DEATHWATCH
  The word spread like a raging forest fire across the
torn nation: Ben Raines is dying.
  Sam Hartline's spotters reported large
groups of Rebels gathered around Ben's command post,
standing quietly. Waiting.
  Then the word came, buzzing out of the radios:
The Eagle is dead.
  Hartline sent in a team to check it out. They
reported back with grim satisfaction. Ben
Raines was dead. The Rebel movement was in chaos.
  Sam Hartline leaned back in his chair and howled
his laughter.
  "Get the boys ready," he ordered. "We're
gonna kick those damn Rebels into the sea!"
WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE THE PREACHER
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Wind in the Ashes
BY WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE
  PINNACLE BOOKS KENSINGTON PUBUSHING
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httpccwww.williamjohnstone.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents
are either the product of the author's imagination
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Copyright [*copygg'1986 by William W.
Johnstone
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be
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Pinnacle and the P logo Reg. U.s. Pat.
and TM Off. First Zebra Printing:
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Printed in the United States of America
  Me, comprenez-vous?
  Non, je ne vous comprends pas!
  I bend but do not break.
  -Jean de la Fontaine
Book One
Chapter One
  Ben stood in the deep timber that surrounded his
camp and listened to the sounds of nature returned
to pure nature. Was earth's destruction the work of
God? he pondered. Back in '88, when the world's
leaders finally decided upon the ultimate answer
to everything-war-was God's hand guiding the human hand
that pushed the button?
  Had He tired of it all? Had He so wearied
of humankind's continuous screwing-up that He, not
mere man, decided upon the ultimate response?
  Ben didn't know. But he strongly suspected his
suspicions were correct.
  I am facing so many problems, he silently
mused. And not the least important of them is the
matter of getting back to God. If this shattered and
battered land is to ever pull itself out of the ashes and
back to some degree of normalcy, the land and its people
are going to have to have some divine help.
  Not a very religious man, and certainly not a
praying man, Ben felt impotent in his lack of
ability to communicate with The Man.
  He thought of Gale. He smiled. Or The
Woman-
  whatever the case may be.
  But, he thought with a sigh, I firmly believe the
age of miracles is long past. And since God
so loved His warriors, perhaps He is looking
to warriors to aid Him. So-he touched the butt of his
shoulder-slung Thompson-let us give God a
helping hand.
  But, he mused, looking heavenward, it is a
two-way door, Lord. I can't do it alone. So
don't leave me alone. Lend me a hand.
  Amen. Or whatever.
  Ike and Colonel Dan Gray stood several
hundred meters back from Ben, watching him.
  "I do believe the general is praying,"
Colonel Gray remarked.
  "Probably," Ike agreed. "Ben never
wanted the role of leader. He damn sure never
asked for it. Everybody just thrust it at him without
giving him any options. I'll say this, though: a
hundred years from now, when this nation is once more
functioning, and historians are writing about how it
pulled itself out of the ashes of war, that man standing right
over there will be the man they write about."
  "Most assuredly. I do wish he'd carry a more
modern weapon, however. That damned old Thompson
has to be fifty years old."
  Ike grinned. "There isn't an original part
left in that thing. It's been reworked so many times it's
practically brand new."
  They watched as Ben touched the stock of the
Thompson submachine gun and turned, looking at
the men looking at him.
  "Does Ben know that weapon is nearly as revered
and feared as he is?" Gray asked.
  "Yes. But he doesn't know what to do about either."
  Ben walked toward his friends and fellow warriors.
  "If he pulls this off," Gray said, referring
to the upcoming confrontation with the Russian commander of the
IPF, Striganov, and the mercenary, Hartline,
"Ben will be more feared and revered than before."
  "He knows that too. He also knows he doesn't
have any choice in the matter. He's just got to do it,
and he's going to."
  Ben was fast approaching them.
  "He's fully recovered from his wounds," Gray
observed. "And you know what that means."
  Ben settled it. "Assimilate all the recon
intel thus far received," he ordered.
"Ike, get on the horn and tell your motorized
battalion to push it. Get here. Both of you meet
me in my CP in one hour. We're jumping off in
forty-eight hours."
  Ike grinned. "Yes,
sir!"
  "It's going to be a bloody son of a bitch!"
Ben told the Rebels gathered in his command post.
He pointed to a spot on the map on the table.
"Striganov and Hartline control everything, and I
mean
everything,
from the Nevada line west to the coast in this area of
California. In Oregon, Hartline's people control
everything west of Highway Ninety-seven. Now both
men have their people spread pretty thin. But even at that,
we're going to be badly outnumbered."
  "Ain't we always?" a young lieutenant muttered,
caught herself, flushed, and glanced at Ben.
"Sorry, General."
  Ben smiled. "That's all right. And you're right.
But right, I think, is the key word here. We're
right, and they're wrong. Now, our recon intel shows
that Striganov and Hartline have beefed up their own people
considerably by enlisting a lot of these local
warlords. Their people are, for the most part, ill-trained with a
noticeable lack of discipline; but they're very
savage. As much as I despise Hartline and
Striganov, I will give them credit for having
professional soldiers under their commands. But we must
not discount the warlords. Bear that in mind-always!
  "I hate to split our forces. But under the
circumstances, I don't see any other way
to accomplish our mission. We're not going to stand and
slug it out, people. We try that, and we'll get
creamed. As good as we are, we can't survive against
these overwhelming odds in a stand-up, conventional type
of war."
  Ben paused, noting the grins of Ike and Gray.
"You two apes find something amusing about all this?"
he asked.
  "Oh, quite, General," Gray said.
  "Oh, just ducky, lovey," Ike mimicked the
Englishman's precise manner of speaking. Something
the Mississippi-born Ike had been doing for
years.
  The two men were very close friends, although that was hard
to pick up from listening to them.
  Dan looked at Ike. "Cretin!"
  "Smartass!" Ike popped back.
  "Barbarous pirate!" He was referring to Ike's
belonging to the famous, or infamous, Navy
SEAL'S.
  "Stuck-up snob!" Ike told him. Dan had
been a member of England's famous, or infamous,
depending on one's point of view, SAS.
  "Illiterate redneck!" Dan countered.
  Ben let them have at it, knowing that when soldiers
stop bitching and joking, you have a very bad morale
problem.
  Colonel Dan Gray drew himself up to full
height and sneered at Ike. "Of course,
my
Scouts will lead the way into this upcoming fray."
  "That's
your
ass!" Ike popped off. "Your Scouts couldn't
find their way to the bathroom. SEAL'S go in first.
My
people will spearhead."
  Ben put an end to it and brought everyone in the tent
to full alertness and shocked silence.
"Rangers
lead the way," he said. "I'm picking a team and
we'll jump in."
  "Now see here, General!" Gray said, his tone
shocked. "That is totally unacceptable.
Generals
do
not
lead the way. Why ...!" he blustered.
  Ike pounded on the table. "I'll be goddamned,
Ben!" he shouted at his closest friend. "You'll
jump in over my ass!"
  The lieutenants and captains in the room stood
and stared in shock at Ben Raines. The general's
hair was salt-and-peppered with age. He had to be
fifty years old. And he'd just been hideously
wounded during the battle with Hartline.* If something
happened to Ben Raines? ...
  No one even liked to think about that. General
Raines was the Rebels. General Raines was the
* Alone in the Ashes
  very core of the movement to pull the ailing country out
of the ashes. Many people throughout the war-ripped nation thought the
man to be a god. The underground people worshipped him;
altars had been built around the nation, erected
to Ben Raines. The man was a living legend.
  "I lead the way," Ben said quietly,
calmly. He stared Ike into silence. "There
will be no more discussion on that topic. Those of us who will
be jumping in will use steerable dash chutes. See
to them, Lieutenant Barris," he said, looking at
the young woman who had spoken earlier. "You will lead
a team in with me."
  "Yes, sir." Like every woman she knew, she was
in love with Ben Raines. Like every person her age,
the young Rebel could not remember when the nation had been
whole; when there were schools and factories and law and
order and places of safety and productivity.
She had been eight years old when the world
exploded. As so many had done, she had forced the past
from her mind, not wishing to relive the horror.
  "Now, as to why these two jokers"-he cut his
eyes to Dan and Ike-"were insulting each other.
We will fight a guerrilla war once inside the
areas controlled by the enemy. We will carry in as much as
we can stagger with. And we're going to be heavily
loaded. We're going to be forced to live off the land.
I suspect this operation will take a long time. I'm
looking at six months, minimum. We are not going
to leave the enemy-controlled area until the
Russian and Hartline are dead. They are the main
stumbling block in getting this country on the right
track back to normalcy. Dan, we'll
go over the maps, then you'll send
  Pathfinders in to lay out the DZ."
  "Yes, sir."
  "Ike, get on the horn and tell Cecil
to get out here. He's going to have to take command of the
battalion kept in reserve. We've got
to pull all the stops out, people. All right, get
cracking!" He glanced at Lieutenant Barris.
"Stay."
  "Yes, sir." She felt a flush of sexual
excitement as she looked into Ben's eyes.
  Perhaps they could ... his
Chapter
Two
  "If you weren't good at your job,
Lieutenant," Ben said to her, after the command post had
emptied, "Ike wouldn't have picked you."
  "Thank you, sir."
  "What is your first name?"
  "Sylvia."
  "Sylvia it is. How old are you?"
  "Twenty-three, sir."
  Jesus! Ben thought, suppressing a grimace.
He suddenly felt every bit of his age.
  "Where were you born, Sylvia?"
  "Michigan, sir. I mean, I guess I was
born there. That's where I was when ... everything fell
apart."
  "You were about eight or nine." Not a question.
  "Eight, I think, sir. I've ... uh ..."
  "Suppressed it," Ben said gently.
  "Yes, sir."
  "I don't blame you. There was a lot of human
filth prowling around back then. We had a way of
dealing with them back in the Tri-States."
  "Yes, sir. I remember."
  So she had been one of the survivors of the old
Tri-
  States, Ben thought. One of the few to escape that
bloody time. Ben tried to at least know the faces of
those who served under him, but sometimes it was impossible.
  He looked at Sylvia. Brown hair, worn
short for the field. About five five. Slim, but with
an aura of strength emanating from her. Pale green
eyes. Pretty, with a sassy sort of look about
her.
  She met his direct stare.
  "All right, Sylvia. Thank you."
  "Will that be all, sir?"
  "For the time being, Sylvia." He left the
unspoken open.
  She left the command post, conscious of General
Raines's eyes on a certain part of her
anatomy. She knew, as did everyone else, that the
general liked the ladies.
  That was fine with Sylvia; all Ben had to do was
ask.
  Walking away from the command post, she wondered how
Ben Raines survived the initial shocks of
war?-"way back when she was just a little girl.
  Wasps, probably. Although Ben would never know for
sure. He had been a writer, living in the
Delta of Louisiana. A loner, people called him.
He had been a member of the super-secret Hell
Hounds. That small and highly elite branch of the
U.s. Army; its ranks filled with Green
Berets, Rangers, A.f. Commandos, Marine
Force Recon, Navy SEAL'S and UDT. They
were the most highly trained battalion of men in the
world.
  Ben had taken his experiences in dozens of tiny
brush wars around the globe and put them on paper,
becoming a widely read author.
  On the first day of the germ-warfare attacks on the
U.s., Ben had been hit by dozens of
yellow-jacket wasps and stung
into unconsciousness. He had been told by medical
people that that had probably saved his life, counteracting
the biological warfare that floated invisibly around
the globe. Then the bombings had begun, and Ben had
drifted in and out of consciousness, unaware of the
horror that was taking place around the world. He was
sick for many days, barely surviving the venom from the
wasps.
  When he was back on his feet, he discovered the
terrible fate the world had suffered.
  His sole goal had been to travel the U.s.,
transcribing on paper and tape recordings, and then
chronicling the events in a book, a book that,
hopefully, would tell the why and how of it all.
  But it was not to be.
  He discovered that he had been picked to lead the
nation back from devastation, to bring it out of the ashes.
  But Ben didn't want the job, and had told the
people he didn't.
  They insisted, and in the end, Ben found himself the
leader of thousands.
  Tri-States was formed. A country within a
country; a place where crime was virtually
nonexistent, where everyone who wanted work
found it. It was not a Utopian society, for the
laws in the Tri-States were harsh if violated.
And it did not matter how rich or how poor one
was; the law was the law. Outside the
  boundaries of the Tri-States, the rest of the nation was
picking itself up and trying to function, and Ben
Raines's critics were many and vocal. Ben
Raines became a hated and feared man.
  He was so hated his own brother tried to kill him.
  A member of a neo-Nazi hate group, the
elder brother had slipped past the closed borders
of the Tri-States and tried to assassinate his
brother, almost succeeding.
  Probably the darkest day in America history
came when the government sent troops in to smash the
Tri-States. They'd destroyed the small nation,
but could not kill the dream of Ben Raines and his
Rebels.*
  But Ben, with a handful of survivors, had
escaped, and waged a guerrilla war against those in
power in America.
  A decade after the bombings that ruined the world, a
plague had struck the world, and civilization was no
more.
  The world's population was reduced to roving
gangs, warlords, dog-eat-dog savagery and
barbarism.
  Raines's Rebels grew in size and number as
people realized that Ben was the key to bringing back-if that was
possible-some degree of stability.
  Then the Russian Striganov and his
IPF-InTERNATIONAL Peace Force-entered the
U.s., teaming up with the mercenary Sam Hartline.
Striganov's dream was a pure white nation. He
began systematically destroying human beings.
Until Ben Raines stepped
*Out of the Ashes
  in to stop him. They had been at war ever since.
  New territory, Ben thought, sitting alone in his
command post. We'll be going into new territory. And
we have so few planes and pilots, most of my people will
have to come in by truck. Or on foot. The pilots will
have to make many, many drops, resupplying us. And that
will put their lives in very high risk.
  He minutely shook his head, thinking: Can't be
helped. There is no other way. Striganov and
Hartline must be stopped, once and for all.
  Ben rose from his chair and walked out of his command
post, getting into his pickup and traveling to the
airstrip. There, he walked around the
planes, visually inspecting. They were old, but in
fine shape. The pilots, many of whom had been with
Ben from the outset, years back, were in one of the
buildings, going over maps, plotting their course.
  Ben walked to the largest of the buildings still standing.
Lieutenant Barris was using that for her riggers
to inspect and repack each chute.
  The clock was ticking. Jump-off time was fast
approaching.
  Ben wondered if Rani was still alive.
  In his command post in northern California,
General Striganov wondered when the attack would
come. He now knew for certain, through his recon
teams, that Ben Raines was indeed alive and massing
his people for attack.
  The war to end all wars, the Russian thought,
humor touching his mind. How many times have men repeated
that phrase?
  There never will be a war to end all wars. Not as long
as there are two people remaining on earth with two opposing
ideas and there is a club or a stone handy.
  It is the nature of humankind to fight,
Striganov mused. Men fighting over women, women
fighting over men. Both sexes fighting over
territory, or religion, or whatever one
has the other wants.
  Sam Hartline was the perfect example of that.
Sam Hartline was the universal soldier. And he
really didn't give a damn which side he was
fighting for, or on.
  But the Russian was glad Hartline was on his
side. The man was a savage. A fine soldier;
a good, if not brilliant, tactician. And he
could take and carry out orders.
  As long as he was supplied with women.
  The man was the epitome of a satyour. Completely
insatiable. And he liked to inflict pain on the
woman of choice. But then, the Russian thought, so
do I.
  His thoughts turned bitter as he thought of the woman
Hartline had kidnapped from Ben Raines. Rani.
The Russian had been unable to break her. He had
beaten her, abused her mind and body, and raped her.
  Then, in disgust, he had given her to Hartline.
  It seemed she had screamed for days after that
decision.
  Before she died.
  The Russian turned his chair, looking through the
window toward the north. He hoped Hartline and his
men were in place. And he hoped neither of them
would underestimate Ben Raines. He didn't
believe the man loved Rani. But he was quite certain
Ben had been fond of her.
  Ben Raines would be very irritated when he learned
of Rani's death. But that woujd not make the man
careless. Raines was too fine a soldier for that. The
Russian had thought about digging up the body of
Rani and having it airlifted and dropped
into Raines's territory. He had rejected that
idea. Knowing it would accomplish nothing; just waste
fuel. Ben Raines was not the type to be angered
into any careless move.
  Striganov knew the upcoming battle would be
costly in terms of human life. But that was
unimportant in the final analysis. Just as long
as the Russian came out victorious.
  And he felt he would.
  "Come on, General Raines," he muttered.
"Let us finish this."
  Sam Hartline sat in the den of the house he had
chosen as his own. He had recovered from the wounds Ben
Raines had inflicted upon him. And because he was a
professional soldier, he did not hate Ben
Raines. Indeed, Hartline respected the man.
  In his own peculiar way.
  His one regret about the whole miserable affair was
Rani dying on him.
  Not that she was dead. Hell, he didn't care about
that.
  He never could get the woman to renounce her
faith in Ben Raines and betray him.
  Right up to the end she had sworn Ben Raines was
the better man.
That
pissed Hartline off.
  For the life of him, Sam Hartline could not understand
what pulled people to Ben Raines. Long, tall drink
of water was just a man, goddammit. Not a god. Just
a man. Not a god.
  Hartline had to keep that thought in mind. Ben
Raines was a mortal, flesh-and-blood man.
That's all.
  Wasn't he?
  All those damn fool people erecting monuments
to Ben. Those people thinking he was God. That was stupid.
There was no God. Never had been. When you were dead,
you were dead. That's all she wrote.
  Right?
  "Ben?" Ike walked up to him.
  "Ike."
  "We just got word from our deep recon people." He
seemed to hesitate.
  "Give it to me, Ike. We're both old
soldiers, buddy; we've buried too many friends."
  And wives, Ike thought, thinking of times past.
"Rani's dead, Ben."
  "I felt she was. How?"
  "Hard. The Russian gave her to Hartline."
  "Well try to take Hartline alive," Ben
said.
  Ike suppressed a shudder. He did not like
to think what Ben had in mind, for he had seen Ben
operate too many times. The man could be totally
ruthless.
  "We'll try. But no guarantees."
  "None asked. What's the word on your motorized
battalion?"
  "They're pushing hard. Cecil is on his way
out. That doesn't leave too many back at Base
Camp One."
  "Keep me advised." Ben walked away.
  Sylvia walked up to Ike's side. "What's
the matter, sir?" she asked.
  Ike ignored that. Ben's personal business was
his own. At least the dead personal
business. "In a few hours, General Raines will
need someone ... just company, probably. Stay
close by. He likes you."
  "Why?" Her question was honestly asked.
  "Beats me, honey," he drawled. "With Ben,
you never know."
  "I'm sure not the prettiest girl in camp."
  "Pretty ain't got nothin" to do with it,
Sylvia. Ben was a writer before he became a
general. I never in my life met a writer that
wasn't weird."
Chapter Three
  They talked deep into the night, with Ben doing most
of the talking. Sylvia was content to just listen. Even
though she didn't know, sometimes, what the general was
talking about. He spoke of things she had never heard
of, but she never let on. She felt he knew her
education was spotty, at best. She reached the
conclusion that Ben Raines was a lonely man. Had
been a lonely man for a long time. There were questions she
wanted to ask of him, but felt it was best to wait.
  "Any family left, Sylvia?"
  "No, sir. Not that I know of."
  Ben looked at her. She noticed his eyes were a
mixture of sad and hard. She had never
noticed that before. But then, she had never really been that
close to the general.
  "Thank you for coming by and talking with me, Sylvia,"
Ben said. "I needed someone close to me this night."
  Was that a dismissal? Damn! she didn't know.
"I enjoyed it, General."
  "All the chutes repacked?"
  "Yes, sir. We're sittin' on go."
  Ben smiled at her. "Going to be a tough one,
Sylvia."
  "Yes, sir. I know. But I've been fighting
seems like all my life. I'll probably be
fighting when I die."
  Is that the sum total of it all? Ben silently
wondered. Will we ever know peace? No, he answered
his own question. We will know moments of peace, perhaps
weeks or a few months of peace, but never know it
as my generation did. "I'm afraid you're
probably right, Sylvia. And for that, my generation
owes your generation a deep and profound apology."
  "I don't understand, sir."
  She really doesn't, Ben thought. The girl has
no concept of what life was like Before. Only After.
How sad. As pretty as she is, Sylvia would have
probably been a cheerleader or pom-pom
girl; perhaps a majorette. Steamy kisses in the
dark-darkened seat of a boy's car while the radio
played what passed for music back in the
1980's.
  Before civilization was destroyed at the hands of
power-hungry men with domination uppermost in their
minds.
  "Penny for your thoughts, General?" she asked,
smiling.
  "I was thinking of better times," Ben said. Not quite
a lie.
  "For you?"
  More astute than I first thought. "No," he said
honestly. "For you."
  "How so?"
  "What all you have missed."
  "But if I don't know what I missed, how can
I miss it?"
  Ben chuckled. "Good point, Sylvia. So we
won't talk of what might have been."
  "Why not?" She became a little bolder. "You
gettin' sleepy?"
  Was that a dig at his age? Ben thought not, but he
wouldn't have taken umbrage. Ben enjoyed joking and
kidding around as much, or more, as the next
person. But people treated Ben with more than
respect-awe. It got a little wearing at times.
"Oh, I imagine I can keep these old eyes
open for a while longer."
  Sylvia grinned, and with that action years were wiped from
her face, making her look more childlike.
  Made Ben uncomfortable as hell, and brought
back memories of Jerre.
  He fought those memories away. Damn, but he
had a lot of memories piling up on him.
  "I've lost you, Ben," Sylvia said, moving
closer to Ben on the old couch he had had moved
into his command post.
  "I do that occasionally. When you get my age you
get a bit senile."
  "I know what that word means. So don't be
pullin' my leg. Sir," she quickly added.
  "You can knock that off, too, Sylvia. Here,
alone with me, keep it Ben."
  "Ben," she tried the word. "I guess I'd
better get used to it. General would be kind of formal
and out of place in bed, wouldn't it?"
  "Yes," Ben said softly. "It damn sure
would."
  Sylvia stood up and took off her
tiger-stripe fatigue shirt. She wore no
bra. Her breasts were small and perfectly shaped.
The nipples jutting out, hard and erect. Whether from
the coolness of night or sexual excitement, Ben
didn't know.
  He sat on the couch and watched her.
  "A stripper in combat boots," Sylvia said,
smiling.
  And Ben had to laugh.
  He held out his hands. "Come here, Valkyrie."
  She came to him, sitting on his lap, moaning
softly as Ben caressed her smooth skin, kissing
her breasts.
  "What's a Valkyrie, Ben?" she asked
softly.
  "I'll tell you some other time."
  Then fire met ice and melted.
  She had left his blankets sometime during the
early morning hours. He did not stir when she
gently kissed his mouth and slipped away into the
coolness of the Northwest. He knew she was leaving as
much for her sake as for his, even though both knew the
entire camp already knew what was going on.
  And Ben knew, while she probably did not, that
things were going to change in a very dramatic
manner for her. She was no longer just Lt. Sylvia
Barris. Now she was Ben Raines's woman.
  After passions had cooled, he had patiently
explained what she was letting herself in for ... should this
continue.
  She had looked at him through those pale green
eyes. "I didn't come here because you're my general,
Ben. I came here because ...well, Ike said he
felt you liked me."
  "And you came here because of that?"
  "No. I came here because I felt you needed
me."
  He had pulled her close to him, enjoying the
feel of her warm skin next to his. She was much
closer to the truth than she realized.
  Ben stepped out into a cool spring morning in the
Northwest. Walking across the busy compound area was
Sylvia, carrying two cups of coffee and her
pockets bulging with Rebel-produced field
ration. She smiled at him.
  "Morning, General. Sleep well?" The question was
very innocently phrased.
  "Like that much-written-of baby, Lieutenant.
I'll welcome the coffee. But if those cans are
breakfast rations, I'll pass. I can't
stand green eggs."
  It seemed that not even the Rebels, with all their
vast energy and talent, could better the old
military's efforts at producing a canned
breakfast.
  "They are full of vitamins, General."
  "I'll take a pill."
  "You need to eat!"
  "Coffee will do."
  She lowered her head and narrowed her eyes. "How
would you like for me to plant a lip-lock on you that'd
blister your hair, and then grab a quick feel of your
ding-dong-right out here where everybody can see?"
  Ike and Dan had started over when they saw him
leaving his command post. Now the two men had stopped and
were busy inspecting the overcast skies ... and both
of them grinning.
  "You wouldn't
dare!"
Ben said.
  "Try me!" she said, a wicked note to her
reply.
  The bustling, busy camp had suddenly come to a
halt, although no one was looking directly at Ben
and Sylvia.
  Ben leaned close to her, towering over the young
woman. "I will not eat those goddamned eggs!"
  She smiled sweetly and licked her lips.
  "Gimme the goddamned eggs!" Ben said.
  A few moments later, Ike and Dan wandered
over and took a seat outside the command post.
  "Enjoying your early morning repast, General?"
Dan inquired.
  Ben glared at him.
  "Yeah, Ben," Ike said. "Them eggs sure do
look good."
  "You want to eat them?" Ben asked.
  "Oh, no, Ben! I've already had a can.
Thanks, though." He winked at Sylvia.
  "When?" Ben challenged. "Back in '85?"
  "That's ... close," Ike admitted.
  It misted all that day. Never a full rain, but
always a light mist. Ben often glanced up into the
sky, knowing he could not, would not, jump his people into a
driving rain. They would be going in low. Five
hundred feet, with no reserve. No point in it.
If the main didn't open, they would not have the time
to pull the rip cord on a belly pack and claw
the silk out in time for it to open.
  At noon, those that were going in by truck
pulled out. Ben had originally planned on a mass
assault on the sixth of June. But he soon
realized he could not wait that long. Ben Raines and
his Rebels had to
  move, and move now.
  The battalion that was moving out by truck had a
most unenviable assignment: they would drive as far as
possible, and then force-march to the coastline, leaving a
thin line of Rebels along the border separating
what had once been California and Oregon. They
were to be resupplied by air drops, and eventually would
be beefed up by another battalion of Rebels.
Their job was to contain Hartline and his men and the warlords.
  And more Rebels were on the way.
  Ro and Wade and their savage bands of woods-children
were on the way. Those kids, under the leadership of Ro
and Wade, had helped defeat battalions of the
best IPF troops that Striganov could hurl at
them. The woods-children, most of them, had never known their
parents or the security of any type of home
life other than the woods. But they all shared one
common point: they worshipped and would willingly and
knowingly die for General Ben Raines.
  For despite Ben's lecturing on the subject,
they all felt him to be a god.*
  The Orphans' Brigade, as Ike called the
woods-children, were as furtive and dangerous in the
timber as killer pumas. They were expert with bow and
arrow and knife and small axe. They could rig
booby traps as well as and better than many of
Ben's Rebels.
  As Wade had said, when Ben asked him how he and
his bands of woods-children had survived all the years
alone in the timber, "We know the ways of the
*
Anarchy in the Ashes
  mountains and the deep timber, Mr. Raines. We
are as much at home in the wilderness as you are in your
house. Have you ever tried to capture sunlight or a
moonbeam and hold it in your hand?"
  And the dangerous children were on their way west to assist
the man they believed to be a god.
  Ike walked up to Ben and said, "Just got off the
horn with Cecil. He's comin' out with his people."
  "I knew he would."
  "You could order him to turn back, Ben."
  "You seem to forget, Ike. I put Cecil in
charge."
  "He just resigned. Left Dr. Chase in
charge. Chase told him to kiss ass. The
old bastard is comin' out with Cecil."
  Ben could but shake his head.
