Tomahawk (12 page)

Westerhouse crinkled his eyes but didn't smile. He got up, said thanks. Dan said, “Oh, if it's all right, I've been working Saturdays, and Sundays, too, sometimes. Can I get off a little early this afternoon? Personal stuff.”

“I don't see any problem with that. As long as you're caught up on the preps for your trip.”

As the sky grew from a shining blue egg far above him, he wondered why his heart was speeding up, why his heart were digging into the handrail of the escalator He pulled his mind away and watched the walls slide by. At intervals, subterranean leakage stained the new white concrete. Past him as he rose streamed hundreds of federal bureaucrats, the vomitus of the government buildings concentrated here in the center of the District. Glances snagged on his uniform, then returned to weary blankness, He fingered his cap.

He'd mulled over wearing his blues to meet Miss Mystery. Nobody who'd worn a uniform in the seventies was ever quite comfortable wearing one in public. But the only alternative he had at his office was running gear, and he didn't think sweats would look too great at what might turn into a dinner date. So finally he'd just pulled his bridge coat on against the chill.

The blue oval grew larger, and he caught a glimpse of a dome, a statue shining in the sun.

The escalator bowed like a diving porpoise and deposited him on the shining metal landing. He stepped aside, out of the hurrying District stream: men and women with newspapers and briefcases, shoppers carrying department store bags, tourists, students.

She stood by a line of newspaper-vending machines,
looking out over the crowd. He threaded his way through to her and saluted. “Hi.”

“Hi I didn't realize you were in the military.”

“I told you I was in the Navy.”

“Did you? I guess I forgot.” She was wearing a dark skirt, an overcoat, and flats and her hair was up. Her face was paler than he recalled it, tilted back for a kiss beneath the Halloween moon. But he was relieved. She was attractive—he hadn't been
that
drunk.

“Where exactly are we going?” he asked her.

She pointed across Pennsylvania, and he raised his eyes to a square sandstone pile as they stepped off the curb. “A courthouse? Is that what this is?”

“Look, this might be embarrassing for you. I didn't mean to play a trick, but you called, and… it's a court appearance. It shouldn't take long. But if you want to back out—”

“No, that's okay, I'll just tag along and keep you company.” He still didn't know what was going on. Was she on jury duty? A lawyer?

The sign changed from WALK to DON'T WALK. She ran the last few feet to join a group by the west entrance. She turned from greeting them. “These are my friends—Phil, Max, Deborah, Ken.”

He nodded and shook hands, puzzled. They looked doubtful, too; Deborah hesitated before shaking his hand.

“It's almost time. Come on.”

He jerked his gaze away from a poster one of them was carrying and followed them up the steps.

“Hands up, Admiral,” said a black guard with a .38 on his hip. Dan lifted them as the others threw backpacks and cases on the conveyor belt.

When the search was over, they trooped through a gray marble corridor to a bank of elevators. On the sixth floor, they went through a second security check, then filed in one by one.

The courtroom smelled of frightened, unwashed people. It had a water-spotted acoustic ceiling and red polyester carpet. He took a seat with Kerry's friends in a middle row, tucking his combination cap under the bench.
Up front, a cop and his lawyer were discussing something with the judge, a florid white man with a heavy, unsympathetic face.

He leaned over to Deborah, the woman who'd hesitated before taking his hand. She stared back through glasses thick as portholes. He whispered, “Hey, what's going on?”

“You don't know? It's their arraignment.”

He wasn't entirely sure what an arraignment was, but Deborah's lips were compressed; she didn't seem eager to talk. He sat back, figuring the situation would clarify itself.

Finally, the cop's business was done; he and his group left. A stir at the front, the pop of briefcase catches. The judge glanced toward where, Dan saw with a shock, Kerry sat with three men and another woman. Someone he couldn't see intoned,
“United States
v.
Beliejvak. United States
v.
Diehl. United States
v.
Donovan. United States
v.
Haneghan. United States
v.
Ostlander.
The defendants will please rise.”

She stood with the rest and faced the bench. The judge asked them, “Do you have counsel?”

