CHAPTER EIGHT
"The conduct of military operations on the various types of urban terrain challenges the resourcefulness and ingenuity of commanders.
Heavily structured, multilevel buildings provide fortified positions, as well as cover and concealment, for all combatants—the defender receiving the greatest advantage. These structures limit fields of observation and are obstacles to the movement of military forces.
During combat operations the rubble that results from the destruction of buildings further impedes movement. The large number of civilians in urbanized terrain also creates special situations and attendant problems....A skilled, well-trained defender has significant tactical advantage over an attacker. He occupies well-fortified positions which offer cover and concealment, whereas the attacker must maneuver over terrain which is channelized and compartmented—thus exposing himself in order to advance."
—United States Marine Corps Operational Handbook (8-7), Military Operations on Urbanized Terrain (MOUT), November 1980 edition
"Only a fool will attempt to take a city."
—Sun Tzu, The Art of War
"It wouldn't be so bad to have blacks in government [in South Africa], Mr. Breedt allowed, so long as whites kept control, but once whites lost control, nothing would stop 'Communism.' When I asked why, his son Frikkie, a teacher, answered: 'It's because they don't believe in God. Because they don't have strong characters and because they're not educated and can't think for themselves.'
"His father nodded ruefully. 'I think we've stayed too long,' he repeated."
—Joséph Lelyveld, "Inside Namibia," New York Times Magazine, August 1, 1982
"Dena, honey, wake up." His voice was soft and calm.
She sat bolt upright in Michael's bed. "Jennifer?"
"No, darling," Russell said at once. "They haven't turned up yet."
"Then why did you wake me up?" She was still essentially asleep.
"Because it's time now," he said, still calm. "You have to get up and come with me."
She began to return to true consciousness. "How long have I been out?" Oh God, my little girl!
"Almost four hours. You went from a dead faint to a deep sleep. Your body is wise."
She could see that he had not slept. "Fill me in on what's happened. Then tell me where we're going." She leaned back on one arm and thumbed her eyes.
Russell glanced at his watch. "We've got maybe five minutes. Apparently Jerome and José and Jen were on their way here in a cab, and got pulled over by the police. There was a flurry. Jennifer and José went west, Jerome was forced east."
Her heart turned over. "Had he already taken their weapons? Are they unarmed?"
He almost smiled. "Brace yourself. They have all the weapons, Jerome's too. Jen hid them in her purse while the cops searched the men. She took out one of the cops." Dena gasped. "Between the two of them, they may just come through this. Now: as they were splitting up, Jerome yelled to them not to go to the museum, so that they couldn't accidentally lead the cops there. He went back to the apartment and waited for them for almst an hour before he called in. Michael had people up on the ground by the Museum search for her, but she hasn't turned up."
"Is Jerome still at the apartment?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Honey, listen to me. Ten minutes after Jerome called in, the clock struck three and the war began. The first battle is already over. Probably sixty percent of the people in Manhattan don't know it yet, but Michael holds New York.
Bridges have fallen. Soldiers and cops are under attack or dead or surrendered or on the dodge all over town. The armories fell at once; there are tanks and halftracks and artillery rolling on the streets. Every radio in town is jammed useless, on all frequencies. Every television set in America is showing, on every channel, a card saying 'please stand by.' The Mayor is a prisoner."
"What about Jerome?"
"He couldn't get into our apartment without a key. He couldn't risk hanging around on the street in a white neighbourhood once the war started, especially unarmed.
There's a National Guard post right up on 33rd, First Batallion, 71st Infantry. He wanted to stay, but General Worthing ordered him to go reinforce the garrison at Bellevue and Michael backed him up."
"Then what if—"
"Dena, let me tell it. The idea was that I would call the apartment at fifteen minute intervals to catch them if they came back there."
"And they still haven't answered? "
He took her by the shoulders. His voice was still gentle.
"Listen. I can't get through to them. Michael's people blew the Long Island Railroad tunnel to Queens— not underwater, they didn't want to flood Penn Station— but it runs underneath 32nd and 33rd Streets, and when they blew it they unintentionally took out four blocks worth of phones.
Including ours."
"We've got to go and look for them!" She tried to rise, and he restrained her, so forcefully that she was startled.
"Sit still a minute and take deep breaths."
"Russell, God damn it—"
He shook her, hard enough to shock her. For the first time his voice had an edge. "You must not go to pieces. I am fresh out of glue. Breathe slow, damn it, I need you with a working brain. Do it!"
She could not remember the last time her husband had laid violent hands on her. She did as she was told, and when her breath began to regularize she felt the panic rinsing out of her mind. Russell held her with his eyes, and the grip of his hands on her shoulders now was softer. At last she nodded, and he released her and sat back on his heels.
"Michael can't let us go," she said. "We know the location of his command headquarters."
"Among other things," he agreed, his voice soft again.
"Even if he were absolutely certain that both of us are solidly on his side, he couldn't chance it. Everyone in the world who knows that this is Michael's headquarters is down here now, and no one is going to leave until the United States surrenders. Best guess seems to be ten days, but they're prepared for a month if necessary."
"But Michael will let Jennifer and José in if we can locate them?"
"Yes. It's been promised."
"Then we have to locate them."
"I'm open to suggestions."
"Michael has ten thousand people on the street!"
"Sweetheart, Michael is very grateful to us. By extension so are Tom Worthing and all of Michael's people. But if you think ten thousand troops in the process of making war on America are going to be told to keep an eye peeled for a little white girl with a Puerto Rican, you need a cup of coffee very badly."
