America Rising (42 page)

I could feel John’s body go rigid, see the blood drain from his face. He was shaking his head—no, no, no. But the young singer couldn’t see it, thought he was milking the moment for a little extra drama. He had no idea.

“C’mon, John,” he shouted. Then, to the audience, “Encourage him!”

The drummer began thumping his bass drum in powerful, steady rhythm. John Doe, John Doe, John Doe.

The crowd instantly picked it up. “John Doe, John Doe, John Doe.”

John looked stricken. I tried to wave off the drummer. Sheila clutched John’s arm, brought her face up to his, whispered something in his ear.

The drumming grew more insistent. The crowd’s chanting grew louder. “
John Doe, John Doe, John Doe!”

John still resisted. The whole band chimed in now, their amplified voices booming in unison with millions across the mall.

“JOHN DOE, JOHN DOE, JOHN DOE!”

Finally he relented. Sheila again whispered in his ear, gave him an encouraging pat on the back and he stepped out from behind the wall of amplifiers and walked haltingly to the microphone like a man heading to his own execution. The young singer noticed; he suddenly appeared to be trying to melt himself down and ooze through a crack in the stage floor. The crowd didn’t, though. Their chanting was relentless.

“JOHN DOE, JOHN DOE, JOHN DOE!”

John stood silent. Raised his hands. Begging. Pleading.

“Please, please,” he said. He waited. “Please. I don’t deserve this.” The drumming stopped. He waited some more. The chanting subsided. He fingered the microphone nervously.

“I. . . I don’t know what to say,” he began. “I never intended to be up here. I’m not good at this.” He looked out over the crowd, millions of people in rapt attention, waiting for his words. “What you’re doing here today is, is amazing. I’m honored to be here with you, to make this journey with you. To fight for ourselves, our families, our country, to recapture its soul.”

Down in front of the stage a group unfurled a long banner and held it high over their heads. On both sides in bright red paint was written: “John Doe for President.”

“Run, John!” one of them shouted. “We need you.”

“Yeah, John. Run!”

“Run, John. You’re our only hope!”

“Run, John!”

“Yeah. Run, John!”

“Run, John, run!”

It started all over again.

“Run, John, run!
Run, John, run!
RUN, JOHN, RUN!!”

Even from my spot backstage I could see him flinch as if struck. Sheila grabbed my hand and squeezed my fingers so hard they turned blue. I felt someone else on me, heard breath coming in sharp, short takes. It was AnnaLynn. I wrapped my other arm around her and the three of us stood there, helpless, like sailors watching a man clinging to a life raft in raging seas without a line to throw.

John waited. At length he raised his arms again. “Please, please, no,” he said, pain carved into every syllable.

“NO!”

The word exploded like a gunshot. The chanting stopped. The crowd quieted.

“I’m sorry,” he said. His voice was raw. “I can’t. I can walk with you, I can fight with you. I can be there with you. But I can’t lead you. You deserve someone better. Not me. Not me. I’m sorry.”

I could never have imagined, but the stillness of four million people has a power not unlike that of gravity. It seemed to have mass and weight, to give substance to the very air. As John Doe turned from the crowd and walked away I could hear his tennis shoes squeak on the wooden stage, feel the wild exultation of just seconds earlier dissolve into numb acceptance. Before he could reach backstage Sheila released my hand and ran out to meet him. She put her arm around his waist, draped his arm over her shoulder, and like a trainer helping a wounded boxer from the ring, led him out of the arena and into the shadows.

T
ime had run out.

For Nancy Elias. For John Doe. For AnnaLynn Conté and the rest of those damnable agitators. For Bill Bigby too. But not for Frank Bernabe. He was stronger, smarter. A leader. A survivor. He’d cut the legs out from under Bigby, made the media mogul’s agenda his own, re-established his standing as first among equals. The crackdown and its benefits would be all his now.