  "There's more." He waited until Sylvia had
walked up. The young lieutenant had staked her
claim and wanted, by God, everybody to know it.
Ike hid his smile. "Deep Scouts report that
underground society we've heard about ... you
remember?"
  "Those that live in tunnels and caves," Ben
said. "Yes. What about them?"
  "They're going to fight with us."
  Ben sighed. "We are certainly going to have some
strange allies, Ike."
  "You shore right about that," Ike drawled. "But
there's more."
  "The
underground
people?" Sylvia asked, her eyes wide.
  "Get Ben to tell you about it."
  "He's already promised to tell me about
Valkyrie," Sylvia said.
  "Who?" Ike looked puzzled. "When'd you run
that one by me, Ben? I don't remember her at
all." But his eyes were twinkling.
"Ike!"
Ben said. For his bullshit, Ben knew Ike was a
highly educated man.
  "Them underground people, they been buildin' shrines in
the deep timber. And you know to who, whom, whatever."
  Ben sighed. He had warned Cecil, in a rather
heated discussion, that he did not wish to discuss the
matter of various peoples worshipping him.
  "Ike ..." he warned.
  "I'm just tellin' you what's goin' on, Ben.
Don't get your ass up at me."
  Sylvia suppressed a giggle and Ike had
to grin, the grin taking years from his tanned and rugged
face.
  "How are these people armed?"
  "Clubs and bows and arrows. Just like Ro and
Wade, I reckon."
  "I wish I had known about this before the trucks
pulled out. We need to have some way of marking our people."
  "They know, Ben. We're all in tiger-stripe
and lizard camo. They'll know us."
  "How about Ro and Wade and the woods-children?"
  "Them people know all about them, too. Everybody's
all right."
  "I'm curious about something, Ike. Ever since
I got here, I've had the damnest feeling
of being watched. Has that feeling touched you, too?"
  "Yeah. I think it's ... them underground people,
Ben. Both of you come with me. There's something I
  got to show you. I wasn't goin' to. But you're
gonna see it sooner or later. Or one like it,"
he added mysteriously.
  With Rebels flanking the trio, for nobody was
going to let Ben Raines get too far out of
sight-not again-they moved out. About a mile from the
compound, in the deep timber, there sat a crudely
carved wooden monument; the carvings were very fresh. A
thick tree had been felled, the stump about five
feet tall. There, the woodcarver had gone to work with
knife and axe.
  Ben stood and stared in shocked silence.
  It was his face carved into the wood. His face, and the
outline of something else.
  "Jesus, Ben!" Sylvia blurted.
  The Rebels seemed very nervous as they gathered about
the wooden monument.
  Then Ben recalled how nervous Wade and Ro
had been looking at his Thompson. And that day when
he confronted many of his young Rebels with the weapon,
telling them it was
only
a weapon. Nothing more.
  Beneath Ben's profile, there was the outline of his
old Thompson submachine gun.
Chapter Four
  Back in '88, when the world exploded in war, every
nation around the globe, including the U.s., went through
a period of disorganization and confusion. And for a time, it
appeared the battered nations, most of them, would
recover. But the gods of Fate continued to laugh
darkly, and through the laughter, hurled thunderbolts of
destruction at the world.
  First came a deranged President, Hilton
Logan, who was instrumental in ordering the wiping-out of
Ben Raines and the Tri-States.
  Hilton Logan paid dearly for that decision.
  With his life.
  A full decade after the bombings, the world still
seemed unable to pull itself out of the ashes. Only one
man and one grouping of peoples had managed
to rebuild and pick up their lives: Ben Raines
and his Rebels.
  Then came the rats, carrying their deadly cargo of
fleas, spreading death all over the world, further
reducing the earth's population.
  Still, Ben Raines and his Rebels
survived and grew in strength. Ben's dream seemed
impossible to kill:
  He would bring law and order back to America;
he would rebuild from out of the ashes of war.
  And the man did not, really, seem to age. That
phenomenon only served to heighten the myths and
rumors about the man.
  Ben Raines was indestructible.
  Ben Raines was more than flesh and blood.
  Ben Raines was a god.
  Nature, as surviving humankind was finding out,
could recover much faster than so-called superior
humankind. Nature was rapidly reclaiming its
own, now that humankind was not fighting her with
chemicals and axes and chain saws and bulldozers and
choking smoke from millions of cars and trucks and
other types of human-produced and often needless
pollution.
  The trillion-dollar mistake called the
interstate highway system now lay like great twisting
snakes throughout the land, broken only by the rushing
waters of creeks and rivers.
  And nature was slowly but steadily reclaiming much
of that, too.
  With no maintenance for almost fifteen years,
the super-slab was rapidly deteriorating. For the first
time since its inception, the 55 mph speed limit
made sense.
  More than 25 mph now.
  And if the interstate system was in bad shape, the
two-lane highways could best be classified as
awful.
  Trees were blocking many of the two-lanes,
bridges were out, abandoned vehicles squatted like
rusting
  old time machines, mute memorials to an age
long ago and far away; an age that would nevermore
exist.
  And the people. The survivors.
  What about them?
  Many had forsaken the various religions they had
once embraced, believing that if indeed there ever had
been a God, He would never have allowed this ... this
awfulness
to have occurred. Hell, you couldn't see Him; you
couldn't really talk to Him and expect any reply;
there never was really any proof that He existed. So
... all we have is our wits, our strength, our own
two hands. Let's stop this other foolishness and
survive.
  Inhabited towns either became haven for thugs and
outlaws and perverts and lawlessness, or they became
walled, barbed-wired, bunkered-in fortresses, with the
people finally learning to pull together.
  Of course, the people now did not have to contend with Big
Brother Government and the mumblings of the Supreme
Court interfering in their lives.
  And many thought that was a blessing. Something good came out
of the horror of war.
  Now, there was no sign, anywhere, of factory
smokestacks, no humming of machinery, no
assembly lines, no commuting to work in car pools
...
  ... and no lawyers.
  But there was silence.
  Sometimes the silence, for those who knew what went
on Before, was loud. Too loud. They would wander away
from the safety of fortress, and never be seen again.
  Women became rare prizes, to be taken and used
and then traded for a gun or a horse or a car. It
was
  not an easy time to be a woman.
  Or a child. Of either sex.
  It was as if law and order had never existed.
Now, there was no law-only the law one was
strong enough to enforce. Despite all his efforts, the
country that Ben Raines held in his dreams was
slowly sliding back into a dark abyss, an abyss
that many felt was too deep and too dark to even
consider crawling out of.
  This, then, was what Ben Raines and his Rebels
faced-discounting the Russian and Sam Hartline.
  "What is God, Ben?" Sylvia asked. They
were sitting outside the command post as dusk softly
gathered her skirts around the land, casting purple
hues, creating a false illusion of peace.
"Haven't you ever read the Bible, Sylvia?"
"Yes. Sure. But I can't make any sense out
of that, Ben. It's too ... well, contradictory
for me. And I don't know what a lot of the words
mean. Besides, if God is all-powerful, He
wouldn't have let this happen. He could have stopped it,
right?"
  "I guess he could have. But if you're asking for
my personal opinion as to why He didn't ...
I think He just got tired of it all. I think
He became weary of humankind's pettiness,
greediness, cruelness, and inhumanity to fellow
humans. So He started over." "He created a
flood the first time, didn't He?" "Yes.
And said He'd never do it again. And He didn't."
  "You think God did this, don't you?"
  "I think He had a mighty hand in it. He just
let
  humankind destroy itself. There are those of us who
always maintained our priorities were always wrong. I
wrote about them, as writers are prone to do.
Didn't do any good, as far as I could tell."
  "I've read all your books. You sure wrote
a bunch of them, Ben."
  "Yes, I did."
  "Some of them were pretty sexy, too."
  Ben grinned. "Sure were, Sylvia." He
hoped she was not leading up to what he thought she might
be.
  She was. "Every Rebel has at least one copy
of a book you wrote, Ben."
  "When they should be carrying a pocket Bible,
Sylvia. My words are not chiseled in stone,
babe. I wrote paperback books for the mass
market."
  "You never had a book done in them stiff covers,
Ben?"
  He thought for a moment. By God, he couldn't
remember. "No, I never did,
Sylvia. I wrote to entertain, not to change the
world."
  She didn't understand that; and Ben really wasn't
sure he did, either.
  Ben took a sip of water from his canteen and
rolled the liquid around in his mouth for a moment before
spitting it out on the ground.
  "What's the matter?" she asked.
  "I can't get the taste of those goddamned eggs out
of my mouth."
  In the gathering darkness, Ben leaned over and kissed
her laughing mouth.
  In his command post, General Striganov sat
  behind his desk, gazing at a map of the United
States. He had just received intelligence that some of
Raines's command had moved out in trucks, heading
west. But only a part of Raines's command had
left.
  What was the man up to now?
  It didn't make any sense to Striganov.
He had Raines heavily outnumbered as it was, so
why would the man split his forces?
  Curious.
  Striganov sat quietly, puffing contentedly on
his pipe. Georgi Striganov was a
strikingly handsome man; tall and well-built, with
pale blue eyes and blond-gray hair. A very
intelligent man, Striganov liked Ben
Raines. Of course, that would not prevent him from
killing Raines when the time came. Well, perhaps
like
was too strong a word ... but he did admire the
man. As to his intelligence, that sometimes worked against
Striganov, for he thought himself to be brilliant,
when he was merely very intelligent.
  Why would Raines cut his forces? Why?
  He rose from his chair and walked to the huge wall
map, studying it more closely. He shook his head.
Possibly some of Raines's Rebels were
airborne qualified, but Raines was too smart
to jump in with them, for the man was about the same age as
Georgi. And when one gets to fifty years of
age, combat jumping was not only reckless but
foolish.
  And Raines had not left with the truck convoy. His
deep recon people were sure of that.
  So, Striganov thought, that meant Raines was going
to wait awhile before launching his attack.
  Good. Then he could take his time about setting up
  defenses; go slowly and make certain of
each and every detail.
  But where in the hell was that one battalion of
Rebels going and what did they hope to accomplish
when they got there?
  Obviously, he would not know the answer to that for some
time. And he couldn't order an attack against a force
that large; didn't have enough people out in the field. And
another bad point was that his deep recon scouts were
on foot, with no way to keep track of the truck
convoy once they passed their position.
  No matter, he brushed that away. He had enough
force to crush a battalion like a dry piece of
toast.
  The Russian turned away from the maps and
returned to his desk, picking up the latest
photos of the babies born to human mothers, mutant
fathers.
  "Ugly bastards," Striganov muttered, gazing
at the enlarged photos. It would be at least a year,
probably longer, before their intelligence could be
truly tested and the Russian could know for sure if
he had succeeded in producing a worker race; a
select breed to serve as servants and houseboys and
field hands.
  But his scientists were sure they had done
it.
  "We'll see," Striganov said. He pressed
a button on a panel on his desk. An aide
stuck her head inside.
  "Sir?"
  "I need a bath. Send a girl in to assist
me."
  "Yes, sir."
  Striganov waited patiently until there came
a timid knock on his office door. "Come!" he
called.
  A girl, no more than fourteen, at the most,
entered the lushly appointed office of the
  supreme commander of the International Peace Force.
  "Sir?" she said, keeping her eyes downcast.
  "You're new," Striganov said. "When did you
arrive in camp?"
  "About two weeks ago, sir. I have been tested
by the doctors."
  Which meant the young girl was free of any disease and
ready, if not willing, to be on call to General
Striganov. The general had developed some rather
curious sexual habits over the past few
months.
  He attributed that to his association with
Sam Hartline.
  "What is your name, girl?"
  "Jane."
  "Jane,
sir."
  "Yes, sir. I won't forget again."
  "Fine. Remove your robe."
  Jane unbelted her robe and let it fall to the
thick carpet. Striganov licked suddenly dry
lips at the sight of her nakedness. The girl was a
rare blooming flower, he thought. No doubt about it.
  Her pubic hair was thick and lush. Her breasts
forming up nicely, centered with brown-cherry
circles. Her little nipples looked delicious.
  Striganov had long ago given up on finding a
virgin. Any girl over six who still had her
virginity would be a rare find, indeed.
  But his men were still looking.
  "Come to me," he said, his voice thick with growing
passion. His trousers bulged with his erection.
  He pulled her onto his lap and began stroking
her flesh. Georgi Striganov felt this was going
to be a good year. He had a full complement of
willing
  young girls to satisfy his sexual needs,
and very soon he would see Ben Raines die. Yes,
a good year indeed.
Chapter Five
  The morning broke to a gray sky and a
hard-falling rain. It was just as well. For Ben had
made up his mind to cancel the jump anyway. By doing
that, he would give his first battalion more time to get in
position, and the Rebels coming from the east more time
to arrive.
  Leaving Sylvia to sleep amid the warmth of their
blankets, Ben dressed and pulled a poncho on
and stepped from his command post. He walked over
to Ike's quarters and knocked on the door.
  "Come on in, Ben."
  Ben shucked his poncho and hung it up. He
moved to the coffeepot at Ike's wave of his hand and
poured a cup.
  It really wasn't coffee, but a mixture of
coffee and chicory and other things that Ben would just as
soon not know.
  "You and Sylvia decided to just shack up and
to hell with what the others think?" Ike asked, a
grin on his face.
  "Might as well. Her idea. But fine with me.
Ike, we both can't buy it on this run.
Have you given that any thought?"
  "Sure have. And I think you ought to stay back here
and-was
  Ben waved him silent. "You can take that thought and
shove it, pal. Ike, after Sylvia went to sleep
last night, I couldn't sleep ..."
  Ike paid him back for cutting him off. "I'm
sure you couldn't. Probably laid there and wondered
if you was goin' to have a heart attack."
  Then the ex-Seal roared with laughter at the
expression on Ben's face.
  Ben unsuccessfully fought to hide his grin and
took a sip of the awful-tasting brew. At least it
was hot. "I've got to be thinking of a successor,
Ike."
  "When you finally buy it, Ben," Ike said, "the
movement goes with you." There was a flatness, a
finality, in his voice that Ben did not like.
  "Ben, I'm an ol' curly wolf; not an
administrator. Cecil is one of the finest men I
have ever known in my life, but he'll be first to tell
you: he won't be able to hold it together. No, Ben,
it's your show all the way. Hell, partner, it always
has been. I knew that when you showed up down in
Florida ... Christ, how many years ago
was that?"
  "More than I care to recall," Ben said with a
sigh. "Okay. We'll talk about that later.
Let's get down to business. You're sure you
want to take your people in from the south?"
  "You bet."
  "You're going to have some hot area behind you,
  buddy. No backing up for your bunch."
  Radioactive areas.
  "I don't intend to back up, Ben. Just go
forward and sideways and every other which way."
  It was to be the type of war that Ben and Gray and
Ike were trained to fight: a cut-and-slash,
hit-and-run, guerrilla-type action.
  Ben nodded. What deep recon intel they had
been able to receive showed that Hartline had few planes.
He could not escape by air. And since the nuclear
blasts, the tides had been affected; the oceans that
hammered the coasts on both ends of the United
States had become a raging torrent of fury.
Scouts reported gigantic waves crashing against
the shoreline; the seas bubbled and roared, creating a
non-survivable maelstrom.
  No one was coming in by the sea along the California
coast.
  And Ben was not sure he wanted to see the
once-peaceful Pacific in such a rage.
  Dan Gray entered Ike's quarters and poured a
cup of what now passed for coffee. He sipped and
grimaced. "So so, is good, very good, very excellent
good; and yet it is not; it is but so so," Dan said.
  "Shakespeare on a rainy morning, Dan?"
Ben asked.
  "It's the best I could come up with in describing this
dreadful brew," the Englishman replied.
  "Why don't you say it just tastes like shit and be
done with it?" Ike needled him, knowing Dan would have a
quick retort.
  "I shall leave crude remarks to people of your ilk,"
Dan said.
  Ike feigned great personal affront. "The
man has cut me to the quick."
  Dan set the coffee mug aside. "Doubtful."
He looked at Ben. "To insult someone of his
boorish nature would require a much more eloquent
person than I."
  "Don't he talk pretty, though?" Ike said,
grinning.
  The men joked and insulted each other for several
minutes. They'd been friends, good friends,
close friends, for years, and they were the type of men who
did not, or would not, allow their feelings to show in any
type of overt manner. This was their way of showing
affection for the other.
  The rain continued falling, harder now than before.
Ben cocked his head and listened to the drumming of the
raindrops. "Dan. Double the guards. Tell them
"heads up." If we've got unfriendlies out
there, this would be an ideal time for them to hit us."
  "Right, sir." Dan left the small hut.
  "Expecting trouble?" Ike asked.
  "No. But I do wonder if all those eyes out
there are friendly ones."
  "Good point."
  Dan returned in a few minutes. He had a
small tin of tea with him. "Now we shall enjoy a
gentleman's drink," he announced.
  "Does that include me?" Ike questioned.
  "Heavens no!"
  The water boiled, the tea steeping, Ben said,
"Ike and his bunch will be going in from the south, Dan,
as we agreed. You and your Scouts still want to play
  it the way we planned?"
  "Wouldn't have it any other way, General," Dan
cheerfully replied. "We shall have a gay ol'
time doing our bloody bit."
  "Always knowed there was something funny about you," Ike
said.
  "Imbecile!" Dan told him.
  "Flea brain!" Ike returned the cheerfully
given insult.
  Ben shook his head and took his mug of steaming
tea, sweetening it with a bit of honey from a jug.
  Sugar was very nearly a priceless commodity.
  The men sat and sipped, enjoying the tea, as the
rain drummed on the roof.
  "Something puzzles me, General," Dan said.
  Ike picked up on the serious note in the question and
did not stick the needle to Dan. Yet.
  Ben waited.
  "In less than fifteen years," the
Englishman said, "how could intelligent men and women
revert from civilization back to the caves, as these
so-called underground people have done?"
  "You're asking me a question I don't have a ready
answer for, Dan. Maybe they thought underground would be
safer. With the roaming gangs of thugs and punks and
assorted creeps prowling the land, these people returned
to the caves, perhaps driven by some primal urgings. I
just don't know. Maybe on this run we'll
find out, since they've indicated they'll fight with
us."
  "And maybe they just gave up on the promise of
civilization," Ike interjected. "A lot of
folks have.
  You both know that; we've all seen it."
  "I shall surely never understand that kind of thinking,"
Dan said. "I do not understand people who just give up without
a fight."
  "And speaking of that," Ike said, after draining his
mug of tea. "I'm gonna ask one more time, and then
I'll shut up about it. Ben ... stay back on this
one."
  "No. I'm taking my team in, dead center.
We'll be jumping in as planned. And have you heard from
your Pathfinders, Ike?"
  "Only that they all made it. They're
probably busy laying out the DZ'S."
  Ben nodded his head. "Now comes the hardest part,
boys."
  And they knew what that was: the waiting.
  The Rebels waited all that day, that night, and the
following day. Still the rains continued. Ike's
Pathfinders called in from their positions. The drop
zones were laid out, the coordinates given.
Yes, it was raining there, too. Had been for two
days. It was a bitch!
  The building where Sylvia's riggers had worked so
feverishly leaked; the chutes would have to be unpacked,
dried out, and repacked.
  If it ever quit raining.
  Another full day lost.
  And the battalions coming in from the east were bogged
down, having to make many detours due to the bad
roads. More delays.
  And Ben knew that Striganov was not sitting on his
  hands. The longer his Rebels had to wait, the more
time the Russian had to beef up his defenses. For
Ben did not delude himself: he knew the Russian
knew where he was. And the Russian would be wondering
what his old enemy was up to.
  And worse yet, the human suffering at
Striganov's experiment stations would continue
unabated.
  Ben paced his command post and cursed.
  "Goddammit!" Cecil cursed, standing in the rain
beside his Jeep. "We're a hundred miles out and
bogged down. "Son of a
bitch!"
  The Rebels maintained a respectable
distance from General Jefferys. The
almost-always-eloquent and soft-spoken black man-one
of General Raines's closest friends-rarely used
profanity. But when he did ... stand clear.
  Cecil Jefferys had been with Ben since the
inception of the Tri-States, and, for a very brief time,
Vice-President of the United States. Cecil
was the man Ben Raines leaned on most heavily for
support.
  Cecil turned to an aide. "Bring a tank up
here," he ordered. "And blow that goddamned bridge
clear."
  "Yes, sir!"
  An M109A1 was off-loaded from a flatbed
and rumbled into life. It roared up to Cecil's
position. The commander of the twenty-six-ton vehicle
spoke to Cecil through a headset. "I think we can
push that crap free, General."
  "Then do it," Cecil said tersely.
  The commander reversed his howitzer and ordered
  the massive machine forward, slamming into the rusting
debris that blocked the bridge on the interstate.
The tank backed off, allowing a truck with a
scoop-mount to roll into place. The scoop shoved
what remained of the blockage off to one side
and the column began rolling.
  "Hang on, Ben," Cecil said, climbing
back into his canvas-shielded Jeep. "We're
almost there."
  Cecil ordered the hammer down. About fifty
miles from Ben's base camp, Cecil's column
caught up with Ike's motorized battalion. His
Jeep skirted the front column and Cecil
waved them forward, clenching his fist and working the clenched
fist up and down; the infantry signal to
Go!
  By late afternoon, the sun began poking through the
clouds, the air warming. Forward scouts radioed
back that the road was clear and free of any
obstacles all the way to General Raines's
camp.
  Just before dusk, Cecil's battalions rolled
into the old Tri-States.
  It was the first time Cecil had been back since the
government assault against Raines's Rebels. The
familiar terrain brought to the man a myriad of
emotions. His wife, Lila, had died not too many
miles from here, during the government assault on the
Tri-States; she had stepped in front of a
Claymore mine.
  Then, all of a sudden, Ben was standing by the side of the
road, tall and erect and seemingly ageless, his
beret cocked on his head Ranger fashion. A young
woman stood by Ben's side. Cecil recognized
her. Lieutenant Barris.
  He grinned, thinking: Ben and his women.
  But he was glad for Ben. The men did not shake
hands. They embraced. "Ugly bastard!" Ben
told him. "Old goat!" Cecil responded,
cutting his eyes toward Sylvia.
  "Ready for a war?" Ben asked. "I'll follow
where you lead, Ben." "Then, let's do it!"
Chapter Six
  General Georgi Striganov's forward deep
recon scouts would make no more radio reports
back to the Russian. They would never do anything again.
Ever. They lay motionless on the damp ground,
widely separated, the earth soaking up their blood.
And they had been unable to fire one Shot in their
defense.
  None of the IPF people had lever gotten so much as a
glimpse of the men who killed them.
  They had encountered the underground people. Silent and
deadly.
  The first IPF scout to die had risen from
his concealed position-a position he thought was concealed.
He took an arrow through the head, the point driving out
the other side, carrying with it bits of bone and brain
and tissue. The scout dropped to the earth, only a
bit more loudly than he had risen.
  The scouts were widely separated; none of his
comrades knew of his death.
  The second IPF scout to die never heard the
person
  who crept silently through the brush and timber behind
him. He felt only the eyes on his back. He
turned to check the source of his concern. The hand axe
bit deeply into his skull; blood and fluid
splashed from the massive wound. The attacker grabbed
the IPF scout before he could tumble loosely to the
ground and make any noise as his body came in
contact with the ground. The underground man lowered the body
to the damp earth. The underground man, dressed in
clothing of earth tones, turned and slipped silently
back into the timber.
  The third scout to die felt first the leather
strap-loop around his neck and then the knee in the
small of his back, pinning him to the earth. His head
began roaring as life-sustaining air was closed off.
His frantically clawing fingers could not slip
under the tightly pulled leather strap around his neck.
  The roaring in his head dimmed all other sounds as
life began oozing away from the Russian. He could
but vaguely remember his mother and father back in
Russia. Most of his boyhood and young adult
life had been spent in Iceland. But he thought,
now, of his parents. He wondered what had ever
happened to them?
  And he thought too of the teachings of Marx and Lenin.
Was there nothing after life? Only death? were they
wrong?
  He knew he was about to find out.
  His lungs began to collapse as his heart seemed
to literally burst in his chest.
  The underground man swiftly tied a knot in the
leather as he felt the young Russian's body grow
limp. He slipped away from the body, back into the
timber,
  knowing that they would be back when all the scouts were
dead. They would show Ben Raines they were sincere in
their offer of help.
  The last IPF member of this forward team tried
to raise his comrades by radio.
  He received no reply.
  The team leader placed the radio on the
ground. With a terrible feeling in his guts-a feeling that
would soon be replaced by a terrible pain-he knew his
friends would never again answer anything.
  Not on this earth. Not in this life.
  His own thoughts startled him, and for a few seconds,
shamed him.
  Then he turned to meet his fate.
  A spear flew out of the lush greenery. The young
soldier had but a few seconds to respond, but he
seemed unable to do so. Or unwilling. He did not
know which it was. He knew only a horrible pain in
his belly as the spear tore open his guts. He
dropped to his knees in the forest, in a vague
praying position.
  It was in that fashion that life left him.
  The underground man who had hurled the spear stepped
out of the timber, walking to the cooling body of the IPF
scout. "Gather them up and take them to the camp of
Ben Raines," he ordered. "Tonight. Leave them."
He turned to face another man dressed in earth
tones. "Send a runner out. Your very best. He must
travel far and fast to warn the others that Ben Raines
will need our help in this fight. Warn him to travel
only at night. Our like kind will offer him shelter
during the light hours. G."
  And then the forest was once more as silent and
nature-controlled as it was ten thousand years ago.
  With no sign of human life.
  "I suppose," Ben said to Dr. Chase,
"you're going to tell me you plan on jumping in with
us?"
  "I hope your leadership qualities are better
than your wild suppositions," the doctor fired
back. "I have no intention of hurling my body out
of a moving airplane with only a few pounds of
silk-if it opens-to float me to earth. Piss
on you, Raines." Dr. Chase had never been one
to tap dance around Ben. The ex-Navy doctor, now
in his seventies, was yet another of the few remaining
who had been with Ben from the beginning. And one of the few
who would treat Ben as Ben wished to be treated: as a
mortal man, nothing more.
  "What are your plans, Lamar?" Ben asked
him.
  "There will be wounded to be cared for. I shall set up
my field hospitals as close as is possible
to the front. As soon as a front is established,
that is." He looked at Ben and Ben knew what was
coming. "I shall treat
all
wounded, Raines. But our allies will get top
priority."
  "All right. As yet, we have no communication with
Striganov or Hartline. I suppose you'll
want to lay down some sort of honor system with them
concerning the treatment of prisoners and the wounded?"
  "If at all possible, Ben, yes."
  "Well try. But don't expect too much,
Lamar. For our part, we'll be engaging in a
guerrilla war. There aren't too many amenities
offered guerrillas."
  "I am aware of that fact."
  "Just clearing the air, Lamar."
  "It's clear."
  A sergeant stuck his head into Ben's command post.
"General. Would you come see this, sir?"
  Ben, Cecil, Ike, Dan, Lamar Chase,
and Sylvia walked out into the cool, starry night of
spring in the Northwest, following the sergeant.
  He led them to a pile of bodies, piled in a
heap on the outskirts of the compound. The bodies still
had the arrows and spears and leather.
  "Good God!" Lamar blurted.
  Ben looked at the sergeant. "No one heard them
being brought here?"
  "No, sir."
  "They're IPF scouts," Dan said, kneeling
down beside the stiffening carcasses. "See the shoulder
flash?"
  "They were brought by those who live in the caves and
tunnels," a young voice spoke from behind the gathering.
  All turned.
  Ro and Wade stood in the night. The young leaders
of the woods-children had arrived with the motorized
battalion, but this was their first public appearance.
They chose to sleep in the timber, shunning tents and
other shelters offered them by the Rebels. They carried
their survival with them.
