So the government would send in its armies. And Bouchek would be just one step ahead of everybody else. He had already found out that the National Guard second lieutenant on the scene wanted to be an anchorman. Bouchek had promised to make him one, and the second lieutenant had promised Bouchek the use of his jeep when the battle started.
Bouchek would ride into the war zone on the hood of the jeep. The cameras were already set up in the vehicle's back seat. In his mind's eye he could see it now.
Jonathan Bouchek, in profile, in three-quarter silhouette, his outline dark against the flashing light of government explosives and bombs, moving forward into battle to bring America the news as it happened. Edward R. Murrow, Elmer Davis, Fulton Lewis, Jr.—move aside. Here comes Jonathan Bouchek.
But the hated government had not yet charged, and now his pancake makeup was starting to crack at the folds in his face, as it did every morning after being on all night. And when it cracked, it itched. And he was afraid to scratch it because he knew that the moment he scratched it, the attack would start and he would not even be presentable on camera.
That would be just his luck. When the government went berserk against those sweet young men at Attica, Bouchek had been in the cafeteria having coffee. When the first ransom demand had been received in that San Francisco kidnapping, Bouchek had been three blocks away in a telephone booth, arguing with his office about his expense account.
This time he would not fail. He would not scratch his face, no matter how much it itched. If he got pimples—well, then he would get pimples and a dermatologist would solve that problem later. But for the time being, he would go ahead and suffer. It was all for America's benefit.
He looked around him at the sleepy press encampment in the early morning light. From his pocket he fished a small can of throat spray and worked over his tonsils for a few moments.
Another deadly dull night of no news. Back in New York, where they worried about things like that, they were soon going to start wondering if it was worthwhile having Bouchek on the scene if he was sending back so little news worthy of air time.
And then Bouchek heard some squealing and squeaking. It was Jerry Candler, running around, announcing that he was going to hold his own press conference in exactly thirty minutes and demanding that everyone attend.
Bouchek filed the ploy away for future use. Hold your own press conference. If there's no news, make some. That would get tube time. On the other hand, his network might not be happy with his becoming a newsmaker. He would have to sniff around to try to find out what their policy was about it.
Bouchek got a crewman with a hand camera and a sound technician, and after a wake-up cup of coffee, he followed the crowd of reporters to a point halfway between the line of marshals and the occupied church of Wounded Elk.
Candler had gotten himself a crowd. All the reporters were there. And there were a dozen or so of the RIP people, including Lynn Cosgrove, who was loudly insisting that she be called Burning Star. She nodded a lot while the talking was going on, and occasionally she moaned. Next to her was Dennis Petty, and next to him a minority-party United States senator.
Candler waved his hand for silence. "The pig government during the night brutally murdered two innocent Indians. I know because I was there. I saw their bodies. And I know they did nothing to warrant their deaths. They were unarmed. They were peacefully standing by the monument when they were killed brutally by five men wearing the uniforms of the United States Pig Army.
"The army will of course deny this. It may be denied all the way to the highest circles of Washington. But it happened. I saw it with my own eyes. And I write a column for the New York Globe."
There was hardly a dry eye in the crowd when he had finished. But the onlookers didn't have a chance to subdue their emotions before that pushy reporter with the plaster head from one of the local New York stations started asking questions. The nerve of him, though Jonathan Bouchek.
"Who were the two dead men?" the pushy reporter asked.
Candler looked surprised that anyone would care. He turned to Dennis Petty. "Who were the two martyrs?" he asked Petty.
Petty turned to Lynn Cosgrove and whispered, "You're good at this. Give me two Indian names."
"Uhhh, how about Bright Water and Treetop Tall," she whispered back.
Petty looked disgusted. "Bright Water's all right, but Treetop Tall sounds like something from the top forty." Stalling for time, he covered his eyes with his hand as if overcome by emotion. "Hurry up, bitch," he hissed.
"Sun That Never Sets," she said.
"Ohhhh," he groaned loudly. "My two companions who rode with me on the trail of elk and buffalo, Bright Water and Sun That Never Sets. Brutally massacred by the white-eyed devils, never to be seen again."
Reporters scribbled furiously. The minority-party senator was choked with grief. Tears ran down his face.
"That's terrible," he blubbered. "Awful. I think we should give everyone a thousand dollars."
"Tokenism," said Petty angrily. "We will not be satisfied with your government's filthy money. If it were an adequate amount, not just tokenism, we might talk."
"I think we should give everybody five thousand dollars," said the Senator. "Reparations. To try to rebuild the wounded soul of the brave red man."
"Oh, my soul bleeds at Wounded Elk," moaned Lynn Cosgrove.
"Knock off the commercials," hissed Petty. "I'm doing my own book, you know."
The press conference went on and on. Somebody handed Petty a rifle, and he danced around, waving it over his head.
Jonathan Bouchek was cheered up some. That footage was good, and it would enable him to drop the film of Jerry Candler making the initial charges. Why publicize a competing newsman?
Bouchek grabbed his small camera crew and moved away from the ring of reporters and the swelling number of Indians, who, now that they had awakened, were showing up to be on television.
Bouchek wet his right index finger on his tongue and smoothed the makeup in the creases of his face.
Then, as his camera rolled, he improvised: "Wounded Elk today was the scene of yet another massacre in its long, bloody history. Two Indian men—Bright Ocean… er, Water… and Sun That Never Rises—were shot down and killed by a company of soldiers here in the town that is being occupied by Indians protesting American oppression.
"The brutal slayings were witnessed by a number of people, among them a reporter for a major New York newspaper. Dennis Petty, chief of the Revolutionary Indian Party, said that the dead men were peaceably demonstrating when they were killed. He described them as decent, honest family men, both deeply involved in the Indian movement. He vowed never to rest until their deaths are avenged.
"And so the stage may once again be set for bloodshed at Wounded Elk."
Jonathan Bouchek would not know it until his office queried him on it, but his luck had again run true. While he was on camera, he missed a few other items from the press conference.
First, the minority-party senator promised a Senate investigation of the atrocity, which he called the worst genocidal act by America since its slaughter of Mexican patriots at the Alamo.
Second, Dennis Petty vowed that his RIP members would go on the warpath just as soon as Perkin Marlowe, the great actor and Indian and revolutionary leader, arrived upon the scene, which might be any minute.
"When he comes," Petty said, "we will seize our guns and march against the oppressors. Like a red wave, we will sweep this nation. We will win, or we will die," he said, adding, "which is going to be the title of my book about these atrocities."