Amerika (47 page)

A hundred Exiles and townspeople had attacked the SSU base, a dozen more had formed a decoy unit in the silos, and still a hundred more were posted at strategic points along the road to town. The SSU force encountered not only gunfire from the woods that lined the road, but an obstacle course of trees, broken glass, and burning automobiles. They had to fight their way, stopping to remove the barricades, and took heavy casualties as they did.

Finally the first of the vehicles reached the deserted town square and Helmut felt relieved. The road north was wider and free of trees—his men would arrive in minutes now.

Suddenly a mighty explosion rocked the Milford square. Helmut saw two of his armored personnel carriers blown to pieces, with men’s bodies flung high into the air. He burned with the knowledge that he had been lured into a trap. It was obvious that the townspeople had buried explosives under the street, and he had lost at least two dozen men. He had little feeling
for his men, but great bate for the enemy that had humiliated him.

“All units,” he commanded into his radio. “Break off. Avoid the square. Return to barracks by side roads. Immediately!”

When the defense force helicopters circled Milford, they could see the smoke rising from burning houses and cars and the dead and dying soldiers in the town square.

“My God,” Peter whispered.

“Where the hell is everybody?” General Sittman asked, looking out both sides of the chopper.

Devin, Jeffrey, Puncher, Alethea, Clayton, and Alan had fought their way into the main SSU barracks. A band of Exiles ringed the building, exchanging lire with the remnants of the SSU defenders.

“The communications center is upstairs,” Alethea cried.

“I’m staying here with the wounded,” Alan said as the rest of them hurried up the stairs.

A sniper fired at them from the hallway. Puncher exchanged shots with him and soon the sniper Bed out a window. Outside, as they watched, a battered old van drove through the now-open SSU gates and stopped before the barracks. Ken, the cameraman, was driving, and with Mm was Eric Plummer, the hard-drinking old newsman who operated Radio Free Omaha.

“Who the hell is that?” Devin demanded.

“Another communications genius,” Jeffrey explained. “Come to the rescue.”

“He looks like he needs help,” Devin grumbled, watching the two men run for cover. Within moments

Eric and Ken joined them in the communications room.

“And now for the moment you’ve a! been waiting for,” Jeffrey announced as Eric carefully scrutinized the transmission setup.

“I need to have the combinations. They change satellite frequency every so often. They use the Natnet satellite in emergencies. They’ll have the frequency codes.”

“There’s a safe in his room,” Alethea said. “I think I might be able to open it.”

“I’ll go with you,” Ken told her.

There was a moment’s pause. Sporadic gunfire continued outside while Eric fiddled with the radio transmitters.

“You’re about to have one hell of an audience,” Jeffrey said. “You know what you’re going to say?”

Devin smiled. “I was just wondering if it mattered. If any of us have much influence on others.”

“Hell of a time to wonder about that!” Jeffrey retorted.

“I guess what I want to talk about is America, our national unity. People ask, ‘What’s so bad about forming a new country?’—call it Heartland or Crabgrass, whatever. Maybe that’s the easy way to get rid of the Russians. We can’t fight them, so why not give up?

“If it’s too hard to be one people, maybe we should give that up too. Look, someone destroyed our Capitol. Who was it? Resisters? The Russians? I say we did it ourselves. We did it when we stopped building that Capitol in our hearts and minds. We saw the marble and the columns but forgot the meaning of it, the spirit. I say let’s rebuild the Capitol—the building and the spirit.”

“Amen. Tell them that,” Jeffrey said.

“They can stop ten of us,” Devin said, “but they can’t stop ten thousand or ten million: that’s why we have to unite. But whatever happens, as one man, I won’t accept the breakup of America. I’ll resist, with my spirit, with my life. I can resist because I’ve found the love of my children; their lives are more important than my own. Whatever happens, I’ll live through them, through whatever values and truths I have taught them.”

“For God’s sake, Devin, just tell them that!” Jeffrey exclaimed.