  "Ro. Wade," Ben greeted them. "Did you
see the bodies brought here?"
  "Yes," Wade said. "The underground people are
telling you, in their way, they are ready to fight for
you."
  "Why didn't they just come talk with me?"
  "Because that is forbidden," Ro informed him.
  "Who forbids it, Ro?"
  The question confused both the young men, really no more than
boys, and in the starry light their uncertainty was
evident.
  "It is forbidden," Wade ended it, reaching
the end of his understanding.
  "All right," Ben said softly. "We all have
to accept some things on faith alone."
  Chase and the others were looking at Ben strangely.
  Ben said, "I want to meet with all commanders first
thing in the morning. Wade, you and Ro be there."
  "We shall be." The two leaders of the woods-children
turned and vanished into the starlit darkness, leaving without
a sound on footgear made of animal hide.
  "Them kids spook the shit outta me," Ike
said. "They woulda made fine SEAL instructors."
  Dan grinned in the night; the opportunity was just
too great to resist. "Indeed?" he said. "So would have
the Boy Scouts, I should imagine."
  It took about two seconds for that to sink in
to Ike. He started jumping up and down and hollering,
waving his arms and cussing. He looked like a large
fireplug with a mouth, cussing the British SAS.
  And Cecil told him he looked like a
fireplug ... a fat one.
  Ike started jumping up and down with even more
fierceness, cussing Cecil's old outfit, the
Green Berets.
  Laughing at his friends' antics, Ben and Sylvia
melted into the night. It was getting late, and
jump-off time was growing close.
  Ben looked at Ro and Wade. It cut against his
grain to commit children to war. But he knew there was no
way he could keep the woods-children out of it. One way
or the other, they were going in. Question was ... how?
  "Are you hesitant to use us, General?" Wade
asked, picking up on Ben's thoughts.
  "Some of those with you are children, Wade. No more than
twelve or thirteen."
  "The youngest one has, I believe, eleven
years," Ro informed Ben.
  Dan shook his head in disbelief. He said
nothing. Cutting his eyes, he could see the other
commanders felt the same way as he did.
  But they all remained silent.
  "Isn't that a bit young for-combat?" Ben
asked.
  "Have you ever tried to grab hold of a young mountain
lion, sir?" Ro asked.
  Good point, Ben thought. "Would some of your people
consider staying back and guarding the hospital area?"
  "No," both young men said simultaneously.
  There it was. Ben faced the young leaders of the
woods-children and slowly nodded his head. "All right.
Then tell me this: how can I best use you and
your people?"
  "We cannot jump from the skies to float to the earth as
some of you are planning," Ro said. "We have had no
training in that sort of thing. But you said just a few
moments ago that you are going to fly in some of your people;
land them on the earth in the
  plane. I would like that way to be our way in."
He smiled, and he looked very young. "It would be
fun, for none of us have ever been in an aeroplane."
  Ben had no idea where the young man picked up the
British pronunciation. Perhaps he was English.
There was much Ben did not know about these strange,
wild, elusive woods-children. But he knew firsthand
they were savage, vicious, no-quarter fighters.
  And the woods-children did not take prisoners.
  That would not set well with the people they would be going up
against. Ben pointed that fact out to Wade and Ro.
  Both young men shrugged it off. Ro said, "We
spoke of that with the others last night. None of us wish
to be taken as prisoner by the Russian, Hartline,
or any warlords. They would sexually abuse us, and
then torture us to death. Believe me, we know."
  "Then, get your people ready. You'll lift off with the
second contingent this afternoon. Scouts report a
deserted airstrip at Big Lake. That's
where you'll deplane. A platoon of Gray's
Scouts will be going in there, too. You'll take
orders from the team leader. Understood?"
  They understood.
  "Draw what supplies you'll need and get
ready."
  Ro and Wade wheeled about and left without another
word.
  "To tell you the truth," Dan Gray said. "I
rather feel sorry for any IPF people who encounter that
bunch."
  "They didn't say it," Ben said. "But I'm
guessing they know where underground people live in that
  area. That's the area they both told me they
wanted ... earlier this morning."
  "They are so young," Sylvia said, her words
gentle.
  Ben looked at her. "How old were you when you
killed your first person, Sylvia?"
  "Eleven," she said very quietly. "After he
raped me."
  "They wanted in," Ben said. "They're in. And
they know what is ahead of them-or have a pretty good
idea. All right, now. Dan, you and the remainder of
your people are dropping in when?"
  "We'll be leaving straight away, General."
  "Luck to you, Dan."
  The Englishman saluted Ben and the others, then
left the command post without another word.
  Ike moved to the open door and called, "Hey,
limey!"
  Dan stopped and turned around.
  "You bring your ugly face back here in one
piece, you hear, you toy soldier?"
  Dan grinned. "I shall certainly endeavor with all
my might to comply with your request, swabby."
  On the runway, the old prop engines were
growling, warming up.
  Ben looked at Cecil. The man's hair was
almost all white now, but he still wore his beret
proudly. And Ben knew the man was in excellent
physical condition.
  "Yet another battle for us, Cec," he said.
  "And after this, there will be another, and another. We
should be used to them by now."
  "Yes. I know you don't like your assignment, but
someone has to do it."
  "That isn't the reason you gave it to me, and you know
I know it."
  "Yes. The belief that one of us must come out
of this alive certainly played a part in my
decision. I won't deny that."
  Cecil nodded his head. Ben noticed for the first time
that the man's face was lined with age. But Cecil
wasn't that old, he thought. Fifty-ish ... but
certainly not ancient, by anyone's standards.
  "My people will form the eastern line, Ben. We'll
stand in reserve."
  Ben extended his hand and Cecil took it.
"Luck to you, Cec."
  Cecil smiled, nodded his head, and left the command
post. A few moments later, the engines of his
truck convoy coughed into life.
  Ike stepped back into the command post, joining Ben
and Sylvia. "Gettin' down to the wire, now,
Ben."
  "Your people ready?"
  "Sittin' on Go, Ben."
  Ben nodded his head.
  "You're gonna be cuttin' it pretty fine,
Ben, goin' in last."
  "Can't be helped. We're short of planes and
pilots. All my people have studied the terrain. If the
winds don't screw us up, we'll be in good
shape. And we'll be a hell of a lot
harder to find at night."
  "I never did like night jumps," the ex-Seal
admitted. "I made a whole bunch of "em. But
I never did like them."
  "Keep your boots together, Ike," Ben gently
needled the man, a grin on his face. "I don't
want you coming back with a cracked spine."
  "Yeah? Well, you do the same, skinny. And
don't land in no damned tree."
  The men shook hands. Ike looked at Sylvia.
"You take care of the old man, now, you hear?"
  Her reply was a smile.
  "Geronimo, and all that crap, Ike," Ben
said.
  Ike smiled. "The truth now, Ben. Did you
ever holler that leavin" a plane?"
  "Not one time in my entire life."
  Ike laughed and left the command post.
Chapter
Seven
  With his forward scouts no longer listed among the
living, General Georgi Striganov had no
idea when General Ben Raines might strike.
  He just knew the man was coming at him. When, and
how, was up for grabs.
  And Striganov had accepted the fact that his forward
people were dead. That bothered him. For those recon people were the
best he had at that type of work.
  It was those damnable people who lived in caves and
tunnels and only moved about at night who ambushed
his men. The same people who erected monuments to Ben
Raines.
  Which Striganov's people tore down whenever one was
found.
  And was promptly rebuilt the next day.
  Goddamned little pockets of resistance could
drive a person insane if one would let it, he
thought.
  Problem was, he mused, northern California
was honeycombed with caves and tunnels and mountains
  and deep timber. It would take twenty divisions
to rout them all out. And even that many might not be able
to do it.
  Striganov looked toward the east. "Come on,
Ben. Come on. Let's do it!"
  Sam Hartline was restless, and he did not understand
the why of it.
  Things, conditions, were better now than they had ever
been for him. Well, at least since the world fell
apart, that is.
  He had the finest foods available; all the
women he could ever hope for; more men than he had ever
commanded. But still he felt ... well,
odd.
  Like something was about to pop.
  True, he knew, from radio contact with
Striganov, that Ben Raines was going to do something.
But the Russian didn't know when; only that
Raines was going to strike.
  Hartline again fought back that ever-growing feeling in
his guts.
  He could not remember ever being afraid of any
living man in his life.
  But he was afraid of Ben Raines.
  The son of a bitch just wouldn't die! Jesus H.
Christ! The man had been hit so many times he should
have been dead ten times over.
  Instead, he just kept on coming at you. And people kept
on joining his ranks.
  Hartline paced the den of his home. Stopping
abruptly, he looked toward the east.
  "Come on, you bastard!" he shouted. "Goddamn
  you, let's get it over with once and for all."
  Ben stood on the edge of the tarmac and watched the
planes take off, circle, and then take
a westerly heading. He lifted a salute toward the
vanishing planes and the men and women in them.
  He turned to Sylvia. "Let's check our
gear."
  Ben and his short battalion checked all their
gear and laid it out in rows on the edge of the tarmac.
They would wait for the return of the first wave of
planes before suiting up for the drop.
  For now, all they would do is recheck equipment,
field strip and oil and reassemble weapons ... and
wait.
  Something every soldier knows is a nerve-stretching
ordeal.
  The Rebels could but marvel at General Ben
Raines. He laid down, his head on his pack, and
took a nap. A picture of calmness.
  Ben napped for an hour, then lay still, with his eyes
closed, and let his mind roam free, settling on
whatever issue came up. Memory, problem, or
philosophy.
  Take care of us from the cradle to the grave, and
we'll give you one hundred percent loyalty. That
was the Rebels' attitude and philosophy toward
Ben Raines. Basically the same philosophy
of the old-line, hard-party Communists of
years past.
  With notable exceptions, of course.
  The Rebels were perfectly free to express their
sentiments; live as they chose to live; be whatever
they chose to be in the civilian aspect of their
lives; defend life and property without fear of
unjust penalty ...
  The sounds of plane engines cut into his
thoughts....
Free
summed it up and closed the subject.
  Ben stood up and stretched just as the planes lined
up in the sky for a landing. The pilots would refuel
plane and body, take a piss break, check
engines and tires, then Ben and his people would climb on
board.
  "Platoon leaders!" Ben shouted. "Start forming
up your sections. Secure gear."
  Dr. Lamar Chase climbed out of a Jeep and
walked up to Ben. "Don't break your damned
legs in this insanity," the doctor said sourly. As
was his manner of showing affection toward Ben.
  "I'll do my best. Give us a full two
days to get set up, and then try to contact the
Russian by radio. Make your medical
peace with the man ... if possible."
  "All right. I just heard about that woman ...
Rani? I'm sorry, Ben."
  Ben nodded. "I intend to finish it this time,
Lamar. If at all possible, I intend
to settle the matter. Then we'll get cracking on
the outpost idea."
  "It's a good idea, Ben. If you can get the
Russian and Sam Hartline off our backs, we
can try to bring some semblance of order back to this land.
Productivity will naturally follow that."
  "You've got to include God in there somewhere,
Lamar," Ben said softly.
  "The first two will come about a lot easier than the
latter, Ben," he was reminded.
  "Don't you start on me, you old goat."
  Lamar grunted his reply. Just before he turned
to walk back to his Jeep, he said, "Take
care, General. God be with you all." Even though,
he thought,
  keeping it silent and to himself, many of the men and women
with you think God is already here.
  The Rebels were almost staggering under the weight of their
loads. Ben knew they were going in
too-heavy-loaded. But a lot of
paratroopers had done so before.
  He wondered, watching his people being boosted up into the
planes: For how many would this be the last jump?
  He shook that away and motioned the lead pilot
over to him. "Give her all she's got," he
ordered the woman. "I want to be over the DZ just
before dusk. Then you people get back here, get a good
night's sleep, and start ferrying in supplies to us
first thing in the morning."
  The woman opened a map and pointed to pre-marked
locations.
  "That's it. Thank you, Jean."
  "Yes, sir, General."
  He looked at Sylvia. The woman was almost
buried under the load of equipment carried. "You
ready to go head hunting, Lieutenant?"
  She nodded, her eyes large under the protective
plastic headgear. Once on the ground, that would be
discarded and a black beret would take its place.
  "Let's do it."
  The cold winds howled through the open doors of the
planes. Conversation was very nearly impossible. Some
of the sticks of jumpers would be going out the side,
others would jump from the rear. All would be on static
line.
  And Ben would be the first one out of the lead plane.
  Using a headset, Ben stayed in constant
communication with the pilot. "Anyone heard anything from
the others?" he asked.
  "General McGowen and his people are on the ground and
moving," she radioed back. "Just got that word."
  Ike had made it.
  "Colonel Gray's people are down and all right,"
she continued.
  Dan and his Scouts were okay.
  "First Battalion is in position along the
border. The Scouts and the woods-children were off-loaded.
It all went without a hitch."
  "Very good. How much further to the DZ?"
  "Forty minutes, sir."
  "Advise us five minutes before jump off."
  "Yes, sir."
  Ben looked up at the jumpmaster, James
Riverson. The huge ex-truckdriver from the
boot-heel of Missouri was yet another who had
been with him since the outset. Ben held up four
fingers and then made a circle of thumb and forefinger.
Riverson nodded.
  The minutes ticked by. Those who wait for combat
can attest to how tricky time can be. It can
seemingly drag or speed up.
  The sun was dipping dramatically toward the western
horizon.
  Ben's headset cracked. "Five minutes,
sir."
  "Stand "em up and hook 'em up!" Ben shouted
to James.
  The red light came on.
  "Check equipment!" James shouted.
  Equipment was checked.
  "Stand in the door!" James said to Ben.
  The webbing was lowered; the door yawned into empty
space.
  James smiled and gave Ben the thumbs-up
signal. Ben returned the smile and added a wink.
  James grinned.
  Ben positioned himself in the door, hands on the
sides of the door, ready to pull himself out. His
boots were together. His heartbeat quickened. The wind
howled around him.
  The green light came on. James slapped
Ben on the butt and hollered, "Go!"
  Ben left the plane, boots together, legs
slightly bent. He grunted as the static line
pulled him up short, jerked out the chute,
blossoming above him. Another grunt as the slight
opening shock seemingly pulled him back toward the
sky.
  The ground was coming up fast.
  The sky was filled with chutes.
  The ground met Ben's boots. He was too
heavily loaded for a stand-up landing, even with the slitted
dash chutes. He rolled and popped his harness
free, running, gathering up the silk, trying to keep
his feet out of the shroud cords. Shouts filled the
dusky air as section leaders called for their teams
to gather around them.
  The drop had been very nearly letter-perfect, the
Rebels landing some twenty miles east of
Interstate 5, between Redding and Red Bluff.
  "Scouts out!" Ben called.
  The recon teams took off at a run, heading
west.
  "Points forward!" Ben called.
  The point people ran forward.
  Ben waited for three minutes, then called,
"Force march, route step. Let's go!"
  There was no silly, sophomoric growling or
clapping of hands as the lines surged forward-this was not a
game. The Rebels did not need
cheerleaders. They were, to a person, professional
warriors. Their arena was a battleground. The stands
were filling with stars, silently watching; there would be no
cheering when a Rebel died from an enemy bullet,
or mine, or wire, or silent ambush. These were not
paper tigers. And neither were their enemy.
  Both sides were fully combat-tested.
  The Rebels force-marched for fifty-five
minutes, rested for five minutes, then moved out.
That was the pattern they would follow until Ben
called a halt.
  They halted three miles from the Redding airport
at a signal from the recon teams.
  Ben keyed his walkie-talkie. "Talk to me."
  "IPF personnel control the airport."
  "How many additional people do you need to take them out?"
  "None!" the terse reply came back into Ben's
ear. Ben grinned. The recon team leader had sounded
insulted that Ben would even ask that.
  "Take them out, Sergeant. Silently."
  "Yes, sir."
  The IPF guard was bored. His boredom was about
to end. So was his life. Silly having to maintain such
security at this place, he thought. It was so
secure a gnat couldn't penetrate their
outside defenses.
  He was still thinking that as a great gaping wound
  appeared in his throat. His blood gushed hotly
down his chest. The razor-sharp knife edge withdrew
and his dying body was lowered to the tarmac.
  Another sentry never saw the black wire
looped around his throat. He felt only the panic
as air to his lungs and brain was shut off tightly.
He dropped his AK assault rifle. Other
hands grabbed it before it could clatter to the cement and
alert the other IPF members. be
  The guards on the east side of the airport were
quickly and silently taken out, their bodies lowered to the
ground, or to the tarmac, or to the cement. It was done
with about as much noise as a soft summer breeze.
  A deadly, knife-wielding, black-tinted
wind.
  The Rebels that stealthily performed their deadly,
bloody work did not attempt to take any
prisoners; they did not have the additional personnel
to guard prisoners, and they knew the IPF people would go
to their graves without giving up any worthwhile
information.
  And because of that, they died.
  But the recon people knew, in all
probability, their luck would not hold one hundred
percent that night. And when they were discovered, the night
would suddenly turn noisy and very bloody.
"Hapy-Haoer!"
a voice yelled in Russian.
  And the night rocked and rolled with gunfire.
  A Rebel tossed a grenade into a room
filled with IPF personnel. The large fragmentation
grenade blew, scattering bits and pieces of
IPF personnel all about the room. The Rebel
stuck the muzzle of his M-16 through the
screen-less, open window and
  finished what the grenade had not.
  Ben had started his people forward the instant he had
given the orders to secure the airport. The
Rebels at the point were running across the tarmac when
the shouted Russian words reached theirs ears. The
Rebels forced tired legs to churn a bit faster,
to get them there a few seconds earlier.
  "Try to contain the west side!" the recon leader
shouted the order. He keyed his walkie-talkie and
asked for Rebels on the north and south sides of the
airfield. Box the IPF personnel in.
  One IPF man made it to the radio room and
got off part of a message to the IPF
headquarters on the coast, near the King Mountain
Range, some one hundred and fifty miles away.
"Rebels attacking airport. Need help.
Almost overrun by-was
  A bullet to the head ended the message before it could
be completed.
  Striganov was furious.
"What
airport?" he screamed.
  "I don't know, sir," the radio operator
said. "I'm contacting them all now."
  Striganov waited, and paced the floor.
  At the airport in Red Bluff, the battle was
almost over. The small contingent of IPF personnel
were overrun by Raines's Rebels. Half a dozen
very valuable cargo planes were seized along with tons
of supplies: food and weapons and ammo.
  Ben stepped into the bloody radio room and
slipped on the headset, sitting down at the
radio. He could manage a few words in
Russian, and hoped the upcoming transmission was
brief.
  "Red Bluff!" the voice cracked out of the
speaker.
  "Red Bluff," Ben radioed back.
  "Are you under attack?"
"Nyet."
  "Have you heard of anyone under attack
by Rebels?"
"Nyet."
  "Stay alert, Red Bluff."
"Da."
  The set went silent.
  Ben leaned back, a smile on his face. By the
time Striganov learned the truth, the airport's
supply depot would have been stripped bare and the
planes ferried back to the forward base camp of the
Rebels.
  The speaker crackled again. "Red Bluff."
  Ben recognized the voice. Striganov.
  "Red Bluff," Ben radioed.
  "This is General Striganov. Is everything all
right?"
"Da, cynapb."
  "Speak English, you fool."
  "Yes, sir," Ben replied, muffling his voice
with a handkerchief.
  "The airport is secure?"
  "Yes, sir. Very quiet."
  Ben could hear the Russian's sigh. "Very
well. Go to full alert for the remainder of the night."
  "Yes, sir."
  The set went silent.
  Ben leaned back in the blood- and
brain-splattered chair and laughed.
Chapter Eight
  Ben told the radio operator to get on the
scramble horn and order a planeload of pilots
to be at the airfield by dawn, to ferry captured
aircraft back to the base camp.
  He ordered half his personnel to rest for an
hour, the other half to start loading equipment on the
planes and trucks and other vehicles found at the
airport.
  He called his platoon leaders together. "How many
did we lose?"
  "One dead, three wounded."
  "Bury the dead. We'll send the wounded back
with the planes in the morning."
  Ben looked toward the south. He wondered how
Ike was doing.
  Ike was cutting a throat, the hot blood of the
Russian IPF man bathing his right hand in thick
stickiness.
  "Yuck!" Ike muttered, lowering the
body to the ground. He wiped his blade clean on the
Russian's
  shirt, then wiped his hands clean.
  The southernmost outpost of Striganov's IPF
forces had been neutralized without a single Rebel
getting so much as a scratch.
  He turned to his XO. "We'll
neutralize everything between 101 and Interstate 5,"
he said. "I don't wanna get trapped with the
ocean to our backs and no place to cut and run.
Six-man teams ..." He looked at a woman
sergeant and grinned. "Six-person teams. Get
'em moved out pronto. We're gonna be stretched
pretty thin, but what the hell? So is everybody
else."
  "How about the civilians?"
  "They're either with us, or agin" us," Ike
drawled. "And if I have to explain that, you're in a
heap of trouble, boy."
  His XO grinned. He was just old enough to remember
that TV commercial. He saluted and left.
  Ike's eyes turned toward the north. He
wondered how Dan was doing.
  "My good fellow," Dan said, looking at the
IPF colonel. "You must realize you are
in a perfectly dreadful situation."
  The Russian's eyes were as cold as his heart.
  Dan held out the map his Rebels had seized from
the colonel's quarters. "These outposts you have Xed.
They are still operational?"
  The Russian said something terribly vulgar.
  "How crude! And to the best of my knowledge, physically
impossible. Is that all you have to say, Colonel?"
  It was.
  Dan turned to Tina Raines, Ben's daughter
and a longtime member of Gray's Scouts. "Shoot
him."
  Tina shot the Russian between the eyes, the .45
slug swelling his head before it exited out the back,
removing part of the man's brain as it traveled.
  Dan spread the map out on a table and studied it.
"This is going to make our mission infinitely
easier." He began assigning teams to sectors.
When he was finished, his teams fanning out, he turned
to Tina. "We haven't got enough personnel
to neutralize all these outposts, so I'm going to have
to contact our northern teams. We test the mettle
of the woods-children now."
  "They'll stand," Tina opined.
  "Oh, I have no doubt of that. It's these
underground people I'm a bit uncertain of."
  He was thoughtful for a few seconds.
  "If I could just
see
them perhaps I'd feel better."
  "You want to bet they're not looking at us?" she
tossed the challenge at him.
  "I think I'll pass, Tina." But he did
look around him, at the dark forest with its deep
timber.
  Did something move in there?
  Dan wasn't certain. But he thought his eyes had
picked up a flash of earth-colored clothing
flitting through the vegetation.
  "I saw it too, Dan," Tina said.
  "Yes. But
what
did we see?"
  "A friend," she said, adding, "I hope."
  Dan picked up his submachine gun. He
looked at Tina. "Good luck, Tina."
  She smiled and winked. "Yeah. Let's go kill
a
  commie for mommie."
  Dan laughed, loud and long. "Where in the
world did you ever hear that, Tina?"
  "I read it, back when I was just a kid." Tina
was every bit of twenty-three.
  "Oh?"
  "Yeah. In one of Dad's books."
  The young IPF soldier was so frightened he forgot his
English and spoke in Russian.
  Gray's Scout looked at Ro and Wade and the
other woods-children who had captured the young IPF
soldier. The young people's eyes were as cold as a
glacier.
  "He's asking for mercy," the Scout said softly.
  Wade glanced up at the Scout. "Mercy?
Ask him how many children, both male and female, he
has had sexually. Ask him how many men and women not
of his race or color he has helped capture and
transport to the Russian for butchering."
  The IPF soldier could speak perfect English.
He dropped his eyes, refusing to meet the eyes of
Wade or any of the others around him.
  "Ask him," Ro said, "how many times he's
killed men and women and children who refused to accept the
IPF'S demands. Ask him how many of Ben
Raine's Rebels he has killed. And ask him
if he will tell us the location of every IPF
outpost in our sector?"
  The Russian soldier shook his head.
  Ro met the Scout's eyes. "Would Ben
Raines let him live?"
  "No," the Scout replied in a low tone.
  Wade reached down, jerked the soldier's head
up, and with one quick cut sliced the man's throat. The
body flopped on the ground and then was still.
  The Scout's face and eyes remained
impassive. He had been warned just how savage
these young people could be, and that they all, to a person, had
good reason to hate the IPF and any warlord.
  "We'll rest here for a time. While we're taking
a break, I'll assign sectors." He walked
off.
  A young girl stood off to one side, but close enough
to have seen the entire execution and its method. She was
among the youngest of the woods-children. She was eleven. The
carbine she carried was very nearly as large as she.
Her name was Lora. She did not know her last name.
She did not know if she even had a last name.
  She was dressed in patched jeans and a man's
flannel shirt, way too big for her, the
sleeves pinned back. She carried a .38
caliber pistol in a holster belted around
her slim waist, right side. A very sharp hunting
knife in a sheath on her left side.
  She had joined Ro's group of woods-children when
she was eight, after being seized and raped repeatedly
by a gang of roaming outlaws. She had managed
to escape from them after a particular savage night of
drinking and lust. With her blood streaking her inner
thighs, so sore she could hardly walk after being raped
and sodomized, Lora had slipped away from the
sleeping circle of men and made her way deep
into the timber of Kentucky.
  But not before she killed the man who had last taken
her. She had calmly and viciously, with all her
  strength, driven a sharpened wooden stake through his
right eye, penetrating the brain.
  Lora shoulder-slung her carbine and walked off
to sit by herself in the shade of a huge old tree. The
butt of the carbine almost dragged the ground as she
walked.
  Seated on the ground, she ate some berries she
had picked that morning and sipped water from her
canteen. Then she opened her rucksack and took out
a ragged magazine she had found back in one of the
buildings at the airport in the old
Tri-States.
  It had such pretty pictures in it.
Pictures, in
color,
of kids about her own age, she guessed. But they were
dressed so fine, and all of them seemed so happy.
And they were so clean, with shining hair and pretty rings
on their fingers. They had little gold and silver and shiny
things on the bottom part of their ears.
  She wondered what those things were.
  But what really grabbed her attention and held it,
was the fact that none of the kids carried a gun.
  Not even a knife.
  That seemed very odd to Lora.
  And some of the girls wore fancy dresses.
Lora thought she might have had a dress one time in
her life. She seemed to have that memory. But she
couldn't bring the memory into full light of
consciousness. But she thought she had had a dress on
sometime.
  Maybe it was Before.
  No. She had been told that was ... twelve
years ago. And Lora only had eleven years.
So it had to have been After.
  Oh, well, she thought, suppressing a sigh. It
didn't matter.
  She didn't know anything about Before. Just After. And
now that could be called Here.
  Sitting alone, she turned the page. More
pretty pictures of smiling and laughing kids.
  Lora could not understand why they would all be so
happy.
  She wished she could read the words.
  She could make out some words. But she wasn't too
sure she understood what they meant. She had seen the
funny-looking word TV many times. She wished she
knew what a TV was.
  And a moving star. Or something like that.
Movie
star, that was it.
  Now she wished she knew what a movie star
was.
  Stars were up in the heavens. Everybody knew that.
Stars were far away and untouchable. Why would anyone
want to be far away and untouchable?
  Well ... Ben Raines was untouchable, but he
wasn't far away.
  It was all so confusing.
  The other woods-children had told her that when things were
better, Ben Raines was going to have them all attend
school where they would all learn many things.
  Lora thought that might be fun. Maybe.
  "Let's go!" the shouted command reached her.
  Lora carefully replaced the magazine back
into her rucksack and stood up, slinging her carbine.
She looked down at her ragged tennis shoes.
She'd have to find a new pair pretty soon.
