Authors: Walter Jon Williams
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Thrillers, #Science Fiction & Fantasy, #Science Fiction, #Post-Apocalyptic
The Rift (79 page)
There was a knock on his door. “Come in,” he said.
Stan Burdett’s bespectacled face peered around the door. “Urgent phone call, sir,” he said. “The Secretary of State.”
The President looked idly at the battery of communications apparatus with which his suite had come equipped. Stan entered the room, picked up a phone handset, pressed some buttons, and handed the handset to the President.
“Secure line, sir,” he said.
“Oh, good,” said the President.
“Mr. President?” The Secretary’s voice buzzed in his ear. “I’ve got a situation here.”
“Right, Darrell. What can I do for you?”
“The Chinese have just announced that in three days they will test-fire a number of their medium-range ballistic missiles over the island of Taiwan, to land in the Pacific.”
“Oh,” the President said. “Oh my.”
“This is an overt military threat, Mr. President. This is a direct challenge to our resolve and to our overseas commitments. The Chinese are testing us.”
“Best not flunk, eh?” the President said.
There was a buzz from another handset. Stan picked it up. “Stan Burdett.” he said. Then he looked at the President and told him the call was from the National Security Advisor.
The President realized that the Secretary of State had been talking nonstop while his own attention had been directed toward the other phone, and said, “Hold on, there, Darrell, I have another call.” He put the second phone to his other ear and said, “Joe, I’ve just heard. Darrell’s on the other line.”
“We cannot afford to lose Taiwan, sir,” the National Security Advisor said. “It is too completely integrated with our own economy. They produce countless small electronic components that are incorporated into American brand-names. If Taiwan is lost, a lot of American manufacturing goes with it.”
Well, the President thought, there was something new in the world. His hawkish Secretary of State and his dovish Security Advisor actually agreed with one another. This was a no-brainer. “Better not lose Taiwan, then,” the President said into both phones.
“Those bastards!” the Secretary was shouting into his other ear. “They’ve been planning this for weeks! I’ve got it figured out! Remember just before the big quake, when the Chinese sold a lot of dollars and sent Wall Street into a tumble? They were making a point! They were trying to show that they could fuck with our economy, and that we had better think twice before we tried to interfere with their attempt to intimidate Taiwan!”
While this speech was going on, the President looked at Stan and said, “Stan, could you arrange a conference call? This is giving me a headache.”
“We should mobilize the Seventh Fleet!” the Secretary said finally, when they were all on the same secure line. “Send our ships into the area of the Pacific where their missile will land, and dare them to try anything!”
The Advisor cleared his throat. “I don’t think that would be wise, Mr. President. What if the Chinese actually fire? That would be a shooting war.”
“They wouldn’t dare!” shouted the Secretary.
“If we dare them to shoot, that puts ammunition into the hands of their people who would
want
to shoot. And our military options are extremely limited in that eventuality. For one thing, our nearest real base is Pearl Harbor. And for another, we won’t be able to fly sufficient sorties off our carriers, not with the shortage of jet fuel that we’re experiencing.”
“Jet fuel?” the President said in surprise.
“Mr. President,” the Advisor said, “we’re been flying so many relief supplies into the disaster areas that there’s a worldwide shortage of aviation fuel. The refineries are cranking it out as fast as they can, but our reserves are very low.”
“What you are saying,” the President said, “is that we have to keep the Chinese off Taiwan, but we can’t fight a war over it because all our planes would fall out of the sky.”
There was a moment of silence. “That wasn’t
quite
...” the Advisor began.
“I think you have summed things up very well, Joe,” the President said. “Now how can we accomplish what we need to do?”
It was very interesting, the President thought, doing his job without being
attached
to it. He had decided he would be President when he was nine years old, and he’d worked toward that goal with every conscious moment since, until he’d finally succeeded in his ambition. He used to care so very deeply about every aspect of being the President, of working out every angle of every situation. He had loved it all, the brainstorming, the defeats, and victories. He had given it his all. His
ego
had been involved.
But now his ego was gone. Just. ..
gone.