But he wouldn’t forget the slights, the challenge to his leadership, the doubts about his judgment sown by his rivals. He would never forget those. He would remember every one, hold them to his breast like a suckling child. And there would be payback. Oh, yes, there would be payback. Now, however, it was time to deal with Nancy Elias. He called her private number and addressed her brusquely, without greeting or preamble.

“We’ve come to a decision here, Nancy,” he said. “About Doe, these agitators, this Declaration business, everything. It’s time to put an end to it, once and for all. I appreciate your efforts, understand your position. But you have failed. Our enemies are stronger than ever, and if we don’t cut them down to size, they will grow stronger and overwhelm us.”

The president interrupted. Her voice was shrill, whiny. “You promised me more time, Frank. You promised! You fucked me on Debt Freedom Day and now this? You saw Doe on stage yesterday. He’s not going to run! He’s scared shitless. If we stick to the plan—the plan you supported, by the way—eventually all this will settle down and everything will go back to normal.”

“You’re not hearing me, Nancy,” Frank Bernabe said coldly. “There is no more time. We have reached a decision. At this moment D.C. police, elements of the Third Infantry and, ah. . . private contractors are on their way to Anacostia Park. There will be no New Bonus Army. The encampment will be dismantled; anyone who doesn’t leave or resists will be arrested and charged with treason. Doe will be terminated; tonight if possible. If not, as soon as can be arranged thereafter.

“Tomorrow you will declare martial law, establish a national curfew, ban all public gatherings of more than ten people. Anyone who violates these will be arrested and charged with treason. That Conté woman and the rest of her ilk will be picked up and charged with treason. They will be held without bail, as enemy combatants. The Internet will be restricted and monitored. All communications of anyone considered a security risk will be monitored; they will be put under surveillance and arrested if necessary. A bill will be introduced tomorrow declaring that failure to pay one’s lawful debts is economic terrorism, punishable by twenty years in prison. We will not tolerate any more of this nonsense. There will be no revolution on my watch.”

Nancy Elias was stunned into silence. She gripped the arms of her chair until her fingernails dug deep valleys into the leather. When she could finally get her lips to move she didn’t recognize the sound of her own voice.

“I am the President of the United States,” she said, her words echoing hollowly. “Don’t I have any say in this?”

“You can say, ‘yes,’ Madam President,” Frank Bernabe said.

* * *

The first inkling I had that our world had just been upended was when AnnaLynn’s cellphone erupted in frantic chirping. We were standing outside the privacy tent where she’d guided John Doe and Sheila; when they entered the celebrities there joking and chatting suddenly grew quiet and filed out, leaving them to each other. AnnaLynn answered and in an instant her expression went from astonishment to anger to the sickly realization that her grandest work had just come undone.

“What?! They can’t. . . It’s all been approved. . . I have the. . .” She was shouting into the telephone. “Soldiers?! Oh, my God. . .” It was almost a moan. “Try to find whoever’s in charge. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

AnnaLynn was frantic. “That was Ian. They’re tearing down the camp. Police, soldiers, men in black uniforms. They’re arresting everybody. Beating anyone who resists.” She turned plaintive. “This was all approved. We did everything we were supposed to.” Then resolute. “I’ll be damned if they’re going to get away with this. I’ve got to go.”

She wasn’t going into the lion’s den alone. “I’ll go with you,” I said. AnnaLynn gathered the other organizers and gave them the news. One of them handed her a briefcase. I latched onto one of John’s Red Team guardians and said, “We need to get to Anacostia Park now. One of you people has to know how to get a car or something.”

The man looked at me skeptically, hesitated. His job was to protect John Doe, not to go running off to confront a small army at some stranger’s request. But John was already out of tent, Sheila with him. He must have heard. Or maybe he somehow knew. But there was no hesitation in his voice now. “We’ll all go with you,” he said.

