Джон Болл - The First Team

He broke the chain of that daydream and came back to the present; the limited number of people who had come to see the show were looking seaward and pointing. He looked himself and saw in the clearing visibility that the ships were there, closer than he had expected them to be. The operation would be under way on the beach well within the hour; from the looks of the flotilla the place where he had stationed himself was close to ideal. He sat down to rest himself for a few minutes and to think about the speech of greeting he was going to make. From his vantage point he surveyed the beach and saw that there were now press photographers on hand; actually one good one connected with the wire services was all that he needed, two or three made it sure. He spotted at least half a dozen, so that part of the operation was well in hand.

He lay down on the sand, chewing on a straw that he had plucked, and looked into the sky. Once more he felt the total satisfaction of knowing that he would not be willing to trade places with any man in the world — he had everything that money could buy and he was going to have a great deal more. There were light cumulus clouds floating overhead, he amused himself by studying them and picking out the fanciful shapes that suggested themselves to him.

He was aware that there were more spectators gathering — some of them, most of them in fact, would have come to see him. If he showed himself he would be mobbed and would have to scrawl signatures on a wild assortment of pieces of paper, including matchbook covers. He was happy where he was, the peace of the seashore was affecting him and he was enjoying it as an interlude, a moment of calm in his striking and extraordinary life.

He lifted his head enough to see what was happening on the water. The ships were close in now and the first of them were putting landing craft into the water. It was too early for him to appear. The first boat, that would be larger than the others, would be the one he wanted; it would contain a commander of sorts; he would tip off the press and then make his speech of welcome officially to him. That would infuriate about a hundred million Americans at the least and every one of them would be reminded again that Marc Orberg was king and there wasn’t a damn thing they could do about it.

It was some forty minutes later when he spotted the landing craft he was looking for. It was, as he had anticipated, larger than the others and there would be vehicles on board which a commander would use. It would be landing a little way up the beach, which was fine; the more people who saw him running to meet it the better. That was what he wanted them to do; once again he had outsmarted the whole pack and they would find it out, as they always did, just a little too late. The announcement had been made, of course, but one of the secrets of his success was that he always produced more than anyone expected. He wouldn’t disappoint them this time.

It was essential that he time the thing exactly right. He rose from his semi-hiding place; then began to run down the beach at an easy lope which showed off the play of his muscles under his tight clothing and gave everyone a good chance to recognize him. The distance was a bit more than he had realized, or else the exertion of runnir^g in the sand pulled on him more than he had expected, so that when he reached the scene where the vehicles were rolling ashore he was slightly out of breath. He stood there, letting his chest rise and fall, watching the stolid-faced men who were coming up onto the beach, rifles in their hands, puppets engaged in mock warfare against an enemy which did not exist — on the beach or anywhere else in the world anymore. They were the conquerors, nameless numbers on a military roster who knew only how to do what they had been told.

One of them, a minor noncommissioned officer of some sort, waved him aside. Marc laughed at him; the man did not know who he was, of course, and that excused him.

He spotted the commander without difficulty. He could not read the ranks on the uniforms, but the way in which the man conducted himself revealed him at once as the person in charge. The precision with which the door of his vehicle was snapped open and held for him indicated his importance. It was an absurd little panel hardly a foot high which made it slightly easier to mount into the otherwise open military-type car, but it was enough to symbolize his authority. As the commander came up the beach with properly impressive strides, Marc fell in beside him and with his breath still a little short asked, “Do you understand English?”

The commander glanced at him for just a moment and then answered his question by saying, “Go away.”

That was all that Marc needed. “I’m here to welcome you,” he half shouted. Out of the corner of his eye he had detected a press photographer aiming at him and he wanted to be sure that he was heard.

“No,” the commander said, and strode on.

“I’m Marc Orberg,” he announced, his breath coming a bit harder as he sought to keep up with the man who had not been running for the last few minutes. “Marc Orberg!”

The commander ignored him.

That was impossible; Nat, the damn fool, should have told them to expect him, he should have arranged to have the commander briefed in advance. With the man he was trying to greet ignoring him he was running the risk of being made ridiculous in front of the press and all of the spectators. He knew immediately that he could not recoup by waiting for the next important-appearing person; his initial failure would be reported gleefully from coast to coast. The muttonhead in the stiff uniform would have to be made to listen.

Marc spurted forward, then turned and faced the man squarely as he came on. Then he held out his hand, a gesture that could not be ignored. If the jerk didn’t understand enough English it really didn’t matter. There were three photographers now; they seemed to have come up out of the sand.

“Welcome to America!” Marc recited. “For decades this country has suffered under the lecherous greed of the capitalists. You have come.

The commander thrust out his arm and brushed him aside. Then he mounted stiffly into his vehicle.

Full-blown rage took hold of Orberg. He had worked and suffered for these people, he had paved the way for them more than any man who had ever lived and this was his thanks, the gratitude due him! As the vehicle began to move slowly in the sand he ran alongside. “You have come to make us free of the.

The commander was ignoring him, making him totally ridiculous before the whole world. “Listen to me, you goddamned pig,” he shouted, “I’m MARC ORBERG and.

The commander leaned sharply forward and barked a command to an aide sitting in the right front seat. The man responded at once; Marc saw him as he jerked out a pistol, saw the vicious weapon abruptly pointed at his own abdomen, and heard the blast of the shot.

A stab of sudden pain almost paralyzed him; with frightful speed it grew and became unbearable. His knees failed him; the soft sand suddenly became a morass. His lungs pounded in unfelt pain because of the burning horror in his belly; he pitched forward and for an instant felt the hard thump of the sand against his face.

The pain engulfed him; the agony became so frightful that his mind refused to do anything but focus on it in total desperation. He did not even know his own name anymore — only the all-consuming fire of incarnate hell that was raging in his body. He tried to kick his legs to mitigate the agony, but he could not tell if they had responded or not. Then, consumingly, he wanted to die; desperately he wanted death to terminate the intolerable pain he could not endure for another second. He tried to cry out to his god, but he had none to answer him.