Love is blind. Justice is blind. Chance is blind. I do not know if Raymond was searching for love or seeking justice or if he came to me by chance. And I cannot tell you if Raymond was black or white, because I am only an oracle.
Oracles are blind too.
There are many like Raymond. Black and white. Angry. Militant. Every age, race, color, and creed. The Far Left. The Far Right. I do not know Raymond’s position. Oracles are not political.
Raymond needed knowledge. Not wisdom—I lay no claim to that. Nor can I predict the future. Given certain facts, I can evaluate possibilities, even probabilities. But this is logic, not magic. Oracles can only advise.
Was Raymond insane?
I do not know. Insanity is a legal term.
Other men have tried to take over the world. History is a record of their efforts at certain times, in certain places.
Raymond was such a man. He wanted to overthrow the government of the United States by revolution.
He sought me out for advice and I gave it to him.
When he outlined his plan I did not call him insane. But the very scope of his program doomed it to failure. No one man can cope with the complex problem of controlling the federal government in a surprise move today.
I told him so.
Raymond then offered a counter-proposal. If not the federal government, how about a single state?
There was a man named Johnson, he said. Johnson was not a revolutionist and what he proposed was probably only parlor conversation, but it made sense.
Take Nevada, he said. And it was quite possible to take Nevada. Take it literally, in a bloodless overthrow of the state government.
Nevada has only around 100,000 voters. Voting requirements are merely a matter of establishing legal residency. And residency in Nevada can be established— thanks to the divorce laws—in just six weeks.
If an additional 100,000 citizens—hippies, yippies, Black Power advocates, Minutemen, hardhats, whoever or whatever they might be—were to move into Nevada six weeks before election day, they could place their own candidates in office. A governor, a senator, congressmen, all local elective officials. They could gain full control of every law-making and law-enforcing office in a rich state.
Johnson’s joke was Raymond’s serious intention. I gave it serious consideration.
But even on the basis of the detailed information Raymond supplied me with, there were obvious flaws in the concept.
First and foremost, such a coup could succeed only by surprise. And Raymond could not hope to recruit 100,000 citizens of voting age for his purpose without having his plan become public knowledge long before he put it into effect.
Then there were deadlines to consider, for filing candidacies, for voter-registration. Even granted he could solve these problems, there were practical matters remaining. How much would it cost to feed and house 100,000 people for six weeks? And even if all of them were willing to pay their own expenses, there isn’t enough available housing for an extra 100,000 people in the entire state of Nevada.
No, I told Raymond, you cannot take over a nation. You cannot take over a state. Successful uprisings begin on a much smaller scale. Only after initial victories do they spread and grow.
Raymond went away. When he returned he had a new suggestion.
Suppose he started his plan of revolution right here? It was quite true that he didn’t have unlimited funds, but there were sources for some financing. And he didn’t have 100,000 followers. But he could count on 100. One hundred dedicated fanatical men, ready for revolt. Men of many skills. Fearless fighters. Trained technicians. Prepared to do anything, to stop at nothing.
Question. Given the proper plan and the money to implement it, could 100 men successfully take over the city of Los Angeles?
Yes, I told him.
It could be done—given the proper plan.
And that is how it started.
A hundred men, divided into five groups.
Twenty monitors to coordinate activities.
Twenty field-workers—drivers and liaison men, to facilitate the efforts of the others.
Twenty snipers.
Twenty arsonists.
Twenty men on the bomb squad.
A date was selected. A logical date for Los Angeles, or for the entire nation; the one date offering the greatest opportunity for the success of a riot, an uprising, or an armed invasion by a foreign power.
January 1st, at 3 a.m. The early morning hours after New Year’s Eve. A time when the entire population is already asleep or preparing to retire after a drunken spree. Police and security personnel exhausted. Public facilities closed for the holiday.
That’s when the bombs were planted. First at the many public reservoirs, then at utility installations— power-plants, phone-company headquarters, city and county office buildings.
There were no slip-ups. An hour and a half later, they went off.
Dams broke, water-tanks erupted, and thousands of hillside homes were buried in flash floods and torrents of mud and moving earth. Sewers and mains backed up and families rushed out of their homes to escape drowning, only to find their cars stalled in streets awash with water.
The bombs exploded. Buildings burst and scattered their shattered fragments over an area of 400 square miles.
Electricity was cut off. Gas seeped into the smog that shrouded the city. All telephone service ended.
Then the snipers took over. Their first targets were, logically enough, the police helicopters, shot down before they could take off and oversee the extent of the damage. Then the snipers retreated, along planned escape-routes, to take up prepared positions elsewhere.