She sat very straight and breathed deeply: she had been on the verge of crying out, "Then what do we do, Russell?"
But the edge had crept back into her husband's voice on his last sentence, and it reminded her that he was just as worried as she, and had had hours less sleep. Russell was one of those rare people who, though bright and sensitive, had so secure and confident a personality that he tended not to panic in a crisis—and Dena liked to believe that she had been learning from him for the five years of their marriage.
She remembered a time when she had been driving the two of them in a rental car to somewhere on a four lane highway, next to no traffic, holding it steady at 110 kph.
Around a blind curve and just over a crest, a farmer had decided to change a flat tire in the left lane.
Sixteen-wheelers were pacing her in the right lane; when she saw the red pickup she knew she was dead. The monstrous unfairness of the farmer's stupidity paralyzed her mind: instinct made her stand up on the brake, but even as the wheels locked she knew she was going to hit him.
The pickup grew larger and larger for what seemed like an hour, and then Russell was doing things to her and the car too fast for her to follow, and a horrible roaring grinding filled the world, and their front bumper kissed the tailboard of the pickup as gently as one of the "shadow kisses" Jennifer gave her every night. Afterwards she reconstructed the sequence: Russell had yanked her shin sideways so that her foot slipped off the brake and onto the accelerator, then thrown the automatic transmission into reverse, then leaned hard on her knee. The maneuver demolished the transmission, totalled the car, and saved their lives. "Darling," he had told her— after he had hustled her out of the car and set flares back up over the hill and broken the farmer's jaw— "when the lion has you half swallowed, probe with your feet for a vital spot: maybe you can kick him to death from inside."
Dena got hold of herself now and thought things through.
Assume they're alive. At three o'clock, they heard explosions in the distance, wherever they were then.
Distant gunfire. They headed back to the apartment and José got them there safely. That place is a fortress. As soon as the situation clarifies and he can spare the time and manpower, Michael will send people there, and they'll bring Jennifer here. Is there anything I can do to ensure that, or hurry it along? Not a damn thing. What do I do, then? Put it out of my mind and take up the next responsibility: helping my mate to keep it together.
When she spoke her voice was, for the first time, as calm and measured as his. "So where are we going?"
He studied her closely for a moment, nodded, got up and went to the light switch, dialing it higher. "Better start adjusting your eyes, it's bright out there. History is about to be made, and we're invited to be present." He looked at his watch. "And we have maybe two or three minutes to get there. Michael is going on TV to announce the news. The rest of the country is getting a tape he cut weeks ago, but he's going live to the New York area. I knew you wouldn't want to sleep through it."
"Thanks. Russell?"
"Come on, we've got to go."
"Something you said a minute ago—"
She felt that he knew what she was going to say. "If we're late they won't let us in—"
"Russell, stand still and listen. What you said was, 'even if Michael were absolutely certain that both of us were solidly on his side...' Tell me: where do you stand? Are you for this war, or against it, or neutral?"
"Dammit, there's no time—"
She stood up. "This is the only room in this tunnel that probably isn't bugged—and we're bunking elsewhere from now on. This may be our last chance to talk privately for a long while. Take two seconds and then we'll run there together. For, against, or neutral?"
"I can't answer yet," he said desperately. "I've been thinking about it for hours and I just don't know. All my instincts tell me to beware of anyone with that much charisma who wants to change the world with bombs and guns. But I just don't know... how about you?"
"I trust Michael, as a human being, with all my heart. There is no evil in him anywhere, I'm sure. But whether his war is going to save black people or get them all killed...I haven't got an intuition yet. One thing I know: if we haven't made contact with Jennifer by nightfall I am going to bust out of this sewer some way and go find her—and if the FBI gets me and drugs Michael's secrets out of me, that'll be tough shit."
Russell grinned. "Attagirl. I'm with you there. Just be careful, and try not to leave without me if you can help it.
Come on."
A guard, a woman she had not seen before, waited impassively in the corridor.
The video studio held two or three dozen people. Dena still did not understand the armband insignia system, but she gathered that most of these people were of high rank in Michael's army. The atmosphere was of quiet excitement, of restrained joy—the war was obviously going well so far.
History was being made here.
Dena was surprised by one thing: though many people looked up when she and Russell entered the room, and some of those studied Russell carefuily, not one displayed any visible animosity or distrust. It seemed to be common knowledge that Russell had risked his life to save Michael's; even so she would have been prepared to bet cash that a white man—any white man—would be as welcome in this place at this time as a leper on fire. She and Russell found seats together on a couch, all eyes left them, and Motormouth offered them coffee. A smile was playing at the corners of his mouth. Dena found herself liking him a great deal.
Michael sat alone against the far wall, looking toward his audience and into the three robot cameras. He wore the same red robe he had been wearing when she last saw him, a lavaliere mike pinned to it, and he was beautiful. The TV lights were not harsh enough to make him squint, but they made his skin glisten with highlights and softened the lines on his forehead and round his eyes and mouth. There was an inconspicuous earplug in his right ear. His face was serene, patient. He could have been waiting to face a firing squad or to enter into Heaven. He was staring straight into the middle camera, as though something important lived inside it, but as she watched his gaze slowly tracked around until she was looking directly into his eyes.
Something she did not understand happened in her head. It was like a plank being snapped across, and it was like a basket of tumbling kittens, and it was like a cool hand on a fevered forehead. Michael's expression never changed, but she knew that she and Jennifer were in his mind, even now.
She smiled at him, and in a moment he turned his gaze back to the camera.