He was doing the same job, making the same decisions, but it just didn’t have much to do with
him
anymore. The situation would be fascinating, at least if he were capable any longer of being fascinated.
In the end, he sent two carrier battle groups into the Western Pacific, though was careful to keep them out of the area where the Chinese missile was supposed to land. Both the Secretary and the Advisor seemed reasonably content with the situation.
“By the way,” he asked the Secretary. “What are the Gamsakhurdians up to?”
“Sir?”
“You know.
Last
week’s crisis. Georgia and Latvia.”
“Oh. Sorry. I was going to brief you, but—”
“I know, Darrell. We’re all very busy.”
“The Russian President told our ambassador that he was shocked at what his people were up to.”
“Do we believe he didn’t know?”
“As long as it suits us to. Right now it suits us to the ground. At least some of the paramilitaries have been recalled. The rest seem without direction. We are assured that heads are rolling in the Kremlin.”
“Latvia is safe,” the President smiled.
“For the present, sir. Yes.”
“The thought of a safe and free Latvia shall warm my cockles on frosty mornings. I’ll talk to you later, Darrell.”
He handed the phone to Stan Burdett, who put it on its cradle. The President turned, looked out the window at the clouds far below.
“China is attacking Taiwan on a symbolic level,” he told Stan. “By firing missiles over it. We are defending Taiwan on a symbolic level by sending two carrier battle groups. The symbols will clash harmlessly somewhere in the Western Pacific, and no one will be hurt. It’s all very dreamlike and in its way profound, isn’t it?”
Stan looked at him, adjusted his thick spectacles. “May I join you, sir?” he said.
“By all means.”
Stan sat across from the President, put a hand on his knee. “Are you all right, sir?”
The President looked at him. “My wife is dead, my oldest friend is dead, the country just had its guts ripped out, and the Chinese are shooting missiles in the direction of our ships. Other than that, all is well with myself and with the world. How are you, Stan?”
“You’re not...” Stan licked his thin lips nervously. “You’re not depressed?”
“Depressed? No. I am strangely placid. And you?”
“Because— you know— it would be understandable if you were depressed. If you were, say, feeling tired and run-down all the time, if all you wanted to do was sleep ...”
“I don’t sleep much,” the President said. “You people won’t let me. Why do crises always seem to happen at two in the morning?”
“I just meant
depressed,
you know,” Stan said unhappily. “In the— you know—
clinical
sense.”
“I’m not depressed in
any
sense,” the President said. “I eat well and I sleep well, at least when I have the opportunity. I do my job. You just saw me deal with a major international crisis without pulling my hair out or going into a crying jag.” He peered at Stan. “Are
you
depressed, Stan?”
“No, sir. I’m concerned.”
“That’s kind of you.” The President patted the hand that Stan had left on his knee. “But you don’t need to worry.”
“Sir, I—”
“Do you know, Stan,” the President went on, “I
have inquired three times as to your well-being, and you have not answered at all?”
“Sir?”
The President leaned toward Stan. “How
are
you, Stan? That’s what I was trying to get at. How
are
you?”
“Oh. I am— okay. I guess. Sir.” Stan smiled nervously. “The thing is— Mr. President— you seem, I don’t know— unengaged.”
“Ah.”
“As if you— as if you’re just going through the motions, as if your real thoughts are elsewhere.”
The President ventured a mild frown. “And why should that be a problem, Stan?”
The press secretary seemed startled. “Sir?”
“What’s wrong with a president who’s detached? Who—” The President made a stirring gesture with his hand. “Who goes through the motions. As long as they’re the right motions, what difference does it make?” He looked out the window again, at the clouds below. “If I send two carrier battle groups to Taiwan, does it really matter to the carrier groups if my heart and soul are in it? Will it matter to the Chinese? Will the Chinese be able to look into my soul and determine whether or not the carriers matter to me? Or will the Chinese decide that what matters is the
carrier groups
?” The President patted Stan’s hand. “I think they’ll decide that it’s the Seventh Fleet that matters. Not my level of engagement
with
the Seventh Fleet.”