Soon as they came up on a house she'd look.
Maybe she'd find a pair the rats and mice
hadn't chewed on.
  She took her assigned place in the short
column and moved out.
  The plane from the old Tri-States had landed and the
pilots were busy inspecting the newly acquired
aircraft. Jean walked up to Ben.
  "They're in fine shape, General," she said.
"And we found an old Puff-believe it or not-in
the far hanger."
  "All the guns operational?"
  "They seem to be. We'll check them out when we
test fly the plane."
  "Fine. Get the planes back to a safe zone
as quickly as possible. I've asked Dan's
Scouts to hit every airport they can. Striganov
seems to have set up posts at airstrips. That's
good for us if it holds true. I'm taking
my contingent straight up the interstate into Redding as
soon as you people get airborne. We'll
reconnoiter the area and if possible hit the
airport just before dark. I sent recon teams out before
dawn, in seized vehicles. They'll be reporting
back any minute. Get cracking, Jean."
  She saluted and turned to leave.
  Sylvia walked to his side. "Recon teams
just radioed back, Ben. They report only a
small force of IPF personnel at the airport
in Redding. And the airport has been cleaned up and
is fully operational."
  "Thank you, Sylvia. You heard it, Jean.
Get the planes back and stand ready for my call
to return." Ben grinned. "Pretty soon now,
we're going to have more planes than pilots, huh?"
  She returned the grin and said, "At last count,
  General, we've got about a hundred and fifty
people who are, or were, qualified pilots. Checked
out in everything from props to jets. You're going to have an
air force before you know it."
  "I'll make you the first commander of it, then," Ben
said.
  "For the first time in history," Jean said drily.
  "That may well be what we're all
trying to do." Sylvia said.
  "What?" Jean asked.
  "Trying to keep history from repeating itself."
  "Very profound, Sylvia," Ben said.
  "Oh, I'm just full of surprises,
General," she replied.
  Ben glanced at her, smiling.
  Jean left before it could get mushy.
Chapter Nine
  Early that morning, before dawn, Ben had ordered the
residents of Red Bluff-those that could be found-rousted
out of bed. IPF sympathizers were quickly pointed out
to the Rebels.
  And just as quickly disposed of.
  Ben and his Rebels had no sympathy for those who
would willingly surrender their freedom. And no use
for them. And no place for those types within the ranks
of the Rebels.
  The handful of survivors found in Red Bluff,
less than two hundred in all, were armed with
weapons taken from the IPF garrison and told they
had damn well better get ready to fight. To the
death if it came to that, and that it might just come to that.
  Ben's Rebels pulled out, with Ben's Jeep
leading the column, his Scouts ranging far
out in front of the main column. Sylvia driving.
  "Isn't this awfully brazen, Ben?" Sylvia
asked. "Just driving right out on the interstate in
broad open daylight?"
  "No. We're driving vehicles with IPF
markings. If Striganov has spotter planes
out, the pilots will think
  it's a column of their own people. I would think our
greatest danger would come from Americans along the
road; maybe with a sniper rifle."
  Sylvia muttered something under her breath that Ben
ignored with a smile. It sounded suspiciously like,
"Smart-ass!"
  Ben halted his column on Highway 273, just
west of the interstate, and waited for another report from
his recon team. Redding was about five or six times
the size of Red Bluff, so the airport would be much
larger, and probably with a much larger contingent of
IPF personnel assigned to guard it. While they
waited, Ben studied maps taken from the slain
IPF guards at Red Bluff.
  "Curious," he muttered. "But typical of the
arrogant bastard."
  "Who?" Sylvia asked.
  "General Striganov."
  "What'd he do?"
  "Put his back to a wall of raging ocean. He
might have a spectacular view, as I'm sure he
does, but he cut off a valuable escape route."
Ben thought for a moment, then said, "No, he
didn't."
  "What do you mean?"
  "If by some chance we do trap him in there, he can
walk right out of there. He could put the women and children in
front of him, knowing we wouldn't shoot through them to get
him. Or he'd stay put and start killing hostages
if we tried to rush him."
  "He's ruthless enough to do it, too."
  "Tell me." Ben's thoughts were flung through a
mist of bloody events, back to when Hartline and the
Russian had tied naked men and women to the front
  of tanks and trucks and Jeeps and APC'S, and
used the helpless men and women for cover while they
advanced on Rebel-held positions. And mixed in
with the advancing mercenaries and IPF forces were several
hundred elderly people, stripped naked and forced to jog
and trot ahead of and mingled in with the advancing forces.
  If the elderly couldn't keep up and fell down,
they were run down and crushed by the vehicles behind them.
  Ben sighed and lit one of his rare
cigarettes. "Yeah," he said. "Tell me about
Hartline and the Russian."
  "You say contact is poor from the Red Bluff
end of the transmission?" Striganov asked his
radio operator.
  "Yes, sir. It's the atmosphere again. That
radioactive belt must be dipping closer again."
  "Then it would affect
both
ends of the signal,
fool!"
Striganov shouted. "Goddamn, I'm surrounded
by
idiots!
Get Red Bluff."
  With shaking fingers, the young woman operating the
radio keyed her mike and called Red Bluff.
  But in the time the IPF had occupied northern
California, the Americans had learned a lot of
Russian. And the man Ben had left in charge of the
civilians in Red Bluff, George, had
grinned and agreed when Ben had given him instructions
as to what to do when his base was contacted.
  George smiled and keyed his mike.
"Da
... Red Bluff..." He paused for several
seconds between
  each word, as if his radio was faulty.
"Kaxkb ...
bee ... tyt."
  He hoped the other end would understand that everything was
quiet here.
  Striganov cursed as he listened to the man's
voice break up. "I don't like it. I just don't
like it. Start contacting the others, all of them. Chart
their responses and have it sent to me as soon as you are
finished."
  "Yes, sir."
  Redding reported that everything was quiet. So did
Youreka and Old Station. Yuba City,
Marysville, Oroville, Paradise, and Chico
all reported everything normal.
  But when she tried to contact anything south of
Highway 20 and north of Highway 299, she
once more experienced that odd breaking-up of
transmissions.
  Strange, she thought.
  But everything was all right in Susanville, Lake
Almanor, in the Pumas National Forest, and
Grass Valley.
  She checked a few more locations and called her
relief operator, walking to General
Striganov's quarters in the newly built command
post.
  She could hear the gruntings and the whimpering cries
before she reached his office door. She for certain was not
going to interrupt the general's fucking. The general was
getting as bad as Sam Hartline.
  She felt certain that was the young girl, Jane, in
there with him. He probably had her bent over a
desktop and was screwing her butt.
  The woman sighed. The general didn't used to be
  this way, she remembered. He had always been such
a proper man. A gentleman, even.
  Except with the minorities, of course. But who
cared a whit about them?
  It was not until he became associated with that
pig, Sam Hartline, that General Striganov
became so ... perverted with his sexual appetites.
  The girls kept getting younger and younger.
  The sounds of a blow reached her. The sounds of a hand
slapping naked flash.
  "Stop your whining, you bitch!" Striganov's
voice carried to her. "You know you like it. Reach around.
Spread the cheeks further apart. That's it.
Good."
  His gruntings picked up in tempo.
  The radio operator shook her head and walked
away, out of earshot. Walked to the secretary's
desk and sat down on the edge of the desk. The two
women's eyes met for an instant.
  The secretary said, "It is not for us
to criticize the general's activities."
  "No one did."
  "The look in your eyes did."
  "I'll remember to be more careful."
  The girl screamed and the secretary's hand shook as
she lifted her teacup to her lips.
  The radio operator smiled and put the needle
to her friend. "You must remember to be more careful,
Val. Your emotions gave you away."
  "Watch your mouth, Hedda. I outrank you,
remember."
  Hedda laughed. "He'll be calling for the medics
now. He probably split her."
  The secretary's intercom buzzed. "Yes,
sir."
  "Call the medics to come get this stupid bitch,"
  Striganov said. "Yes, General."
  "And where is that damned Hedda?" "Standing
right here, sir," she said with a wink at
  Hedda.
  "Give me a few minutes, then send her in."
"Yes, sir." She looked up at Hedda.
"Take a seat.
  He'll shower before he buzzes me again. He'll
want to
  wash the blood away," she added bitterly.
  "The radio room first," Ben told his people.
"We've got to take those people out but leave the
equipment intact. The longer we can keep up this
farce, the better off we'll all be."
  "About fifty IPF men there, sir," Ben was
informed.
  "All right." Ben spread a map of the
airport-compliments of the IPF back in Red
Bluff-on the hood of his Jeep. "This is how
we'll go in."
  "Have you made contact with the Big Lake outpost?"
Sam Hartline asked the man in the radio room.
  "Yes, sir. But it's very poor; breaking up
badly. I can just make him out."
  "Contact the Mount Shasta outpost."
  "Yes, sir."
  Mount Shasta was contacted, the signal
clear and loud. Everything was five by five. Okay.
Boring.
  Hartline's cold green eyes held a thoughtful
light
  for a few seconds. "Get me General
Striganov's CP."
  The general came on the horn.
  "Georgi? Is everything all right down your
way?"
  "So far as I can tell, yes. We've had some
difficulty reaching some stations. But you're coming in very
clear. It's baffling."
  Hartline agreed. Baffling. But ... maybe not.
He said as much to the Russian.
  "Explain, please?" Striganov radioed
back.
  "We know Ben Raines is on the move, right?"
  "Yes. But there has been no sign of any
Rebels in our sector. And our network of
outposts would have picked up any unusual
movements. No, it's too soon for Ben
Raines."
  "Don't be too sure, Georgi. I'm going
on full alert; sending out recon."
  "Very well. I'll do the same. Keep
in touch."
  Hartline turned to his radiomen. "Contact our
people on the border. Tell them we're going to full
alert. Tell them to be very careful. Ben Raines
is on the prowl."
  "In
our
territory?" the radioman was startled.
  Hartline nodded his handsome head. "I think so.
My guts tell me it's coming down to the wire."
  Late afternoon began settling softly into dusk as
Ben's Rebels, one by one, attracting no
attention from the woebegone-looking people scattered about
Redding, moved into position around the airport.
  "Folks around here look like all the fight's been
kicked out of them," Rebel observed.
  "Sure looks that way," his partner agreed. "I
haven't seen anyone so far I'd trust."
  "I think what we're seein' is the losers;
they'd be losers war or no war."
  "Then where are the others?"
  "Watchin' and waitin', I'd bet."
  The Rebel's walkie-talkie, clipped onto
his web belt, crackled softly.
  "Go ahead," the Rebel spoke.
  "This is Raines. I've just been informed there is
a very active resistance force of Americans working out
of Redding. They know we're here and will be linking up with
you point people very soon. Leader's name is Harris."
  "Ten-four, General."
  "Over to your right, Mac."
  Mac looked. A man was standing in the doorway of
what had once been a drugstore. He waved the
Rebels across the street.
  They approached him cautiously.
  "I'm Harris," the man announced. "Man,
are we glad to see you people."
  "Is that right?" Mac asked. "You look like you're
big enough to kick ass and take names. Why didn't
you?"
  Harris smiled bitterly. "I've got about
seventy-five people in my group. Seventy-five out
of three thousand. That tell the story?"
  Mac was sorry he had spoken so sharply. But
while he knew what the Rebels were doing was necessary,
he, like so many Rebels, including Ben Raines, was
getting damn tired of fighting other peoples' wars
for them.
  "Yeah, Harris. It does. Sorry I
popped off at you."
  "I understand. Believe me, I do. Many times
I've had to just grit my teeth and walk off before I
shot some of the roll-over crybabies around here."
  "Many sympathizers around?"
  Harris spat on the littered, dirty
sidewalk.
  Mac and his partner got the message.
  "What do you want me and my people to do?" Harris
asked.
  "Lay back and stay out of it. When we're
finished, I imagine General Raines will put you in
charge. Then you can deal with matters the way you see
fit."
  "With pleasure."
  Mac and his partner waited on the outskirts of
Redding, waited with Harris in the looted shell of the
drugstore in the small shopping center ... or what
had once been one. Mac and his partner were just one of
many two-person teams scattered in a loose
circle around the airport. If any IPF people
managed to escape the initial attack on the
airport, they would be cut down by the Rebels
encircling the area.
  "You speak any Russian?" Mac asked
Harris.
  "Some. I'm no expert. But I picked up some
while a prisoner of the IPF."
  "How'd you get away from them?"
  "Broke and ran one night. They shot me."
He lifted his shirt; his stomach was pocked with
bullet scars. "They thought they'd killed me.
Left me and took off chasing the other guy who
broke out with me. I managed to crawl into a ditch
before I passed out. My people found me before morning. I
just made it. Charlie didn't. He died pretty
damned hard, so I was later told. Never again will
I allow my freedom to be taken from me. Never!"
the word was spoken hard.
  "And I'll kill any person who tries."
  Mac smiled through the gathering gloom at his partner.
Harris would do to ride the river with.
  "Any weak links in your group?"
  "None. But there was ... for a long time. I kept
wonderin' why the IPF knew every move we were
gonna make. We'd change hideouts; they'd be
right there. Lost a lot of people durin' that time. Better
than twenty-five percent of my group bought it.
That's how I got captured. After I got on my
feet, I started some hard checkin'. I found out who
it was and killed him. We've had no more
leaks. But it was a damned hard thing for me to do."
  It was a story the Rebels were accustomed to hearing.
"Friend of yours, huh?"
  Harris looked at him. "Yeah. He was my
brother."
Chapter
Ten
  Like silent ghosts in tiger-stripe and lizard
camo, the Rebels moved along the buildings of the
Redding airport. Those IPF personnel who
happened to be on foot patrol, or just
unfortunate enough to be outside while the Rebels were
moving into position, met silent, abrupt death with
black wire or darkened blades. Their bodies were
dragged out of sight and dumped.
  Swiftly and softly, the Rebels took their
positions, all of them just a bit nervous about this
raid. For the general was personally leading this attack.
  "Damned fool!" Sylvia whispered to him, as
they crouched inside the tower, on the tarmac. "You've
got men and women thirty years younger that you and Ike
personally trained to do this sort of work. What are you
trying to prove?"
  Ben's smile flashed in the night. He leaned
close and whispered, "Are you trying to tell
me I'm over the hill, kid?"
  Sylvia flushed and blushed. She knew damn
well Ben was far from being over the hill. In more ways
than one. Then her eyes widened in shock as Ben
  leaned closer still and blew softly in her ear.
  "Ben! Quit! Shit!" she whispered. "You're
insane!"
  Ben kissed her cheek and chuckled softly. "Are
you trying to tell me this is not the place for romance,
kid?"
  Sylvia could but shake her head and sigh. All
her life she had heard stories about how totally
unpredictable General Ben Raines was.
  She could damn well believe it now.
  Ben looked up at the tower. "Into the jaws of
death, Into the mouth of hell, Rode the six
hundred."
  "What'd you say, Ben?"
  "Tennyson. You ready?"
  She looked at him. "For
what!"
  He chuckled. "My daughter, Tina, is fond
of quoting something she says she read in one of my
books. Kill a commie for mommie. I swear I
don't remember
ever
writing anything like that. But it's a good phrase for this
night."
  Ben and Sylvia looked up as footsteps sounded
on the stairwell above where they crouched inside the
tower building. A man had stepped out of the tower area
to have a smoke. His lighter flashed in the darkness, for a
moment illuminating his face. His face was
cruel-looking. He wore the insignia of a major
on his collar points. He turned his back to the
stairs and stood looking out a small window.
  Ben handed Sylvia his Thompson and drew his
long-bladed knife, the edge honed
to razor-sharpness. Ben had shaved with it more than
once.
  He slowly climbed the stairs toward the
Russian. On his hip, for this mission replacing his
.45 caliber Colt Army automatic, he
carried a Colt Woodsman
  automatic. If he missed any of his targets
in the tower, his repair people might be able to fix what a
.22 slug caused. But with a hollow point .45
slug? ...
  And he was not going to give the Russian any chance
to struggle during the conventional
hand-over-the-mouth, knife-across-the-throat business.
  Ben swung the heavy knife, decapitating the
man. Blood splattered on the walls and floor
as the man's head struck the floor with a sticky
thud. Ben grabbed the body and slowly lowered it to the
floor.
  He motioned for Sylvia to stay put. Ben
removed a gas mask from its container and slipped it
over his face, checking it. It worked. Ben had never
liked the damn things. He slipped a combination
irritant gas and smoke grenade from his web belt
and glanced down at Sylvia. He nodded at her.
She returned the nod and lifted her
walkie-talkie, speaking just one word:
Go!"
  Ben pulled the pin, released the spoon, and jerked
open the door, tossing the grenade inside with his
left hand. His right hand was full of Colt
Woodsman. He shot one IPF man in the chest
and another in the face, then stepped inside, closing
the door behind him.
  The room was filled with smoke and the shouted alarms
of the IPF personnel. One blindly bumped into Ben
and Ben stuck the muzzle of the Colt into the woman's
throat and pulled the trigger.
  There had been four people in the tower when Ben had
stepped inside. Two had been shot before the gas and
smoke erupted, he had just shot the third-now where was
the fourth?
  Ben heard choking cries from across the room. He
inched his way toward the source. The man was trying
to operate the radio, but he was blinded by the
irritant, tears streaming down his face. Ben
spun him around and shot him between the eyes.
  The tower was secure.
  Ben shot each of the four in the tower in the head,
making certain they were going to stay down, then began
opening all the windows. He stepped out onto the
stairwell and removed his mask, closing the door
behind him. He stood in the thickening blood from the
Russian major and grinned at Sylvia.
  She glared up at him. "You worry the hell out
of me, you know that? You ... you ...
asshole!"
  Ben laughed at her.
  A few of the IPF personnel got away from the
wrath of Raines's Rebels, fleeing into the night.
Safe, but only for a very short time.
  No matter which way they ran, they ran into more
Rebels, lying in ambush.
  Mac, after listening to Sylvia, and only then,
turned to Harris and said, "Take out the rest of the
IPF in town."
  "Why didn't you tell me this before?"
  "Because I didn't trust you," Mac's reply was
blunt.
  "Believe me," Harris said, "I know the
feeling."
  It had taken them years to reach America, for
America had not been their destination of choice. Just the
thought of America still left a bitter, ugly taste
in their mouths. They had traveled first to France, or
what was left of it, and then to Spain,
  there again, what was left of it. They had lingered for a
couple of years in each place, gathering their own,
recruiting others, accepting them into the Faith, then
moving on, always moving on.
  And always gaining strength.
  They had moved to the island of Corsica, finding it
and overwhelming the small garrison of French
Foreign Legion troops still there. They had
tortured and mutilated and raped and killed, leaving
behind only a lonely, blood-stained reminder of a
place that had virtually escaped the horror of the
final war that very nearly wiped out earth.
  From Corsica they had traveled to South
America, finding some areas hot from radiation, others
reverting back to barbarism. They had found
recruits in every place they visited. And ships.
  They had traveled around the Horn and back,
looking, always looking, but never really satisfied with
what they found.
  Then they looked toward the United States. They
set sail for Florida. But Miami was a mess.
They had no desire to dock there.
  They sailed north and reached the Georgia coast.
They anchored off Wassaw Island and sent teams
into Savannah to look the situation over.
  They found the city almost deserted.
  A week after they landed, the city was totally
deserted.
  Any Americans found there were killed. Outright,
if they were lucky. The unlucky ones were tortured
and raped. And then killed.
  "We shall travel no more," the leader of the
thirty-thousand-plus-strong force said. "I find it
darkly
  amusing that we have come full circle and now find
ourselves here in the most hated land in the world."
  His fellow officers agreed.
  The Islamic Peoples Army, the IPA, was
made up of the survivors of every terrorist group
known to exist before the world blew up. The PLO,
Baader-Meinhof, Rengo Sekigun (japanese
Red Army), YPR, Black September, Also
Fatah, PFLP, Dev Gench, TPLA, the
Liberation Front, the Socialist
Patients-Collective, the DGI, the Red
Cell, German Action Group, and others.
  As maggots tend to gather on the unattended dead,
terrorist groups have a way of gathering like lice on
the unwashed.
  The commander of the IPA was a Colonel Khamsin.
His idol was Muammar Kaddafi.
  The gunfire had long died away; every member of the
IPF stationed in the Redding area had been accounted for.
No prisoners had been taken.
  Harris and his people were now in control of the city.
  And not all of the citizens liked it.
  A fat, obviously well-fed and well-cared-for
man was shoved in front of Ben. "John Stoggen,"
Harris informed him. "Big buddies with the local
IPF major."
  "Would you like to see your buddy now?" Ben asked
him.
  "Yes," John said. His voice trembled. He
stank of fear.
  "All right," Ben said. "Excuse me for a
moment.
  I'll be right back."
  Ben returned in a moment, carrying something in his
left hand. He held the dripping head of the major
up to John. "Here's your buddy, now, Stoggen.
Say hello."
  John Stoggen fainted on the tarmac.
  Ben tossed the head to one side.
  Harris swallowed hard. He had heard that
General Ben Raines was one hard-assed man. Now
he knew for certain. "Stoggen was responsible for the
deaths of a lot of good people, General. Men and women.
And a couple of young people, as well."
  "Do what you want to with him," Ben said. "I've
spoken with several people about you, Harris. They seem
to think you're a good man. I'm putting you in charge.
We'll outfit you with our tiger-stripe or lizard
cammies. I'll meet with your people in the morning."
  "Yes, sir." Harris saluted and left.
  "General," a Rebel approached Ben.
"We've just been in contact with Base Camp One.
They want to know if you've ever heard of a
Colonel Khamsin?"
  "Khamsin? No. Why?"
  "Well, sir, it's kind of confusing and not, as
yet, confirmed, but a small group of people came
to Base One a couple of days ago. They're from
south Georgia. They claim that a large force landed
in Savannah about a month ago. They're commanded
by this Colonel Khamsin."
  "How large a force?"
  "About forty to fifty thousand men."
  Ben stood stunned for a moment. "Forty or fifty
thousand?"
"Yes, sir."
  "They must be mistaken. Do you have any idea how
many ships it would take to transport that many men and
supplies?"
  "No, sir."
  "I don't believe there are that many ships still
seaworthy, anywhere. Khamsin," Ben said.
  "Yes, sir. The people said it means a hot wind."
  "Wonderful," Ben said drily. "Back in
1941, it was a divine wind. Now sixty years
later we have a hot wind to contend with."
  "Divine wind, sir?"
  "Pearl Harbor, son."
  "I ... don't know that I ever heard of that
place, sir."
  Ben smiled. "Well, believe it or not, I
wasn't born then either, son. But I do know a little
something about history."
  "Yes, sir."
  "Get Base One on the scrambler. Tell them
I said to send out some recon teams; try to find out
what in the hell is going on down in Georgia."
  "Yes, sir." He saluted and left.
  Ben looked for his XO. "Let's get this
airport cleaned up and the bodies disposed of ..."
  A shot cut the darkness.
  Ben had a hunch that John Stoggen had
collaborated his last.
  "... Get Cecil on the horn and have him get
our pilots back here to ferry these planes out.
Let's start inventorying supplies and moving it out
for shipment back and caching in this part of the country."
  "Yes, sir."
  Sylvia came to stand by Ben's side. "A hot
wind, Ben?"
  "That's what the man said." "Forty or fifty
thousand
troops, Ben?"
  "That's what the man said."
  "Ben, we can't fight that many troops."
  "Something tells me we're going to have to do it,
kid."
Chapter
Eleven
  Once again, Raines's Rebels had lucked out,
in more ways than one. They had uncovered several
tons of supplies: food, clothing, guns and
ammo, walkie-talkies, and planes.
  The Rebels outfitted Harris and his people, then
waited for the pilots from the old Tri-States.
  While they waited, Ben radioed back
to Cecil, asking if Dr. Chase had attempted
any contact with General Striganov.
  "Not yet, Ben."
  "Tell him to forget it. We're on a roll out
here and I don't want to tip our hand."
  "Ten-four. What about this Colonel Khamsin
business, Ben?"
  "Bring me up to date."
  "I just spoke with Base Camp One not half
an hour ago. They're convinced those people are telling the
truth about the IPA."
  "About the what, Cec?"
  "The Islamic Peoples Army. It was the children
  with them that convinced our people they're telling the truth.
Seems the kids all say that several times a day,
these ... whatever the hell they are, stop whatever
they're doing, spread some sort of mat, and squat
down, as the kids put it, and pray. All in the
same direction."
  Ben's sigh was audible over the miles. "I
think, Cec, we've got big trouble."
  "I think you're right, buddy. Even if the
IPA'S force is only a quarter of what is
claimed, we're in trouble."
  "It never ends, does it, Ben?"
  "It certainly appears that way. Talk to you
later. Hold down the fort."
  Ben signed off. He turned to Harris.
"Maintain this charade for as long as possible,
Harris. I don't think we can continue playing
radio interference for very much longer. Striganov is
probably suspicious by now, and I'm sure
Hartline is. But if we can keep this up for another
twenty-four hours, we'll have shaved the odds down and
gained a lot of ground. The more outposts we can
seize, the more Striganov is going to have to split his
forces to regain them."
  "But won't that also cut down the size of your
personnel?" Harris asked.
  Ben smiled. "Perhaps," he said, and would say no
more about it.
  Ben had no inclination to discuss his battle plans
with anyone-not even his own people. Yet.
  The northernmost IPF outpost in California,
located at Youreka, just a few miles south of the
Oregon
  border, lay quiet under the springtime sun. It was
a small outpost, but a vital one. It was also a
lonely post for the soldiers stationed there. Before the
bombings, now more than a decade past, the town's
population was about six thousand. Now it was down to about
two hundred men, women, and children.
  The IPF lieutenant in charge of the Youreka
station had monitored all the requests of General
Striganov's radio operator; and listened to the
garbled responses from some stations. It was puzzling,
but, to his mind, nothing to get alarmed about. It
probably was that radioactive belt that had hovered
over the earth for years.
  He stepped outside the building for a smoke and a
breath of air.
  The silence got his attention. He
looked around him.
  There were usually some townspeople about, begging for
food or asking to see some friend or relative that had
been seized by the IPF.
  Or some local woman willing to sell herself for
better treatment.
  Sometimes a man or boy willing to do the same.
  That always amused the lieutenant. He held
Americans in contempt. The mighty Eagle. Now
clawless, its people groveling about, willing to suck a
cock for a can of beans or spread her legs for a
package of cigarettes.
  Or part of the cheeks of male or female ass
for a good butt-fucking.
  He wondered where the people were on this bright, beautiful
morning.
  He would never know the answer to that.
  He heard a
twang
and lifted his head just as the fiberglass,
field-pointed bolt, fired from a crossbow, hit
his chest. He knew a few seconds of very intense
pain as the point hit his heart, shattering it. He
dropped to the ground, only seconds away from dying.
  An attack, he thought. Against
us!
Here? Impossible, he thought. Not from these cowardly
Americans.
  Then he died.
  The Eagle had risen, silently screaming its
rage.
  Lizard-camoed Rebels rushed the outpost,
leaping over the body of the arrogant lieutenant. The
point man reached the door and slipped inside,
darting to his left; other Rebels quickly entered the
blockhouse; they carried .22 automatics, the
pistols silenced.
  Two Rebels stepped into the radio room. They
lifted the silenced .22's and shot the two people in the
room in the back of the head. They closed the door and
pulled the bodies out of the chairs, taking their place
behind the wall of equipment.
  Other Rebels were going about their deadly work,
silently and efficiently.
  The Rebels assigned to the small
barracks-room found a half dozen IPF
personnel sleeping in their bunks.
  The Russians never awakened from their sleep.
  In less than two minutes the blockhouse was
secure and in Rebel hands.