A bearded man in a scruffy-looking three-piece suit said, “Your Honor, I represent the defendants.”

The judge raised his voice. “You are charged with an indictment charging you with criminal trespass, destruction of government property, conspiracy, and destruction of national security materials. Do you understand the offenses with which you are charged?”

“No, sir, we don't.” Dan focused on the man who stood beside Kerry. He was older than she, spare, erect, with a high forehead and a narrow, bony face straight from a Dürer engraving. His brown hair was prison-short. He wore a blue chambray shirt with the collar buttoned and black trousers.

“You should. Have all of you seen and reviewed the indictment with your attorney? … Then I'll take it that you understand the offenses with which you are charged. Do you have any other questions?”

The man in the chambray shirt lifted his hand. “Your
Honor, is that considered a count of sabotage? The ‘destruction of national security materials'?”

“I believe it is. Is that the government's understanding?”

A gray suit rose on the judge's right. “That is our understanding.”

“Is it, then, the charge that, by disarming the bomber, we have disarmed the United States and put the people of the United States at risk of attack?”

The prosecutor, dryly, “That is the essence of a charge of sabotage.”

“Deborah,” Dan whispered.
“What
is going on?”

She whispered back fiercely, “What are you doing here, anyway? Who are you?”

“Kerry invited me.”

“Well, be quiet, or they'll throw us all out. They're being arraigned.”

“I can see that, but what for?”

“They carried out an action in New York State last winter. Kerry and Carl went through the fence. Tammy and Clinton drove the station wagon, so they're accessories. Erica helped, but she didn't go along. The state charged them with felony trespass. They went through the whole grand jury thing in New York. But in September, the feds decided to press charges and change venue. So the whole process starts again, only this time in a federal court.”

“Why did they—what's an ‘action,' and—” He stopped as she gave him a look so poisonous, he would not have been surprised to find his buttons tarnished. He rubbed his mouth and sat back.

The judge was saying in a tired voice, “How do you anticipate your clients will plead?”

The bearded attorney: “Not guilty.”

“Do they desire trial by jury?”

“Yes, Your Honor, they do.”

“May I make a statement relevant to my plea?” Kerry said. It was the first time she'd spoken.

“What is it?”

“I want to plead on behalf of the children of the future. That they may live in peace, not under nuclear terror—”

“I don't want to hear it. Guilty or not guilty—that is all I want to hear at this arraignment.”

“I want to plead for the right to—”

“I will assign you a plea of not guilty.”

“Deborah,” he whispered again.

“What?”

“You said they carried out an action.' What exactly did they do?”

“They hammered on a bomber. They poured blood on it. They're facing six to eight years.” She rooted impatiently through her purse, then held out a flyer.

THE STATEMENT OF THE COLUMBIA PLOWSHARES
ACTIVISTS

On February 7, enacting the Isaiah vision of “beating swords into plowshares,” five peace activists calling themselves the Columbia Plowshares of Washington, D.C., carried out acts of nonviolent disarmament on U.S. first-strike nuclear weaponry. Penetrating the boundary wire at Griffiss Air Force Base in Rome, New York, we exposed the genocidal nature of the cruise missile prototypes being flight-tested from the air force base.

We also carried with us an indictment against the U.S. government for crimes against God, humanity, and international law. Since August 1945, the entire world has been held hostage by nuclearism and the exponential rise in military violence. With blind insanity, we have accumulated enough weaponry to eliminate all life on the planet many times over. In the past fifty years, over $13 trillion have been spent on weapons research, development, and deployment.

Disarmament is the first step toward Christ's Kingdom. We refuse to see violence as inevitable, injustice as the order of the day, and death-dealing as the only way of life. Join us in our declaration to announce the jubilee for the poor, relief for the children, and peace for all.

