"The turkey shoot's still going on, Dick. I'm not kidding. Over. Out."
Through most of the running exchange transcribed above, the listener can hear faint popping sounds in the background, not unlike horse chestnuts in a hot fire. One may also hear thin screams... and, in the last forty seconds or so, the heavy, coughing thump of mortar rounds exploding.
Following is a transcription taken from a special high-frequency radio band in Southern California. The transcription was made from 7:17 to 7:20 P.M., PST.
"Massingill, Zone 10. Are you there, Blue Base? This message is coded Annie Oakley, Urgent-plus-10. Come in, if you're there. Over."
"This is Len, David. We can skip the jargon, I think. Nobody's listening."
"It's out of control, Len. Everything. L.A. is going up in flames. Whole f**king city and everything around it. All my men are sick or rioting or AWOL or looting right along with the civilian population. I'm in the Skylight Room of the Bank of America, main branch. There's over six hundred people trying to get in and get at me. Most of them are regular army."
"Things fall apart. The center does not hold."
"Say again. I didn't copy."
"Never mind. Can you get out?"
"Hell no. But I'll give the first of the scum something to think about. I've got a recoilless rifle here. Scum. Fucking scum!"
"Luck, David."
"You too. Hold it together as long as you can."
"Will do."
"I'm not sure - "
Verbal communication ends at this point. There is a splintering, crashing sound, the screech of giving metal, the tinkle of breaking glass. A great many yelling voices. Small-arms fire, and then, very close to the radio transmitter, close enough to distort, the heavy, thudding explosions of what might very well be a recoilless rifle. The yelling, roaring voices draw closer. There is the whining sound of a ricochet, a scream very close to the transmitter, a thud, and silence.
Following is a transcription taken from the regular army band in San Francisco. The transcription was made from 7:28 to 7:30 P.M., PST.
"Soldiers and brothers! We have taken the radio station, and the command HQ! Your oppressors are dead! I, Brother Zeno, until moments ago Sergeant First Class Roland Gibbs, proclaim myself first President of the Republic of Northern California! We are in control! We are in control! If your officers in the field try to countermand my orders, shoot them like dogs in the street! Like dogs! Like bitches with shit drying on their rumps! Take down name, rank, and serial numbers of deserters! List those that speak sedition or treason against the Republic of Northern California! A new day is dawning! The day of the oppressor is ended! We are - "
A rattle of machine-gun fire. Screams. Thumps and thuds. Pistol shots, more screams, a sustained burst of machine-gun fire. A long, dying moan. Three seconds of dead air.
"This is Major Alfred Nunn, United States Army. I am taking provisional and temporary control of United States forces in the San Francisco area. The handful of traitors present in this HQ have been dealt with. I am in command, repeat, in command. The holding operation will go on. Deserters and defectors will be dealt with as before: extreme prejudice, repeat, extreme prejudice. I am now - "
More gunfire. A scream.
Background: " - them all! Get them all! Death to the war-pigs - "
Heavy gunfire. Then silence on the band.
At 9:16 P.M., EST, those still well enough to watch television in the Portland, Maine, area tuned in WCSH-TV and watched with numbed horror as a huge black man, naked except for a pink leather loincloth and a Marine officer's cap, obviously ill, performed a series of sixty-two public executions.
His colleagues, also black, also nearly naked, all wore loincloths and some badge of rank to show they had once belonged in the military. They were armed with automatic and semi-automatic weapons. In the area where a studio audience had once watched local political debates and "Dialing for Dollars," more members of this black "junta" covered perhaps two hundred khaki-clad soldiers with rifles and handguns.
The huge black man, who grinned a lot, showing amazingly even and white teeth in his coal-black face, was holding a .45 automatic pistol and standing beside a large glass drum. In a time that already seemed long ago, that drum had held scraps of cut-up telephone books for the "Dialing for Dollars" program.
Now he spun it, pulled out a driver's license, and called, "PFC Franklin Stern, front and center, puh-leeze."
The armed men flanking the audience on all sides bent to look at name tags while a cameraman obviously new to the trade panned the audience in jerky sweeps.
At last a young man with light blond hair, no more than nineteen, was jerked to his feet, screaming and protesting, and led up to the set area. Two of the blacks forced him to his knees.
The black man grinned, sneezed, spat phlegm, and put the .45 automatic to PFC Stern's temple.