  The section leader opened the door to the radio
room. "Can you change to our frequency and
scramble?"
  "Yes," he was told. "Just as soon as I
change out some parts. Take me about five
minutes."
  "As soon as you do, inform Eagle One we are
secure here."
  The radio operator nodded his understanding.
  Some two hundred and fifty miles south of
Youreka, in Woodland, Rebels from Ike's
contingent slipped quietly and unseen around the IPF
compound. The small band of Rebels was heavily
outnumbered and Ike had told them to forget about
salvaging any of the radio equipment; just knock out
the installation and let the chips fall where they may.
  Or in this case, the bodies of the IPF
personnel inside the compound.
  At a signal from the section leader, a Rebel
lifted a 66mm rocket launcher, sighted it
in, and put the rocket through the window of the radio
room. The room exploded in a cloud of mortar,
brick, wood, blood, and pieces of human
bodies.
  Raines's Rebels gave no quarter
to the IPF forces inside the compound. If Ben and his
Rebels were to build something constructive out of the
ashes he would play the fiddle and call the tunes.
He had turned his theory into fact back in the
Tri-States. He had proven that a society can
exist without criminals or crime. For if you
don't have one, you won't have the other.
  And Ben's philosophy was instilled into the hearts
and minds of his Rebels.
  Ike's contingent hit the IPF hard, taking no
prisoners. In less than half an hour, the
battle was over; all that remained was the dust and
smoke that lingered like a bitter reminder over the
compound.
  "Radio Eagle One that Woodland is ours,"
the section leader said.
  The Rebels now controlled nine of the IPF'S
outposts, stretching from Youreka down to the Napa
Valley.
  Then Ben abruptly called a halt to it,
confusing all his teams and team leaders, including
Ike.
  It was late afternoon when Ike finally got through
to Ben.
  "Cease and hold, Ben?" he questioned.
  "Yes. I want to discuss it, but not over the
air. There is always a chance our transmissions could
be descrambled. I've already spoken with Dan. You
both have access to small planes and people to fly them."
He gave Ike map coordinates. "Meet me
there in the morning. We'll go over the plans.
I'll see you then."
  Ben signed off.
  Ike scratched his head and looked at his XO.
  "What's up, Ike?"
  "With Ben, you just never know. But whatever it is, the
Russian and Hartline ain't gonna like it, you can
bet on that."
  "Another outpost cannot be reached, General,"
Hedda reported to Striganov.
  "You mean the signals are garbled?"
  "No, sir. Silent."
  Georgi turned slowly in his chair. He sighed
deeply; a man in frustration. "Raines," he
said. "He's making his move. I was wrong and
Hartline was right. But where is the son of a bitch?"
  "Hartline?" Hedda asked, confused.
  "No! Goddammit, woman.
Raines."
  Hedda wisely chose to remain silent.
  "He's pulling something. But what?-other than the
obvious. Raines is a wolf. He's circling,
not yet showing me his plan. Just as sure as I commit
personnel to one place, the guerrilla bastard is
going to pop up in another. I know how his mind
works."
  Wrong. He did not know how Ben's mind worked.
He just thought he did. Arrogant people always think
they're much smarter than they really are.
  "Yes, sir," Hedda said. She would never
admit it to the general, but she was very frightened of Ben
Raines and his Rebels. They were savages.
Brutal Vikings. Ben Raines and his Rebels
paid no attention to the rules of warfare. They were
all, to a person, thugs.
  "Contact Hartline," Striganov ordered. "Have
him fly down here first thing in the morning. We have
to start planning our strategy. We cannot allow
Raines to get the upper hand, in
anything."
  "Yes, sir. Will that be all, sir?"
  "Yes."
  When Hedda had closed the door behind her,
General Georgi Striganov's face tightened as
he jerked out a map of his
IPF'-CONTROLLED territory and
  quickly scanned it. With a colored pen, he
carefully Xed each outpost that had a garbled
signal, and the one that had gone silent.
  He stared at the map. He could make no sense
of any of it.
  There were two hundred and fifty miles between the
northern outpost and the southern outpost. Raines just
didn't have that many men.
  Or did he?
  Striganov leaned back in his chair, his mind
busy. Perhaps Raines had recruited more people ...
Yes!
That had to be it. Just as he had recruited-or rather,
Hartline-those warlords, Ben Raines had probably
done the same.
  But that would not be like Ben Raines. Raines hated
even the thought of warlords.
  But would he use them as a last resort?
  Yes, Striganov thought, he probably would.
The end would justify the means.
  The Russian carefully noted each position he
had marked on the map. Raines would be the strongest
south of Highway 20, he felt. At least four
of his outposts, probably five, had been
knocked out there. So it reasoned that Raines would be the
weakest at Youreka ...
  No!
  Big Lake. Raines would have teams spread out
north and south along Interstate 5. Big Lake
would be stretching it thin for Raines, out of his supply
route.
  Big Lake would be the first outpost the IPF would
retake. But first he and Hartline would monitor the
  transmissions coming from the outposts. Raines would
make a mistake; he would slip up. Striganov
was sure of that.
  And then the IPF would pounce.
  He smiled. It was a good plan.
Chapter
Twelve
  "Sneaky, Ben," Ike said. "Real sneaky.
But it's risky, buddy."
  "I know. But I've already sent for Cecil and his
battalion. There is an airstrip here"-he
punched the map-"just a few miles from Big Lake.
The strip is big enough to handle twin-engined cargo
planes. Cecil's bunch will slip into position
along the southeast side. Dan, your bunch will take
the north side, forming the top of the
triangle. My people will be in position on the west
side, forming the west angle of the scalene. When the
IPF people enter, then I'll close the box. If
we do this right, we can really cut the odds down."
  "I like it," Dan said. "It's dirty and mean."
He looked at Ike and grinned.
  "You would," Ike said with a grunt and a grin. "But
then, so do I."
  "Get your people into position and out of sight. For a
fact, Striganov is going to make some fly-bys
in recon aircraft."
  "And start transmitting between the outposts we've
captured?" Ike asked.
  "Right. But warn your operators not to make it too
obvious. Just chitchat. Lots of Rebels between
101 and Interstate five to the south. Lots of people
at the border. We're waiting for fresh troops
to arrive. But it's lonely as hell at Big
Lake. Keep it simple and plain. Let drop
once or twice that we've got two platoons
at Big Lake. I don't really know
Striganov's mind-no one knows another's mind-but
if I were in his boots, I'd send at least a
full battalion into the Big Lake area, just to be
on the safe side. What do you people think?"
  "Just to add a bit of spice to the tea," Dan
said, "I would suggest a conversation or two about some
green troops mixed in with the regulars at Big
Lake. Since it's so isolated, and the danger of
attack so slim, that would be a good place for new
troops."
  "Yes," Ben said. "Good idea. But not too
obvious with it."
  "Right, sir!" the Englishman said cheerfully.
  "I like it," Ike said.
  "Move out," Ben ordered.
  "I don't like it worth a shit!" Sam
Hartline said.
  "State your objections," Striganov said.
  "You can't trust that goddamned Ben Raines!
I'm tellin' you, Georgi, he's pulling some
crap on us. It's not like him to put up with all this
bragging his people are doing on the air. It's like ...
well, he's trying to goad us into doing something
stupid."
  "Oh, I agree with that. But you've listened to all
the
  tapes we've made. Someone put a stop to any
mention of those green troops at Big Lake.
Raines, I'd wager."
  Hartline sat back down and calmed himself,
mentally, silently, going over Striganov's
plan. It had merit, he was forced to admit that.
  But Hartline felt he knew Ben Raines far
better than Striganov did. He should, he thought,
hiding a smile, for the two men were alike in a lot,
well,
some
ways.
  "What are you thinking, Sam?"
  "A mixed bag of thoughts, Georgi. I'll
admit that I like most of your plan. All right, then,
we'll have a go at it."
  "I'll order recon teams in and we'll do a
fly-by. Tomorrow morning all right?"
  "Fine."
  The Rebels had worked furiously all day and
well into the night. Teams had begun arriving at the
Big Lake site only a few hours after the
meeting of Ben, Ike, and Dan had broken up.
Cecil and his reserve battalion had landed and were
digging in along the eastern borders of Big Lake.
  Machine gun emplacements, mortar pits, and
bunkers were almost finished. Booby traps were being
laid out; Claymores were going into place.
Artillery was anchored and camouflaged.
  And then they waited.
  Ro and Wade had received their orders. It was up
to them and their young charges to see that no member of the
attacking IPF forces made it past the
  triangle's northern angle alive. At the
Big Lake site, Ben watched the young boys and
girls of the woods-children as they received their orders.
If there was any fear in them, they did not allow it
to show on their faces. They stood impassively.
  And it almost broke Ben's heart.
  Ike was standing by Ben's side; he picked up on
his friend's silent feelings.
  "I don't like it any more than you do, buddy," he
said. "But if they didn't receive an assignment,
they'd go off on their own and maybe get mauled."
  "You and me, Ike, we've seen a lot together.
But I'll be damned if I've ever seen anything
to compare with this sight."
  "Kids have fought in every war since the beginning of time,
Ben." He sighed, a sign of frustration.
  Dan joined them. "Those children should be in school. This
should be the happiest times of their lives."
  Ben glanced at him, smiling. "Do you want to be
the one to order them out of here?"
  Dan grunted, remembering when he had first
encountered the woods-children. He had offered one little
sweet-looking girl of about nine or ten a candy
bar. The child had bitten his hand to the bone, kicked him
in the shins, grabbed his AK-47, and took off into the
timber, leaving Dan hopping around on one foot,
cussing.
  "Thank you, but
no!"
he said flatly.
  Ben and Ike managed to contain their laughter, both
of them knowing what Dan was thinking. Dan had lost his
cool. Ben's eyes found a little girl, standing
by herself, apart from the other children.
  Her carbine was almost as tall as she was. But he
had absolutely no doubt that she could, and had, used
it. And used it expertly, too.
  He left Ike and Dan and walked to the child. As
he approached, he could see the fear build in her
eyes.
  Goddammit! he silently cursed. Why are these
children afraid of
me?
  But he knew.
  And knew that he must, at all costs,
put a halt to the myths that were growing daily about him.
  But how?
  He knelt in front of her. "I'm Ben
Raines."
  "Yes, General, I know," the girl said, her
voice small in the great living cathedral that was the
wilderness.
  "Call me Ben."
  She shook her head. "That is not permitted."
  "Nonsense! If I permit it, who can
challenge it?" Wrong way to go, Ben, he
cautioned. But it was too late; he had said it.
  She shook her head, not replying.
  "What is your name, girl?"
  "Lora."
  "All right, Lora. How old are you?"
  "I ... think I have eleven years."
  Jesus God! Ben thought. Eleven years old
and a warrior. "Your parents?"
  She shook her head.
  "Brothers, sisters?"
  "I ... think I had some. But they're dead,
I'm sure."
  "Lora, how would you like a job?"
  "A job? But I have a job."
  "What?"
  "Fighting for you."
  "Yes, well ..." Ben cleared his throat and
shifted his weight. Damn bad knee was beginning
to ache. "I have another job for you. I'd like for you
to be my aide."
  "I don't know what that means."
  "Well, it would be a very important job. I
wouldn't ask just anyone to do it. You would assist me;
be with me-most of the time," he added. "Would you like that?"
  "Yes, General."
  "Call me Ben."
  She shook her head.
  "Well, we'll... work on that part of it." He
stood up. Immediately his knee felt better. He
held out his hand and Lora slipped her small, and very
dirty, hand into it.
  Ben and Lora walked to Dan and Ike. "This is
Lora." Ben said. "She's going to be my aide."
  "Sure she can handle it?" Ike said
straight-faced, looking at Ben. "That's a
high-falutin' job."
  "Oh, quite," Dan said. "Very responsible
position for one so young."
  "I can do it," Lora said, looking at
Dan.
  Dan looked at the child. She sure looked
familiar. Great Scott! Dan thought. This is the
child that
assaulted me!
  Ike was looking off into the distance, scarcely able
to keep his laughter locked up.
  "Don't I know you?" Dan asked, kneeling
down.
  "You might," Lora said.
  "Yes," Dan said. "I do believe we have met
before."
  "You still got that candy bar?" Lora asked.
  "No," Dan said, ice in his voice. "I ate
it."
  "Good," the girl replied. "Bad for your teeth
anyway."
  Dan stood up, drawing himself to his full
height. "Impudent girl!"
  "Blow it out your ear," Lora told him.
  Dan walked away, muttering.
  Ike walked away to a tree, leaning against it,
laughing so hard he could not see.
  Sylvia walked up and looked first at Lora,
then at Ben. "Who's your friend, Ben?"
  "My new aide. Lora, this is Sylvia."
  All the Rebels had been forced to harden their
hearts toward the sights of the aftermath of total
global war. Dan's defense was a self-imposed
coldness; but he ached just as much as the next person.
  "She, ah, needs a bath," Ben said. "Would you
see to that, Sylvia?"
  "Sure." Sylvia put an arm around the child's
slender shoulders. "You'll get used to Ben,
Lora. His bark is worse than his bite."
  Lora had no idea what she was talking about.
  "Speaking of
bites!"
Ike yelled, then burst into fits of laughter.
  Dan wheeled about. "How would you like a good thrashing,
you ...
dirigible!"
  Cecil walked up, catching the last part of it.
  "What in the world is going on, Ben?" Sylvia
asked.
  "Oh, Dan just recalled a rather biting memory."
Then Ben started laughing.
  Sylvia walked away, shaking her head, leading
Lora
  off to a bath and a change of clothing.
"Men!" she said. "They are the strangest things."
  Lora sneaked a peek back at Ben Raines.
Funny, she thought, he doesn't look like a god.
  But then, what do gods look like?
Chapter
Thirteen
  Striganov and Hartline did a quick fly-by of the
Big Lake area. It looked just as Striganov
expected. Unchanged. But his soldier's eyes could
see a few things out of place. New gun
emplacements; a truck that did not belong to his
IPF teams.
  "Home," he told the pilot. "We've seen
enough."
  "Green troops or not," Hartline said. "It's
going to take a full battalion to dig them out of
there."
  "I want this to be a total defeat for Ben
Raines," Striganov said. "I want this to be
humiliating for this so-called god among men."
  "He's a god, all right." Hartline looked
down at the land. "He's a goddamned nuisance.
But, in a strange way, I'll be sorry to see
him killed."
  "He has been a fine adversary,"
Striganov agreed. "But there will be others."
  Some of the Russian's bubbling confidence was beginning
to rub off onto Hartline.
  "I feel better about this upcoming operation,
Georgi," Hartline said with a smile.
"Kick-ass-and-take-names time."
  "Crudely put but certainly fitting the
situation. Sam, have you been receiving any ... well,
rather odd transmissions from the east lately?"
  Hartline was silent for a moment, staring out the window
of the expensive twin-engined aircraft. He turned
to Striganov. "Come to think of it, yes. My
operators keep saying they're picking up some
foreign-language transmissions they think are
originating from South Carolina or Georgia. But
they can't make any sense out of them."
  "Have you heard any of them?"
  "Yes. It's Islamic. I don't speak
it."
  "What about this "hot wind" that will blow over the
land? What do you make of that?"
  "I don't know. I haven't heard that one. The
only thing I've heard about is some guy who calls
himself Colonel Khamsim ... or something like that."
  "Yes. Well. A
khamsin
is a hot wind. It originates in the Sahara and
blows in the spring."
  "How interesting," Hartline said, totally
uninterested.
  "You might become more interested when you learn the
troop strength of this Colonel Khamsin."
  "Oh?"
  "Something in the neighborhood of thirty to fifty
thousand."
  That got the mercenary's attention very quickly. He
stared at the Russian. "Did I hear you right?"
  "Two divisions. Yes."
  "Jesus God! Raines has maybe, at the
most, five thousand Rebels, and that's stretching it.
And he's
  been kicking our ass every time we meet."
  "Don't remind me. Besides, all that is about
to change. I think Raines is rapidly becoming a
secondary matter. I want joint teams of
IPF recon and men from your command sent east. As
soon as possible. I want this Colonel
Khamsin checked out. They will have to go in by vehicle.
Since Raines seems to have effectively grounded
what remains of our air force." "You've
reached that conclusion, too?" "Yes. I tried this
morning to reach our people at Redding and Red Bluff.
More unintelligible garble." He sighed. "Well,
we fell for it for a time. And now we're paying for our
folly. Dearly. I don't know how many people we've
lost. But it will not happen again. We move against the
Big Lake Rebels in two days, Sam. Get
your people ready and in place."
  Ben felt the Russian had fallen for it. He
was ninety-five percent sure of it. But he knew
he was taking a very large gamble. A gamble that would
cost the Rebels in blood should it fail.
  Therefore, it must not fail.
  He looked up from his studying of maps as
Sylvia and Lora entered his squad tent. At first
he didn't recognize the young girl.
  She was clean, her hair freshly washed and shining.
The Rebels had found clothes to fit her, from her
feet up. She no longer looked like a ragamuffin.
Sylvia grinned at Ben.
  "Here's your newest aide, General."
  Ben smiled at the woman and the girl. "Good
  afternoon, ladies."
  Lora grinned, proud of herself. "I look like one
of them kids in the pitcher-books!"
  "Oh?" Ben said. "What, ah, picture book
is that, Lora?"
  "I left it in my pack. But I found it back
in ... wherever it was we got on them planes. Found
it in a building. It was all right for me to have it,
wasn't it?"
  "Of course." Ben had noticed the child still carried
her carbine. "Where'd you get that rifle, Lora?"
  "Took off a guy about a year back. He
didn't have no more use for it."
  "Oh?"
  "Yes, sir. I killed him."
  When she was ten years old. Jesus Christ,
Ben thought. Jesus and God alone only know what
this child has gone through. "Was the man, ah, bothering
you, Lora?"
  "Tryin' to rape me."
  It was obvious she did not wish to discuss it, so
Ben didn't push it. "Have either of you had lunch?"
  Sylvia shook her head. "We haven't had
time. Lora, ah, well, it took some time to get
her cleaned up. She, ah, had fleas. Among other
tiny vermin. If you know what I mean."
  Ben knew. Lice. He resisted an impulse
to scratch. It was a problem with all the
woods-children.
  It was not that they shunned baths, for they didn't.
But to a person they preferred the ground to a bed. The
open starry sky to a building or tent. And back
at the base camp, they all had dogs. Which they
slept with.
  Ben grinned as Sylvia scratched first one arm and
then the other.
  "I'm glad you think it's so funny, General,"
she said sourly.
  "I've been there, Lieutenant," he told
her. "We all have. Remember the fleas and rats from
not that long ago?"
  She shuddered as she recalled that particular
horror. "Only too well."
  "Well, on that happy note, let's have some
lunch."
  The IPA was pushing their lines of control out of the
Savannah area. And they were savage and murderous
in their advance. Those men and women and children they did not
kill were taken prisoner, to be used as slaves on
the farms they planned to put back into production.
And since women had become a valuable commodity,
world-wide, women under forty were spared, taken
prisoner, and carefully guarded. Almost
all the very young were spared. They would be schooled in the
Islamic way and after a time accepted into the
IPA'S society.
  The Islamic Peoples Army now was in firm
control of everything between Interstates 20 and 26, from
Columbia back to the coast. Their advance had
stopped at the Georgia line-for the time being.
  There had been pockets of resistance, but those were
few and very ineffective against the overwhelming numbers
of the IPA. Only a few Americans had
escaped, and those headed straight for Ben Raines's
Base Camp One in north Georgia, bringing with
  them whatever they could hurriedly grab and carry on
the run. And they brought horror stories. Stories
of rape and torture and murder.
  Terrorism in the twenty-first century.
  Something else that Ben and his Rebels would someday very
soon have to deal with.
  But for now, Colonel Khamsin and his IPA
seemed content with the land they had seized. They would
spend some time indoctrinating the people they spared, and get
the land back in shape for production. When that was
done, then they would move out to claim more land in the name
of Allah.
  "Everybody ready?" Ben radioed
to his commanders.
  Everyone was in position and ready to go.
  The Rebels were dug in tight, their positions
deep and expertly camouflaged. Machine gun
emplacements were angled to afford the best possible
field of fire against approaching troops. And the
bunkers had rabbit holes which would allow the
Rebels to slip out and away.
  They waited.
  The first recon teams from Striganov and Hartline
moved close to the western perimeter of Big
Lake, approaching on either side of an old,
once-state-maintained road. They moved
cautiously, very alert for mines and booby traps,
for the team leaders had been warned about Ben Raines and
his Rebels. They had been warned to expect
anything; for Ben Raines did not adhere to conventional
rules of warfare. Ben
  Raines was mean and dirty and vicious; a man
thoroughly trained in the art of guerrilla warfare.
They were armed to expect anything.
  They found nothing.
  And the recon teams of Hartline and the Russian
could not understand this development. It confused them. What
was happening here? Where were all the dirty
tricks they had been warned to expect? And where in the
name of Lenin were the Rebels?
  The team leaders radioed back to the staging areas of
their commanders, asking, What was going on? What to do?
  Advance cautiously, came the order.
  The recon teams moved out. And out. They encountered
nothing human. Birds were singing and squirrels were
chattering and barking happily in the timber. And that was
a sure sign no Rebels were about. The recon
teams began to relax a bit.
  But human eyes watched them, watched them from
bunkers and deep brush and heavy timber. The
Rebels remained motionless, breathing shallow, eyes
unblinking. They waited.
  From the north the recon teams came, encountering the
same thing as the teams who came in from the west.
Nothing. And as their comrades had done, they radioed
back to the staging area for instructions, not understanding the
nothingness of the deep timber.
  Striganov smiled as he turned to Sam
Hartline. "Ben Raines has become what I
knew he would, Sam."
  "Oh?"
  "Overconfident. I knew it would happen. The
man
  has had things go his way for too long. His people have
become lack; discipline has softened. They think
we're still falling for the garbled transmissions."
  Hartline agreed with the Russian, but damned if
he'd give Striganov the satisfaction of knowing
it. "I'm ordering my people in."
  "It's time," Striganov agreed. He nodded
at an aide. "No prisoners. Kill them all.
Wipe them from the face of the earth."
  The orders were given and the combined forces of Sam
Hartline and the Russian moved out. One force from the
north, one force from the west.
  But Ben had suspected a trick, and he ordered
his people to hold their fire and keep their positions, their
heads down. Remain silent and unseen.
  Lora stood with Sylvia in Ben's bunker,
watching the man.
  "What's the hang-up, Ben?" Sylvia asked.
"What are we waiting for?"
  Ben listened to his headset for a moment, not immediately
answering. "I thought as much," he spoke into his
mike. "Let them come on."
  He turned to Sylvia, conscious of Lora's
unblinking eyes on him. "Striganov and Hartline
have committed only about twenty-five percent
of their troops. They're holding the others back."
He smiled a warrior's smile; the smile of a
hunting tiger about to taste the hot blood of prey.
"We'll let them come; play their game. They'll
learn a hard lesson about me. And I think a very
decisive one in our favor."
  "You knew the enemy was going to do this?" Lora
asked.
  "I suspected it," Ben replied, looking down
at the child.
  "You knew," she said flatly.
  "All right; have it your way, then. I knew."
  "How?"
  Ben softened his hunter's smile as he looked
at the child. "I'm an old soldier, Lora. There
are things one learns over the years."
  She nodded her head. He knew, she thought. He
looked through all the silence and knew. She would tell
the others about this.
  Ben's headset crackled. "The underground people have
halted their advance, General. How in the hell did
they
know
to wait?"
  "I don't know," Ben spoke into his
mike. "They sensed it, probably. How many of them
have you spotted?"
  "Fifty, maybe. If I've seen fifty,
there are probably five hundred more I can't
see."
  "I agree. Stay with it. Ike?"
  "Here."
  "Cecil?"
  "Here."
  "Dan?"
  "Here, sir."
  All were on scramble, on a high-band
frequency. "Let those few companies come on;
let them get deep. When they meet no resistance,
the others will be forced to follow. Striganov and Sam
know better than to permit too much distance between their
forces. Or I'm betting they do, at least. Hold
what you've got."
  The commander of the point company of IPF men
  radioed to Hartline's point company, advancing
from the north. "I have heard no gunfire."
  "Hell, there isn't anything to shoot
at!"
Hartline's company commander radioed back, knowing
both Sam and the Russian were monitoring the
transmissions. "So far as I can tell, all of
Raines's men are in the compound area. What in the
fuck are we waiting for?"
  Sam turned to Georgi. "We can't let much more
distance between companies."
  "I know. I believe your point man is
correct. Raines has made a fatal mistake
by bunching up his men. Commit your troops." He
turned to his radio operator. "Go! Go! Go!"
  And the rear companies surged forward.
  "Let them come," Ben said, after receiving the
message from his forward observers. "Let them get
deep and link up with the forward company. Steady now,
people. Keep it steady and cool. Just hold what you've
got."
  "My people are getting edgy, Ben!" Ike
radioed.
  "Tell them I'm calm and confident, Ike.
To all company commanders and section leaders, this is
Raines. I'll personally shoot the first person who
opens fire without my direct orders to do so. Is
that understood?"
  Perfectly. And they all knew Ben Raines
meant every word.
  The Rebels waited. The woods-children
waited. The underground people waited.
  "West angle clear and free," a forward
observer radioed to Ben.
  "North angle free and clear," Ben was informed.
"Close it off," Ben ordered. "Plug it up."
"IPF and Hartline's men about a mile from the
compound," Ben was informed. "Destroy them," Ben
ordered. And Lora looked at Ben, love in her
eyes.
Chapter Fourteen
  Electrically controlled Claymores were
activated, filling the air with explosions that maimed
and killed. Mortar rounds were dropped down the
tubes,
thunking
into life, popping up and out, fluttering their way
to death-creating explosions. Artillery began pounding
the IPF and Hartline's men. 152mm,
155mm, and 8-inch howitzers began spewing out their
lethal rounds. They were joined by 81mm mortars.
Parts of once-living human bodies were flung
high into the smoke and noise-shattered air of the living
wilderness.
  Fifty-caliber machine guns began hammering out
death for those who escaped the initial
onslaught of mines, mortars, and heavy artillery.
For those men and women of the IPF and Hartline's
mercenaries who staggered through the torn earth and smoky,
hellish air where they had been trapped, the
woods-children and the underground people were waiting in the bush and
deep timber, with knives and axes and bows and arrows
and guns.
  Caught by the totally unexpected, the IPF and
mercenaries ran, not so much in fear, as in confusion
  and panic. They ran to escape the exploding and
yammering fury and ran right into booby traps. Swing
traps with sharpened stakes, tripped by wire or
cord, slammed into bodies, chest-high, the stakes
driving through, bloody tips protruding out the back.
Knees and ankles were broken when running feet
stepped into punji pits. The pits were filled with
sharpened stakes, the stakes jamming through boots or
shoes, or puncturing the flesh of calf, leaving the
victim pinned, unable to move. Those trapped
remained there ... until they were found and shot.
  The cool earth of the wilderness, shaded by tall
trees and flowering shrubs, was now littered with the dead
and the dying and badly wounded. Screams of those in more
pain than they could endure ripped the charged air;
pleas for mercy were abruptly ended by pistol
or rifle shot.
  The rules of this battle and any upcoming
battle were being laid down by the Rebels. They would
give no quarter to the enemy, and they expected none.
  "Cease firing all artillery," Ben ordered, from
his deep bunker.
  The big guns fell silent.
  "All mortar crews down," Ben ordered.
  The last of the projectiles fluttered to earth and
exploded. The mortars fell silent.
  "Search and destroy," Ben ordered.
  The hunters became the hunted as Rebels left
their holes and bunkers and locked in combat with the
mercenaries and the IPF.