He turned, looked back at the window. “After all, when you’re dealing with an earthquake, you don’t inquire as to the earthquake’s state of mind. You just
deal with the earthquake.
The Chinese will deal with the reality of the Seventh Fleet. I don’t expect a problem.”
Stan looked deeply unhappy. He took a deep breath. “Mr. President, I think that perhaps you should talk to somebody.”
The President peered at him. “I’m talking to
you.
I talk to people all the time. Practically every minute.”
“I mean a professional, sir. A psychologist. After all, you’ve been going through a lot. You—”
The President returned to his cloudscape. “I talk to enough people as it is, Stan. Now, what I need you to do is work out what you’re going to tell the press about the Taiwanese crisis once we return to D.C. You heard what we’re going to do, and I’m sure you know how to spin it. Unless you’d rather have Aaron Schwarz down at State give the briefing…?”
“I’ll do it, sir,” Stan said quickly. He rose from his seat. He did not seem to have been comforted in the least by this conversation.
The President’s eyes tracked the clouds. “Don’t worry, Stan,” he said. “I’m not asleep at the switch. I’m doing my job.”
“Yes, sir.” Stan made his way out, closing the door securely behind him.
The President looked down at the clouds, skating brightly above the warm green earth. Clouds that were the same things as earthquakes. Sort of.
Weren’t they?
*
Omar rented a backhoe from Judd Criswell to make certain the graves at Woodbine Corners were properly set up. As a man with a career in law enforcement, he very much appreciated the dangers of shallow graves. He chose a very remote part of the parish, in old Bart Cattrall’s back sixty acres near the bayou. Bart used to plant the field in cotton, but two years ago he’d had a crippling stroke, and he’d let his land lie fallow two seasons now. He kept claiming he was going to plant it, but he never did.
By noon Omar figured he had things well in hand, but by one o’clock everything had gone to hell. The dozen or so cases of diarrhea that Wilona had mentioned in the Clarendon camp had turned into a hundred. And the day after that, three hundred.
All emergency personnel in the parish were mobilized to deal with the situation. Three hundred people on the neat Clarendon grounds, enhancing the charm of the gardens with uncontrollable diarrhea and intermittent vomiting. Omar would have laughed, except that he was hip-deep in the action along with everyone else, trying to keep the patients hydrated and alive with Dr. Patel’s emergency solution of glucose and salt.
Thirteen people died. Six were elderly, and five were children. The remaining two, healthy adults, were just unlucky.
Miz LaGrande got sick as well. Omar hoped she’d croak, but the old lady hung on. Omar figured she was too worried about her guests stealing the silver to actually die.
Omar wasn’t feeling so good himself. Some days he could barely drag himself out of bed. Sometimes his stomach pained him so much that it felt like a wolf eating his vitals. He tried Alka-Seltzer, Maalox, and aspirin. Nothing seemed to help.
There were certain advantages to the emergency. Omar pulled all his regular deputies into town to deal with the situation. He could only keep a skeleton crew of special deputies at the A.M.E. camp, because everyone else was trying to treat the outbreak of dysentery. It gave him a plausible excuse for not being around the A.M.E. camp, for not knowing officially what was going on there. He put the whole place in the charge of special deputies, all Klan or Crusaders. The only actual Spottswood Parish deputy he placed there was Jedthus, whom he instructed to rely on Micah Knox’s advice.
Jedthus, Omar reckoned, was his most expendable deputy.
The outbreak at Clarendon was traced to the water supply. The Emergency people had sent water purifying equipment, but this had been taken to the municipal water supplies of Shelburne City and Hardee for the use of the taxpayers. Since the city main that led to Clarendon had been wrecked, Mrs. Ashenden had uncovered a pair of old wells on the property in order to keep her refugees in water. But neither she nor anyone else had been careful about keeping the camp’s latrines at a safe distance from the wells, and now they were all paying the penalty.
It was just, Omar thought, like the War Between the States.
