Finally the shooting stopped. The guns were silent but the air remained filled with the cries of the wounded. To Karl’s shock he saw Hitler struggle to his feet and flee along the sidewalk, holding his arm. Before Karl could gather his wits and take aim again with his pistol, Hitler had jumped into a yellow Opel sedan and sped away.
Karl added his own shouts to those of the wounded. He turned to Ernst.
“It was you! Why did you hit my arm? I had him in my sights and you…you made me miss!”
“Terribly sorry,” Ernst said, avidly scanning the carnage on the street before them. “It was an accident. I was leaning over for a look and lost my balance. Not to worry. I think you accomplished your goal: This putsch is over.”
The Munich putsch definitely eliminates Hitler and his National Socialist followers.
—The New York Times, November 9, 1923
Karl was overjoyed when Adolf Hitler was captured by the Green Police two days later, charged with high treason, and thrown into jail. His National Socialist Party was disbanded and declared illegal. Adolf Hitler had lost his political firmament, his freedom, and because he was an Austrian, there even was a good possibility he would be deported after his trial.
While waiting for the trial, Karl reopened his bookstore and tried to resume a normal routine in Berlin. But the vision, and the specter of Adolf Hitler, haunted him. Hitler was still alive, might still wreak the horrors Karl had seen. He hungered for the trial, to see Hitler humiliated, sentenced to a minimum of twenty years. Or deported. Or best yet: shot as a traitor.
He saw less and less of Ernst during the months leading to the trial. Ernst seemed bored with Berlin. New, gold-backed marks had brought inflation under control, the new government seemed stable, there were no new putsches in the works…life was far less “entertaining.”
They met up again in Munich on the day of Hitler’s sentencing. Like the trial, the sentencing was being held in the main lecture hall of the old Infantry School because the city’s regular courtrooms could not accommodate the huge crowds. Karl had been unable to arrange a seat inside; nor, apparently, had Ernst. Both had to be content to stand outside under the bright midday sky and wait for the news along with the rest of their fellow citizens.
“I can’t say I’m surprised to see you here,” Ernst said as they shook hands.
“Nor I you. I suppose you find all this amusing.”
“Quite.” He pointed with his cane. “My, my. Look at all the people.”
Karl had already studied them, and they upset him. Thousands of Germans from all over the country swarmed around the large brick building, trying in vain to get into the courtroom. Two battalions of Green Police were stationed behind barbed wire barriers to keep the crowds at bay. During the twenty-five days of the trial, Karl had moved among them and had been horrified at how many spoke of Hitler in the hushed tones of adoration reserved for royalty, or a god.
Today the women had brought bouquets of flowers for their god, and almost everyone in the huge throng was wearing ribbons of red, white, and black—the Nazi colors.
“He’s a national figure now,” Ernst said. “Before the putsch no one had ever heard of him. Now his name is known all over the world.”
“And that name will soon be in jail,” Karl said vehemently.
“Undoubtedly. But he’s made excellent use of the trial as a national soap box.”
Karl shook his head. He could not understand why the judges had allowed Hitler to speak at such length from the witness box. For days—weeks—he went on, receiving standing ovations in the courtroom while reporters transcribed his words and published them for the whole country to read.
“But today it comes to an end. Even as we speak, his sentence is being pronounced. Today Adolf Hitler goes to prison for a long, long time. Even better: Today he is deported to Austria.”
“Jail, yes,” Ernst said. “But I wouldn’t count on deportation. He is, after all, a decorated veteran of the German army, and I do believe the judges are more than a little cowed by the show of support he has received here and in the rest of the country.”
Suddenly shouts arose from those of the huge crowd nearest the building, followed by wild cheering as word of the sentencing was passed down: five years in Landau Prison…but eligible for parole in six months.
“Six months!” Karl shouted. “No, this can’t be! He’s guilty of treason! He tried to overthrow the government!”
“Hush, Karl,” Ernst said. “You’re attracting attention.”