  It was a tribute to Ben's planning that not one
enemy made it out of the Big Lake area. Ben had
so carefully placed his people that any who tried to
  escape found themselves facing not one, but three,
lines of Rebels to cross, each circle of
Rebels forming a smaller loop from the outside of the
perimeter in.
  And not one enemy made it to within a mile of Ben's
bunker.
  Long before the mopping-up was concluded, Ben stepped
out of his bunker for a visual. Smoke still
clung close to the ground and a few fires had been
started by the exploding rounds.
  "Get people working on putting those fires out," Ben
ordered. "Watkins was a smoke-jumper, wasn't
he?"
  "Yes, sir," an aide said. "Up in what
used to be Wyoming."
  "Contact him and put him in charge. Who is he
with?"
  "Second Battalion."
  "Get moving."
  "Yes, sir." The young man disappeared into the
bunker, to contact the ex-firefighter.
  Ben walked down the slope to level ground,
causing Sylvia and his aides no small amount of
nervousness, even though most had seen Ben walk
calmly into the heat of battle many times before,
seemingly unconcerned.
  Ben stood for a moment, his old Thompson
submachine gun in his right hand. The sounds of
gunfire could still be heard around the smoking
battlefield. A scream of anguish cut the
air, ending with a gunshot for punctuation.
  Ben began walking toward the nearest battle
area. A dozen Rebels, in lizard
camo, ran to join them, forming a protective box
around him.
  "Don't you have anything better to do?" Ben asked
a young sergeant.
  "No, sir," he replied.
  Ben let it slide. He knew these Rebels
had probably been ordered to him before the battle,
either by Ike or Dan or Cecil. To order them
away would only get them in trouble with one of the three.
  He walked into the body-littered, smoking
battle area, stopping often to look at the uniforms
of the dead and dying. A mixture of IPF and
Hartline's mercenaries. Something was wrong, but Ben
could not immediately dredge it up to visual mental
light.
  He walked on, stepping around or over the gorier
messes made by parts of human bodies: still-steaming
twisted ropes of intestines; a severed human head,
the eyes wide open in pain-filled shock; a
boot, with the foot still encased within the leather; a hand, just
a hand, still gripping an AK-47; a torn-open
torso.
  He walked on, still trying to figure out what was
wrong-if anything.
  But he knew something was.
  Then it came to him. He turned to a Rebel with a
radio. "Contact the other commanders. Ask them if
they've seen any of the warlord's men mixed in with these
regulars. Our intelligence stated their dress was
oftentimes bizarre. They don't wear any type of
standard uniform."
  None of the others had seen anything other than
regular troops.
  "What does it mean, Ben?" Cecil radioed.
  "It means, I think, that while we won this
battle, one of our recently taken outposts,
I'd guess Youreka, was hit by the warlords."
  "We only left a squad there, Ben," Ike
radioed, the sounds of gunfire mingled in with his words.
  "Striganov pulled a fast one," Dan said.
Someone screamed in pain in the background of his words.
  "Not the Russian; he's too conceited," Ben
said. "This was Sam Hartline's doing. Bet on
it."
  "Then our people at Youreka are in for a very bad time of
it," Dan opined.
  "To say the least," Ben signed off.
  Sonny Boy walked up and down the thin line of
Rebels he and his men had taken at the Youreka
outpost. Sonny Boy and his men looked like
a scriptwriter's nightmare of a twenty-first
century motorcycle gang. They dressed in
whatever suited their personality.
  Bizarre would be too tame a word.
  Their headgear ranged from Nazi helmets
to berets. Some wore combat boots, others cowboy
boots. Some had chains looped and wound around their
chests and waists. Some wore only vests with no
shirt. Others were dressed in leather from ankle
to neck.
  To a man, they were dirty, lice-infested, ugly,
and vicious. Hartline had promised them a free
hand to deal with the enemy in any way they saw fit,
"The enemy" being anyone opposed to General
Georgi Striganov.
  But they had been getting bored. Life in the
Northwest was getting too tame.
  Until now.
  This particular bunch of outlaws rode
motorcycles
  exclusively. This was Sonny Boy's bunch.
  Skinhead's bunch rode motorcycles, drove
souped-up dune buggies and chopper bikes.
  Grizzly's bunch rode motorcycles and
drove souped-up pickup trucks.
  Popeye's gang rode motorcycles.
  About five hundred strong in all, they were, to a
person, a very odious crew. In more ways than one.
  Sonny Boy walked up and down in front of the
captured Rebels. When he grinned his mouth was
filled with rotten and blackened teeth. His breath would
fell an ox.
  He stopped in front of a woman Rebel.
"Lookie here, boys. This here is prime
pussy."
  The woman spat in his face.
  Sonny Boy reached out, grabbed a breast, and
twisted harshly.
  She screamed as pain bent her almost double.
Sonny Boy brought his open palm around and slapped
the woman, knocking her sprawling. Reaching down,
he jerked the field pants from her and shredded her
panties. He jerked her to her feet and threw her
to his men. Several caught her, their hands roaming
her body.
  "Take turns with "er," Sonny Boy said.
"I wonder if it's possible for a woman to be
fucked to death?"
  In less than a minute, Reba began screaming
as the rape began.
  Sonny grinned as he stared at the only other
woman in the Rebel team. "My, my, ain't you the
pretty one. You gonna be my woman, bitch."
  The woman stared at him, her face impassive.
  "Think you're tough, don't you?" Sonny Boy
asked.
  She shrugged.
  Sonny Boy's men laughed, their laughter bringing
a flush to his face. "You'll be beggin" me
to quit "fore it's all over, bitch," he said.
  She stared at him in silence.
  "You got a name, bitch?"
"Sally."
  "Ain't that pretty? You be nice to me, now
Sally, and I'll be nice to you. You fuck up with
me, and I'll stick a grenade up your ass, you
understand? And don't nod your goddamn head,
speak!"
  "I understand."
  "Good. Hope for you yet." He waved toward his
people. "Take them men prisoners. Hartline wants
to torture them; see if he can get anything out of
them."
  Reba screamed as two men took her at once,
front and back.
  Striganov was silent, deep in savage thoughts,
as he rode back to his command post by the raging sea.
  He should have known better, he kept thinking. He
should have known better than to try and second-guess
Ben Raines. For every time he did ... he failed.
  And Georgi Striganov did not like to fail.
  But what galled him more than Ben Raines
destroying two full battalions of his people ... was
Sam Hartline sending those cretins in to seize the
outpost at Youreka.
  Sam had suspected Ben Raines was going
to pull something. But if so, why hadn't he voiced
stronger objections?
  Unless? ...
  No, that was unthinkable!
  Or was it?
  Striganov tried to clear his head of those thoughts.
But they persisted.
  Was Sam trying to pull something? If so, what could
it be? For he lost men in the battle with Raines,
too. Although not nearly as many as Georgi did.
  Georgi would have to give this some thought. A lot of
thought. But he could not believe Sam Hartline would be
stupid enough to try some sort of coup. They needed each
other to continue the fight against the common
enemy: Ben Raines.
  "Outpost at Youreka on the horn, General,"
Ben was informed.
  "It's pretty bad. They're raping Reba."
  "They call us?"
  "Yes, sir."
  Ben walked to the communication truck. The
battleground was nearly void of living beings, the
Rebels pulling out, leaving the dead silent, for the
earth to claim.
  Ben glanced at his watch. Hartline would have had
time to get there by car.
  "Get them on the horn," Ben ordered.
  "Hello, Ben," the cheerful voice of Sam
Hartline cracked through the speaker.
  "Hartline," Ben replied, without the cheerfulness.
  "You won one, Raines," Hartline said. "Going
to come get your woman warrior?"
  "Doubtful," Ben said honestly.
  "You're a hard man, Ben. 'Bout as hard as
me. Hell, maybe you're harder. God knows
I've tried to kill you often enough."
  Ben could hear faint screaming in the background.
But it was not a woman's screaming.
  "That's one of your Rebels, Ben,"
Hartline told him. "One of my boys is burning
his feet off. I don't think he likes it very
much."
  Ben cursed; got it out of his system before he
keyed the mike. Keeping his voice level, he
said, "What do you want, Hartline?"
  "Why, just a friendly chat with an old enemy, Ben.
That's all."
  The screaming of the burning Rebel became louder.
  Then Ben heard Reba screaming.
  "I opened a window just in case you wanted to get
a better ... ah, picture, shall we say, of what
is happening here."
  "I could have done without it, Hartline."
  "Oh, I wouldn't want you to miss a thing, Ben.
Oh, by the way, the woman you had in the cabin,
Rani Jordan? I suppose you know by now that
she's dead."
  "I know."
  "I tortured her to death, Ben. Of course I
fucked her, too. Several times. In several
different ways."
  Ben said nothing.
  "A lot of my, ah, newer colleagues had a
whack at her, too. They're anxious
to meet you, Ben."
  "Oh, we'll meet, Hartline. Bet on that,"
Ben assured him.
  "Oh my, Ben! I wish you could see this. It's
very entertaining. Two of my men are double-teaming
Reba. Poor girl doesn't appear to be
enjoying it. I
  wonder why?"
  "Where is Sally?"
  "Sonny Boy claimed her for his woman.
He's such a delightful man, Ben."
  "One of your warlords, Sam?"
  "That's a big ten-four."
  "I'm looking forward to meeting them all, Sam."
  Hartline chuckled. "I know what you're doing,
Ben. Oh, I'll tell you their names. Sonny
Boy, Grizzly, Skinhead, Popeye. Nice
boys, all."
  Just before Ben signed off, he said, "I'm going
to kill you, Hartline. That is a promise."
Chapter Fifteen
  "You know what's going to happen now, don't you,
Georgi?" Sam asked the Russian.
  They were enjoying a late dinner in the Russian's
lovely home near Pepperwood, just off
Highway 101. The Russian insisted on living
as luxuriously as possible, considering the conditions
around them. Not two miles away, people were just barely
clinging to life.
  When Striganov and his IPF first landed on
American soil, after years in Iceland, Georgi
had treated the Aryan race quite differently.*
  But all that had proved too expensive in terms
of food and clothing and medical treatment.
  Now anyone who did not willingly embrace the
Russian's lopsided philosophy was left
to fend for themselves, as best they could.
  "No. You tell me, Sam," Striganov said.
  "Ben Raines is going to pull out all the stops
now. He's going to hit us from all sides. He's
going to use
  *
Anarchy in the Ashes
  every tactic he knows, and believe me, he knows
them all."
  "Stand up and slug it out across battlefields?"
the Russian asked, a hopeful note to his
voice.
  "You know better." Sam waved away the offer of
dessert. But his eyes took in the trim
little ass of Jane as she moved around the table to serve
the Russian.
  "You may eat now, Jane," Georgi told the
girl. "Then take your bath. I'll be along
shortly."
  "Yes, sir," Jane said.
  "Cute little cunt," Sam said, watching the young
girl leave the room.
  "She is coming along quite well. She responded
to me the other night."
  "You don't say?" He shook his head. Who
gave a fuck whether the woman enjoyed it or not?
The important thing was the man getting his nuts off.
  "Were there any survivors?" Georgi asked.
  "No. At least not that I know of. He kicked the
shit out of us, Georgi."
  "We lost the battle, not the war. Did you get
any information out of those Rebels you seized at
Youreka?"
  "Naw. Burned one's feet off. He was still
cussing me when I got hot and shoved a bayonet
up his butt." Sam sighed. "I never saw a man
or woman I couldn't break. But these goddamned
Rebels are a breed apart."
  "I wish you had told me you were going
into Youreka, Sam."
  "Spur-of-the-minute thing." He looked at the
Russian. "Do you object?"
  "Oh, no. I was curious for a time, though."
Sam laughed. "Georgi, if I ever decide
to pull anything. I'll just shoot you first and be done with
it." "That's so comforting to know, Sam."
  "Give me the final tally," Ben said.
  "Nine dead," Ike told him. "Twenty-one
wounded. Two seriously. Pilots have already flown the
badly wounded back to Dr. Chase. We buried the
dead where they fell."
  "The lads performed quite well, General," Dan
said. He looked up, feeling Tina and Sylvia's
eyes on him. "And the lassies as well, of
course." Dan looked over at Lora. She
stuck her tongue out at him. He made a face
at her. She gave him the finger.
  Muttering under his breath, Dan rose from the table and
poured himself another cup of tea.
  "That isn't very nice, Lora," Sylvia
gently admonished the child. She spoke around a
smile.
  Ike had to hide his face behind a big hand.
  "Yes, ma'am," Lora said.
  "Any word from our recon teams heading to South
Carolina?" Ben asked.
  "They're well on their way, Ben," Cecil
said. "But I don't like the sounds of what's shaping
up down there."
  "Nor do I." Dan sat back down. "I
think when we finish with the Russian and Sam
Hartline-and I intend to finish it, once and for
all-we are really going to have a fight on our hands."
  "And badly outnumbered," Tina said.
  "Let's talk about our present situation," Ben
  brought them back to the present. They would deal with the
future when it arrived.
  "Are we going to retake the outpost at
Youreka?" Sylvia asked. She had been present
when Ben had spoken with Sam Hartline. She had
heard the painful screaming of Reba. She wondered
if Reba was dead by now. She felt it would be the
best thing for her.
  "Probably," Ben said. "But don't think that
we'll ever see Reba or Sally alive again. The
odds are hard against that happening."
  No one present expected to see the women again.
Not alive.
  "What bothers me the most is that we have
no good intelligence on these warlords ..."
  "Ask the kids," Lora spoke up.
  "What do you mean?" Ben asked, looking at the
girl.
  "The kids who live in whatever area the warlords
operate out of. Adults like young girls. Grownups
like the warlords and them who ride with them, I mean. The
kids can tell you all about them."
  "We'll send Ro or Wade in," Ike
suggested.
  "No," Lora quickly spoke. "Send girls
in. Some girls out of Ro or Wade's group.
Boys will tell more to girls than to other boys.
I'll go in."
  Sylvia put an arm around Lora's shoulders.
"No, I don't think so, Lora. You have to stay
here and help us. Right, Ben?"
  "Right. Who would you suggest, Lora?"
  "I'll go pick them now." Before anyone would ask
any further questions, or object, the child was gone,
taking her carbine with her.
  Dan shook his head. "Kids fighting wars.
General,
  are you seriously considering sending young girls
into enemy territory? To face the
possibility of capture and rape and ... other
forms of perversion?"
  Ben sighed. "I don't know, Dan. You listened
to Wade and Ro's verbal report this afternoon, did you
not?"
  "Yes," the Englishman said softly.
  All present had. They silently recalled the
words from the young men.
  "We kilt ten times ten of the enemy, General.
Some we shot with bullets, some we kilt with arrows.
Most of them we just cut their throats."
  A girl of about twelve stood off to one side,
slowly honing a big-bladed knife back to razor
sharpness. Blood from the enemy had splattered her
clothing. She seemed oblivious to it.
  A boy of perhaps thirteen, maybe younger-with the
woods-children it was hard to tell ages; they were almost
all undernourished-stood by the girl, sharpening his
knife. Like the girl, his clothing was stained with
blood.
  "I done three myself," the girl said proudly.
"Come up from behind them. Barry, here, got two."
She looked at the boy by her side.
  Dan broke the silence around the table. "Yes,"
he said with a sigh. "I see what you mean,
General. But not Lora. I ... ah, rather like the child.
I would not like to see harm come to her."
  All knew Dan was fond of Lora. But the
ex-Sas man had little firsthand knowledge of dealing with kids.
And kids knew his gruff manner was only a
bluff.
  "No," Ben said-and he knew he was being un-
  fairly prejudiced with the statement-"certainly not
Lora."
  Lora returned, bringing with her three girls.
The girls appeared to be very uncomfortable in the
presence of Ben Raines. Ben asked them to be
seated and then looked hard at them.
  "Did Lora tell you anything about why you're
here?" he asked.
  "Yes, sir," one replied. "We're ready
to go."
  "What are your names?"
  Judy, Kim, Sandra.
  "Your ages?" Ben asked.
  Judy was twelve, Kim and Sandra thirteen.
  "Have you killed before?"
  All had taken life.
  Ben leaned back in his chair. He did not like this,
not one bit. He had not liked the idea of
committing the woods-children to any type of action; but
knew no way to keep them out. They had come to him
originally to fight, and that they were going to do. Whether
General Ben Raines liked it, or not.
  "Have you spoken with Ro or Wade about this,
girls?"
  They had. But they took orders from General
Raines. They would go wherever the general chose to send
them.
  "I don't choose to send you on this mission,"
Ben told them. "I don't like it at all. Not one
bit. If you go, it will be solely voluntary on
your part. I personally wish you would all refuse."
  "Why?" Kim asked.
  "For heaven's sake!" Dan said, considerable heat
in his voice. "Because you're all
children,
that's why.
  You should all be back in Georgia, attending
school, going to parties, dancing, getting all ...
ga-ga over the boys. Not running around in the woods
slicing throats."
  The trio of girls sat in silence, looking at
Dan.
  Lora came to Dan's side and put a
small, and clean, hand on his big shoulder. "Mister
Dan, we don't know nothin" about no dancin'.
Ain't none of us ever been to no party in our life.
And there ain't nothin' about boys to go ga-ga over.
Whatever that means. All we know is fightin' to stay
alive. We know what plants in the woods to eat,
and which ones not to eat. We can catch fish with our hands
and build traps to catch rabbits. We can hunt and
make shoes and jackets out of the skins of animals.
We know how to catch snakes and skin and eat them.
The woods is our home, and when it ain't ra*',
the sky is our roof. We know things about gettin' by that
none of you grownups do. We ain't afraid, none
of us. What is there to be afraid of? Can't no
man do nothin' to us that ain't been done before. Front
or back."
  Dan looked at Kim and Judy and Sandra.
They met his gaze with hard, wise, knowing eyes.
  Dear God, the Englishman thought. Did You know
what the aftermath of this evil would bring? Surely, You
did. But by all that is Holy, I will never understand
why You permitted it. Here I sit, in the wilderness
that was once America, listening to three children speaking of
getting pronged with less emotion than if they were
discussing how best to dress up dolls.
  Dan leaned over and, quite unlike him, kissed
Lora on her cheek. "All right, child. I don't
understand,
  but I will accept your words." He looked at the
girls. "Go with God, children."
  Ike stood up and cleared his throat. When he
spoke, his words were pushed out with a husky timbre.
"I'll get them equipped with radios." He
quickly left the room.
  Then the girls shocked everyone in the room,
except Lora, when Judy said, "If we get in
a tight, don't send no people in after us, sir. You
treat us just like you would any other Rebel."
  "I'll bear that in mind," Ben said. "But you
keep in touch with us by radio. Ike will show you how
to operate the equipment you'll be going in with. I
want you in and out fast. Do you understand?" They
understood.
  "No heroics, girls. Stay down and out of
sight as much as possible. Do you hear me?" Dan
asked.
  They nodded their understanding.
  "Go get some sleep," Ben told them. "You'll
be moving out before dawn."
  The girls left.
  Ben waited until he was sure they were out of
earshot before he exploded.
"Shit!
Goddammit, what have I done?"
  Sylvia came to his side and put a slender
hand on his shoulder. "You're doing what you have to do in
order to defeat an evil, Ben. You have to look at
it like that. None of us like it, but it has to be."
  "They'll be back," Lora spoke with the confidence
of the young. "The underground people will help them on their way
and while they are inside the warlords' territory."
  "Speaking of the underground people ...?" Ben said.
  "They vanished as quickly as they came," Tina
said. "I never even got a glimpse of any of
them. But they sure did do some damage to the IPF
troops."
  "Bows and arrow and knives and axes?" Ben
asked.
  "Yes," Dan said.
  "I want to meet with them," Ben said. "I've
got to convince them to surface and rejoin the human
race; that their way is wrong."
  "They will not listen to that kind of talk," Lora
said. "They worship you, but not your ways. They are
content to live the way they do."
  Sometimes, Ben noted, the girl spoke as though
she possessed much more education than Ben knew she
did. He wondered about that.
  "I would still like to meet with some of them."
  "Perhaps someday," Lora said.
  "You know where they live, don't you, Lora?"
Ben asked.
  "If you don't ask me that, sir, I won't have
to tell you a lie."
  Ben nodded and did not repeat his question. An
underground society, he mused. A society of men
and women and children who, in slightly more than a
decade, have reverted to the caves. They shun modern
ways and modern weapons. Yet they have survived;
indeed, grown.
  Is this where we, as a nation, are heading?
  No! he thought. Not as long as there is breath
left in me to fight. We cannot exist as a nation
by going backward.
  Tina seemed to know what he was thinking. "Dad?"
  He cut his eyes to her.
  "Let them live as they see fit."
  "I have no intention of bothering them, Tina. They
are our allies; I wouldn't harm any of them. I
simply want to talk with them and try
to understand why they did what they did."
  "As Lora said. Maybe someday."
  But Ben doubted that day would ever arrive.
Chapter
Sixteen
  While Georgi Striganov and Sam Hartline
sat back in their still-safe areas and licked their wounds
and mentally massaged their bruised egos, Ben
Raines was issuing orders and sending out teams to wreak
havoc within the IPF'-CONTROLLED territory.
  Ike's people returned to the area just north of
Vallejo, spread out, and began slowly inching their
way north, liberating towns and freeing the
residents from the yoke of General Striganov's
IPF.
  The woods-children, mixed in with Gray's Scouts,
remained around the Big Lake area; they would begin
working their way slowly westward.
  Ben's command would head south to the Lake Almanor
area and then cut west, slowly fighting their way
westward.
  Cecil's command would no longer be held in
reserve, for Ben knew that after the Big Lake
massacre, the Russian and Sam Hartline would
pull out all the stops in their efforts
to halt the advancing Rebels. Cecil's
Rebels would free any captive towns east of
Interstate 5 and west of Highway 395, with
Interstate 80 their southern stopping point.
  The recon teams sent out to South Carolina were
working their way southeast, but the going was slow, and they were
meeting some resistance from Sam Hartline's
eastern-based warlords-trash and thugs and outlaws the
mercenary had recruited months before, knowing that
Raines and his Rebels would be moving westward after
him.
  The recon teams radioed this new development
back to Ben.
  "Why didn't they hit us on the way west?"
Sylvia asked.
  "Probably because they were ordered not to," Ben
told her.
  "Then the Russian planned this out very carefully,
didn't he?"
  "Not Striganov. Striganov is a very vain,
arrogant man, with very little imagination. He's a good
field commander, as long as it's restricted
to book-type war: the movement and placement of great
armies. No, this is Sam Hartline's work. Like
me, Hartline is a mercenary; a man
thoroughly trained in the art of guerrilla warfare,
deception, counterinsurgency-that type of warfare.
Sam realized we'd be coming after him, so he planned
ahead, and didn't call his middle troops off
even when he thought he'd killed me some months
back. And that in itself gives me some very personal
insight about Sam Hartline."
  Sylvia looked at him, waiting.
  "The man is afraid of me. And that's both good
and bad. If he didn't have any fear in him,
toward me, he might do something careless and reckless.
But now he's going to be very cautious. We stung
them very badly the other day up at Big Lake. The
Rebels
  put some serious hurt on them. And both
Striganov and Hartline will be cautious from this point
on. That's bad for us, for from now on, we'll be
engaging in pure guerrilla warfare: hit hard and
run like hell. But from this point on, they'll be
waiting and ready for us. And that's not good news for the
Rebels."
  "Ben ..." She leaned forward, closely facing
him. "What are we going to do with the ... people
Striganov has experimented on? What happens
to them when we free them?"
  Again, Ben sighed. That was a question he'd asked himself
many times. From the scant intelligence he had on the
Russian's experiment stations, located all up and
down the California coast, and extending
into Oregon, they were each a chamber of horrors.
Just as bad, maybe even worse, than anything
Hitler and his goons had envisioned in their mad minds
and then implemented back in the 1940's.
  Ben had no idea what he and his Rebels would
encounter when they opened the gates and doors and cells
of the IPF'S experiment stations.
  But he knew one thing: he was not looking forward
to it.
  "We've done it!" Dr. Vasily Lvov
told General Striganov, excitement in his
voice. "The cross-bred babies have an ample
degree of intelligence to perform as workers. I've
tested them, and know it for a
fact."
  For a time, the bitterness of being mauled by Ben
Raines's Rebels left Georgi. He rose
from his chair and waved Lvov toward the door.
"Let's go see them."
  They were hideously ugly. But Striganov already
knew that, having seen pictures of the
cross-bred babies. What both shocked and amazed
him were how big they were and how fast they were growing. They
were going to be huge.
  Georgi knew little about science, but he did know
that humans and animals simply could not produce a
baby together. Something to do with chromosomes, he thought,
if he remembered his college days correctly.
But he had never been interested in those classes.
  Now he wished he had paid more attention.
  "How?" he asked Lvov.
  "By altering the reproductive system by the use of
deoxyribonucleic acids-was
  "The
what?"
  "DNA," Lvov the scientist replied, very
patiently. The general was a great leader of men, but
a total nincompoop in a laboratory. He
drew a deep breath and began explaining the
procedure.
  Georgi waved him silent. "Enough. You're
giving me a headache. My God, these infants are
huge.
How much bigger will they get?"
  "That, I cannot say, General. But I suspect
they will grow to mammoth sizes. Their weight
proportionate to their height. I want to put one
to death and study its brain," Lvov said calmly.
  "Fine. Whatever it takes to further the breed.
What is the gestation period?"
  Idiot! the scientist silently fumed. Count
on your fingers. Use your toes if you have to.
"Four months and fifteen days."
  "Why exactly half the time it takes a human
  female, Vasily?"
  "I don't know," Lvov admitted. "We're
working on that."
  "Because they're half human?" Georgi said.
  "It's a ... bit more complicated than that,
General." Vasily Lvov hated it when the general
asked a question he could not answer.
  "That's probably it," Georgi said. "Half
human."
  Lvov rolled his eyes but elected to keep his
mouth shut. He almost said: You stick to guns,
I'll stay with science. Wisely, he kept that
unspoken thought to himself.
  "Yes, General. That's probably it."
  Georgi looked at him. "Of course it is."
He looked at the hideously ugly infant.
"Born with a mouthful of teeth, too. Very
good work, Vasily. How about the mothers?"
  "Unfortunately, we were forced to take the babies
by Caesarean. There was no way the mothers could birth
normally. Some did not survive the birthing."
  Georgi waved that aside. "The women are
expendable. It's the infants that matter. Do you need
more women?"
  "Always. I have ... other experiments in mind."
  "And they are?"
  "To improve the breed, General. I'd like to have
some black women, General."
  Georgi stared at him for a moment. "We're
trying to eliminate the black race, Vasily."
  "And so we shall," Vasily said smoothly. "But
how about a worker race that is totally controllable? The
perfect slaves. How does that sound?"
  "How could a basically inferior breed be
perfect?"
  Again, Vasily Lvov launched into a stream of
scientific jargon that flew right over
Striganov's head. Again, Georgi waved him
silent. "Enough. I shall see to it you get your
Negro women. Is there anything else?"
  "Not that I can think of, General."
  Striganov nodded and left the
medicinal-smelling building. And as soon as he
did, Ben Raines popped back into his mind.
If General Georgi Striganov had an
obsession, it was Ben Raines.
  At the beginning, he did not hate Ben Raines.
As a matter of fact, he had rather liked the man.
He was intelligent, well-read, enjoyed the finer
things of life, and was a good soldier.
  But all that had soon changed as Ben Raines and
his Rebels seemed to block every effort the Russian
could come up with toward perfecting the master race.
  Even a few weeks ago, Striganov did not
hate Ben Raines.
  But now he hated the man.