There were several monitors on the walls; each showed a card urging viewers to stand by for an important announcement. The director, camera operators, and mix board were in some other room—or possibly, for all Dena knew, at STI Headquarters in the old NBC building downtown.
She got three good slugs of coffee down, felt her alertness increase. Then, although there was no conversation anywhere, Trezessa Moore said, "Quiet, please; stand by," and the room rustled for a moment and was still.
The title on all the monitor screens began to scroll upward.
The prerecorded voice of Michael read the text aloud.
Dena was prepared to bet that this program was closed captioned for the deaf as well.
"People of New York, good morning. The announcement you have been waiting for will come to you live in ninety seconds. Meanwhile, do two things. Satisfy yourself that this message is coming to you on all TV and major radio channels. Then wake up every friend and loved one you can reach and have them tune in at once. Don't worry if there's someone you can't reach right away; the announcement will be taped and rebroadcast all morning.
But I must reach all of you as soon as possible. Significant changes took place in the night, and ignorance of them could easily get you killed. Don't worry about being late for work. Hardly any of you will be going to work today.
"You should be in no immediate danger if you stay indoors, and there is no cause for undue alarm. Transmission begins in forty-five seconds."
The announcement repeated. Colonel Moore went around the room, turning down the volume on all the monitors.
Michael stood.
The title crawl reached "...undue alarm" and went to black.
After a few seconds the red light glowed on the middle camera and Michael's face appeared in medium closeup on all the monitors. Without preamble or throat clearing or haste, he spoke:
"If you are black or brown, you know me. If you are white you may know of me. I am called Michael. I've used no other name for twenty-five years, but I was born Michael Hall in Harlem. Today I speak to you as Director Pro Tem of the nation of Equity.
"Equity is a new nation comprised of former black Americans who have renounced their allegiance to the United States. Any human who can lay claim to Negro blood is eligible to become an Equitan citizen, and any non-Caucasian may become a Landed Immigrant.
"Early this morning at 2:55 Eastern time, a formal declaration of war was hand delivered to the President of the United States, by the former Assistant Director of the FBI, Raymond Tolliver, who had resigned earlier that day.
Someone else can decide whether this should be called the Second American Revolution or Civil War II or just The Racewar. The simple fact is that the nation of Equity has declared war on the United States of America.
"Five minutes after Raymond Tolliver became a prisoner of war, forces of the Equitan Army launched an attack on and around New York City. As I speak to you at 7:01, we have seized complete control of Manhattan Island and outlying areas. We can hold it forever, against any assault— and we intend to."
Atop the camera nearest Michael, a small blue light flashed once, twice. On the third beat the red light lit and the red light on the first camera died; Michael's face now filled all the screens in extreme closeup. Dena was struck by the professionally perfect timing with which Michael's eyes switched from one camera to the next. There was never a moment when he was not looking directly into your eyes, and she had had enough media exposure to know how hard that simple trick was to bring off.
"Listen to me. Manhattan is no longer a part of the United States. It is almost totally sealed off. The very few bridges and tunnels still in existence are presently impassable and exist at my pleasure. No one can enter or leave Manhattan without my approval. There will be no commuters today.
We have taken both major armories and several lesser ones. We have leveled Police Plaza; not one stone remains upon another. Most of the police and National Guard and armed forces still alive are with us; most of the rest have already surrendered. We have taken prisoner Mayor Winch, Police Commissioner Sullivan, and over a hundred other officers and officials; most of them are unharmed and none will be mistreated. We control power, water, food, and phone service. We control the MTA's subway center at 45th and Seventh, and we control the streets. The nation of Equity has physical existence; you are in it; listen to me now—"
Medium closeup again. Dena had stopped watching the live Michael, but his voice drew her eyes to him now. That voice was a magnificent instrument, compelling attention.
Russell's hand clutched hers tightly.
"If you are white, don't be afraid. It is not the policy of the nation of Equity to mistreat interned aliens. You'll get a better deal from us than our ancestors got from you. You will not be harmed unless you bring it on yourself. There will be no rioting, no needless killing, no looting by any Equitan forces—and they will see that noone else does those things either. If you see any civilians doing those things, dial 999 and call it in and we will despatch troops to protect you, whether you are black, white, or green.
"I am officially declaring a state of martial law in the nation of Equity. Effective within one half hour of this announcement, all whites are under curfew until noon tomorrow. You may not leave your homes at any time after 8:05 AM, under pain of death. I'll repeat that: any white person on the streets of New York after 8:05 AM will be shot on sight. If you are trapped away from home, dial 888 and we'll see that you get escorted to shelter. If you have a genuine emergency need to leave your building during the next twenty-four hours—labour pains, appendicitis—call 777 and we'll work it out. But if you're out of cigarettes, you'd better hope a neighbour will lend you some or you're going cold turkey. If your wife is at her mother's, you're sleeping apart tonight. There will be no exceptions, and no appeal against summary execution. You're safe in your home, but if you leave it without an escort you will die.
"I speak now to the black people in the nation of Equity."
Full closeup again. Dena returned her gaze again to the nearest screen. Michael was talking to her, personally.
"Parents and children, brothers and sisters, hear me out before you take any action. The fate of all black people in North America is in your hands. I have forced a choice on you, the most important choice you will ever make. I beg you to think it over very carefully before you do anything, and to hear me out before you start thinking. Listen now...
