Samanov let his gaze ramble across the crowded room before he continued. “Our two systems are so different and in many ways possibly incompatible. But we are all of us human beings, after all not so different.” He moved his reading glasses further down his nose and pushed his notes to the side.
“But there are those who have not had a chance for the closeness—the understanding. When events are seen at a great distance—and seen only as extensions of policy—there can be no understanding. I beg you to cooperate, so that the opportunity for such understanding will be able to develop—somehow.
“I beg of you—in your own best interests, in the interest of peace, of your people—please accept the inevitable. However great the idea of your country, however noble those original purposes, this body no longer serves them. Please take this opportunity to disband this…”
A few cries of “No!” rose up from the chamber.
“…and relinquish its power to the several administrative areas.”
Many Members of Congress were on their feet now, shouting their protests.
“And I must ask for an immediate vote,” Samanov declared, his voice rising.
“Vote, vote!” demanded the PPP delegation, but they were shouted down by cries of “No!” and “Never!”
Samanov gazed out sadly at the chaos, the long-quiescent remnant of democracy, and when he was sure there would be no vote, that a majority of Congress would not voluntarily disband, he turned and left the chamber. He was tom by conflicting emotions: admiration for their courage and sorrow for the price they would soon pay.
As Petya made his exit, an armed guard bolted the door behind him. Inside the chamber, various members attempted to leave, only to find all doors circling the room locked. The congressmen looked at one another in annoyance, then dread, as they realized that they were prisoners.
Petya stepped into an elegant hideaway office, once the domain of the speaker of the house, that boasted a priceless chandelier, Oriental rugs, a wood-burning fireplace with an ornate marble mantelpiece, and a massive oak desk that had once belonged to President Madison. He slumped at the desk. A Soviet army officer stared at him from the doorway.
“Sir, we are ready,” the officer said.
“Proceed,” Petya said, the word caught in his throat.
Peter had agonized over his speech for days, but once he reached the podium it all seemed natural. He hardly looked at his text; the words flowed easily before this vast multitude that filled the stadium and the millions more he knew were watching on TV. He felt wonderful, ten feet tall, and his conviction gave strength to the words he spoke. Andrei’s plan for the division of America could have found no more eloquent spokesman.
“Heartland is larger than most of the nations of Europe,” he declared. “Our productive capacity is unmatched, our potential unlimited. Our need is to break with the past, to assert our independence and resume our greatness.”
“What the hell’s he trying to say?” Will Milford demanded. He and Alethea had hiked back to the farmhouse and were watching the ceremony on TV in their kitchen.
“Regional pride, I think,” Alethea said. She was worried about Billy; his hiding place might be secure, but it was also monumentally depressing. Would he climb out of there and get himself caught?
“He ought to get to the damn point,” Will muttered.
“As in the past we were proud to be Americans,” Peter continued, “let us now be proud to be Heart-landers.”
“What is this Heartland shit?” Will grumbled. “We live in goddamn Nebraska.”
On the screen, Peter lifted his arms to the heavens. “I ask you, all of you, to join me in proclaiming our new identity, our future… Heartland! Heartland! Heartland!”
The throng in the stadium picked up the chant. The camera panned around, showing tens of thousands of midwesterners on their feet, their fists raised, chanting “Heartland! Heartland!”
As Alethea shouted her anger at the screen, a line of black SSU vehicles was racing up the road. A moment later Helmut stepped from one of them and marched toward the house, his narrow face a cold mask.
The regular Capitol police had been sent home that morning when General Samanov’s crack Soviet troops arrived. Now they controlled the building. Explosives experts moved about its corridors setting their charges. Heavily armed troops dressed not in SSU uniforms but in guerrilla garb waited outside the doors to the house chamber where more than five hundred Members of Congress were captive. At a nod from their commanding officer, they threw open the doors to the chamber and stormed in, firing as they went.
Members of Congress fell to the floor, dead or dying. Others raced about, shouting for mercy, hiding beneath their desks, seeking refuge—but there was none. Soon the chamber was awash with blood, and still the carnage continued. Only PPP members were spared— herded out a side door—and a few others, women and old men for whose lives Samanov had been forced to negotiate. The massacre had not yet ended when subterranean explosions began, deep in the bowels of the Capitol, rocking the monumental old building that had stood like Gibraltar for almost two centuries.
Petya Samanov, alone in the elegant office, heard the explosions and the crackle of gunfire. The chandelier trembled as the blasts drew nearer. This was the darkest moment of his life. He had devoted thirty years to the study of America, and the past ten years to achieving a responsible Soviet occupation of its once-great rival. He had dreamed that the Soviet actions there would live in history as a monument to the wisdom and decency of the Russian people. Now all his dreams were shattered by hotheads in Moscow who understood only hate and power and inevitable destruction. They would have their victory, their conquest, their symbolic rape of a great nation, but generations yet unborn would curse the Russian leaders, would equate them with Attila and Hitler and other of history’s most despised monsters.
Petya Samanov buried his face in his hands. Amid the disaster he had won one small victory: in the years ahead, if all went well, Andrei would be able to build a better America out of the ashes of this tragedy. But that was little consolation. He wondered now, listening to the sounds of destruction and death from below, how he could ever have agreed to come here and carry out these orders. Why had he not had the courage to refuse?
Another blast broke the windows of his office. The officer in charge rushed in. “General, it is time to go. The building may collapse at any moment.”
“It’s done?” Petya said, as if in a trance.
“Yessir. The helicopter is ready. We only have a few minutes.”
Petya nodded slowly, as if he did not understand. “Give me a moment,” he said. “Wait for me outside.”
When the officer was gone, Petya crossed the hallway to the now-silent house chamber. The scene there chilled his heart. Bodies were tossed about like rag dolls. Men of honor, men who had served their people as best they could, were killed; some were still sitting at their places, and now, in death, seemed oddly normal. The walls of the chamber had started to bum.
Samanov walked slowly to the chair in which he had sat. He was devastated—his eyes beyond tears—his spirit killed by what he had caused. He felt the walls tremble as another charge of dynamite racked the building.
Yes, Petya thought, it is time to go. Time to go with honor, with dignity, with a final gesture that perhaps a few would understand, would even respect.
He unsnapped the holster at his side and drew out the small revolver. The building trembled as he did what his honor demanded. He looked out upon the carnage one last time, shook his head slightly, and pulled the trigger.
The SSU troops jabbed them with rifles and forced them to sit on the ground—Will, Alethea, Ward, Betty, and Dieter—while six troopers searched the house and outbuildings. Helmut personally supervised the search, and when it proved fruitless, he marched up to them, seething.