That was it. We took off running—AnnaLynn and I, John and Sheila, the Red Team guardians—past the Capitol Reflecting Pool, out of the mall, heading for the nearest street. I didn’t know the city, had no idea how to get to the park. But our guardians did, and in minutes we were on a side street choked with cars, looking for something easy to steal and big enough to fit eight. An elderly sedan pockmarked with rust spots, dents and patches of Bondo was good enough. One of the guardians smashed the driver’s side window with the butt of her pistol, jumped in, reached under the dash, fiddled with some wires. The engine coughed, sputtered, caught, then rumbled encouragingly.

Our light-fingered guardian could not only steal cars like a pro but drive like one too. She goosed the rattling sedan as if she was on the NASCAR circuit. To the Anacostia River, across, then onto the road that ran through the park paralleling the river. Almost immediately we hit the roadblock: three hulking, olive-colored Humvees, parked side-by-side, closing off the road, the blinding-white beams of their headlamps in our faces. In front were a half-dozen soldiers of the Third Infantry in full combat gear, M4s at the ready.

The sedan slowed to a crawl. The soldiers snapped to position. AnnaLynn and I shrank. Sheila and Red Team looked bored. John Doe looked thoughtful. The sedan stopped. Our driver sat perfectly still, hands on the wheel.

“Driver, this is a restricted area,” boomed an amplified voice. “Turn your vehicle around and leave or you will be fired upon.”

Before anyone could stop her, Sheila Boniface opened the car door, slid out of the back seat hands first, raised high and stepped onto the street. She stood facing the soldiers, eyes seizing theirs. Her gaze never faltering, she began walking toward them. The soldiers looked at each other, uneasy, shifted from foot to foot.

“Don’t move,” our driver whispered. We held our breath. Sheila kept walking, six gun barrels tracking every step. The tension in the sedan was so high I thought I was going to piss myself. Then she was at the line of soldiers. Stopped. Talking. We started to breathe again. Now from behind the Humvees another soldier appeared, two-tiered gold arrows glinting on his shoulders. More talking. Sheila turned, waved for us to come on. Gold Arrows pumped her hand, said something to his men. They lowered their weapons. We double-timed it to the Humvees.

“They’re going to let us through,” Sheila said. “This is Corporal Jamison. The man in charge here is a Captain Turner of Metro police.” She pointed to a grassy meadow fronting the river. “He’s over there.” She noted our curious expressions and shrugged. “I used to know some of the guys in the Third when I was in.”

The lights of the city across the river illuminated a scene of utter chaos. Shadowy figures tore down tents, knocked over porta-potties, upended tables, chased other figures, fell on them, beat them with rubber truncheons. Ran others into the treeline or further down the road, where other figures were waiting to beat them as they tried to hide behind a wall of parked RVs.

Shaken, horrified, we raced towards the heart of the battle. “This is not good,” Sheila shouted, jerking her head back at the soldiers. “They’re supposed to establish a perimeter, not let anyone in or out. But they’re not happy about it. They didn’t sign up for this.”

We kept running, ignored in the chaos and confusion, making for a group of twelve, maybe fifteen men. Two groups really. They didn’t appear happy with each other. Twenty yards out, one of them saw us. Ten yards out and hands flew to holsters. We slowed our pace to a fast walk. The four guardians surrounded John Doe. AnnaLynn waved a sheaf of papers she’d pulled from her briefcase.

“What the hell are you doing?!” she shouted angrily. The men looked at her as if she was a bug. They were evenly divided between blue-uniformed D.C. police and men in black military-style uniforms bereft of insignia or identification. “This camp is legally permitted. I have the papers right here!” She thrust them at a stocky black man as thick around as a redwood. The fruit salad on his blue uniform suggested he was the man in charge. “Here!” she said, a little more calmly. “Signed by the Park Service. Read them.”

Captain Joe Turner gave her a pitying look and pushed the papers away. The excitement of our journey faded and I was suddenly aware of the desperateness of our predicament. We had no business being here, surrounded by two dozen armed men and God knows how many more beyond them. Our guardians edged closer to John and Sheila. Hostility hung heavy in the air like smoke from a forest fire.