"What I'm doing is simple. Fancier language is being used on the tape that the rest of the country is seeing right now, but I'll give it to you in plain language. I've taken Manhattan, and I plan to hold it for ransom. I hold the World Financial Center and Trade Center, the Federal Reserve— forty percent of the gold in the country— a whole lot of corporate and fiscal data bases, the machine that controls national TV, radio, and long-distance phone, the finest museums in the country, and almost a million hostages, including some of the richest and most powerful people in the world.
"I hold all these thing on behalf of you, on behalf of all black people. What I want from the United States in return for all of these things is a black homeland. I want the states of New York and Pennsylvania evacuated and turned over to us. Two out of fifty-one states. Industry, farmland, seaport, resources—everything needed to house and feed every black person now living in America, with room to grow in for decades to come.
"I want to found a new nation on that land, of and for black people, and call it Equity."
The third camera came on for the first time, a long shot of Michael's whole body. He spread his hands.
"You all know me. You know I'm not an agitator. I'm not a politician. I'm not even a preacher. None of you can name a time I've taken a collection or accepted a fee, you know I have no money. I have no address, no car, no family left in the world, no property. I've talked to most of you, helped a lot of you, some of you I've come down hard on. For twenty-five years, I've only been doing two things with my time. Planning this war— and trying to become the kind of man you would trust to lead it for you.
"I promise you now that if I win this war, I will immediately call a convention to form a government of your choice, and once its Constitution is signed I will abdicate all authority and go back to being a private citizen. A citizen of Equity. That's all I want to be, all I've ever wanted to be all my life.
"I think all of you know why I have done what I've done. A marriage cannot endure without trust. To sleep beside someone, you have to trust them not to cut your throat during the night. Otherwise you lose sleep— and one day you start to wonder if you shouldn't cut their throat as a simple precautionary measure. Black America and white America do not have that basic trust. We haven't lost it: we never had it. We've been free now for almost as long as we were slaves here— call it a hundred and thirty years—and still neither side trusts the other. They perceive us as lazy and violent and racist; we perceive them as hypocritical and violent and racist. Try as we will, we cannot learn to live together in trust. So we must kill each other— or divorce.
"The white man will never get over his shame at having enslaved us, or his fear that we will seek revenge. We will never get over our shame at having allowed ourselves to be enslaved, or our fear of the policeman's gun and the Klansman's rope. Both sides are right to be ashamed and afraid, and neither side wants to admit that they are. That means we can't live together."
Medium shot again.
"For just a while, back in the '60s, I hoped we might be able to do it. But promises turned out to be lies, and we got mad. Then the economy started to go to hell, and by the '80s it was pretty evil out. The Third Wave came along, the silicon revolution, and took away all the jobs that didn't require an expensive education. I don't have to tell you the shape we're in today.
war I took a long leisurely walk through the Defense Department's computers. There are a lot of black people in the Pentagon. And in there I found proof that we can't continue to live in the United States. We're ten percent of the population, and the government admits that we supply nearly twenty-six percent of the draftees. Ten percent more than we did in Viet Nam. Well, they say, there seem to be fewer young black men in college, somehow or other. My friends, they lie. Their own classified records show that forty-four percent of draftees for the current African conflict are black! And when the judge says, 'Enlist or do hard time,' the odds are five to one he's talking to a black man. The true casualty rate for black soldiers in Africa is three times as high as for whites. They seem to use us up faster."
Dena was shocked; dimly she was aware that Russell was too. If those figures could be documented...
"Their logic is impeccable. It's clearly to their advantage to eliminate as many of our strong young men as they can.
Whether they realize it or not, they already know in their hearts that a racewar is coming.
"I confess to you now that I had these figures a year ago, and I kept them just as secret as the Defense Department.
For exactly the same reason: to prevent riots. I knew this information would make you angry, and I wanted to wait until I could offer you an alternative response, an intelligent response, something better to do with your anger than riot. That day has come.
"When I was a boy, bullying husbands told their wives 'If you don't like it here, you can leave,' because the truth was that there was no way for a single woman with kids to make it then. That got so bad that the rules got changed, and nowadays as often as not the woman will throw him out.
When I was a boy, bullying parents told their children 'If you don't like it here, you can leave,' because the truth was that the only jobs a child could get were prostitute and dope runner. That got so bad the rules got changed and nowadays you find children collecting heavy alimony— I've heard of a few that employ grownups to carry out the garbage and mow the lawn.
"When I was a boy, bullying whites told their Negroes, 'If you don't like it here, why don't you go back to Africa?' My Lord, but black Americans have emigrated to so many places looking for a home. British Columbia, Nova Scotia, Sierra Leone, Trinidad, Bermuda, Liberia, the only thing all the migrations had in common is that none of them worked. American blacks have gone many places in search of a home, without ever finding one."
Closeup. Michael's eyes shone.
"Home is here.
"Home is where we were born and the culture we grew up in. The North American culture. We share a common language and tradition, similar to that of white America but uniquely our own. All we have ever needed was a homeland, a place where we made the rules. An Israel, a Zimbabwe. And I think that with your help I can get it for us now."
Medium camera shot.
"Let me report progress so far. At five o'clock this morning I spoke with the President of the United States by videophone. We spoke for almost half an hour. I told him, in essence, that I will turn over the gold, the diamonds, the museum treasures, a million hostages, and—most important of all—the data bases and the STI satellite uplink, if he will give us New York and Pennsylvania. How he compensates the present white residents of those states is his problem; so is moving and relocating them. In the meantime, I have asked for white-flag food shipments, and a promise that the food supplies which are presently being shipped by friendly regions and nations will not be embargoed. He told me, in essence, that we are to consider ourselves under siege—but he'll allow food to come in as long as white hostages receive a fair share and are not mistreated.