TWENTY-NINE
This morning, at about 9 o’clock, a friend of mine, Captain Franklin, Miss Webster, and myself, had just sat down to breakfast, when Captain F. observed, “What’s that? An Earthquake!” at the same instant, we felt as if we were in the cabin of a vessel, during a heavy swell. This sensation continued for one or two minutes, possibly longer. For although I had the presence of mind to take out my watch, I felt too sick to accurately observe its duration. The feeling was by no means tremulous, but a steady vibration. A portrait, about four feet in length, suspended from the ceiling by a hook and staple, and about five eights of an inch from the side wall, vibrated at least from eighteen inches to 2 feet each side, and so very steady, as not to touch the wall. My next neighbour and his daughter felt the same sensation about the same time. The father supposed it was the gout in his head. The daughter got up and walked to a window, supposing the heat of the fire had caused what she considered a faintness. Two others that I have seen mentioned to have felt the same, but none of them had thought of an earthquake. The two last being mechanics, and up late, mentioned that they were much alarmed at about 11 o’clock last night, by a great rumbling, as they thought, in the earth, attended with several flashes of lightning, which so lighted the house, that they could have picked up the smallest pin
—
one mentioned, that the rumbling and the light was accompanied by a noise like that produced by throwing a hot iron into snow, only very loud and terrific, so much so, that he was fearful to go out to look what it was, for he never once thought of an earthquake. I have thrown together the above particulars, supposing an extract may meet with corroborating accounts, and afford some satisfaction to your readers.
P.S.
—
The lightning and rumbling noise came from the south
—
I have just heard of its being felt in several other houses, but not any particulars more than related.
Extract of a letter dated West River, January 23
“Heaven-o there, Jason.”
Jason— sitting crosslegged on the ground, resting his muscles after a day of hauling feed sacks, and waiting for the Samaritans to be called for dinner— looked up at the Reverend Frankland. “Uh, hi,” he said.
“I want to talk to you for a minute, boy,” Frankland said.
A shiver of fear ran up Jason’s spine. He wondered if the Reverend had heard about him talking to the gate guards about where the weapons were stored. Or others about how the guards were set, and who set them, and whether they walked regular rounds or just wandered at random.
Maybe he was just going to get chewed out for kissing Arlette. He had got the impression, from what some of the other boys in the Samaritans had said, that they took race pretty seriously here in Arkansas. Maybe as seriously as they took religion.
A smile beamed down from Frankland’s face, its effect marred by the split lip and bruising that Olson had inflicted on him. That and the lack of chin.
“There’s a story, Jason,” Frankland said, “that you brought some kind of nuclear device into the camp.”
A nervous laugh broke from Jason’s throat. Looking into Frankland’s searching gaze, he concluded that this was no time to stretch the truth.
“It’s a telescope,” he said. “But if I told the other kids it was a telescope, they’d play with it and break it. So I made up something to keep them away from it.”
Little amused crinkles broke out around Frankland’s eyes. “That’s a good one, son!” he said. One big hand patted Jason on the shoulder.
“Uh, thanks,” Jason said.
“But you shouldn’t tell stories that scare people,” Frankland said.
Jason looked up. Tried to make his face vulnerable. “It’s the only thing I have to remember my father by,” he said. “I didn’t want to lose it.”
Sympathy settled into Frankland’s bruised face. He patted Jason on the shoulder again. “If your telescope is valuable, bring it to me when I’m free, and I’ll lock it up for you in the big storeroom. You can get it back any time you like.”
“I’ll do that, sir,” Jason said. “Thank you.”
“And maybe some night you can bring out the scope and give a show for the boys and girls. It’ll be good to keep their minds occupied with so much time on their hands.”
“I
don’t know much about the stars yet, ” Jason said. “But I’ll tell them what I know.”
“Great!” Frankland was already rolling away. “Heaven-o, Jason!”
“Uh,” Jason said, “bye.”
Jason thought for a moment. He didn’t want to let his telescope go, but on the other hand it would be interesting to see what was in Frankland’s storerooms, and how it could be got to.
And it wasn’t as if he’d been stargazing much, anyway.