“I will not be silenced! The people have to know!”
“Not these people, Karl.”
Karl raised his arms to the circle of grim faces that had closed about him. “Listen to me! Adolf Hitler is a monster! They should lock him up in the deepest darkest hole and throw away the key! He—”
Sudden agony convulsed through his back as someone behind him rammed a fist into his right kidney. As Karl staggered forward another man with wild, furious eyes and bared teeth punched him in the face. He slumped to the ground with cries of “Communist!” and “Jew!” filling his ears. The circle closed about him and the sky was shut out by enraged, merciless faces as heavy boots began to kick at his back and belly and head.
Karl was losing his last grip on consciousness when the blows suddenly stopped and there was blue sky above him again.
Through blurry eyes he saw Ernst leaning over him, shaking his head in dismay.
“Good God, man! Do you have a death wish? You’d be a bloody pulp now if I hadn’t brought the police to your aid!”
Painfully, Karl raised himself on one elbow and spit blood. Scenes from the dark vision began flashing before his eyes.
“It’s going to happen!” he sobbed.
He felt utterly alone, thoroughly defeated. Hitler had a national following now. He’d be back on the streets and in the beer halls in six months, spreading his hatred. This trial wasn’t the end of him—it was the beginning. It had catapulted him into the national spotlight. He was on his way. He was going to take over.
And the vision would become reality.
“Damn you, Ernst! Why did you have to knock off my aim?”
“I told you, Karl. It was an accident.”
“Really?” During the months since that cold fall day, Karl’s thoughts had returned often to the perfectly timed nudge that had made him miss. “I wonder about that ‘accident,’ Ernst. I can’t escape the feeling that you did it on purpose.”
Ernst’s face tightened as he rose and stood towering over Karl.
“Believe what you will, Karl. But I can’t say I’m sorry. I, for one, am convinced that the next decade or two will be far more entertaining with Herr Hitler than without him.” His smile was cold, but his eyes were bright with anticipation. “I am rather looking forward to the years to come. Aren’t you?”
Karl tried to answer, but the words would not come. If only Ernst knew…
Then he saw the gleam in Ernst’s eyes and the possibility struck Karl like a hob-nailed boot: Perhaps Ernst does know.
Ernst touched the brim of his hat with the silver head of his cane. “If you will excuse me now, Karl, I really must be off. I’m meeting a friend—a new friend—for a drink.”
He turned and walked away, blending with the ever-growing crowd of red and white, black and brown.
1994
The year God had a good belly laugh.
I should have seen it coming when the editor who acquired The Select (formerly The Ingraham) bailed out of Morrow and moved to Hyperion, effectively abandoning the book. But another editor took over and did an excellent job…
Until Hearst decided to sell William Morrow to the highest bidder.
Suddenly it was as if someone had yelled “Fire!” Everyone was running for the doors. The planned promotional tour to flog the novel evaporated. They placed a few print ads, but that was about it. It seemed that every time I called the publicity department, the person I’d spoken to last was no longer with the company. Cha
os…complete chaos.
Bottom line: The novel Morrow had bought for nearly a million dollars and planned to run up the best-seller lists was tossed on the market with virtually no support. It tanked.
Was I bitter? Yes. Almost as bitter as after watching the film of The Keep. But at least then I had Michael Mann to blame. This time I had only a faceless corporation named Hearst.
You want to know the kicker? No one wanted William Morrow. Hearst finally took it off the auction block and things went back to normal—but way too late for The Select.
And people wonder why writers die drunk or go mad.
I hear you out there: “So what? You still banked big bucks.” True. And that was a consolation. But I was and still am proud of The Select. It’s a hell of a thriller and it addresses issues still relevant today. I wanted people to read it. That’s why I write: To be read. Yes, I want to be compensated for my work, but I’m a storyteller. In ancient times I’d be wandering from campfire to campfire telling tales in exchange for brontoburgers.