We're working out ways to verify all that.
"As of seven this morning, the nation of Equity has been granted diplomatic recognition by fourteen countries, including Switzerland, Israel, Quebec, Zimbabwe, Rhodesia, Beninia, and Germany. That figure will be updated each time this tape is rebroadcast. At 4 AM we began evacuation of United Nations personnel and their families to the UN Building, which has twenty acres of floor space they can sleep on. We've petitioned the UN for admission, and the General Assembly has been in emergency session since six. I do not expect a decision soon, but I'm confident of the ultimate outcome. Regrettably the escape tunnel which runs from under the UN parking building west to New Jersey was damaged by an explosion on the street above, but I've assured the Secretary General that the nation of Equity guarantees the safety of all UN diplomats on its soil—until such time as the siege is lifted and they can leave safely.
"Brothers and sisters, parents and children, this thing is done. The nation of Equity is committed. I will not compel anyone to join it. You're welcome to leave it along with the white refugees when the time comes, or sooner if you can figure a way off the island.
"But I do ask you not to screw it up.
"We need the weight of world opinion on our side if we are to be accepted as a genuine nation. So long as I'm directing Equity, all non-Caucasians retain the right to freedom of speech and freedom of assembly— within forty-eight hours I hope to lift communication censorship and make ten channels available for community access so we can thrash this out together. But in the meantime there must be no rioting, no looting, no wanton killing, and no destruction. Only barbarians torture their prisoners, and any real estate you harm is your own property."
Closeup.
"I know this will be very hard. Some of you have nothing and how it seems that there is so much around you for the taking. If enough of you yield to temptation, the black homeland will be destroyed in the moment of its birthing.
You know I speak the truth. But if you will be strong and measured, I promise you that you will not be sorry."
Medium shot again.
"Now: I expect scattered fighting here and there for several hours. So I urge all of you who are not in essential jobs to stay in your homes until twelve noon. Those of you who are essential— medical personnel, fire department, and such— are urged to report for work and try to cover for missing white co-workers. If you have trouble, call 666 and we'll try to bring you any whites you absolutely need, or replacements.
"The only other people who should leave your homes at once are those of you who live in predominantly white neighbourhoods and fear reprisals. Call 555 at once and we'll try and get you uptown as quickly and safely as possible.
"When noon strikes, the nation of Equity will begin accepting job applicants.
"We have literally hundreds of thousands of jobs available immediately, and we'll pay generously in U.S. dollars.
When those run out, we have an awful lot of gold, and eventually the government you choose will doubtless issue its own currency— but in the meantime any black brown, red, or yellow person who wants to work can earn good dollars, cash on the barrel at the end of each shift. If you are handicapped or invalid, call 444; we have work that you can do, at home if necessary.
"Able-bodied men and women who wish to enlist in the Equitan Army are invited to go at noon to their local police precinct house. Please do not try to enlist unless you have fighting experience of some kind and you are prepared to follow orders. The Equitan Army maintains discipline comparable to the U.S. Marines, and irregulars will be expected to match it. Remember that this is wartime: a court martial can take thirty seconds or less. If you don't want to be a soldier, we still have a job for you, in any area or level of skill from executive to dishwasher; simply go to the nearest video arcade that features interactive games and you'll find an employment team with access to our computers. I urge you all to do so; there will be no more welfare or unemployment cheques coming in from Albany, no more social security from Washington. Equity has jobs for all citizens, from ten to a hundred and ten, and if we can't find a job that you can handle we will support you. If you don't want or need a job, you don't have to take one. If I have my way, no citizen of Equity is ever going to be drafted to do anything.
"What it all comes down to is how much you want Equity to live. You, personally. I already have the official endorsement of the Black Muslims, the Rastafarian community, the Afro-American Coalition, the Guardian Angels, a number of black Christian churches, and the warlords of all the major black and hispanic and oriental street gangs in this city. But your leaders and ministers and warlords can't speak for you, and anyway speaking isn't enough. Right now I have enough manpower to have taken this city and to hold it indefinitely and to keep order in it.
But I haven't got a fraction of the manpower to run it, to keep it alive and growing."
Cut back to a long shot. Michael held out his hands in supplication.
"I caution you once more against taking any reprisals against whites. If there's any needless killing, the UN is going to bolt and the nations that have already recognized us will repudiate us and the United States just might neutron bomb us. I want no old scores settled today. There are still raise on the set— but their uniform is a shaved head and red shades and a white armband, and they work for me." Michael lifted his right sleeve to his shoulder.
"Each will wear an armband just like this, except that theirs'll be white. Look at it closely: it's hard to counterfeit this scalloped edge in a hurry. Don't believe anyone who doesn't have an armband just like this; I have plenty for everyone who enlists.
"One last note: any whites who are married to a black person, and any children of such a union, are to be considered honourary black people, and are invited to become Equitan citizens. They can nominate other family members if they wish. Such people should call 333. José Johnson in particular is requested to call at once; Jennifer Grant's parents are worried."
Dena's heart leaped. She gave a small cry in spite of herself, felt Russell's hand crushing hers. She looked at him, and his expression was that of a man who has been unexpectedly slapped. They broke into broad grins together. Over the roaring in her ears, she heard Michael finishing; turned back to see him once more in full closeup.
"Brothers and sisters, parents and children, friends and enemies, we have now what we always said we wanted.
