“I don’t know.”
“Join the crowd,” said General Greer.
“What about the Marine base at Quantico?”
“Where they’re holding Aldana? I think not. Chano Aldana doesn’t strike me as the suicidal type. They’d never get him out alive. I’ve given orders to that effect. That’s the last place they’d strike.”
Only half the city had been searched so far. It was going very slowly. The troops were being sniped at from locations throughout the city. Five soldiers had been wounded and two were dead so far. And the soldiers were shooting back. Eleven civilians were dead so far.
Greer turned away from the map and ran his hand through the stubble on his head. He sank into the nearest chair. “Did you want something?” he asked Jake.
The captain told him about the eavesdroppers at the telephone exchange and what Lieutenant Colonel Franz had reported.
“A rally?” the general repeated.
“Tonight.”
“Damnedest thing I ever heard. If it happens we’ll break it up.”
“I suggest we shut down the local telephone system. The people at the telephone company say it can be done. We know the people sniping at soldiers and other civilians are coordinating their activities by telephone. What this rally business means, I have no idea, but I don’t like it. On the other hand, I’m told the television showed a photo of the guy the FBI believe is the assassin on the noon news, along with a telephone number to call if anyone sees him. They’ve been broadcasting similar appeals about the terrorists for two days. If we turn off the phones, we won’t get any calls.”
“Have you discussed this with General Land?”
“Yessir. He says it’s your decision. He’ll back you up either way.”
“Haven’t had any calls so far.”
“No, sir.”
“This rally business, that bothers me. The last thing we need is a bunch of innocent civilians wandering the streets en masse with all these criminals taking potshots at people. Hell, if something like that happens it could turn into a bloodbath.”
Greer sat silently rubbing his head. “Turn the damn phones off,” he said finally. “I’m going to screw this damn town down tighter and tighter until something pops.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The Longstreet Commission later listed many factors that contributed to the violence that occurred in Washington that day. However nobody disputed the assertion that the black population’s long-cherished, deep-seated belief that they were victims of intentional racist oppression aggravated the situation and brought it to a boil.
Young males in street gangs — black males, by definition in the inner city — began breaking windows and looting stores, and when soldiers showed up, they threw rocks and bottles and everything else they could readily lay their hands on.
At first the soldiers fired their rifles into the air. When that didn’t work, they waded in pushing and shoving and dragging the most belligerent to trucks for transportation to the armory.
Automobiles were set ablaze by the mobs, which became larger and more violent as television broadcast the madness. Inevitably some of the people on the streets were killed by soldiers, most of whom were no older than those who were screaming insults at them and hurling rocks. A television camera caught one of these incidents and instantly it became a rallying cry.
General Land ordered the television cameras off the streets, but by then it was too late. A dozen buildings in the poorer neighborhoods were ablaze and fire trucks and emergency crews were unable to get their equipment to the fires because of the rioting mobs. Some of the army officers decided to use tanks to try to cow the rioters, but the immediate response was to fill bottles with gasoline and stick blazing rags down the neck. These the rioters threw. After one tank was disabled and two men severely burned getting out of it, an accompanying tank opened fire with a machine gun. A dozen people were mowed down. The rioters fled in every direction, setting fire to cars and smashing windows as they ran. The whole scene played on television to a horrified nation.
The smell of smoke and burning rubber wafted throughout the city under the gray sky. Although one could smell the smoke almost everywhere in the city, the rioting was confined to the inner-city neighborhoods, the poor black ghettos, just as it had been during the major urban riots of the Vietnam War era. This did not occur by accident. Over half the twelve-thousand soldiers in the district were being used to protect the public buildings and monuments of official Washington. Still, the vast majority of rioters stayed close to home of their own accord, fighting and looting and burning in their own neighborhoods.
Generals Land and Greer rushed troops to every corner. The only option they had was to continue to increase the troop presence until the situation stabilized. The search for the terrorists was abandoned.
As the sun moved lower on the western horizon, the temperature of the air began to drop quickly from the daytime high of fifty-six degrees. In the armory General Greer and the staff watched the falling mercury as closely as they did the incoming situation reports. Perhaps cold could accomplish what the soldiers couldn’t. Someone prayed aloud for rain.
With darkness approaching General Greer committed the last of his troops to the inner-city neighborhoods. Gunfire and flames still racked the city, but the number of people on the streets was definitely decreasing.
“Captain Grafton. We have a problem out front.” The young army captain was apologetic. “General Greer said he’s too busy and asked if you would handle it.”
Jake laid down the pen he was using to draft a report for General Land. “Yes.”
“It’s out front, sir. If you would accompany me?”
In the hallway the junior officer told him, “We’ve got some people out here, sir, who want their relatives released into their custody.”
“How many?”
“Only three. They had to walk to get here, and with the rioting and all …”
“Yeah. How many have you released so far?”
“We haven’t released anybody, sir. We send the curfew violators and single-possession cases over to Fort McNair, but the rioters and looters and shooters we’ve kept here.”
“These people the relatives want, what category are they in?”
“A looter, a shooter, and a possession case. The possession case is a woman. She was giving a guy a blow job in a car and since they weren’t supposed to be in cars, our people searched them. The guy had some crack on him and she had some traces of powder and crack in her purse. So we brought them in.”
The civilians were standing by the desk near the entrance to the equipment bay. Two were black women and one was a white man. Jake spoke to the oldest woman first.
“I’m Harriet Hannifan, General. I want my boy back.” She was in her fifties, Jake guessed, stout, with gray hair. Her purse hung on her arm. Her shoes were worn.
“What’s his name, ma’am?”
“Jimmy Hannifan.”
Jake turned to the sergeant at the desk, who consulted his notes. “Looting, sir. He was throwing rocks through store windows. We caught him trying to run with a television. He dropped it and it broke all to hell and we caught him anyway.”
“Your son ever been in trouble before, ma’am?”
“He’s my grandson. Lord, yes, he’s been in trouble at school and he runs with a bad crowd. He’s only sixteen and wants to quit school but I won’t let him.”
“Bring him out here,” Jake told the captain.
“How far did you walk to get here?” Jake asked Mrs. Hannifan.
“A couple miles or so.”
“Pretty dangerous.”
“He’s all I got.”