to the leaders who preached myths of pale, blue-eyed creatures bred by the Devil to plague the world, a group of felons and psychopaths created a secret cult of random racial murder.
The Death’s Angels believed they followed the will of their prophet. In San Francisco, Los Angeles, Oakland and in the cities of the East, gangs of fervent Black Muslims roamed the streets and highways to murder whites.
White hitchhikers, white pedestrians, white shoppers died when shotguns fired from passing cars. Others died as unknown blacks attacked with machetes.
The Nation of Islam never accepted responsibility for the horror inspired by their hatred. Meanwhile the Death’s Angels continued untouched in their random terror, and they gained courage. They abandoned quick murder by bullets or machetes for the more satisfying ritual of murder by mutilation.
Kidnapping whites, groups of Angels used pliers and soldering irons and saws to reduce “white devils” to screaming masses of tortured meat; eyes gone, hands gone, their limbs scorched and broken, white devils became sacrifices to a cruel medieval god worshiped by the welfare-state spawn of the long-past Arab and European slave trade.
In accordance with Muslim doctrine, Leroi Jackson had become Abdul Shabaka. And in obedience to Death’s Angels racial hatred, he became a murderer of whites. He shotgunned a young girl hitchhiking beside a freeway ramp. He joined in the rape and mutilation-murder of a San Francisco woman, keeping one of her fingers as proof of his service to the Prophet.
Shabaka also aided in the indoctrination of other hateful young blacks who lacked the psychopathic intensity required to fight in the war of extermination against the white devils.
Shabaka assembled thousands of photographs, thousands of feet of film of white cruelty to blacks. In a time when the white middle-class hippies took drugs and stared for hours at the abstract pulsating colors of psychedelic light shows, Shabaka presented Death’s Angels initiates with multimedia assaults of images and voices of white racism and white hatred and white violence against blacks. He flashed a thousand images of blacks horribly mutilated and murdered by the KKK, the American Nazi Party and racist police throughout colonial and American history. He also taught the initiates to hate nonrevolutionary blacks — the “Uncle Toms,” the Americans of African ancestry who sought their share of opportunity and prosperity as the United States ended the centuries of law-sanctioned oppression of their race. The teenage black punks, twisted by lives of poverty and suffering in the well-intentioned welfare state, twisted again by the circulated agit-prop of the Black Muslims and the Death’s Angels, became the roving shock troops of race war by random terror.
The San Francisco police succeeded in breaking one gang of Death’s Angels. With the closing of the Zebra case, they solved fourteen murders of whites. But the police never brought to justice the other gangs murdering whites in other parts of California. Investigators never resolved the scores of other murders in California.
Shabaka took no comfort in that failure of law enforcement. Fearing informers, he fled to Algeria to join the surviving Black Panthers in exile.
There, he avoided the other North American black expatriates — or as they came to call themselves, the New Afrikan Freedom Fighters. He learned Arabic, the language of the slavers who had decimated the nations of Africa to supply slaves to Arabia and the European colonies, and Russian, the language of history’s most powerful slave state.
The Soviet KGB had already bought control of the Palestinian and Pan-Arabic movements. Shabaka saw the Soviet weapons and munitions supplied to the Arabs and knew where to seek support in his continuing war against North American whites. Tho
ugh white themselves, Soviets listened to Shabaka’s racist diatribes against whites and nodded their approval.
They saw him as a weapon to throw against the world’s most successful revolution. With a thousand terror-warriors like Shabaka, the Soviets could rape the hope of an egalitarian United States. With the horror of a black-extremist race war racking Americans, counterterror and counteratrocity — whites against blacks, whites against Meso and South Americans, whites against any non-European foreigners — became certainties. And every incident of white backlash would be featured in the KGB’s worldwide media machine as horrors, thus winning a propaganda victory for the Soviet monsters who armed and dispatched the terrorists.
As he had no outstanding indictments, Shabaka risked traveling between the United States and Algeria. He arranged for the smuggling of weapons and money to the Black Liberation Army, a gang of heroin and cocaine addicts seeking revenge for their years in prison through the assassinations of police and federal officers.
It was Shabaka, in the early years of the eighties, who found Mario Silva, the son of Batista fascists, who had sold himself to the new general who ruled Cuba. For a million dollars a year, Silva provided Shabaka with the pick of the black and Chicano teenage offenders in LAYAC’s youth programs. He told Silva that he trained the young men and women for the “Revolution.” Shabaka kept his operation separate from all other LAYAC concerns. He pretended to be only an aging revolutionary black lawyer who took time off from his legal practice to help juvenile delinquents.
But Silva had learned of the weapon shipments. He claimed a few of the automatic rifles and grenades for his own enforcers and allowed Shabaka to keep all the others. They maintained a good working relationship.
When Shabaka learned of Silva’s involvement in the KGB plot to depopulate Los Angeles with binary nerve gas, he began to admire the Cuban to a certain extent. But he never told Silva about his new deal, never mentioned the sponsors who were now backing him to establish a terror center in the United States. Unlimited funds from the Soviets and Libya had produced a drug never before known to the drug subculture. The extremely addicting drug had the effect of instantly creating a psychopath who felt no pain or remorse or human limitations, who would strike at any nearby target. His qualifications had earned Shabaka the privilege of launching an army of devil zombies to attack North American whites.