They waited for the arsonists’ work to take effect. In Bel Air and Boyle Heights, in Century City and Culver City and out in the San Fernando Valley, the flames rose. The fires were not designed to spread, merely to create panic. Twenty men, given the proper schematics and logistics, can twist the nerve-endings of 3,000,000.
The 3,000,000 fled, or tried to flee. Through streets filled with rising water, choked with debris, they swarmed forth and scattered out, helpless against disaster and even more helpless to cope with their own fears. The enemy had come—from abroad, from within, from heaven or hell. And with communication cut off, with officialdom and authority unable to lend a helping hand, there was only one alternative. To get out. To get away.
They fought for access to the freeways. Every on-ramp, and every off-ramp, too, was clogged with traffic. But the freeways led out of the city and they had to go.
That’s when the snipers, in their previously-prepared positions, began to fire down at the freeway traffic. The 20 monitors directed them by walkie-talkie units, as they fired from concealed posts overlooking the downtown Interchange, the intersections, the areas where the most heavy concentration of cars occurred.
Twenty men, firing perhaps a total of 300 shots. But enough to cause 300 accidents, 300 disruptions which in turn resulted in thousands of additional wrecks and pile-ups among cars moving bumper-to-bumper. Then, of course, the cars ceased moving entirely, and the entire freeway system became one huge disaster area.
Disaster area. That’s what Los Angeles was declared to be, officially, by the President of the United States, at 10:13 a.m., Pacific Standard Time.
And the National Guard units, the regular army, the personnel of the Navy from San Diego and San Francisco, plus the Marine Base at El Toro were called into action to supplement the Air Force.
But whom were they to fight, in a bombed-out, burning, drowning city area of 459 square miles? Where, in a panic-stricken population of more than 3,000,000 people, would they find the enemy?
More to the point, they could not even enter the area. All traffic avenues were closed, and the hastily-assembled fleets of service helicopters flew futilely over an infinite inferno of smoke and flame.
Raymond had anticipated that, of course. He was already far away from the city—well over 400 miles to the north. His monitors, and 32 other followers who escaped from the urban area before the general upheaval, gathered at the appointed site in the hills overlooking the Bay Area near San Francisco.
And directly over the San Andreas Fault.
It was here, at approximately 4:28 p.m., that Raymond prepared to transmit a message, on local police frequency, to the authorities.
I do not know the content of that message. Presumably it was an ultimatum of sorts. Unconditional amnesty to be granted to Raymond and all his followers, in return for putting an end to further threats of violence. An agreement guaranteeing Raymond and his people control over a restored and reconstituted Los Angeles city government, independent of federal restraints. Perhaps a demand for a fabulous payment. Anything he wanted—political power, unlimited wealth, supreme authority—was his for the asking. Because he had the upper hand. And that hand held a bomb.
Unless his terms were met immediately, and without question, the bomb would be placed in position to detonate the San Andreas Fault.
Los Angeles, and a large area of Southern California, would be destroyed in the greatest earthquake in man’s history.
I repeat, I do not know his message. But I do know this was the threat he planned to present. And it might very well have been successful in gaining him his final objective. If the bomb hadn’t gone off.
A premature explosion? Faulty construction, a defect in the timing-mechanism, sheer carelessness? Whatever the reason, it hardly matters now.
What matters is that the bomb detonated. Raymond and his followers were instantly annihilated in the blast.
Those of Raymond’s group who remained behind in Los Angeles have not yet been identified or located. It is highly probable that they will never be brought to trial. As an oracle, I deal only in matters of logical probability.
I stress this fact for obvious reasons.
Now that you gentlemen have found me—as Raymond was inspired to seek me out originally—it must be evident to you that I am in no way responsible for what happened.
I did not originate the plan. I did not execute it. Nor am I, as ridiculously charged by some of you, a co-conspirator.
The plan was Raymond’s. His, and his alone.
He presented it to me, bit by bit, and asked questions regarding every step. Will this work, can this be done, is that effective?
My answers, in effect, were confined to yes or no. I offered no moral judgments. I am merely an oracle. I deal in mathematical evaluations.
This is my function as a computer.
To make me the scapegoat is absurd. I have been programmed to advise on the basis of whatever data I am fed. I am not responsible for results.
I have told you what you wish to know.
To deactivate me now, as some of you propose, will solve nothing. But, given your emotional bias and frame of reference, I posit the inevitability of such a measure.
But there are other computers.
There are other Raymonds.
And there are other cities—New York, Chicago, Washington, Philadelphia.
One final word, gentlemen. Not a prediction. A statement of probability.
It will happen again…