Helmut leaped out of the helicopter and raced toward his barracks. An Exile challenged him and he shot the man dead without breaking stride. Inside the barracks, he confronted Alan Drummond, bandaging a wounded SSU sergeant. “Wait, stop!” Alan cried, and tried to wrestle Helmut to the floor.

Helmut didn’t want to fire and alert the people upstairs. Instead, he crashed the barrel of his Swiss pistol against Alan’s temple, knocking him unconscious, and charged up the stairs, three at a time. At the landing, he saw that the door to his apartment was open.

Alethea was on her knees, fiddling with the safe; Ken crouched behind her. “Dammit, he always said it was easy to open, no better than a post office box.”

“Keep trying,” Ken said.

“Perhaps you’d like the combination,” Helmut said from the doorway.

They spun around. His Sig Sauer pistol was pointed at Ken. Before either could react, Helmut fired at the cameraman. Ken’s body hurtled forward on impact
with the bullet, knocking Alethea down and pinning her beneath him.

Helmut smiled wickedly, savoring Alethea’s fear, entranced by her struggle to free herself from the weight of the dead, bleeding man that lay on top of her. The beauty of the moment demanded that he not shoot until her hand finally reached Ken’s gun. To shoot any sooner would be to dishonor himself, to forfeit his ideal of perfection. As Alethea writhed and inched across the floor, Helmut realized that he had always known more about the drama of life than most people, had always understood the inevitability of fate. But whence came that groan? The loud, twisting rasp—from the dead man? Helmut swung his pistol at the figure of Ken, and shot into the body, knocking it back from Alethea. Then quickly, deftly, she grabbed the gun on the floor, and finished the drama. Helmut’s head snapped back, his expression unchanged. The gun in his hand discharged into the floor, and he crumpled to his feet.

Several days later, when Alethea described her grotesque ordeal, she would recall
ho
groan,
no
sound, no reason at all, in fact, for Helmut to have shot into the dead man that lay on top of her.

Devin ran into the room with Alan close behind. The doctor, his face caked with blood, knelt beside Ken, while Devin lifted his sister to her feet. Alethea sobbed and struggled in her brother’s arms, but once again he held her tight.

“It’s over, Ah, it’s over,” he told her. “Remember when you were nine, little sister. Shut your eyes tight and wish for the last star in the galaxy.”

Jeffrey burst into the room. “We’d better get going— the marines are here, only they’re the wrong marines.

The Heartland defense force has just come to rescue us.”

Alan looked up suspiciously. “Is that good?”

“It’s doubtful they’ll appreciate our purpose here,” Jeffrey said. “Come on, Devin, it’s got to be now!” Devin nodded to Alan, who came and put his arms around Alethea. “Take care of her, doc. Please,” he said. He tore through the safe until he had the papers he wanted. “Okay,” he said, “we’re in business.”

In the communications center, Eric Plummer took the paper with the Natnet frequencies, then began spinning knobs madly. Finally he slumped back in his chair. “Ready when you are,” he said. “Certainly a lively studio they’ve got here.”

“I’ll keep a watch outside,” Jeffrey said.

Eric smiled, pointing a gnarly finger toward a switch. “See that switch, Mr. Milford? Whenever you’re ready, push it forward and start talking. You’re about to give Natnet a big surprise—and provide a dramatic climax to an old newsman’s long and checkered career.” Then he added, “Be pleasant. No matter what you have to say, people like a nice smile.”

Devin took a deep breath, groping for an opening line, his greeting to America—and then the door burst open.

Peter Bradford rushed in, with Fred Sittman close behind.

“Don’t do it, Devin,” Peter yelled. He was out of breath, disheveled, shaken by the bloodshed he had seen. “Listen to me.”

Devin turned to face them but kept his hand on the switch.

“You, get out of here,” Sittman growled at Eric.

The old newsman stood up, and moved quickly out the door, “Hell of a rowdy place,” he muttered.

Devin spoke cautiously. “You have a chance to do the right thing, Peter: we can do it together.”