“Thanks,” he muttered, sliding down into his seat. Now he understood the looks his uniform was drawing. A boyish-looking fellow in a loud bow tie kept glancing his way as he scribbled on a pad. He debated leaving, but he didn't want to draw even more attention. Instead, he listened to the judge assigning trial dates, then to a long objection by the government, apparently an attempt to get the defense lawyer off the case. The judge set a motion cutoff date. Then he said, “The parties are entitled to bond as originally set. It is the intention of the court that you be subject to pretrial supervision, and a limitation on travel subject to the approval of the pretrial office.” Kerry started to say something, but he cut her off with “Dismissed. Next case,”

Deborah and Ken and the others got up. He retrieved his coat and cap and shuffled out with them.

Kerry and the other defendants joined them in the corridor. Her face was even whiter than it had been outside. “Well, that's over.”

“You didn't tell me you were the one making the court appearance.”

“I know. Still want to have supper with us?”

He actually didn't, but he was ashamed to admit it. “Sure. Oh—is that the guy I talked to on the phone?”

“Carl, this is Dan. Dan, Carl Haneghen.” They regarded each other; then Haneghen said, “Thanks for coming in uniform. A gesture of support?”

“Not exactly.”

“Are you a friend of the defendants?”

Dan looked around, and there he was, the young fellow who'd been taking notes in the courtroom. Bright red-orange suspenders showing under a rumpled tweed jacket, bow tie, large red plastic-framed glasses on a boyish-looking face. Tousled reddish-blond hair over his ears, and sun-crinkled green eyes. “Martin Tallinger,” he said, shaking Dan's hand before he realized it. “I write on defense policy, military issues for various publications. I couldn't help noticing you in there. Are you a friend of the defendants?”

“I know Miss Donavan.” Simultaneously, Dan recognized the name. Tallinger was the writer-analyst who'd
done the hatchet job on the Tomahawk program.

“Are you a Plowshares member, Commander Lenson? That's the proper rank, right?”

Dan's hand came up to his uniform blouse. Damn it, he'd left his name tag on. “No. I'm not a member, and I'd rather not be mentioned in print, if you don't mind.” Looking4>ast Tallinger, he caught Deborah's sneer.

“You don't want your name to be used?”

“I'd appreciate it. Very much.”

“So your interest is—what? Personal? Professional curiosity?”

He didn't answer. Haneghen said, “Martin, if you have any questions about our witnessing, maybe I can help you.” Tallinger nodded, but his eyes followed Dan as they headed for the exit.

Donavan took his arm. “Last chance to back out. I know this isn't what you expected. But it's who I am.”

“It was kind of a shock.”

“Well, now you know. Deborah? Ken? You coming?”

No one in the group seemed to have a car. They waited till Haneghen came out, then trooped back to the subway. They got off at the Catholic U stop, then stood in line for a bus. When they boarded, they were the only whites on it. A leathery-voiced woman directly behind Dan declaimed for the entire trip in a loud voice, telling everyone about her abusive husbands and her rape by her oldest* son. Occasionally, she reached over the seat to stroke his shoulderboards. The other passengers looked straight ahead or out the windows, or read papers or romance novels. The bus bumped and grunted over cracked, potholed streets. He considered getting off, taking a taxi back downtown, but the uneven sidewalks were deserted as evening came. The few cars were junk heaps or stripped tireless wrecks. It didn't look like many taxis would be cruising here.

They rode for almost an hour. Finally, the doors hissed open on a street lined with dilapidated houses. There were no yards, no lawns, no trees, just cracked asphalt and wrecked cars. But the others didn't seem to mind. They strolled down the street, talking about the court appearanee,
someone's sick child, a vigil for somebody who was being executed.

He walked silently with them, watching as their breath turned white and rose slowly under the occasional intact streetlight. What the hell had he gotten himself into? Then he ordered himself to lighten up. Except for Deborah, they didn't act unwelcoming. And he didn't think anyone from Joint Cruise Missiles would be watching from these peeling swaybacked porches and stoops.

They emerged onto the border of an open field, startling in the center of such a densely populated area. Beyond it rose the spires of a church or basilica.

“Here we are.” Kerry looked over her shoulder as they opened a chain-link gate and went up a short walk. He lingered, looking up at a rather shabby old three-story house squatting in a tiny fenced-in yard, then followed them in.