  Despised him.
  Ben Raines had to be stopped.
  Striganov leaned against the outside of the building.
But, goddammit-
howl
  Colonel Khamsin turned his cold, dark
eyes toward the man who now stood before him.
"Speak!" "Well, like I done tole the other
feller I come up on

  "I am not that other ...
feller"
Khamsin said, his English flawless, without a trace
of any accent. "You
  will tell me exactly what you told him."
  "Okay," the man said. "Can I sit down?"
  "No."
  "I'm tared."
  "What you are, I believe, is an idiot.
Your life means nothing to me, American. Have you
ever seen a human being skinned alive?"
  The man swallowed hard. "No, sir."
  "Would you like to experience it? Personally?"
  "God, no!"
  "Then speak!"
  "I know how to get to Ben Raines."
  Khamsin leaned back in his chair. He stared
hard at the ragged American standing before him.
Fiftyish, he guessed. He sighed. Khamsin
really did not have much interest in Ben Raines-not at
this time. Ben Raines, from what he had been able
to gather, was a malcontent and a troublemaker. A man
who had a small force of people, perhaps five or six
thousand strong, who ran about like a modern-day Robin
Hood, preaching all sorts of strange dogma.
  Ben Raines was obviously a fool.
  But, Khamsin thought, perhaps he should listen to what this
whining wimp standing before him had to say. It might someday
be useful.
  So he listened as the man droned on and on.
Khamsin finally cut him off with a curt slash of his
hand.
  "Enough of your prattling. I thank you for your
information. Go get something to eat and stay close. I
might wish to speak with you again."
  As the man left, one of Khamsin's closest
aides entered the office. What he had to say
caught Khamsin's
  attention and held it.
  "We have underestimated this General Ben Raines,
Colonel. Badly underestimated him."
  "Elaborate, please."
  "Ben Raines was once President of the United
States. For a brief period of time. Before the
disease-carrying rodents came and very nearly wiped out
the population."
  Khamsin nodded.
That
Ben Raines. His people had been at sea during that time
of death. And at that time, Khamsin had not been
terribly interested in settling in the
Americas. The climate was terrible.
  "More, please."
  "Right now, Ben Raines is fighting in the west,
fighting a General Striganov and some mercenary named
Sam Hartline."
  "I am familiar with Hartline. We used him
about fifteen years ago. In Lebanon. He's a
good soldier, but his brains sometimes are located in his
cock. Put him around a woman and he forgets
everything except what is between his legs and what is
between her legs. Go on."
  "Ben Raines and his Rebels have lost a few
battles, Colonel. But they have never lost a
war."
  Khamsin's eyes locked with those of his young aide.
"Never?"
  "Never."
  "Continue."
  "Many people believe the man is a god."
  Ben looked at the blood that stained his hands. He
let his eyes drop to the warm body of the dead IPF
  soldier with the sliced throat. He wiped his
blade clean on the IPF man's battle shirt
and sheathed it. Lifting his right arm, Ben waved his team
forward. They rushed silently past the
now-cooling body of a forward sentry.
  Soon, the small towns surrounding Lake
Almanor would be free of the yoke of the Russian,
Striganov.
  Ben and his Rebels began with the easternmost town of
Westwood. :
  "About a dozen heavily armed and bunkered-in
IPF people there," a recon team reported back.
  "Don't risk your asses with heroics," Ben
ordered. "Blow them out of there."
  Mortar teams were rushed into position, the tubes
checked, the bubbles leveled, and what was to pass for
aiming stakes sighted in. The small complex of the
IPF erupted in smoke as the 81mm rounds
fluttered true.
  Any IPF personnel who escaped the initial
attack were shot down as they tried to flee.
  Raines's Rebels moved on to Clear Creek
and blasted the equally small contingent of IPF people out
of their holes.
  "The survivors want to surrender, General,"
he was informed.
  Ben merely looked at the young man.
  He got the message.
  No prisoners.
  Ben had preached it and thought he had it drilled
into the heads of all his people: When in war, whether one is
fighting a cause, a faction, a nation ... it must be
made clear from the outset, before the hostilities
begin, to the common soldier and to the leaders, this
  is how it will be: I will kill your mother and father, your
sister and brother, your dogs and cats and horses and
cattle and sheep and pigs. I will poison your
water, burn your houses to the ground. I will kill
your kids and your wife; I shall show no mercy
to anyone or anything aligned with you. I shall inflict
so much personal grief and pain and suffering and
outrage, that, to a person, you will have but two choices:
surrender or die.
  "They are trying to surrender, Ben," Sylvia
said, standing by his side.
  "But they wanted to fight a moment ago, kid. And
that is not the way I play the game." He gave the
orders. "Destroy them."
  He turned to Sylvia and waved the young man
away. "Don't ever question an order of mine again,
Sylvia. Not ever."
  She flushed but said nothing.
  The Rebels moved on to Canyon dam and found
the largest contingent of IPF people thus far.
They were spread out over several acres, in a
heavily bunkered and fortified complex.
  Ben studied the situation through long lenses.
  Lora stood by his side, looking at him,
watching every move he made. Sylvia and some of the
other Rebels had found the smallest camo uniform
around and cut that down even smaller to fit her. But
they could not find any combat boots to fit her tiny
feet. She wore tennis shoes.
  Ben lowered his binoculars. "For some reason, as
yet unknown, this complex is very important to the
IPF. Judging from the antennas it could be a relay
station. Whatever it is, I'm not going to lose people
  taking it. Bring up a tank. We'll take a
break while we're waiting."
  While they waited for the tank to rumble its way from
the northern part of the lake, the Rebels rested as they
ringed the complex and waited.
  Two M60A1 main battle tanks rumbled
up. The lead tank's commander stuck his head out of the
cupola. "Yes, sir?"
  "Take it down," Ben ordered, pointing. "Then
gun it with white phosphorus."
  "Yes, sir!"
  The tanks lurched around and pulled back
a few hundred meters.
  Ben ordered his people down
  The 105mm guns began belching out their lethal
projectiles. They corrected aim and settled
down to methodically destroy the complex. Ben ordered
a halt to the shelling and ordered in WP rounds.
  The complex was soon burning; those who survived the
initial shelling were now on fire, and screaming to their
burning death.
  The Rebels that ringed the complex sat or
squatted or stood with impassive faces. This was
nothing new to most of them. They had heard it all
before, many times.
  The screaming soon died away.
  "Mop it up," Ben ordered.
  But as he suspected, there was nothing to mop up.
  The Rebels moved around the lake to Almanor.
There, they found a hastily deserted IPF complex,
the food on the tables still warm.
  As before, the Rebels were gathering more weapons and
ammo and other equipment than they could
  stagger with. But looking at the citizens who
remained in these small towns, Ben decided not
to trust them, and therefore, not to arm them.
  "They're pitiful, Ben," Sylvia
said.
  "They're losers," Ben said harshly. "These people
we've found so far are, I suspect, the very types
who pissed and moaned and sobbed about criminals' rights
a decade or so ago. They blubbered and snorted
about all the bad ol' guns in the hands of citizens,
and were oh-so-happy when the assholes in Congress
finally disarmed Americans. Now look at them.
Slaves to the IPF, and probably, before
Striganov came, slaves to any warlord who
happened along. I would die before I became a
slave to any person. You may feel sorry for them
if you wish. I feel nothing but contempt and disgust."
  He looked at Lora. "How do you feel about
them, girl?"
  "I don't trust them," she said. "I've been
in the hands of men just like them. They are no better than
the enemy we are fighting."
  "Out of the mouths of babes," Ben said, and walked
away, Lora by his side, her carbine
shoulder-slung.
Chapter Seventeen
  Ben and his contingent rested and spent the night at the
northwestern tip of the lake that night, near the
deserted town of Chester. The IPF had
been in Chester, but abandoned it quickly as the Rebels
began their latest moves. Here, as in the other town,
the Rebels found huge amounts of supplies.
  And a small band of citizens that Ben didn't like
and didn't trust.
  Ben called the leader of the surviving group to his
command post for that night.
  "Name?" Ben said shortly.
  "Reed. Harry Reed. I sure am glad
to see you and your people, General. You're here to stay;
to protect us?"
  "No."
  Ben's curt reply startled the man. "I beg
your pardon, General?"
  "Why don't you people protect yourselves?"
  "Why ... we don't have the training for that. We
  Ben tuned the man out, letting him rattle on.
Same old song, different jukebox. Reasons,
explanations, rationalizations. Put them all together and
they
  boiled down to the same thing: Excuses.
  "Shut up!" Ben told him.
  The man ceased his prattling, stopping in
mid-sentence, standing before Ben, his mouth hanging open.
  The older Ben got, the less patience
he had with those who would not help themselves. And it
was
"would not." Not "could not." Ben had and would continue
putting his life on the line for the elderly and the very young
and the helpless. Just as he had done back in ...
'88, he thought, with those elderly p.*
  But he had nothing but contempt for people like Harry
Reed.
  "How many people in this area?" Ben asked.
  was "Bout a hundred and fifty, or so."
  "You mean you don't know how many?"
  "Naw, sir."
  "How many children?"
  "Bunches."
  Bunches. Marvelous. "Before the IPF
arrived-bearing in mind they only got here about a year
ago-did you have school for the young?"
  "Never got around to it. Always something else
to worry about." Harry was finding his balls and beginning
to stand up to Ben-verbally and in his stance.
  For when he had tried to sit down, when first entering
the house, Ben had told him to get up and remain
standing.
  "Do you have gardens ... vegetable gardens?"
  "Some folks do. I never had much luck
with them, myself."
*Out of the Ashes
  "What do you do with your time?"
  "Scrounge around."
  "Before the IPF arrived?"
  "Same thing. Why you asking me all these questions?
I ain't your enemy."
  "I don't know whether you are, or not. I am
trying to determine if you're worth my attention."
  "Say what?"
  "Harry, give me a couple of reasons why I
should
help you."
  "We're human bein's."
  "Is that a reason or an excuse, Harry?"
  Harry's eyes became hard as they locked with
Ben's eyes. "I don't think I like you very much,
Ben Raines."
  "I don't think I'll lose much sleep over
it, Harry."
  "You was a writer before you became what you are now,
right, Ben Raines?"
  "That is correct."
  "And before that?"
  "Some people called me a mercenary. I was
not. What I was, was a soldier of fortune."
  "Is there a difference?"
  "Yes." Ben had no desire to discuss that great
difference. People who didn't know the difference between the
two were very naive.
  "And before that?"
  "I was a paratrooper, a Ranger, a Green
Beret, then a member of the Hell-Hounds."
  "I never was even a Boy Scout."
  "That's your problem."
  "Sir?"
  "We're about the same age, Harry. Give or
take a
  few years. We both grew up in the days of the
draft and the volunteer military. If you didn't
elect to serve, don't blame me for it. If you
chose not to learn weapons-as a civilian-that's your
problem, not mine. How did you feel about guns
back when the U.s. was flourishing ... back when you
and others like you had somebody else to do your fighting for
you?"
  "You ... to was Harry bit off the unspoken
scathing.
  "Go ahead and say it, Harry. I'm not going
to shoot you for it."
  "Fuck you, Raines!"
  Ben laughed at him.
  Harry picked up a straight-backed chair,
slammed the legs to the floor, and sat down, glaring
at Ben, daring him to say something about his being seated.
  Instead, Ben said, "Answer my question, Harry."
  "I despised guns, Raines."
  "I bet you didn't like cops either, did you,
Harry?"
  "I didn't have much use for them."
  "But you'd call one if you got in trouble, wouldn't
you, Harry?"
  "I did on several occasions. What's the point
of all this, Raines?"
  "You, Harry. How long have you lived in this area?"
  "I came here just after the bombings. I was in
business in Davis."
  "And you just scrounged around for food and clothing?
No gardens, no schools for the kids, no
organization, no forming of any type of defense?
Is that right, Harry?"
  "Yeah."
  "And now you people want me and my Rebels to pick
your asses out of the ashes of war, dust you off, feed you
and fight your battles for you, right,
Harry?"
  "I've heard for years what a horse's ass you
really are, Raines. I guess the rumors were
true."
  "They may be, Harry. I may well be a
horse's butt. But I haven't been sitting around
feeling sorry for myself."
  "So what are you going to do with us, Raines?"
  "Nothing," Ben said softly. "Except take every
kid I can find and all the helpless and elderly and
transport them back to our base camp. The rest
of you people can go straight to hell."
  "You're just going to
leave
us?"
  "Yeah."
  "But you're supposed to be some sort of savior!
You're supposed to be ... to be going around the
country, helping people!"
  "Who want to help themselves," Ben corrected.
"And I don't recall running for this so-called
position of mine, Harry. I never asked for this
job."
  Harry stared at Ben for a long moment, his
expression unbelieving. "Will you arm us,
at least?"
  "With a
gun,
Harry?" Ben said, his words laced with sarcasm.
  The red crept up Harry's neck, coloring his
face.
  "What are you going to do with a gun, Harry? Shoot
yourself in the foot?"
  Lora walked into the room, a pistol belted
around her waist. She leaned her carbine against a
wall and sat down in a chair.
  Harry looked at her, then at Ben. He opened
his
  mouth to speak, then closed it.
  "Yeah, Harry," Ben said. "She's carrying
guns."
  "Will you arm us?"
  "I'll leave some of the IPF'S weapons and
ammo for you, Harry. But when push comes to shove, you
people will never use them. The next time some crazy warlord
and his men roll through, you'll all run and hide.
You'll let your women get raped and you men will drop
your pants and bend over. I would help you, Harry.
But there are too many obstacles in the way. You
don't like authority, Harry. People like you question
every order given you by people who are trying to help. You
want lots of things, Harry. But you don't want
to work for them. I saw that the instant I drove
into town. The place is filthy. You don't look
like you've had a bath in a month."
  "There isn't any goddamned
soap!"
Harry flared.
  "Then make some."
"Make
it? How?"
  Ben rubbed his temples with his fingertips. "Can you
read, Harry?"
  "Of course I can read! I was a very successful
businessman back in Davis."
  "There is a library in town, Harry. I
drove past what is left of it. It looks like it
hasn't been used in years."
  Harry's face was flushed a deep red.
  "When did you last read a book, Harry?"
  Harry looked like he was ready to explode. He
stuttered and sputtered and managed to say nothing.
  Ben momentarily forgot Lora was in the room.
"You're a dumb mother-fucker, Harry."
  Lora laughed.
  "Harry, you can make soap by boiling plain oFrom
ordinary kitchen fat with wood lye; you can get that from
leaching ashes of hard wood. You go
scrounge
around and find coconut oil, or linseed oil,
soybean oil, or other vegetable oil. Add that,
it'll take the sting out of it. Then take a bath,
Harry. You stink!"
  Harry was crying as he rose from his chair and
stumbled to the door. He turned around and said, "You
ain't got no right to treat me like this, Ben Raines.
The Good Book says the meek will inherit the earth."
  "Six feet of it, Harry." Ben winked at
him. "Hang in there, Harry."
Chapter
Eighteen
  Ike's Rebels were now in firm control of
everything south of Highway 20 down to the Bay area
of San Francisco. And Ike was just as tough as
Ben in his treatment of those who would not help themselves.
He had no pity for them.
  He was highly compassionate toward the very young and the very
old; but anything in-between who groveled and allowed
themselves to be enslaved, he brushed aside with
contempt.
  In Santa Rosa, a once thriving city,
Ike found that cults had sprung up, worshipping
everything from salt and pepper shakers to billy
goats-and anything and everything in-between.
  But out of every bad situation, there is usually some
good-if one looks for it.
  Ike and his Rebels looked.
  Just a few miles northeast of the city, Scouts
reported a large colony of people, living in
well-kept houses, with neat fields, huge
gardens, and herds of
  cattle and sheep and hogs.
  And a lot of guns.
  "Say again," Ike spoke into his mike.
  "Guns, sir. Lots of guns. And the people look
like they know how to use them."
  "How many people?" Ike asked.
  "Countin" the kids, close to a thousand, I'd
guess."
  "We're on our way. See if you can make
friendly contact with them."
  "Yes, sir."
  The community stretched for several miles, with lots
of space between houses, so the residents would not feel
hemmed-in. The lawns were neat and
well-kept, spring flowers just beginning to bloom.
  But what really caught Ike's eyes were the four
missile silos he'd seen spread out over the four
miles or so. A grin began crinkling his face.
Now he knew how and why these people were left alone.
  But old soldier that he was, or sailor, as the
case was, he also knew these people were, in all
probability, running one hell of a bluff.
  But he'd play it their way for a time; see what
developed.
  As his column rolled past the homes, with
Ike's Jeep in the lead, the people had stepped out of
their homes, watching. Watching with no apparent fear.
All were heavily armed, and very capable looking.
  "Pull in right up there," Ike ordered his
driver. "Looks like some sort of community center."
  Ike stepped out of the Jeep and slung his weapon,
leaning against the Jeep, watching as a well-built
man walked toward him. The man appeared to be just
about the same age as Ike, fiftyish, and in good
  physical shape, with close-cropped hair and
big, work-hardened hands. Ike guessed him about six
feet tall.
  "I'm Ike McGowen," Ike said. "Commander of
this contingent of General Ben Raines's
Rebels."
  The man grinned. "You people finally decided to check
out the west coast, huh. Good. Glad to see you.
I'm John Dunning. The people sort of put me in
charge around here. From what radio messages we have
intercepted, you people @.re kicking the hell out of the
IPF and those mercenaries. Welcome to our little
community, Ike."
  John and Ike shook hands.
  "Tell your people to park and relax. And get ready
for a good home-cooked meal. You're safe here,"
John said.
  "Yes," Ike said drily. "I saw the ...
ah, silos."
  John caught the twinkle in Ike's eyes. His
own eyes twinkled. "You doubt we would use them,
Ike?"
  "Oh, you'd probably use them ... if you had
any activated missiles in there to use."
  "Well, let's put this way, Ike. We have a
lot of electronics people who came here from
Silicon Valley after the bombings. They can be quite
convincing;
were
quite convincing when the IPF came in here. If
you get my drift."
  "I get it, John. But you're playing a
dangerous game. What if Striganov calls your
bluff?"
  "Then we fight with what we have, Ike," the
man's reply was simply stated.
  "One more thing, John. How do you know I am who
I say I am?"
  "Because our people have been tracking you and
  Ben and Dan and Cecil since you first came
to California. Well, not exactly
our
people. But people who are aligned with us against the Russian
and the mercenary."
  "The underground people?"
  "Yes."
  Ike sighed. "But how in the hell do you meet with
them? They refuse to meet with us."
  "That is a problem," John admitted. "But
we've overcome that by working out a series of drops.
We leave messages for them, they leave messages
for us."
  "What is their problem, John? Why do they
live the way they do?"
  John shrugged heavy shoulders, packed
with muscle. "Call them dropouts, I suppose.
They just reject things modern. They feel that the
ancient ways were the best. They have tiny,
well-hidden gardens in the timber. They trap,
hunt, fish, and live underground. And before you ask,
I don't know their numbers. I would guess in the
hundreds."
  "That many?"
  "Yes. And they are either good friends, or vicious,
terrible enemies. Luckily for us, we started out
befriending some of them. They always returned the favor
in some small way. Then some of our children became friends
with some of their children. It just grew from there."
  John opened the door to the large community
building. Ike stepped in. He could smell the
aroma of fresh-cooked food. Men and women were
busy setting plates and silver on long tables.
  "Looks like we were expected, John."
  John smiled. "Yes. We'll talk as we
eat. I feel the
  time has come for us join up with General Raines."
  "Oh, little girlie!" the man panted, hunching
between Kim's wide-spread legs. "That's the
tightest I've had in a long time."
  The half-dozen men from the warlord
Popeye's group had grabbed Kim as she scouted
ahead of her friends just inside Oregon.
  Bird bent his head and began licking Kim's
nipples. She accepted the assault on her with
stoicism. She had already spotted her friends moving
up, silently, through the timber by the roadside.
  "Move around some, Bird," an outlaw said.
"Let her get on top so's I can screw her
butt."
  Hurry up, gang! Kim thought. Please
hurry.
  Bird shifted, getting on the bottom, his
gross nakedness on the grass, the girl on top.
He pulled her head down to his slobbery lips and
licked at her mouth.
  Kim almost puked in his face from the stink of his
horrible breath.
  She felt the cheeks of her buttocks being
spread apart. She looked up as a third man
dropped his dirty trousers to his ankles and
stepped out of them. He stroked his hardness and glared
at her through mean little piggy eyes.
  "If you bite me, you'll die hard," he said.
"Real
hard. You understand?"
  Kim nodded her head and then screamed as the outlaw
behind her penetrated her tightness.
Where were her friends?
  "Hey!" through the foggy mist of pain that filled
  her she heard an outlaw say. "Where in the shit
is Tiger?"
  "Prob'ly sitting out the woods jackin' off!"
another man laughed.
  Then somewhere in the bright light of pain, Kim heard
a man scream.
  "Jesus God!" the man howled.
  "What the hell's that?" the outlaw behind her
panted.
  If there was a reply, he never heard it. Something
smashed into the side of his head, dropping him
into unconsciousness, knocking him backward.
  At the same time the outlaw standing in front of the
girl caught the butt of an AK-47 on the
side of his head. He fell to the ground like a
dropped sack of potatoes.
  The outlaw called Bird looked up from the ground
from beneath Kim-smack into the muzzle of an
AK-47. Lifting his eyes, he looked into the
face of Judy.
  Kim rolled away from him and began
gathering up her torn clothing, getting dressed as
best she could with what she had left.
  "You kids got yourselves into a peck of trouble,"
Bird said. "Y'all know that?"
  Judy reversed the AK and smashed the butt into the
man's mouth, shattering what remained of his front
teeth, top and bottom. Bird squalled and
rolled on the ground, holding both hands to his
bleeding mouth.
  "Get some rope," Kim said. "These the only
ones left alive?"
  "Yeah," Sandra said. "We killed the others.
You better clean yourself up," she said, looking at
Kim.
  "You don't wanna come up pregnant."
  "I can't get in no family way," Kim
told her. "I was raped when I about seven or
eight. Tore me up bad. Old Dr. Chase
done told me I can't never have no kids. But I
do wanna wash."
  "Stream over yonder," Judy said, jerking her
head to the south. "We'll get "em ready for you."
  "What the hell you gonna do?" Bird moaned the
question, his mouth bleeding.
  "You'll find out," Sandra told him, the
words hard out of her young mouth.
  The girls poked and pushed and prodded Bird to a
tree. There, they tied him securely, his back
hard against the bark of the tree.
  "What's them oPeople boys" names?" Sandra
asked, pointing to the outlaws on the ground.
  "That'n over yonder is called Big Dave.
The other one is called Daddy."
  Big Dave and Daddy were spread-eagled on the
ground, their ankles and wrists tied to stakes driven
deep into the earth. When they awakened, they immediately
knew they were in for a very bad time.
  They were to soon discover just how bad a time.
  Kim stood between Bird and the two men staked out on
the ground. She had a knife in her hand. She had
started a small fire burning in the clearing. One
of the outlaw's knives lay among the coals, the
blade turning cherry-red.
  Judy opened a map and held it out for the men
to see.
  Sandra said, "Tell us the location of every warlord
Sam Hartline has. How many men in each spot.
Name names."
  "Fuck you, girlie!" Big Daddy said with a
laugh.
  Sandra looked at him. She smiled. But her
smile was totally without mirth. She looked at
Kim. "Cut it off," she said softly.
  Big Daddy began screaming and before Kim was
finished he'd passed out from the pain. When it was over,
the girl picked up the knife from the fire, holding
it by the stag handle, and seared the wound between his legs,
closing it.
  Sandra glanced at Bird. "You'll tell us
everything you know, won't you?"
  "God, yes! If you promise not to do that to me!"
  "Oh, I promise I won't do that to you," the
girl said. She turned to Big Dave. "How about
you, mister?"
  "Anything you say, girl," Big Dave said,
fear causing slobber to leak from his mouth. "I'll
tell you anything you want to know."
  "Move Bird," Sandra told the others.
"Separate the men so they cannot hear the questions or
answers. Then we'll compare what they say."
  Bird was untied and moved a hundred yards from the
staked-down Dave. The locations of the warlords were
compared, found that they matched, and were marked on the map.
  Daddy was still unconscious on the ground. The
odor of seared flesh clung close.
  "All the answers match," Kim said.
  "And so do the numbers of men," Judy said.
  "And Daddy is still out," Sandra said. "Shoot the
other two. Well turn Daddy loose. He
won't know they have talked."
  "But he'll never rape another girl," Kim
said, grim satisfaction in her voice.
  And deep in the now-uncontrolled and wildly
growing
  timber, hidden among the shrubs and bushes, those
underground people who had been tracking the young women nodded
their heads in agreement with what had been done.
  It had been a just sentence. They would have done the
same. Rape was not tolerated among their society.
Crime was virtually nonexistent among their
members. It simply was not tolerated.
  The underground people had taken another chapter from the
book of Ben Raines, emulating what he had done
in the old Tri-States.
  He had wiped out crime simply by not tolerating
it.
  The underground people squatted and lay silently in the
deep timber, watching the young people. They were curious
now as to what they planned to do.
  The girls had the information they had been
sent to find. Now what were they going to do?
  "Do we go on?" Judy asked.
  "Let's vote on it. That's the way I'm
told it used to be," Kim said.
  "When was that?" Judy asked.
  "Before."
  "Ah," she said.
  They voted, agreeing to continue; they might pick
up more information useful to the general.
  The girls picked up their weapons and packs and
moved out.
  Into the unknown and the ashes of what used to be.
  Before.
Chapter
Nineteen
  "The man's plan might have some merit,"
Khamsin's aides told him.
  "Perhaps," Colonel Khamsin said. "It is for a
fact that Ben Raines must be removed. With him out
of the way, we will have no opposition; nothing standing in
our way of total takeover."
  "Do you suppose the man is telling the truth?"
  "Yes," Khamsin said after a moment of thought.
"I think he is. I believe him. But"-he held
up a warning finger-"we must move slowly
and with much caution. We must think this out very carefully."
  "Perhaps it would be best to wait," another aide
suggested.
  "Why?" Khamsin asked.
  "Let the fight go uninterrupted in the west.
Let Raines and the Russian thin their ranks during
the war. That would help us."
  "Yes," Khamsin agreed. "But we need to have people
out there, watching. Have you sent out patrols as I
requested?" That was directed to a young woman.
  "Yes, sir. They reported back that they are
halfway
  to their objective."
  "Very good. Keep the man in camp. Give him
new clothing and food and lodgings. Give him a
woman for entertainment. Watch him at all times.
Be friendly, but firm. Let's move on to more
pressing matters. How are the farms looking?"
  "Excellent, Colonel."
  "The people working them?"
  "We've had ... ah, some trouble with a few of
them."
  "And? ..."
  "We shot them."
  "And now?"
  "The rest seem to have accepted their fate and are
falling into line quite well."
  "Resistance groups?"
  "A few. We're eliminating them one by one."
  "See that you get them all. Quickly. Do not let
them spread," Khamsin ordered. "Rebellion must
be crushed brutally and swiftly."
  "Yes, sir."
  "Dismissed."
  But Khamsin, along with the other terrorists who
made up his army, forgot one little item: This was
America. Battered, bruised, on her knees, but
not yet down for the count. Americans have always been
stubborn types, slow to anger, but when angered, many
Americans have a tendency to shove back when shoved;
to reach for a gun when all else fails-or sometimes
before anything else is tried.
  More resistance groups than the Islamic
Peoples Army thought were forming. They were forming along
the borders of Georgia and Florida
  and North Carolina.