Peter stood stiffly in the center of the room, his dark hair falling over his eyes. “Your way is over. You can’t stop what’s already in motion. Please, don’t try to broadcast.”

Devin kept smiling, as if he had all the time in the world. “Are you offering me a deal, Peter? No prison? No brainwashing? A nice peaceful exile in Milford— doing some farming and getting by ...”

“There are worse things,” Peter said coldly. “Thanks for the offer,” Devin said, and tamed back to the microphone.

“Damn you,” Peter’s voice broke 'with frustration and anguish. “Devin, why is it always the hard way with you?” Peter raged. He walked out the door.

Devin looked back at Sittman, a menacing presence in the small room.

“Do you think it’s possible to kill an idea, General?” he asked.

“People have died here today,” Sittman said. “Somebody has to pay. If you go on the air, it’ll damn well be you. I can get you out of here, to your boy.” Devin rubbed his beard. He knew he didn’t have much time. “Some of those people died so I could make this broadcast. They thought it was important. I can’t let them down.”

Devin looked at the old soldier for a long moment, then drew a breath. “I’ve waited ten years. What I’ve found is there’s always somebody who says, ‘Do it later.’ It’s time to say, ‘Do it now.’”

“Get up. Now. Leave this room.” Sittman’s broad,
pitted face was dark with anger. “I say do it now,” he challenged.

“I can’t,” Devin said, sighing. “I could never forgive myself.”

He turned back to the console and pushed the broadcasting switch.

Outside the transmitter room, Peter heard the shot. Even though he didn’t move, it was as though the bullet had struck him. People ran past him to the broadcasting room, drawn by the sound of the shot and by the instinct that great tragedy had occurred. Peter did not even try to brush away the tears. He walked slowly, pushed past people in his way and headed down the stairs. For the car and driver that awaited him, for the loyal troops who would obey, for the world he could understand and control.

The air was crisp, the sky perfect: bright blue and cloudless. The simple unadorned wooden coffin rested on two sawhorses beside an empty grave in
a
comer of the family cemetery.

The Mi
lf
ords were banded together. Billy, tall and solemn in a dark suit, stood between Will and Aiethea, with Ward and Betty next to them. Jackie stood next to Betty, holding the hand of Justin next to her in a wheelchair.

Amanda stood behind the wheelchair, holding herself apart, in her own private tragedy. In her heart she thought she had lost both the men she loved. Peter was not there, nor was Marion.

Kimberly, Alan, Dieter, Clayton, and some other Exiles were gathered to one side. Will’s sad eyes sought out Kimberly, who gently led the mourners in “Rock of Ages.” Even as they sang a dark sedan stopped on the road and Andrei Denisov, alone and in civilian clothes,
got out and took a place just inside the gate, discreetly removed,

Andrei hoped he would not be unwelcome; he took that chance because he felt he had to be here. He believed he had seen something begin in those past months, an American saga perhaps, and he believed this funeral was a milestone in that saga, a milestone but not an ending.

As the Milford family and friends sang, Andrei studied them, their faces, their strength, and he noticed too the people who were arriving. The funeral had not been publicized—the family had insisted on that—but these people were coming, over the hills, from all directions. Some were Exiles, others were well-dressed people who might have been from anywhere. They ringed the grave, staying a respectful distance, saying nothing. The Milford family seemed not to notice, or simply to accept the swelling crowd.

Their voices rose, soared, echoed through the little valley, and when they finished singing the hymn, Will stepped forward, clutching an American flag. With the help of Jeffrey and Dieter, he unfolded the flag and draped it over the casket. That done, the old man faced his family and friends. He walked silently over to Billy and tousled the boy’s hair.

The military barracks had been abandoned by the SSU troops, on orders from Colonel Denisov. Everyone assumed that the Heartland Defense Force would eventually move in, but, perhaps out of deference to the residents of Milford, General Sittman had not yet sent in his troops. So the fortress lay intact but deserted. Except for Eric’s van.

Upstairs, in the communications room, Billy sat in front of the microphone. Sometimes the words caught
in his throat, but mostly there flowed a clear, light voice.