I got through it all by burying myself in work—and I had plenty of that. I was knee-deep in my next novel, Implant, reading for Diagnosis: Terminal, still developing (along with Matt) the FTL Newsfeed story lines, and the interactive gigs were flowing in.
We snagged a development deal with Media Vision for DNA Wars. While working on that we came up with another interactive project we called Mirage. We were also meeting with Voyager, Fox Interactive, Time Warner Interactive, R/Greenberg Associates, Stan Winston Studio, and Scholastic, pitching interactive movie ideas to a new company called Interfilm. Matt’s name opened doors.
Then in July the SciFi Channel asked us to take over the scripting of FTL Newsfeed. We jumped at the chance. Now we could take complete control of the characters’ actions and dialogue. Plus it was wonderful experience. We were scripting one minute of TV a day, five days a week, every week. That’s four hours and twenty minutes—the equivalent of two theatrical films—per year.
We were getting so busy we decided to incorporate. We became P.M. Interactive, Inc., a subchapter-S corporation.
And then the matter of my medical career. I was still practicing family medicine full time. Something had to give, and that something was the medicine. But I couldn’t quit. After twenty years in the same practice, I’d forged too many bonds, had too many people depending on me to simply turn my back and walk away. I chose to cut back. My partners weren’t happy to hear I’d be working only Mondays and Tuesdays, but they didn’t have much choice.
Up to this point Matt and I had been logging a lot of miles and generating a lot of interactive smoke, but not much in the way of fire. Microsoft would change that. In August their interactive/gaming wing flew us out to Redmond for a round of meetings which we felt went very well. So did Time Warner. Apparently Larry Kirschbaum had heard about the trip and feared we’d wind up with Bill Gates. When we returned from Redmond our agent told us that Time Warner Electronic Publishing (TWEP) and Time Warner Books were making a combined preemptive bid on DNA Wars and Mirage for interactive CD-ROMs and related novels—a big offer. We thought Microsoft might be a better place for the games (we were prescient), but no way they could match the publishing power of Time Warner Books. We accepted.
And so the meetings began. Everyone agreed that Mirage should be the first project.
Matt and I were also meeting frequently with Bob Bejan of Interfilm—a new interactive (that word again) technology that allowed audiences to choose the course of a film by pressing buttons on a joystick attached to their theater seats. Though the technology worked beautifully, the first two Interfilms, I’m Your Man and Ride for Your Life, were lame with a capital L. But the potential was mind-boggling—if Bob could get the right writers.
Matt and I knew immediately that the smirking, winking comedy of the first two films negated the technology’s potential to engage the emotions. We told Bob we wanted to write an Interfilm, but one with high stakes—life and death—peopled with characters you cared about, where their lives were in your hands and it mattered to you whether they lived or died. Our treatment for an interactive script about a crazed toymaker who traps three members each of the FBI, ATF, and IRS in his elaborately booby-trapped house blew him away. (Pardon the pun.) We called it Bombmeister.
So…Matt and I were writing the Mirage novel and structuring the game while simultaneously designing the Bombmeister interactions and scripting FTL (and hovering over the video shoots for last-minute dialogue changes).
On my own I was editing Diagnosis: Terminal (delivered two months late) and finishing Implant. My agent sent Implant to Morrow (by contract they had first look) but because sales of The Select had not met expectations (imagine that), they turned it down. We sold it to Forge as the first of a three-book deal.
Looking back, I don’t know how I kept all those balls in the air. But somehow I did. I loved the work and the challenges and the feeling that I was part of pushing the entertainment envelope in a new direction.
“OFFSHORE”
One of the conditions of my contract to edit the Diagnosis: Terminal anthology was that I had to contribute a story. Fine. But what? I hadn’t a clue until Hillary Clinton declared herself czarina of the US health system.
It really started back in February 1991, when my agent leant me his house in the Florida Keys for a week. I fell in love with the Lower Keys. Above Seven-Mile Bridge is pretty much an extension of South Florida. But something changes below it. It’s more like a separate Caribbean country, with a lazier rhythm and a sultrier vibe.
