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34
While Bellamy dozed near the window, David found a com button lying loose and dusty in a corner. He tried it out and—wow!—it worked. He tuned in to radio news, careful that nobody saw him with the button. Bellamy looked bruised and had a sprained ankle. David wasn’t anxious to get the same treatment.
He listened with the button to one ear. The only stations on the air were those broadcasting local feeds of ANN News. Generally the tone was not the hyped up sound of news anchors talking up a story; rather, it was the subdued, shocked tone appropriate to events like wars or assassinations. The anchors were as scared as everyone on the street.
In a far corner of the room, amid blankets and a coffee pot, several of the young commandos liked to hang out and rest during their breaks. They had a small black and white t.v. set plugged in, ancient, with bent rabbit ears, which they kept having to adjust. At the moment, several were admiring their handiwork via a local news program. It was an image of what was happening at that moment in the Second Constitutional Convention, and David and Bellamy managed to catch glimpses.
The assembly hall looked a lot different now that the regular Army MP’s had been replaced, and the drunks chased off. There were no more delegates urinating in hallway corners or trading favors for bribes. The corridors surrounding the assembly hall were thronged with young men in blue-yellow camouflage fatigues. They brandished assault rifles, wore full combat gear, and appeared utterly dedicated to the cause they’d trained for in the Texas desert. The thousand delegates were seated inside, some talking earnestly among themselves, others staring numbly at one of history’s unexpected twists. A woman was seated at a table on a low stage near the podium, formerly reserved for Chairman Mattoon. She was sleek, dark-haired, well coifed and manicured, in a stylish dress. Very business-like, she spoke in a crisp, well-enunciated voice with the barest hint of a drawl that could be from anywhere in the South or the Midwest. As she spoke, she held aloft a Bible. Her face seemed emotionless. Each carefully, coldly enunciated syllable, spoken in a near monotone, sent ice water down David’s spine. “It’s quite simple,” she was saying as she waved the book in the air. “All you have to do is sign this book and you can walk out of here, having done your duty. You just sign this book and you can leave because your job here in Washington will be completed, a job well done. The only Constitution to come out of this Convention will be a Biblical one, and I am asking you to sign the inside of this book I am holding, indicating your support for the New Constitution, One Nation Under God. If you do not comply, you will eventually be freed, but you will be held here at the convenience of the acting government of America Under God as long as we find necessary, which could be a while.” Sure enough, David watched a stream of these foundering fathers file lamely to the table to sign, eager at the promise of escape.
“They’ve taken over CON2,” Bellamy said, shifting painfully. His ankle looked swollen, and he favored that leg. “I wish we were far away from here, because when the shooting starts, we’re gonna be right in the crossfire.”
Sure enough, about three in the afternoon, a group of commandos came in with ammo boxes, heavy machine guns, and a canvas bag of bayonets. A half dozen men unscrewed and removed the broad windows. Preparations for battle, David knew. The cold night air teased at him, blowing the drapes in and out. The distant sounds of the city rose up, traffic, an occasional horn, almost like normal. Each commando knew what he had to do, and there was little conversation. Under heavy guard, David and Bellamy were led out of the former gymnasium, across the hall, and locked in a small office but not shackled. The only furniture was a small table. The parting word from a darkly grinning young man as he jangled keys was: “If you’re smart, you’ll stay in there and when you hear shooting, lie down flat.” He put a Bible on the table. “You’d better think about surrendering to Jesus, because you’ll want to go to heaven when hell breaks loose.”
“Oh great,” Bellamy said when they were alone. “You should make a run for it.”
“Not if it means leaving you here like this.”
“Don’t be stupid. I can’t run. I’d get us both killed. Maybe you could get away. Bring back help when all this is over. If the building is still standing.”
“It will be standing,” David said. “They don’t want to shed any more blood than they have to. The delegates are worth gold—as long as they hold them, they can probably hold off the entire Army.”
“Just think,” Bellamy said. “if they capture CON2, they can claim they are saving the country somehow. That’s the kind of thing that’s gone on for centuries in Latin America. They could “—his face darkened as a new realization sank in—”they could reject both the old Constitution and the one coming out of CON2, and substitute one of their own.”
“Not a happy day for democracy. Or for our hides.”
The concrete corridor outside rumbled with the passage of booted men carrying equipment. “They must have been planning this for years,” Bellamy said bitterly.
As darkness fell, a sickly calm descended. It reminded David of visits to an aunt when he was a boy, an aunt who had been dying of Alzheimer’s in a desolate old-age home. Nights there’d had the same depressing, wrenching hopelessness, a diseased peacefulness.
David heard occasional laughter as the commandos of the 3045th prepared to offer their lives, fanatical young men dedicated to the incomprehensible cause of wrecking democracy to impose moralitarianism on others. David checked the com button for any voice mail, especially from Tory. He was disappointed, then worried, and finally relieved to find no messages from Tory. Had something happened to her? Should he call Jet? Better not. The skinheads might find out. To think that she might be in this same building, and he could not get to her!
About two hours after dark, David and Bellamy heard distant explosions, seeming to move closer. David remembered the Civil War—a previous time when America’s children had turned on each other in a blood bath. There was a stirring among the young commandos. Not laughing anymore. Soft talk. Sincere prayers. More explosions—closer yet. Quick boots as men moved into position. Clicks of steel muffled by canvas as slings tapped against rifles.
There was a particularly loud blast. A massive explosion. It shook the walls and rattled windows throughout the hotel.
Bellamy said after a moment of analytical silence: “The power stations. Somebody is knocking them out. We’ll be on emergency generators before long.”
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