“That hurts the building industry, then,” the Wang International spokesman said, and Crane thought of the namazu.
“Wait a minute,” Newcombe said, standing. “You’re stacking the building industry up against the loss of ten to fifteen thousand lives every year. How can you—”
“That’s all right, Dan,” Crane said, nodding the man back to his seat. “We all inherently care about the value in human lives saved, am I right?”
There was a low mumble of semi-agreement around the table. “There … see?” Crane said. “Everyone’s heart is in the right place.” He looked at Li and Mui. “Have you considered the value of exclusive rights to my program?”
“An exclusive.” Li smiled. “An interesting thought.”
“This would be meant for the world,” Newcombe said, a hint of anger in his voice.
“Certainly it is,” Li replied, “but at what price? If we held the cards, we could sell the information to competing countries on major disasters. Or not.”
Mui laughed and took a drink. “We could make the Earth pay for itself.”
“On the yacht you mentioned re-election,” Gabler said, shifting uneasily in his chair.
“Think about it, Mr. Vice President,” Crane said. “It would seem the ultimate humanitarian gesture. The people of the United States see that their government, the government they thought didn’t care about them in this pay-as-you-go world, is willing to go all out to gather the knowledge to protect its citizens. It’d be worth a sweep in California alone.”
“And what would you get out of the deal?” Masters asked.
“I get what it takes to do the job right,” he said. “This sub we’re riding in belongs to the Geological Survey. I want it. I need every bit of knowledge I can get my hands on. I want control of the thousands of seismographs we’ve planted over this globe, and absolute access to everyone else’s. I want the Geological Survey’s Colorado headquarters and their database. I won’t fire anyone. They’ll simply work for me. I want the entire Global Positioning System, satellites doing nothing but working for me for the next five years. And I want an open checkbook to fund my operations. No overseers.”
“You’ve got guts, all right,” Ishmael said. “What makes you think these power boys are going to share anything with you?”
“That’s where you come in, Brother,” Crane said. “You and Ms. Masters and Mr. Bloom. You three control millions of votes in the major metropolitan areas. With your backing, we could—”
“You don’t have my backing,” Ishmael said simply, standing. “We don’t take handouts from white men. We don’t vote for white men. We are self-sufficient.”
“I’m not talking about handouts,” Crane said, incredulous. “I’m talking about disaster planning. Can you imagine what would happen to the War Zone in LA if the San Andreas Fault—”
“You don’t understand me,” Ishmael said, his voice low. “We take nothing from the white animal and we give nothing. Your silly talk about earthquakes makes me laugh.” He pointed to the window with its view of roiling lava. “This is the will of Allah.”
“That’s not sensible, Brother Ishmael,” Crane said. “If it helps you to save lives, why not take advantage of it?”
“There are worse things than death, doctor. Submission is one. Submission brings slavery and degradation, life worse than any animal knows.”
Crane looked sadly at the floor. “Death is pretty bad,” he said. “It ends everything.”
“We all live forever in the kingdom of Allah,” Ishmael said. “But you wouldn’t understand that.”
“I try, sir.” Pain choked Crane’s voice. “I really do.”
“Why are you here?” Gabler asked Ishmael.
“I came here because—” began Ishmael.
Alarms beeped loudly on the Secret Servicemen. “Sirs,” one of them said, ripping a small scanner from his belt, “we’re picking up some form of surveillance … microwave transmission.”
“Isolate,” Li said, everyone talking now, confusion filling the room as the jumpsuited men moved about, trying to read the signal.
“We scanned,” Crane said. “There was nothing.”
A whistle sounded, followed by the voice of Captain Long over the intercom. “Dr. Crane, we’re picking up microwave generation from somewhere in the foresection … in your area.”
“Must have been turned on in the last few seconds,” Crane said, punching up the intercom on the table. “Thank you, Captain. We’re isolating down here.”
“As I was saying,” Ishmael interrupted, “I came here so I could move through your government’s webs of baffles and bullshit and present you, face to face, with our list of demands. Though your government does not recognize our government, we do exist. And we intend to be heard.”
“What are you talking about?” Gabler said, his hands shaking as his men hurried their scan.
“Autonomy,” Ishmael said. “Self-rule … an Islamic State in North America covering the areas now occupied by the states of Florida, South Carolina, North Carolina, Georgia, Alabama, Louisiana, and Mississippi.”
“We’re close!” one of the scanners called as he and his counterpart converged near the hatchway.
Ishmael, calm in a growing tempest, took a palm-size disc from his dashiki and slid it down the length of the polished table to Gabler. Li grabbed it.
“Our plan for self-rule is outlined on this disc,” Ishmael said, “which is just now being shown to billions of viewers all over the globe. We demand secession, Mr. Vice President. We demand it now!”
“This isn’t the proper setting,” Gabler said. “I do not accept your words or your disc.”
“Here!” one of the techs yelled, pulling something off the wall with a long pair of tweezers and running back to the table. He dropped the miniature camera, no bigger than a pinhead, on the table in front of Gabler, who promptly picked it up and swallowed it. “This … this scene was transmitted.”
“It certainly was,” Ishmael said. “The world now has heard me and our demands—and seen you in action, Mr. Vice President.”
“I doubt very much if the citizens in the states you mentioned would find your claims very legitimate,” Gabler said.
“Perhaps your forefathers should have thought of that before they kidnapped my people from their homeland in slave boats and brought them here.” Ishmael smiled, then walked to a silent Crane. “I don’t care about you or your earthquakes, but I thank you for giving me the opportunity of meeting with Mr. Gabler and his, ah … handlers. Now, I believe I’ll get some rest in my cabin.”
“You are a cruel man,” Crane said.
“No,” Ishmael said, shaking his head. “I’m a dreamer like you. But I have different dreams.”
“No dream, sir. A nightmare of bloodshed, anguish and uncertainty. Just remember one thing: Your issue is important for a time, mine for all time.”
“This package you’re trying to sell these fools isn’t your game at all. You want more, much more.”
Crane stared coldly at him. “Good night, Brother Ishmael.”
The man strode from the deck, Sumi Chan hurrying to catch him.
“Well, this is wonderful, isn’t it?” Gabler said, petulant. He took the disc from Li and stared at it as if it were a dead rat. “We could have had this meeting in Washington, under my security.”
“At this juncture,” Crane said, “you must take my suggestions if you want to survive. Ishmael just made a fool out of you, Mr. Vice President, before the entire world. You can either leave it at that or rethink the situation. All the latest polls I’ve seen show a large and growing segment of the United States population wanting some sort of closure with its own citizens in the War Zone. Caucasians now form only thirty percent of the total electorate. You can use my plan to make it look as if you have extended the hand of friendship to the Nation of Islam only to have it slapped away. If you follow through with my plan, it shows you have the best interests of all citizens at heart no matter how they treat you. If you don’t, I take the issue to your opposition. They won’t mind looking like humanitarians.”