Freedom. Pride. A safe home. A fair chance. An even break. After all the centuries of bondage we're truly free: like free men and women everywhere we can root, hog, or die. If you—all of you—don't turn out today, and turn to, and work to build up your Equity...it's going to just melt away."
He grinned suddenly. "And then a whole lot of happy racists all over the world will say, 'You see? I knew those niggers could never cut it.' I would truly hate to see them get that chance.
"It's up to you. Come out at noon and show your heart to the world."
Michael finished speaking, and gazed into the camera. It went dark, and a crawl informed viewers that the tape would repeat continuously until noon.
The silent stillness seemed to last forever. Michael did not move, kept looking at the dead camera with that magnificent sorrow in his eyes. No one moved or spoke.
An air-conditioner sighed back into life, and even that did not break the spell.
And then, on all the silenced monitors, Michael's face reappeared, began repeating his message, and suddenly the room rang with applause and cheers. Dena found that she was shouting along with the others, that she was being hugged by strangers, that Russell was being hugged by strangers, that Russell was hugging her and smiling and weeping and frowning all at the same time.
Hugging him back, she looked over his shoulder...and tapped his shoulder so that he released her. Motormouth stood alone, smiling and weeping like everyone else but alone, his eyes sweeping the room even in this moment for possible assassins. Russell saw her intention and nodded.
She went to Motormouth, stood before him, smiled at him and put her arms around him. The big bodyguard did not draw away but stood inert, his eyes seeking out Russell.
Her husband approached and smiled. Motormouth opened his great arms then and gathered them both in. Past him, Dena could see Michael. He was looking at the three of them now, and smiling.
Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but his face did not look sorrowful now at all.
=
Dena got them permission to return to Michael's room; Russell was visibly suffering from lack of sleep. Tunnel personnel would not begin their sleep shifts for several hours yet, and so the bunkroom to which she and Russell had been assigned was presently too noisy and traveled to sleep in. As before, a guard unobtrusively tagged along.
This one was young and friendly and had the body language of a happy puppy. He gave his name as Homemade, and asked if she were Dena St. Claire the dancer from Canada?
It turned out that he was a friend of Jerome's and knew of her through him. She was surprised to learn that Homemade had not known Jerome was a member of Michael's army until she told him so. The young man made a special effort to be respectful to Russell. "I understand that you saved Michael's life somehow," he said. "Thank you for that." Russell told him gravely that he was welcome. Before they left him in the corridor, Dena gave him her Number Three lecture on posture and corrected his spinal alignment for him. He thanked her.
Once the door had sealed behind them, Russell said, "He wants you."
She smiled slightly and nodded. "I felt it when I put my hands on him. I wonder what Jerome told him."
"Whatever it was, I hope he's thinking about it now. Dena, if you walk out that door naked, he is going to turn to stone for that fatal second, and I'll have the drop on him."
"What?"
"I won't hurt him— but we need him quickly and quietly unconscious, and I want his sidearm. Darling, it's time to go."
"Go where? Why?"
He took her hands. "This is a war zone. I plan to get my family out of it as fast as possible."
He was serious. "What about Jennifer? We can't leave until she calls in."
"Michael's tape is on its third or fourth repeat by now, and she hasn't called in yet. They're back at the apartment they have to be, but they're not watching TV. Maybe they're asleep, or the TV's busted, but they have to be there by now, and this is the very last chance you and I are ever going to have to bust out of here and get them."
"What chance? Which way to the egress?"
"The inhabited section of tunnel ends just outside that door.
Beyond the bulkhead is big empty tunnel, all the way up to the Bronx."
"Won't it be mined?"
"Of course, but not right up to the bulkhead. The nearest mine will be far enough away that it won't wreck this section of tunnel if it does blow—and somewhere between there and here we are going to find an exit, believe me. A bolt hole—there has to be one. I wish I'd been able to swipe a flashlight, but at least I've got my lighter. Once we're on the street we swipe a car—you drive and I stay down on the floor. When we've got Jen and José we head uptown. I've got a scheme to get us across the East River: it's so crackbrained it'll probably work—"
"Russell, this is crackbrained. You don't know that there's an exit. You don't know that we can use it—maybe you need a key, or maybe it's like the door at the other end, retina prints and laser—"
"—it'll be designed to keep people out, not in—"
"—you don't even know that we can take that boy out in the hall. Most important, you don't know that Jennifer is at the apartment."
"If José hasn't been able to get them back there and holed up by now, I have to assume they're dead."
"Mavbe they were arrested by the police before the war started. They could be in a holding cell right now—"
"No. I spoke with Michael about that while you were sleeping. He owns all the precinct houses in town, and she's not at any of them. Neither she nor José has been admitted to any hospital, and especially not to Bellevue, which is the nearest one to our place. Dena, maybe we can't pull this off. Maybe we get home and she's not there and we have to think again—and maybe we end up coming back here and asking nicely to be let back in. But this is the last chance I'm going to get to get my family off this island, away from this war."
"Why?" she cried.
"Because right now there is maximal confusion and minimal congestion up there on the streets, and at noon they're going to fill up with crazy black people; because right now there is a celebratory mood down here and they're off their guard; and most important, because this is the last time we're ever liable to be up at this end of the tunnel with only a single guard to deal with."
She shook her head. "You answered the wrong question.
Not, 'Why does it have to be now?' The question is, 'Why does it have to be?'"
"I don't follow."
"If Jennifer is not at home, there's nothing we can do to help her, and we can't leave town until we know where she is. So we may as well wait. If she is at home, sooner or later she'll turn on the TV or get Michael's message some way, and call in, and he'll send a car and we'll all have lunch together. The safest thing we can do is wait."
