questioning they could bring to bear. But… now he was stuck here, in a combat unit and God only knew when he would be able to get out of it. His fear of combat had been what impelled him into General Newman’s service in the first place; that and his own belief in the white supremacist movement. Now it looked as if he would eventually have to face combat anyway. He felt his body beginning to tremble. This duty was about as bad as punishment for the orders he hadn’t carried out would have been. Damn it all, life wasn’t fair! Suddenly he wondered whether or not the general would betray him after his arrest and began trembling worse than ever.
“You can’t arrest me, you damn fools! I’ll have you all thrown in prison! I’ll have you executed, by God!”
General Newman yelled at the military police officers who had entered his office without knocking or a by your leave.
“Put the cuffs on him. Don’t let him hurt himself,” ordered the lieutenant colonel in charge of the detail.
Enraged, the general lunged for the side drawer of his desk where he kept a pistol concealed. He very nearly made it, with the military police inhibited by his four stars and exalted position as head of the whole military establishment. A female captain acted first, rushing to grab his hand when she suspected what he was up to. The others followed quickly.
General Newman was hustled out of his office, hands secured behind his back, raving threats and blandishments, spittle flying from his mouth. Eventually, he had to have his mouth taped shut so that charges could be read to him.
Edgar Taylor went silently when his turn came, but tears streamed down his face as he visualized what lay ahead. In the days that followed before his execution, he realized there had never been a chance the American people would have allowed a military dictatorship, even if both assassination attempts had succeeded.
The first thing President Santes did after arriving at the White House was get Lurline Tedd on the line.
She knew that Lurline was privy to many of Marshall’s machinations and she knew Lurline had walked out on the president over the issue of Marshall not arresting Newman and Tomlin.
“I need you to come back, Lurline. We have to have some continuity here and you’re the best person for it. The country needs you.”
“In what capacity would I serve?” Lurline asked from the den of her home, surprised that the new president wanted to talk to her at all.
“It would have to be as assistant Chief of Staff for the White House. Or Presidential Advisor, if you prefer a different title. I can’t bring in someone else over the head of my own chief.”
Lurline didn’t really need time to think. She was already missing the hustle and bustle of the Oval Office, and she knew the president was perfectly correct; she was the best person available to get the new adminsitration off on the right foot. Already, there were rumblings from congress about the arrest orders and the way Santes had handled the situation in Atlanta. There was also debate over the authenticity of the Dawson recordings, which were stirring a huge amount of controversy. Some also thought Santes should have been much harsher on the rioters. Perhaps Lurline could furnish information on the former president that would still some of the unrest. At the very least, she could show the president the most efficient way to manage the office.
“I’ll be very glad to come back to work, Mrs. President. And Presidential Advisor is completely satisfactory as a title.”
“Fine. Thank you very much, Lurline. I personally appreciate it and I know others will, too. Can you start tomorrow morning, or do you need a little more time to arrange your personal affairs?”
“I can start tomorrow, Mrs. President, although I may not manage to get there first thing in the morning.”
“That’s all right. Um, you might bring a change of clothes and your personal toiletry items. I expect to keep you very busy for the first few days, if not longer.”
Lurline let out a merry laugh. “No problem, Mrs. President. Thank you for your confidence.”
The line went dead. Lurline replaced the phone and began packing, whistling to herself. After a moment she recognized the tune. It was an old one,
CHAPTER THIRTY
“Where’s Johannsen? I would have thought he would be out there with them,” June said. She and Doug were laying on the bed two weeks later, backs propped against big pillows leaning on the headboard, watching a news cast. It was the first time they had managed a day off to simply relax and be by themselves, back in their apartment in transient quarters, which had been cleaned up and refurnished.
Doug looked at the screen as the camera again panned across the three stakes set in a courtyard. Shane Stevenson, General Newman, and Edgar Tomlin stood with their hands tied behind them, with others in the wings, waiting their own execution. The eyes of Newman and Stevenson were wild, faces contorted as what was about to happen impinged with brutal force on their consciousness. Tomlin had accepted the offer of a blindfold; the others had not. General Newman had a wide piece of tape plastered across his mouth. No one wanted to listen to his ravings any more, not even the newsmen.
Doug looked surprised. “Didn’t I ever tell you what was going to happen to Johannsen? No, come to think of it, I didn’t. Part of the initial agreement that stopped the fighting here was that once we had milked Johannsen of all he knew about he Harcourt virus, and his connections with the white supremacists, was to hand him over to the Church of Blacks. In fact, if I heard the anchor right, they’ll be televising his demise right after the executions here.”
“I don’t want to watch either of them, but I would like to know what they’re going to do to Johannsen. I can’t abide the thought of anyone being tortured, even him. They should just kill him.”
Doug’s arm that was in the cast couldn’t be used much, but he moved his fingers to touch her thigh where he had pushed the sheet aside. He caressed her fondly, thinking of how much he loved her. “Well, they’re not going to torture him, in the classical sense of the word, but he’s not going to have a painless death, either.”
“Well, what, then? A lethal injection?”
Doug confessed, hoping she wouldn’t think less of him. “It was my idea, June. And yes, it will be a lethal injection, just not a regular one. I thought of it back when we were still negotiating. Savak Johannsen is going to receive a fatal dose of quinol, the substance that causes such a painful death in dark skinned people who have the virus. He’s going to die in the same kind of agony as all his victims did. I couldn’t think of a better way for him to go.”
“Lord have mercy! How long will it take. No, don’t tell me, and let’s turn this off. I don’t want to watch.”
When the screen went blank and silent, June rolled onto her side. “I don’t know if I totally agree with you, but I certainly can’t think of a more fitting death for him.” She lay her head on his chest.
Doug felt himself wanting to make love again. There had been very little time for it the last two weeks. He curled his arm around her. He kissed her and ran his good hand over her shoulder and the curve of her hip.
June looked up. “Again? Good.”
“Mmm hmm. Only thing is, with this damned cast, the only comfortable way for me is on my back.”
“Just pretend you’re a woman,” she laughed. “I’ll take care of everything else.”
Fridge stood out of the way of the camera lights and watched Johannsen writhe under the quinol intoxication. He stood there for a long time, but finally it began to remind him too much of seeing his family die in front of his eyes, while he watched, helpless to do anything for them. He turned around and left.
“No comment,” he said to the gaggle of reporters outside. He didn’t want to talk to anyone right now.
Instead, he decided to visit the cemetery where his wife and children were buried. They had died early enough in the pandemic so that he had been able to bury them, rather than having their bodies consigned to a mass grave. One day when he had time, he would place markers. For now, all he wanted was a quiet place to grieve one final time before placing their memories in an archive of his mind where he could call up the happy times they had spent together. Maybe… the thought flitted away on the wind, but he didn’t try to revive it.
