Interior, newspaper office.
There is no sign of the usual news staff. All the desks are manned by boys, with Danny sitting at one of the desks in the center of the complex. Boys are answering phones, general hubbub of many simultaneous conversations. The mood is excited, almost jubilant. A few boys stand at the windows behind Danny, with carbines and automatic rifles in their hands. But they look relaxed.
Speed comes over to Danny from another desk, carrying a bundle of papers. «Here’s the latest reports: every damned precinct station in town. We got ’em all! And the armories, the power stations, the TV studios. All the bridges and tunnels are closed down. Everything!»
Danny doesn’t smile. «What about City Hall?»
«Took some fighting, but Shockie says we’ve got it nailed down. A few diehards in the cellblock, that’s all. Our guys are usin’ their own tear gas on ’em.»
«The Mayor and the Councilmen?»
«The Mayor’s outta town for the holidays, but we got most of the Councilmen, and the Police Chief, and the local FBI guys, too!»
Danny glances at his watch. «Okay, time for Phase Two. Round up every cop in town. On duty or off. Knock their doors down if you have to, pull them out of bed. But get them all into cells before dawn.»
«Right!» Speed’s grin is enormous.
Exterior, sun rising over city skyline.
From the air, the city appears normal. Nothing out of the ordinary. No fires, no milling crowds, not even much motor traffic on the streets. ZOOM TO the toll plaza at one of the city’s main bridges. A lone sedan is stopped at an impromptu roadblock, made up of old cars and trucks strung lengthwise across the traffic lanes. A boy with an automatic rifle in the crook of one arm is standing atop a truck cab, waving the amazed automobile driver back into the city. On the other side of the tollbooth, an oil truck and moving van are similarly stopped before another roadblock.
Interior, a TV studio.
Danny is sitting at a desk, the hot lights on him. He is now wearing an Army shirt, open at the collar. A Colt automatic rests on the desk before him. Adults are manning the cameras, mike boom, lights, control booth; but armed boys stand behind each one.
«Good morning,» Danny allows himself to smile pleasantly. «Don’t bother trying to change channels. I’m on every station in town. Your city has been taken over. It’s now our city. My name is Danny Romano; I’m your new Mayor. Also your Police Chief, Fire Chief, District Attorney, Judge, and whatever other jobs I want to take on. The kids you’ve been calling punks, jaydees … the kids from the Street gangs … we’ve taken over your city. You’ll do what we tell you from now on. If you cooperate, nobody’s going to hurt you. If you don’t, you’ll be shot. Life is going to be a lot simpler for all of us from now on. Do as you’re told and you’ll be okay.»
Interior, Brockhurt’s office.
General uproar. Brockhurst is screaming into a telephone. A couple dozen people are shouting at each other, waving their arms. Hansen is prostrate on the couch.
«No, I don’t know anything more about it than you do,» Brockhurst’s voice is near frenzy. His shirt is open at the neck, tie ripped off, jacket rumpled, face sweaty. «How the hell do I know? The FBI … the Army … somebody’s got to do something!»
His secretary fights her way through the crowd. «Mr. Brockhurst … on line three … it’s the President!»
Every voice hushes. Brockhurst slams the phone down, takes his hand off it, looks at it for a long moment. Then, shakily, he punches a button at the phone’s base and lifts the receiver.
«Yessir, Yes, this is Brockhurst … No, sir, I have no idea of how this came about … it … it seems to be genuine, sir. Yes, we’ve tried to communicate with them … Yessir, Romano is one of our, eh, graduates. No, sir. No, I don’t … but … I agree, we can’t let them get away with it. The Army? Isn’t there any other way? I’m afraid he’s got several million people bottled up in that city, and he’ll use them as hostages. If the Army attacks, he might start executing them wholesale.»
Hansen props himself up on one elbow and speaks weakly, «Let me go to them. Let me talk to Danny. Something’s gone wrong … something …»
Brockhurst waves him silent with a furious gesture. «Yes, Mr. President, I agree. If they won’t surrender peacefully, then there’s apparently no alternative. But if they fight the Army, a lot of innocent people are going to be hurt… Yes, I know you can’t just … but … no other way, yes, I see. Very well, sir, you are the Commander-in-Chief. Yessir. Of course, sir. Before the day is out. Yessir.»
Exterior, city streets.
Tanks rumbling down the streets. Kids firing from windows, throwing Molotov cocktails. One tank bursts into flames. The one behind it fires its cannon point blank into a building: the entire structure explodes and collapses. Soldiers crouching in doorways, behind burned-out automobiles, firing at kids running crouched-down a half-block away. Two boys go sprawling. A soldier kicks a door in and tosses in a grenade. A few feet up the street, a teenage girl lies dead. A tank rolls past a children’s playground, while a dazed old man sits bloody-faced on the curbstone, watching. Flames and smoke and the constant pock-pock-pock sound of automatic rifles, punctuated by explosions.
No picture. Sound only.
The sounds of a phone being dialed, the tick of circuits, the buzz of a phone ringing, another click as it is picked up.
«Yeah.»
«Hey, Spade, that you?»
«It’s me.»
«This is Midget.»
«I know the voice, Midge.»
«You see what Danny did?»
«I see what happened to him. How many dead, how many thousands? Or is it millions?»
«They ain’t tellin’. Gotta be millions, though. Whole damned city’s flattened. Army must’ve lost fifty thousand men all by itself.»
«They killed Danny.»
«They claim they killed him, but I ain’t seen pictures of his body yet.»
«It’s a mess, all right.»
«Yeah. Listen … they got Federal men lookin’ for us now, you know?»
«I know. All Danny’s ‘classmates’ are in for it.»
«You gonna be okay?»
«They won’t find me, don’t worry. There’s plenty of places to hide and plenty of people to hide me.»
«Good. Now listen, this mess of Danny’s oughtta teach us a lesson.»
«Damned right.»
«Yeah. We gotta work together now. When we make our move, it’s gotta be in all the cities. Not just one. Every big city in the god damn country.»
«Gonna take a long time to do it.»
«I know, but we can make it. And when we do, they can’t send the Army against every big city all at once.»
«Specially if we take Washington and get their Prez.»
«Right. Okay, gotta run now. Stay loose and keep in touch.»
«Check. See you in Washington one of these days.»
«You bet your sweet ass.»
BUSHIDO
The challenge of «Bushido» was to make the reader feel sympathy for an enemy, a character who hates the United States. Who hates you. How well I succeeded is a question only you, the reader, can answer. But I can tell you how I went about making this «bad guy» as sympathetic as possible.
First I gave him a crippling terminal disease. Then I made him a brilliant scientist. And I showed enough of his background to make the reader understand why Saito Konda hates the U.S. and Americans.
Finally, I brought onto the scene a character out of history who stands in bold contrast to the protagonist: Isoruku Yamamoto, Grand Admiral of the Japanese Imperial Fleet at the outset of World War II. Whereas Konda is physically crippled, Yamamoto is a warrior, a man of action. Whereas Konda feels helpless and impotent, the admiral is a leader of men in war. But there is a flip side to their relationship, as well. Konda knows Yamamoto’s fate and can save him from the death that he suffered in the war. Helpless and impotent to save himself, Konda can nonetheless save the man he most admires—and by doing so, he can gain revenge on the United States.