Throughout this conversation she and Russell were in motion— pacing back and forth, circling round each other, approaching and retreating, gesturing and gesticulating— and all at once she saw them as dancing, as dancers of a dance choreographed millennia ago by evolution. Mates at a crisis arguing about what to do. They both knew the steps because the steps had been memorized by their DNA. Once she saw it in those terms, her dancer's mind was able to extrapolate the dance, to sense where it was leading and how it would be shaped, much faster than her conscious mind could have processed its way through the surface logic of their words. She saw that what had been danced so far was only warmup, prologue—the theme of the piece had not yet been explicitly stated.
Sure enough, here it came. Russell squared his feet leaned forward slightly, clenched his fists and his teeth, and spoke in the strangled tones of a man who would be shouting at the top of his lungs if he dared raise his voice: "We have to get out of here while we still can!"
She took her position, waited for the count—odd, her lower back hadn't hurt since she'd left her apartment— and responded with matching force: "Why?"
He trembled as if about to explode into a series of leaps then fell out of his contraction, took a deep breath and spun away from her. She started to react in counterpoint got a grip on herself and held still.
Damn it, girl, this is important! Get your stupid wandering mind off choreographing this—
Choreographing? Me?
"Dena, listen to me." His voice was dangerously low and quiet. "We are Canadian citizens. This is not our war. I don't plan to die in it if I can help it. I want out—of this city and this country, as quickly as possible. Back home to Halifax, where all I have to worry about is Chinese lobbing neutron bombs into the Harbour. In fact, it occurs to me that now would be an excellent time for them to lob a few at the U.S., while it's distracted—half of its forces tied up in Africa and the rest mutinying all across the country.
In any case, America is no longer a safe place for an interracial couple. If it ever was."
"We're not in America."
"No," he snapped, exasperation showing through. "We're in Equity, right in the fucking heart of the danger."
"The eye of a storm is a good place to be. What do you think of Michael's war?"
He shrugged his shoulders and words burst out of him.
"Dammit, I don't know, the problem is so big I can't seem to get my mind around it. The most astonishing part is already over. I was in the War Room while you were sleeping, I heard the reports coming in. Michael really does own Manhattan. His troops are as good as Marines, and much luckier. There was not one major fuckup— oh, there's still fighting going on, but just about every major objective has been secured. Now, if all Michael had was the island of Manhattan...I mean, if the STI uplink was somewhere else and he had everything but that...I'd give him about one chance in ten of victory— damned good odds for any revolution! But with the uplink in his control, he has to win. Picture the U.S. and China as two giants locked in an arm-wrestle, over there in Africa, and other places too. The U.S. cannot afford to suffer a stroke and have half of its body blind and paralyzed— the side toward Africa at that, the side with Washington on it.
"But don't you see the antinomy? They have to pay the ransom, and the ransom is not excessive, but it may simply be beyond their power to give. It may not be politically or humanly possible to do this thing. For one thing it physically divides the United States, separates New England from the rest. They'd have to change the name of the fucking country.
"As I see it, the government of the U.S. has an insoluble dilemma. It may go catatonic, and it may go berserk. They could neutron bomb this city and take the uplink back the next day when it cooled off. More likely they'll stall, try to starve us out, hostages and all. I don't the hell know, I know nothing about current U.S. politics and less about how the minds of the real people-in-power work in crisis.
For all I know, Michael might just pull this off."
He was pacing again, and she was holding herself still with an effort. This was his solo.
"But I want to read about the outcome in the papers, back home in front of my fireplace. Dena, four hours is our escape window, and I need one or two of them to get us ready to leave the island. We have to get Jennifer now, right away. Then once we reach Brooklyn, we strike for my dad's, pick up the car, take the ferry to Connecticut and drive like a bastard for the border—"
Her cue. "Russell?"
"—we could be there by—what?"
"I'm not going."
He spun on his heel and faced her. The blood was draining from his head. "What did you say?"
"Ah, you heard me that time. First thing you've heard right since you came in this room. You just answered the wrong question again, at great length. I asked you what you thought about Michael's war. You told me what you think of his chances of winning it. That's interesting stuff, but it's not what I want to know. What do you think about his war?
What do you think of the idea of a black homeland?
Supposing it can be done, are you for it or against it?"
He shook his head violently, shook invisible water drops from his fingers. "I can't answer that question. I don't know what that question means."
"Are you rooting for Michael, or not?" she said patiently.
"If he wins, do you think Equity will be a good thing or bad?"
"For who?"
"You're dodging. I want to know if Equity is a place you can imagine yourself living in. A place you can imagine dying for."
His eyes widened in horror. "God, no. Don't say it. Lord desperate Jesus, you're not serious."
"Why not?"
"Tell me you haven't become a Michael-worshipper like the rest of these true believers!"
"I don't worship him, Russell. He's a man. I admire him.
There is no evil in him, that I'm sure."
"There's no evil in a tiger, Dena, listen to me for Christ's sake. Michael is a saint."
"I'd go that far."
"Honey, 'saint' is just another word for 'psychotic.' People die around saints. There are many things about Michael that I admire, but he's fucking insane, he's a dangerous lunatic, and this whole Equity idea is a doomed fiasco."
"Why?"
"God dammit, you know as much history as I do. He's a monomaniac. He has Good Intentions. He Means Well.
Sometimes people like that lead successful revolutions, but they never keep control of them. Power always ends up in the hands of the ruthless ones. A power struggle will topple Michael within a week, if he lives that long—and even if it doesn't, his new nation will be a disaster."
