There was a dead silence as Shaw waited for the Negro’s answer. Tucker’s face was twisted; his assurance was leaving him now. He said hoarsely, “That’s murder. That stuff’s pure agony. You wouldn’t use that fluid in front of the cameras!”
“Won’t I? Don’t bank on it! If it’s the only thing that’ll make you talk the way I want, I’ll use it all right! Time’s too short for niceties. It’s you or all the world, Tucker.”
Tucker licked at his lips with the tip of his tongue, his gaze flickering around the studio. He sweated. At last he said, “I want to know, what’s in this for me? If I stop the risings and pass a message to Peking… what happens to me?”
Shaw was about to answer him when the man on the phone called out urgently, “Pentagon reports aircraft within fifteen minutes of their position for making their bomb-runs… the President has ordered the missile sites to stand by for blast-off and fighter aircraft of Tactical Air Command are in the air to intercept and shoot down the attacking force. The Sixth Fleet’s already scattered. Washington’s rattled and Kirkham can’t give you much longer.”
Shaw swung round on Tucker, his eyes ice-hard. “You heard what the man said. There’s still time — just — for Peking to recall their aircraft. To be effective, the message has to come from you personally.”
He lifted the aerosol container again and held the nozzle towards Tucker. Tucker made a curious throaty noise that was almost a sob. His face had gone a sickly greenish colour beneath the pigmentation. Hoarsely, seeming physically deflated as he looked in terror at the aerosol, he said, “Don’ do it, jus’ don’ do it. I’ll talk. I’ll help! Jus’ hear me out…”
Shaw glanced at Thorssen and fractionally lowered an eyelid. Thorssen understood. He nodded to the camera crews and himself flicked off the monitor. There was a yell from one of the Black staff, a yell that could have been a warning, but Tucker didn’t take it in and it was never repeated, because one of the security men opened with his sub-machine-gun and the Black dropped with half his stomach gone. The others took the hint. Silently the cameras came alive, so did the mikes. The monitor screen stayed blank — but Tucker was back on the air.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
At countless points throughout the world men and women saw the cameras in Little Canyon bring the screens alive again, saw Tucker’s image come back, and come back with a big difference. In the coloured areas of the British Commonwealth, in Malaysia and Africa and in the far-flung islands, they watched or listened in consternation and alarm and sheer bewilderment. To the vast majority of those millions outside America Tucker’s quickly-cut-off speech had been the first intimation that the Coloured world was on the move. Those who had known the intended pattern of events had been thrown into panic when the cut had come. In White circles — in Washington, in London and the rest of the world’s capitals, and aboard the ships of the United States Sixth Fleet now steaming on divergent courses under full power into the Atlantic — men watched in mounting tension as reports came through of the continued inward flight of the Chinese strike force, of the counter-measures about to go into operation from the North American continent.
No-one in authority was in any doubt as to what was going to happen next if Shaw’s gamble failed.
“Jus’ hear me out,” Tucker said again. The cameras were right on him, and him alone, but with the monitor’s screen blank and dead he was utterly unaware that his words were once again going out to the world; and in any case it was obvious his grip was loosening fast. “I’ll help… but I have to be okay. I’ll want a guarantee of my own immunity. If you can’t give me that guarantee, jus’ bring along someone who can!” There was no response; Tucker mopped sweat from his face, and stared glassily at Shaw and the poised aerosol. He began to gabble. “Lissen,” he entreated in a higher voice than before, “I’ll get Peking to call off the air strike an’ the rest. I’ll give you the location of all the arms dumps in the States. I’ll give you the names of who to arrest, in this country and other places. Jus’ get me that personal guarantee of safety, that’s all.” His eyes seemed riveted now to the aerosol. “Jeez… I don’ want to die that way.”
Tensely Shaw put the final question. “Tucker, suppose I do ask Washington for that guarantee. Suppose they give it. What about the people you were stirring up? Aren’t you asking for any guarantee on their behalf? Don’t you feel in any way responsible for what you’ve led them into?”
Tucker was shouting now. “No… no, I don’! I guess not. I don’ wanna die. You get that guarantee for me an’ I’ll co-operate like I said, any way you want, mister. The rest can take what’s comin’ to them. Like you said, they were dupes. No reason why I should stick my neck out for a crowd of goddam lousy sheep who want the world dropped right in their laps without doin’ a goddam thing to help.…” He broke off, his maddened, staring eyes rolling now towards the Black members of the studio staff, who were gaping back at him.
Shaw was grinning. Tersely he said, “You’re on the air, Tucker, and have been the last few minutes. By my reckoning, you’ve just written yourself right off. There’s going to be only one guarantee and it’s this.” He lifted the aerosol. “You say you don’t want to die this way. In that case, get cracking on Peking… and just remind them, if they need it, that they’re within minutes of having their challenge met. The whole world will know soon what China’s been planning and if the issue’s forced, it’ll be China alone against the rest — and good-bye Peking and Chinese Communism when the first American missiles hit the mainland!”
Tucker’s mouth opened, then shut again. He seemed to be having difficulty with his breathing. His face swelled and he clawed at his collar, loosening his tie. That was when it happened, taking Shaw off guard. He heard a cry from behind, then a shouted warning. There were two bursts of automatic fire as he whirled round. One of the security men was lying on the floor with his skull smashed and a couple of Negroes, both of them studio technicians, one of them with a gun grabbed from the security man and the other with blood pouring from a wound in the side, were moving for Shaw, fast. The nearer one was so close that the guards were holding their fire. Shaw dodged aside but he was a fraction too late; the Negro flung himself bodily on him and they crashed. Shaw felt a foot stamp hard on his right wrist, a paralysing blow that forced his fingers open. While the armed Negro swung sharply to cover the studio staff and the security men, the other grabbed the aerosol and ran for Tucker, who lurched upright in his chair and then scrambled to his feet. The Negro was screaming by this time, screaming at Tucker.
“Lousy bastard… by heaven… you goin’ to die right now for what you done, Mister so-called President Tucker!”
Shaw was on his feet now, and covered like the rest of the personnel by the other Negro’s sub-machine-gun. If one man moved, that Negro was going to colander the lot and Shaw wasn’t going to risk more lives to save Tucker now. He gave one more order: “Keep the cameras on them — and stand clear!”
Tucker was making groaning noises now, his hands weaving about in front of his face, his rolling eyes staring at the other man. Now they were circling, wary of each other, Tucker watching his chance to go in with a Karate deathblow. They went on circling, like wrestlers, hands out in front of them, elbows and knees bent, heads lowered so that the rumps stuck out. Their heavy breathing filled the otherwise silent studio. Then Tucker appeared to see his opportunity and he went forward like lightning with his toughened hand lifted for the final killer blow.