I knew I had to set a story there, but didn’t get around to it until 1994.
On rereading “Offshore” for this collection I was struck by parallels between Terry Havens and Repairman Jack. I think my subconscious wanted me to spend more time with Jack; and if I wasn’t going to do that, it would see to it that I wrote about someone like him. Eventually my subconscious would have its way. But not for a few years yet.
“Offshore” is a product of its times. If you remember, during the early 1990s Hillary Clinton had put herself in charge of revamping the country’s healthcare delivery system. What she came up with was so abstruse and unworkable that even her staunchest supporters backed away for fear of being tainted. Medical personnel shook their heads in dismay. (I poked fun at it in an essay in The New York Times Book Review.)
She and a lot of others seemed to be looking for a Canadian-style system. But you have to wonder: If the Canadian system is so great, why are the US hospitals along our northern border so full of Canadians?
So I took Theodore Sturgeon’s advice from ages ago and asked the next question: If Hillary succeeded in imposing a Canadian-style system on us, where would we find our safety valve?
Mexico?
Thanks, no.
We’d probably be forced to go…
Offshore
“Got a doozie comin’, Terr.”
Ernie stood at the big picture window with his thumbs hooked in his belt on either side of the gut pouting over his buckle, and stared out at Upper Sugarloaf Sound.
Terry Havens looked up from the bar where he’d been making a wet Olympics symbol with the bottom rim of his sweating Red Stripe.
“Good. Maybe it’ll cool things off a little.”
Terry had been expecting the storm, looking forward to it, in fact. But not because it would cool things off.
“I think this mother might do more than cool things off. This’n looks mean.”
Terry took a swig of the Red Stripe and carried the bottle to the big window. He stood beside Ernie and took in the view. Bartenders always need something to talk about. Not much happening during off-season in the Keys, so some heavy weather would keep Ernie going through the rest of the afternoon and well into the evening.
And this looked pretty damn heavy. A cumulonimbus tower was building over the Gulf, dominating the western sky. Some big mother of a storm—a dark, bruise-purple underbelly crowding the entire span of the horizon while its f
at, fluffy white upper body stretched a good ten miles straight up to where the shear winds flattened and sluiced its crown away to the north. Anvil-topped buggers like these could be downright mean.
“Where you got those glasses hid?”
Ernie limped back to the bar and brought out the battered field glasses he’d smuggled home from the Gulf War. Terry fitted them over his eyes and focused on the body of the storm. What looked like fluffy vanilla cotton candy to the naked eye became slowly boiling steam as violent updrafts and downdrafts roiled within.
Damn. He’d been looking for a storm, but this thing might be more than he could handle. Like casting light tackle out on the flats and hooking something bigger than your boat.
He lowered the glasses. He was going to have to risk it. He’d promised the Osler a delivery on this pass, and tonight was his last chance. The big boat would be out of range by tomorrow.
Besides, the worse the storm, the better his chances of being alone out there on the water. Not even Henriques would be out on patrol in the belly of the beast growling on the horizon.
Terry finished the rest of his Red Stripe. “One more of these before I get moving.”
“Sure thing,” Ernie said.
As Terry returned to his stool, he glanced across the horseshoe-shaped bar and saw two of the grizzled regulars poking into their wallets with nicotine-yellowed fingers. Reed-thin, wild-haired, leather-skinned, stubble-cheeked Conchs.
“Betcha that storm’s good for at least five spouts,” Rick said.
Boo flipped a sawbuck onto the bar. “Ten says you don’t see more’n three.”
Rick slapped a bill down on top of Boo’s. “Yer on.”
Terry smiled as he reached for the fresh bottle Ernie put in front of him. Those two bet on anything. He’d seen them wager on the number of times a fly would land on a piece of cheese, the number of trips someone would make to the head in an evening. Anything.