"Why does it have to be a disaster?"
"Oh Christ, Dena, use your head. Don't make me say it."
She frowned. "Say it."
"Never mind, if you can't—"
She overrode him firmly. "Russell Grant, in five years we have never had a really serious conversation about race.
I've been assuming I knew where you stood. Now you are going to have to tell me." He looked away. "Tell me, dammit!" she shouted.
He looked up suddenly and his expression was pleading.
"Dena, you've lived in this city with me for almost two weeks now. You must agree that a certain portion of its inhabitants are...are human garbage. Amoral animals, held in check only by a vicious, aggressive police force, by security systems and iron bars and an armed citizenry.
You've walked the streets; you know what you've been afraid of. I would put the ratio of undomesticable animals to human beings in this city at about one to five. Now, some of these animals are white, and some are hispanic, some are Chinese, and some are fucking Cherokee Indians for all I know, but I put it to you that, for whatever reasons, the majority of them are black.
"Listen to me now, God damn it—I gave up talking about race to black people because I never found one that would hear me out, but you are my wife and you insisted I say this and I fucking insist you hear me out. I am not going to get into the circle-jerk debate about whether such people are genetically defective, or societally damaged, or some combination of the two—for purposes of this discussion I don't care who victimized them or how. I am not saying that a black skin predisposes one to savagery: I am observing—and I don't believe you can honestly deny—that most of the savages in this city seem to have dark skin."
"Define 'savage'," Dena interrupted. "If you mean, like, rapacious, dishonest, wicked, it seems to me you could put Harlem on one side of the scale and the Financial District on the other and it would just about balance out."
"Shit, don't play word games with me, you know perfectly well what I mean. Savages. Muggers. Killers. Rapists.
Looters."
"Then your figures are off. One in five is much too high a ratio. Less than ten percent of the people in New York are that crazy."
"You know what I'm talking about. To the animals, add the ignorant, the illiterate, the incompetent, all the fucking losers—of all colours. Right now things are relatively quiet up there on the street. Guns are going off, but most people are indoors thinking hard, trying to fortify their apartments.
In a few hours, a million black people are going to step into the noonday sun and look around. They will see many entrancing things. Unguarded stores. Banks, jewelry stores, food stores, liquor stores. Thousands of unprotected women. They will stare, and blink at each other for a silent moment—and then a voice will be heard on 125th Street and Lenox Avenue, a shout that echoes the island 'round, crying: 'Paaarr-ty!' Michael can't maintain order with only ten thousand effectives. By this time tomorrow every bottle in Manhattan will be empty, and every hospital will be full. When it gets bad enough, the whites will get mad enough and scared enough to come out and band together and fight. And you can bet there'll be white and Puerto Rican and Cuban and Chinese and Iranian savages, looters and killers who figure that the racewar gives them cover.
They're probably oiling up their machine guns down on Mulberry Street right now. We'll be lucky if the whole city doesn't go up in flames. But one thing I guarantee you: by this afternoon it's going to be a zoo up there. If we stay here this marvelous underground hideaway will be our prison and eventually our tomb. We've got to find Jennifer and get her out of this."
He ran out of words and waited. Dena felt paralyzed, numb, confused; she did not know what the next steps were.
This was where her attempts at choreography always got stuck. She closed her eyes and bit the tip of her tongue and in her mind she hollered a question which was not formed into words but which was somewhere between "What is the next step?" and "Who am I?" and "Do I have to?" She could not have said who or what the question was directed to, for she did not believe in a personal god, but an answer came back nonetheless and she did not question it. She opened her eyes and took her stage.
"Russell, if you feel you have to go, I'll strip down and help you fake out Homemade. I'll resent you for dividing my loyalties, but I'll do it." He started to register great relief; she continued firmly: "But I will not go with you."
He gaped. "I can't do it without you, Dena." His face twisted. "I need you to drive the car—I haven't got any burnt cork."
"I'm sorry. I'm staying put."
"Damn you to hell," he cried, raising his voice for the first time, "if my daughter dies because I wasn't there—"
She raised her volume to match, and drowned him out. "I think you'll be making a very big mistake if you go—I think if you do find Jennifer you'll only bring her into more danger than she's in now or would be here, and she's my daughter too. But I can't stop you. Personally I'm pretty sure you'll get yourself killed before you ever get to 31st Street—because you've got a racist attitude."
"A what?"
"I think you're like most white people—you get your ideas about black people from TV and movies, and from your own secret fears. We're all pimps and whores and welfare bums and lushes and junkies, or anyway half of us.
Uncontrollable savages."
"Dena, for chrissake what is this 'us'? I'm talking about New York City black people—"
"So am I, I know 'em better than you do. We drove down here through Harlem. How many black people do you suppose we drove past? Fifty thousand? More? How many tried to terrorize us? Knowing that the Harlem raise were all black and probably wouldn't stop them? I counted three." She raised her volume a fraction. "And Michael talked them out of it."
Russell had opened his mouth to reply; as her last sentence struck home he closed it.
"So I am going to sit tight and pray that Jennifer turns on the fucking TV set and gets to a phone. And meanwhile, when the Equity Employment Office opens at noon, I plan to be one of the first applicants on line. I wish you'd be next to me."
He sputtered. "But—I—you—"
Suddenly she saw the ending of the piece, a bare step away. She understood the weak spot in his armour, realized she had known it all along but had never expected to need to use it. She had a key to him:
"What else were you doing with your life that's more important?"