Jason told Nick about Frankland’s offer later that evening, after supper, as they were walking by the perimeter fence with Manon and Arlette prior to Garb’s evening service. It was about the only encouraging news Nick heard all day.
He’d spent the previous day sweating and sorting through the rubble at the Bijoux along with the rest of the Thessalonians, and talking to Tex and the other workers when their guide Martin wasn’t listening. All he’d managed to find out was how tight Frankland had Rails Bluff sewn up.
The guns Nick had come with, and all those belonging to the others in the camp who weren’t part of Frankland’s clique, were all in a concrete-walled bunker, with a concrete slab over them. A tripod and tackle were required to lift the slab, so there was no reasonable hope of getting firearms from anywhere in the camp before they made their run for freedom.
Nick had spent today at the camp. Work details were over, and very few people were allowed out. Nick had talked to a number of people who had been here awhile— he said he was looking for a suitable job here in camp— and none of the news had been encouraging.
Food supplies were guarded. There was a guard on the improvised boat jetty at the Rails River. Nick had seen a Chevy Suburban with heavily armed men drive out in that direction just that morning.
The only cause for optimism was that the guard on the camp itself was lax. The guards’ training was nonexistent, or dated from years ago in the military, and lack of calories and proper supervision made them lazy. There were no passwords, no proper checks, and the perimeter was chiefly defined by twine strung from wooden posts.
Nick imagined the guards were all good shots, though. They all had the ease of country people who had been raised around firearms and were comfortable with them. The question was whether they would fire at another human being who was only trying to get away, who wasn’t trying to harm them.
He suspected that most of them wouldn’t shoot. But Nick didn’t want to risk his daughter’s life on that supposition.
It would probably be relatively easy to slip out of the camp, he concluded— but then what? If they stole a vehicle they’d give themselves away the second they keyed the ignition. They didn’t know the country. And if they were missed, people would probably go out looking, and the guards would be alerted. Manon might sneak some food from the kitchen, but it wouldn’t be much. The boat slip was guarded by two men.
Nick wondered if he could fake a message from Frankland to the guards.
You are needed at the camp. Nick here will guard the boats.
Would they believe that? Did they have some way of communicating with the camp to check? Probably they did, if the walkie-talkie that Martin wore was any indication.
Even if they didn’t, he thought, he couldn’t trust the guards to be as stupid as he’d hoped. He’d have to be prepared to take them out.
Take them out.
One of his father’s expressions.
Daddy, what would you do?
he wondered.
How would you get your family out of this?
Get a weapon. Nick could almost hear his father’s voice. Kill the sentries on the boat from cover, without warning, much safer than trying to fool them or bluff them. If you can’t get a gun, get up close to them with a knife and attack without warning. Slash a throat. Cut an artery. Stab a kidney. Get their guns and a boat. Sabotage all the other boats, or steal all the fuel, then head for open water.
Nick’s mouth went dry when he thought of it, and his knees went a little weak. They’re just
people,
he thought. They aren’t the enemy, they’re just old boys with funny notions about the end of the world.
But it might come to that,
he thought.
It just might.
“Should I take the scope to Frankland?” Jason asked.
Nick nodded. “Might as well get a look at that storage place,” he said, without any real hope it would make a difference. “Might as well. Maybe we can liberate something that will be of use.” Maybe.
He looked at Manon and Arlette. Helplessness sighed through his blood.
How do I keep you safe?
he asked.
How?
*/
After two days of chaos, the dysentery at Clarendon had begun to get under control, and Dr. Patel had a few moments to collect his thoughts. He decided that he wanted to inspect the sanitary facilities at the A.M.E. camp. “We assuredly do not want this manner of lamentable event to occur in both places,” he told Omar.
The lamentable event was one that Omar had been hoping for all along. It had occurred to him that a nice epidemic could break out on the A.M.E. campgrounds and solve a lot of his problems, but it hadn’t happened. The place had been intended for large camp meetings, and its sanitary facilities were properly laid out at safe distances from the water supply.
“Let’s plan your visit for this afternoon,” Omar said. “I’ve got to put on some extra guards so you don’t get your throat cut the second you walk through the gates.”
Patel gave him a thoughtful look. “Very well,” he said. “Certainly.”
The more Omar thought about it, the more he considered that perhaps Dr. Patel shouldn’t be the only person to inspect the A.M.E. camp. Perhaps it was time to reinforce the notion that the camp was full of dangerous people who had to be confined behind barbed wire before they sacked Shelburne City like the Goths sacked Rome.
“Whatever story gets out,” Knox had said, “it’s got to be
your
story.”
So he invited various members of the local establishment to join Dr. Patel on his inspection tour— a couple members of the parish council, Tree Simpson, one of Miz LaGrande’s harpies who happened to run the local Red Cross, and Sorrel Ellen the reporter. Then he drove out to the corp limit and called Jedthus to a meeting.
“I want you to get on the bullhorn,” he said, “and tell everyone in the camp that the Imperial Wizard of the K.K.K. is coming to pay them a visit tomorrow morning. Tell them we expect them to provide the Wizard with a real courteous Southern welcome, just like they were white people.”
Jedthus looked puzzled. “Is this our
Grand
Wizard, you mean? Or is this someone from
another
Klan?”
You really
are
expendable,
Omar thought wearily. And he explained, carefully, what he wanted Jedthus to do and why.
So that when the inspection party turned up next morning they were met by a full-scale riot, swarms of angry niggers howling and stamping and throwing garbage. And no one, not even Dr. Patel, even got near the gate. Miz LaGrande’s bridge partner, the Red Cross lady, looked ready to have a stroke.
“Hell a mile, Omar!” Tree Simpson said, as he stared wide-eyed from the shoulder of the highway at the rioters howling for his blood. “What’s going on here? What’s wrong with these people?”
“They’re a bad lot, I guess.” Omar shrugged. “At least they ain’t acting like they’re sick. I figure we can let them look after their own dang bowels.”
So the inspection party headed back to town and left the A.M.E. camp to Omar. Omar hoped that from this point they’d deal with the diarrhea at Clarendon and leave everything else to him.
*
Frankland had barely swung into his morning announcements when a loud voice called out from the audience.
“Reverend!” A voice. “Reverend Frankland!”
A young man in the crowd waved a hand. Studs Morgan, Frankland saw. The day before the quake, he’d bailed out on that assault charge.
A Catholic. One of Robitaille’s flock, and before he’d got out of jail he had worked for Magnusson, at the video store. The rest of his family had evacuated to Hot Springs, but Studs had remained, looking after the family farm, because he and his family didn’t get along. After the second big quake, the Morgan place had burned down, and Studs had come to the camp.
Frankland tried not to scowl. “Later, please, Studs,” Frankland said. “It’s not time for questions.”
“What’s being done about staying in touch with the outside?” Studs called. “I’m sure it would comfort a lot of people here to know that their families down in Hot Springs were safe.”
And dang it, Frankland heard people in the crowd agreeing with him.
Tension sang along Frankland’s jawline as he deliberately donned his brightest smile.
“Well,” he said through the smile, “I’m afraid there isn’t much of an
outside
to talk to, properly speaking. It’s a real mess out there, Studs. You’ve heard the bulletins. We should all be thankful that—”
“You’ve got a
radio station
!”
Studs shouted. “All you have to do is call for help!”
“There are other people worse off than we are,” Frankland said. “
Much
worse off. We have food, we have adequate shelter. Other people should be first in line ...”
“We need a
doctor
!”
Studs said. “What if we get sick? What if someone gets hurt?”
Frankland saw Hilkiah out of the corner of his eye. Hilkiah sort of
puffed,
like a cat confronting a growling dog. All his muscles swollen, his neck taut, the prison tattoos ready to pop off his flesh with the tension that swelled his arms.
“I’ll take care of this, Reverend,” Hilkiah growled.
No, Frankland thought. That would be a disaster. He’d have to win them over; he’d have to
convince
them. Force would make enemies of them all.
He was
right.
All he needed was the
rush,
the feeling of the Spirit flowing into his body. And then he could convince them, convince them as he always did ...