  Under the direct command of teams of Rebels from
North Georgia. From Ben Raines's Base
Camp One. They were getting training in guerrilla
warfare and the use of automatic weapons.
  And their ranks were growing; slowly, but steadily.
  They were not yet strong enough to make any major
moves against the IPA. But soon, they hoped.
Soon.
  Striganov stood before a wall map of
territory controlled-or once controlled-by his people.
  Damn! he silently cursed.
  How does one stop the silent wind? he thought.
  Then he shook his head. Stupid! he berated
himself. Silly and childish to compare Ben Raines with the
wind. The man is a mere mortal.
  A chill touched him lightly.
  Or is he?
  This time the Russian was successful in pushing that
thought from him. He more closely studied the map.
  He began replacing tiny red flags with blue
ones, denoting territory lost to Raines and his
Rebels.
  Great God! That many?
  "Yes," he muttered.
  Everything south of Highway 20 was now in Rebel
hands. And informants near Santa Rosa reported
that one Rebel commander just brazenly drove his
column right through the city and up to that settlement of
malcontents outside the city.
  No doubt that arrogant John Dunning and his
  people would be linking up with the Rebels.
  More problems.
  Striganov had felt from the outset that those silos
held nothing but rusting, inoperable missiles. But he
would not take the one-in-a-million chance that they
contained the real thing. The Russian would not risk more
radiation in the air. He felt John Dunning was
bluffing.
  But? ...
  The alternative was unthinkable.
  With a sigh, he turned away from the map and sat
back down behind his desk.
  He rubbed his temples with the tips of his fingers.
Where in the hell was Ben Raines now?
  "They've pulled out, General," a recon
patrol reported back to Ben. "Chico,
Paradise, and Oroville IPF outposts are
abandoned."
  "Did they leave anything behind?" Ben radioed.
  "Looks like they left behind a lot, General.
They seemed to be in quite a hurry to clear out."
  "The civilians?"
  A short pause. "Pretty well beat down,
General."
  "I'm on my way." Ben handed the mike back
to the radio operator and checked his maps. About an
hour's drive down to Chico. "Let's go," he
ordered.
  Chico had once been a progressive little city
of about thirty thousand. Now, to Ben's eyes, it
appeared that no more than three to four hundred people
survived.
  And they were a sad-looking lot.
  "Jesus!" Ben muttered, his eyes taking in the
dirty,
  ragged, and woe-begone-looking bands of men and
women. They stood in silence, staring at the Rebels
through eyes sunk deep into their heads.
  Sylvia and Lora sat in the back of the Jeep,
Ben on the passenger side, front seat, his
Thompson in his lap, muzzle pointed to the
outside.
  "What is it with these people out here, General?" his
driver asked. "The survivors in the midwest and the
south act ... well,
different."
  "How do you mean, Chuck?" Ben knew what he
meant, but he wanted the young man to put his thoughts
into words.
  "Well, you take those folks we found in
Missouri and Tennessee and Georgia and
Arkansas. They were fightin' the IPF with everything
they had available. Many of them chose death over
slavery. It's just ... different out here."
  "But yet Ike reports a large colony of people
south of here who stood up to the Russian," Ben
reminded the young man.
  "Yes, sir. But how many of those kind have
we
seen?"'*
  "It's about fifty-fifty, Chuck."
  "That don't tell me the why of it, though."
  "It's all in how you're raised, Chuck.
States-back when we had states that resisted the
government's attempts to disarm the citizens. They
fought, sometimes violently, the move toward gun
control. But others advocated the disarming of
citizens. I remember reading about a man here in
California who killed a rattlesnake in his
front yard. Killed it with a gun. The courts
ordered him arrested and fined him."
  "Are you serious, General?"
  "Sure am. I came down pretty hard on
Harry Reed the other day. Maybe I
shocked him enough for him to survive, but I doubt it.
Harry was brainwashed. Since he was old enough to watch
TV or read a newspaper, he was bombarded with people
saying things like it's society's fault that we have
criminals, that guns are evil and the death penalty
is wrong."
  "General," Chuck said. "Good people don't steal
things. Assholes steal things."
  "You and I know that," Ben said. "How old were you
when the bombs came, Chuck?"
  "Eleven, I think, sir."
  "And you've blocked out most of the horror, right,
Chuck?"
  "Yes, sir."
  Ben nodded. Many of those he'd spoken with had done
the same. Ben didn't blame them. Sometimes he
wished he could.
  "Pull over there to our patrol," Ben said,
pointing at a Jeep parked curbside, a group of
men and women gathered around it.
  "Probably beggin" for food," Chuck
muttered. "Goddamn, are they helpless?"
  "No," Ben said.
  "Then they're fools."
  "Foolish, at the very least," Ben
agreed in part.
  Ben sat in his Jeep and looked at the people, standing
silently, looking at him. They knew who he
was, and Ben could sense the mixture of fear and
resentment emanating from them, directed toward him.
  Why him and not me? drifted the silent vibes.
  "Well, the big bad wolf is gone," Ben
shattered the
  silence. "Now what are you going to do?"
  A man broke from the crowd and walked up to Ben.
"Are your people going to stay and help us?"
  Ben checked his temper and bit back a
smart-assed reply.
  "No," he said with a sigh. "That's doubtful at this
time."
  "Then what are we going to do?" the man asked.
  "How about helping yourselves?" Ben offered.
  "Give us the means and we will," the man said.
  Hope for them yet, Ben thought. "What's your
name?"
  "George Williams. You're Ben Raines?"
  "Yeah. What do you want?"
  "Guns," George said, a firmness in his
voice.
  Ben waved one of the recon team over
to his Jeep. When he spoke, it was as if
George was not present. "These people know anything about
guns, Jimmy?"
  "From what they told me, General, no."
  Ben arched an eyebrow. He looked at
George. "Yeah, George. You can have your guns
and ammo."
  "But you and your people are not going to stay and help us,
are you?"
  "Not at this time, no."
  "General, can I tell you something?"
  "Sure. It's still a free country. What's
left of it."
  "General, we both hold vastly different
political views. As you have a right to yours, I have
a right to mine."
  "That's right, George."
  Ben thought of another George, the civilian
he'd met briefly back in Red Bluff and
left in charge. That George had been tough and
capable looking, not
  willing to be enslaved by any person. Ben had
left him in charge.
  He looked at the recon man. "Don't waste
too much time on them."
  "Yes, sir."
  He told Jimmy, "Let's get out of here."
Chapter
Twenty
  "Now both them girlies is dead," an outlaw
reported to Sonny Boy. He cocked his dirty
head to one side and stared at the warlord. "I thought you
was gonna keep that woman Rebel for yourself?"
  "Too damn much trouble," the warlord grunted his
reply. "Ever' time I wanted to stuck it up her
ass I had to pract'ally whup her half to death. It
wasn't worth it. I'm gettin' bored, Snake.
All this doin' nothing is makin' me edgy. You?"
  "Yeah. How come Hartline don't just cut us
loose and let us go kick the ass off of Raines and
them Rebels?"
  Sonny Boy shook his head. "I don't know.
All that shit we've heard about Raines and them people of
his'n don't add up to what I've seen about them.
I think Raines is runnin' a bluff. That's
what I think."
  "You think we could take "em, Sonny Boy?"
Snake asked.
  "Hell, yes! Snake, you go get the rest of the
boys on the horn. We gonna have us a
sit-down. And I don't give a shit whether
Hartline likes it or not."
  But before Snake could turn away, a shout came
  from the gang's radio operator. "Popeye's
on the horn, Sonny Boy! Wants to talk to you.
Says it's important."
  "CominThat What the hell? he thought.
  Sonny Boy listened through the headset, his face
first paling, then turning red, as anger overrode
shock. "Yeah," he said. "We can't have no more of that
shit. You right. Look, you call Skinhead and
I'll call Grizzly. We'll have us a meet
tomorrow at noon." His eyes lifted to a dirty map
tacked to the wall. "We'll meet at old Fort
Klamath. Yeah. I'm with you, Popeye. Looks
like it's gonna be up to us to kick the ass off
Raines and his people. Right. Is Daddy gonna make
it?"
  He listened for a moment longer, then signed off.
  "What's up, Boss?" an outlaw called
Grease asked. He scratched at his lice-infested
crotch.
  "Some of Popeye's boys was out on the prowl
two, three days ago. They come up on some little
pussy. Twelve, thirteen years old.
They got her down when some more little cunts showed up.
Seems like these little girlies done killed them boys
that wasn't bangin" the kid. They killed Bird
and Big Dave, and then cut the pecker off of
Daddy. Closed the wound with a hot blade and left
him."
  "Jesus!" Grease said.
  "Get me Grizzly on the horn. We're
all gonna have a sit-down tomorrow at noon. I'll
take the lieutenants with me. Rest of you guys
hang tough."
  "You reckon them that done it to Popeye's boys
is out of Ben Raines's people?" an outlaw asked.
  "Hell, yes. And I'm tired of fuckin' around
with Raines and his bunch. We're gonna settle this
thing
  once and for all. Kick his ass back east of the
Muddy."
  "We can do it, too!" an outlaw called Tony
said.
  "Damn right!" Snake said.
  "I sure would like to find them girlies that done
it," Sonny Boy said dreamily. "I like to listen
to little girlies holler. We could have us some fun with
them."
  One member of Striganov's IPF was
definitely not having any fun with Sandra, Judy,
and Kim. His fun days were over. His heart still
pumped blood, but the blood was gushing out of the
knife-inflicted wound in his throat. His friends were
spread-eagled on the cracking concrete of the old
highway, their weapons stacked to one side.
  The recon patrol had been returning to their
Oregon base when they came up on a
half-dozen boys and girls trying to make it out of
IPF'-CONTROLLED territory. The recon
members had had their fun with the girls, and were
sodomizing the youngest boy when the trio of woods-children
suddenly charged out of the timber by the side of the road.
  Twelve-year-old Judy looked at the ragged
bunch of children. Her young-old eyes flicked from one
to the other. No weapons except for an empty
knife sheath on one boy's belt. "Where's you
kids goin?" she asked.
  "Runnin'." A boy said. He appeared to be the
oldest. Maybe fourteen years old.
  "Runnin'
where?"
  "Just gettin' out," a girl said. She was trying
to cover her nakedness with the torn rags of
  clothing ripped from her by the IPF men.
  "How come y'all ain't got no guns?" Kim
asked.
  "There ain't no guns to be had," the girl said.
"We looked, too."
  "You didn't look very good," Sandra said. "You
got to know where to look."
  The girl started crying.
  Judy walked to her and slapped her across the
face, rocking her head. "Shut up," Judy said.
"That don't do no good. You oughta know that by now. If
you ain't tough, you better get tough. If you
don't, you're gonna die out here. You wanna
cry, do it at night, where nobody can see or hear
you. That's the way it's gotta be."
  The children looked at the gun-toting
twelve-year-old with shock in their eyes. They had,
to a person, never seen anything like this tough little girl.
  "I don't know what the hell to do with you,
ya'll," Judy said. "We can't take you with us; but
you don't act like you can survive by yourselves."
  "We can survive!" a girl said hotly.
  "I don't know how," Judy said, looking at
her, standing there crying. "You ain't got no weapons.
And to me, that means you ain't got no
smarts."
  Kim and Sandra let Judy carry the verbal
ball.
  "You trust adults," Judy said. "That's a
bad mistake. If they ain't wearin'
tiger-stripe or lizard cam-mies, you can't trust
"em. You can trust the underground people, but the odds are,
they've seen you but you ain't seen them."
  "Who?"
  "Never mind." One of the IPF recon team
chose that time to leap to his feet and attempt to run.
Judy
  shot him in the back, severing his spine. The man
fell to the broken concrete and lay still.
  Judy turned her eyes back to the kids. "You
got names?"
  Larry was the youngest boy. Eight years old.
  Mary was the girl she'd been speaking to.
Twelve years old. The girl's shirt was torn
open. No buttons.
  "Your first time?" Judy asked.
  Mary shook her head.
  "Then you oughta know you ain't gonna die from it. But
you're stupid tryin" to fight them. You fight them,
and they'll hurt you real bad or kill you.
Give it to them then wait it out "til you get a
chance to run."
  Lisa was twelve. Already her breasts were as full
as a grown woman's. She was shapely with a grown
woman's face and body.
  "You in trouble right off," Judy told her.
"Wear loose shirts so's the men can't see how
big you are. And get jeans that's too big for you.
Cut that long hair off. Try to make yourself ugly.
If you don't, you gonna get jumped every time you
turn around."
  Lisa started crying.
  Rich was the oldest. Fourteen. But small for his
age. He was scared, and looked it.
  "You just left some city or town, didn't you?"
Judy asked him.
  Rich nodded.
  "I figured it. You don't know nothin" about
stayin' alive, do you?"
  "My parents just got taken away from me. By the
IPF. I don't know where they were taken. They hid
me in the basement."
  "You'll never see them again," Judy said
bluntly.
  "So forget them. I can't even hardly
remember mine, and if you tune up and start
blubberin', I'm gonna knock the crap outta
you."
  Rich tightened his face, holding back tears.
  "You gotta get tough, boy," Judy told
him. "Or die. I bet your parents protected
you, didn't they?"
  "Yes."
  "They didn't do you no favors, boy. But you
hang around with us, you'll grow up fast."
  Ann was thirteen; looked younger than that.
  Carol was twelve. Pretty and very innocent
looking, with blond hair and big blue eyes.
  Judy walked over to Kim and Sandra.
  "What are we gonna do with them, girls?"
  "They got crap for brains," Sandra said. "They
could get us killed."
  "Do you vote to leave them?" Judy asked.
  "Naw," Sandra said. "I wouldn't feel right
doin' that."
  Judy looked at Kim.
  Kim shrugged. "Hell, we can't leave them. But
Lisa's gonna get us in trouble. I just know it.
You all know how men feel about big-titted
girls."
  "Rich ain't got no guts," Judy said.
  "Maybe he just ain't found them yet," Kim
offered. "His momma and daddy kept him safe.
Hell, it's his ass, girls. He'll either grow
up or get dead."
  Judy shook her head. "A big-titted kid
and a boy with no guts. They've all been
protected, all their lives. Okay, we all
voted to go forward for Ben Raines. If we do that,
we got to take them with us."
  Sandra stepped out of the tight group and tossed a
knife to Rich. The knife sparked on the concrete.
  "Pick it up and cut his throat," Sandra nodded
at the IPF man.
  "Me?" Rich asked.
  "I ain't talkin' to the goddamn road, boy,"
Sandra told him.
  Rich backed away from the big-bladed knife.
"I can't do it."
  Lisa bent down, picked up the knife, and
walked to the spread-eagled IPF man. She
grabbed him by the hair and jerked his head back.
Bending down, she sliced open his throat, then
dropped the knife and threw up on the concrete.
  The woods-children looked at each other.
An unspoken message passed between them.
  Lisa would do.
  Watch Rich.
  Kim lifted her AK and finished the remaining
IPF members. She slung her AK and said,
"Let's go."
Chapter Twenty-one
  "There it is," Sonny Boy told the
bizarre-looking gang leaders and their lieutenants
and bodyguards gathered at Fort Klamath.
  "What does Hartline have to say about it?"
Grizzly asked, standing up and stretching. A huge
man, six and a half feet tall, weighing almost
three hundred pounds, some of it gone to fat, but much
of it still muscle.
  "He don't. I didn't talk to him about it."
  "I'm "bout tired of Hartline and that
slick-lookin" Russian," Popeye said.
"Both of "em act like their shit don't stink. They
just too damn high and mighty for my tastes."
  Popeye was a freak; looked like a freak, and
knew it. There was nothing, absolutely nothing,
attractive about the man. His forehead was large and
knotty, his eyes bugged out. He was skinny with a
pot belly. Both arms had been broken
and set badly; they were crooked. One eye was
brown, the other blue; both
  were crossed.
  Popeye had no redeeming qualities. None.
They all shared that in common, but Popeye was the worst
of the lot. He could kill man, woman, or child with
absolutely no remorse. He could have sex with
man, woman, or child, and enjoy it equally.
  "Let's pull out," Skinhead suggested. "Hit
the road and fuck with Ben Raines and them Rebels
of his'n."
  Skinhead was bald. After the bombings, all his
hair fell out. He was short, stocky, ugly, and
not only was he vicious looking ... he was
vicious. He was also stupid. His IQ might hit
85 if he was lucky.
  "That your vote?" Sonny Boy asked.
  "Yeah." Skinhead slobbered down the front of his
dirty shirt. Skinhead slobbered a
lot-especially during sex.
  Sonny Boy looked at Grizzly. "You?"
  Grizzly nodded his big head. "Yeah. I'm with
Skinhead."
  "Me, too," Popeye said.
  "Hartline ain't gonna like it,"
Sonny Boy reminded them all.
  "Fuck Hartline," Popeye said.
  As a matter of fact, Hartline had no
objection to the warlords pulling out. As a matter of
fact, he thought it to be a fine idea. As a
matter of fact, he was sick to death of the
motorcyclists.
  Filthy, ignorant lot.
  "I think that's a grand idea, Sonny Boy,"
Hartline told the warlord. "I know it's been boring
for you around here. I was about to suggest that you boys
  take to the field and make trouble for Ben
Raines."
  "You was?" Sonny Boy asked.
  "Of course. You and your people are far too valuable
to sit around just doing nothing."
  And besides that, you all, to a man, stink like hogs and
I'm going to have to de-louse my office after you leave.
  "Yeah? Well, you right," Sonny Boy said.
  "If I might make a suggestion?" Sam said
with a smile.
  "Whatever flips your dress up, man."
  Sam resisted an impulse to shoot the bastard
right between the eyes.
  "Don't try to meet the Rebels
head-on. As good as you are, they're too strong;
you'll be heavily outnumbered. I would suggest
ambush. Hit and run. And by all means, take as
many of the Rebel women as possible. Do with them as you
see fit."
  was 'At 'airs a right good idea," Grizzly
spoke up.
  Skinhead nodded his head and slobbered his agreement.
  Popeye's eyes bugged out and he grunted.
  Hartline managed to hide his grimace of disgust.
  Sonny Boy stood up and the others followed
suit. "We'll be seein" you, Sam," he said.
  "I'm. so looking forward to it," the mercenary said
with a sigh of relief that they were finally leaving.
  "How "bouts them ol" boys back east of
here?" Grizzly asked.
  "We'll hold them in reserve for the time being."
  The warlords trooped out.
  Sam called for an aide.
  "Yes, sir?"
  "Take those four chairs outside and burn them,"
he ordered. "Then find some bug-killer and spray
my office." He scratched his head. Jesus, he
had fleas.
  At the end of the week, Ben ordered a
halt to his rapidly advancing Rebels. They were
meeting practically no resistance, and that worried
Ben.
  He called for a meeting of his field commanders.
  They met in Redding, in what was left of a motel
near the airport. Harris was there; the man Ben had
left in charge at Redding. George from Red
Bluff. John Dunning from Santa Rosa. And a
Pete Ho from Ukiah. Dan had flown in from the
northern part of the state. Ike and Cecil.
  The meeting room had been cleaned up, and a large
map of California was nailed to the wall. Ben
stood up, a stick in his hand for a pointer.
  "Look at the territory we've taken," he
said, placing the stick on the map. "We control
everything from Highway 20 south to the Bay area.
Everything north of Highway 299 to the Oregon
line. Practically everything east of Interstate 5.
And none of us has met enough resistance to stop a
flea. Why? Give me some input."
  Dan studied the large map for a moment. "I
think, General, we are being suckered. But for what and
why, I haven't a clue."
  "I got the same feelin'," Ike said. "My
recon teams report that from the
coast...8he rose and walked to the map-"from right about
here"-he punched a blunt finger at Fort Bragg and
traced it over to what had once been state and
national forests and parks
  area, "... to here, there are heavy concentrations of
IPF troops. Too goddamn many for us to punch
through. Why? Why would the Russian mass his troops
there?"
  Cecil walked to the map, studying it for a moment.
"I have reports that large numbers of troops are
massing just south of Highway 299. From the coast
to Weaverville." He looked at Ben. "I told
you about that, Ben."
  Ben nodded his head. "Yes. So Striganov
doesn't want us to flank him. Either from the north
or south. What options does that leave us?"
  "Straight ahead," John Dunning said.
  "That's right," Ben said. "Right into the wilderness
areas. Take a look, people. From north to south between
Highways 20 and" 299. Trinity National
Forest, Six Rivers National Forest, Yolla
Bolly Wilderness area, Mendocino National
Forest. That's where the Russian wants us. He's
trying to play our game."
  "General," Dan spoke. "There is
no way he could effectively cover that much ground.
He's got us outgunned, but he doesn't have that many
troops. That's about five hundred miles deep,
and at its widest point, about two hundred miles
west to east. He can't have that many men."
  "No, he doesn't," Ben agreed. "But he
knows we couldn't possibly hack our way through the
wilderness; that would take us forever. We'd have to use
existing roads. That's where he's set up ambush
sites."
  "You have a plan?" Pete Ho asked.
  "Oh, yes," Ben said with a smile. "We hold
what we have taken thus far. We rest, we eat,
we sleep, and we do nothing-nothing except stay very
alert. Either
  Hartline or Striganov will become impatient.
One or the other will bust loose and do something."
  A Rebel walked into the meeting room.
"General, our listening post at Iron Gate
Dam just received a message from the kids up in
Oregon. The warlords have broken loose from
Hartline and are heading out. Five, six hundred of
them. Looks like, from the direction they've taken,
they're going to head east, then cut south, come up behind
us."
  Ben glanced at Cecil. "It's your baby,
Cec. Take off and good luck. If you need
help, get on the horn."
  Cec nodded, gathered up his aides, and quickly
left the meeting room.
  "How are the girls?" Ben asked.
  "Seem to be fine. They report picking up a
half-dozen more kids. I told Iron Gate
to tell them to hold their position and wait for further
orders."
  Ben nodded. "Tell them to get back across the
line into safe territory. No point in them staying
up there."
  "Yes, sir." The man hesitated.
  "Something else?" Ben asked.
  "Yes, sir. Iron Gate reported that the
girls have mixed it up with two patrols. One
patrol of outlaw bikers loyal to Hartline, and the
other a regular IPF patrol. The girls left
one biker alive-after they cut off his privates and
cauterized the wound with a heated knife blade. They
killed all the IPF bunch."
  "Jesus!" Ben muttered.
  Ike's smile was tight. "You remember the first
rule of guerrilla warfare, Ben.
Don't get taken prisoner by the women."
  "Only too well," Ben said. He thanked the
messenger
  and waited until the man had left, closing the
door behind him. He turned to face the group of
field commanders. "Any questions?"
  "Do you suppose Cecil will need some help with
those outlaw bikers?" John Dunning asked. "They
can be terribly vicious."
  The Rebels in the room smiled.
  "Yes," Pete Ho said. "That bunch, the ones
aligned with Sam Hartline, came through Ukiah
above five months ago. Their leader, of that bunch,
was some cretin named Popeye. At the time, my
group of resistance fighters was up in the hills,
knocking heads with the IPF. When we returned,
victorious, I might add, the town had been
looted, men and women killed, and several young girls
taken prisoner. We never saw the kids again.
I'll offer my people to assist General Jefferys."
  Dan turned his head so the civilian freedom
fighter could not see his grin.
  Harris, out of Redding, said, "It was
Grizzly's bunch of bikers who rolled through our
town. They're much worse than any
IPF people I ever saw. They kill and torture for
no apparent reason. From what I am able to understand,
General Jefferys only has a battalion of
Rebels. I don't mean to second-guess you,
General Raines, but I think he's going to need some
help in dealing with these outlaw bikers."
  Ike could not contain his laughter.
  The civilians looked at the ex-Navy
SEAL, not understanding the laughter; not knowing the why of it.
  Ben waited until Ike's laughter faded.
He faced the group. "People, listen to me. You are
all now a part
  of the Rebel organization. So let me be
terribly blunt. I want you all to understand the
Rebel philosophy; let there be no misunderstandings
concerning what we do and how we do it. We don't
take prisoners, people. We
do not
take prisoners. Ever."
  Ben let that sink in, his eyes flicking from one
civilian to another.
  "Never?" Pete Ho asked softly.
  "Not any more," Ben told him.
  "What do you do with those who offer to surrender,
General?" George asked.
  "Once the fighting starts, George, it's too
late. The enemy can surrender en masse, or not
at all. Those are the rules I've laid down.
Striganov and Hartline know it. And the same rules
apply to any Rebel. You'd all better know that
going in."
  "I don't know whether I could shoot any unarmed
man," Harris said. "I mean, I've never done
it."
  Harris was suddenly very much aware of Dan
Gray's extremely cold eyes on him. The
unblinking gaze made the man very uncomfortable.
  "Unless the people are standing stark naked in front of
you," Ike said, "how do you know they're unarmed? Then
there is this to consider: these people are your enemies. They
have, to a person, committed acts so hideous as to be
unspeakable. They have taken oaths to destroy the
Rebel movement. Striganov wants a pure
Aryan nation. Where does that leave you, Pete?"
  The Chinese-American lifted his shoulders and
spread his hands silently.
  "Hartline wants war," Ben picked it back
up. "And he'll switch sides faster than a
snake can strike. Sam is
  pure mercenary. He is not a soldier
of fortune. The side that can offer him the most is the
side he'll choose. These warlords and outlaw
bikers are scum. They don't care if the country
ever rises out of the ashes of destruction. I have more
feelings for a roach then I do for them.
  "You all wondered why Ike was laughing a moment
ago. He was laughing because Cecil will deal with this
filth and trash and scum in the same manner that
we've dealt with them over the years-with extreme
prejudice. No negotiating with them. No deals.
No pity. No mercy. We just shoot them out of the
saddle. On sight.
  "The Rebel dream is to rebuild this nation. To have
schools and hospitals and churches and libraries.
To once more be able to produce. To build something for
future generations. Outlaws and warlords and roaming
gangs of thugs and punks and dickheads have no
place in that society we dream of. None at
all. We didn't tolerate them in the old
Tri-States, and I will not tolerate them now."
  Ben looked at the group of civilians; looked
at them all. Gave each man a full ten
seconds of unblinking stare.
  "You are either one hundred percent for the Rebel
movement, or you are one hundred percent
against it. That's the way it has to be, for now, at
least, and that's the way it's going to be. Give that some
thought, people. For I will not tolerate traitors."
  Ben walked out of the room.
Chapter Twenty-two
  Ben stood alone outside the motel meeting
room, his thoughts jumbled and disorganized. Then, one
by one, he began separating them and assigning
positions of numerical importance within his head.
  Same old story, he thought, remembering the
conversation back in the meeting room.
  People still cling to the concepts of law and order as it
existed back in the days when the nation was whole. They
simply cannot, or will not, accept the glaring fact that the
entire world, as far as we know, is in a state of
anarchy: dog-eat-dog, the strong roll right over the
weak, the lawless reign unchecked until they are
shot dead.
  Sometimes, even though he knew it was not true,
Ben felt like a man alone.
  The feelings expressed back in the meeting room
could be boiled down to what Ben had called for years
the Soldier Syndrome.
  All the nice pretty people want a nice
pretty society. But they won't fight
for it. The Soldier Syndrome. You go fight my
battles for me; and then, when you've done it... go
away, "cause we don't want your
  kind around here.
  You're not nice like us.
  And no, we don't want to hear about the terrible,
awful things you had to do to make us safe. Just make us
safe, and then go away.
  Those so-called "nice people" just cannot, still, after all
that's happened, they still cannot understand that one simply
does not attempt to pet a rabid animal.
  One simply destroys it.
  Ben turned as the door opened. Dan and Ike
stepped out to join him.
  "I think they'll stand, General," Dan said.
  "But they don't like it," Ike added.
  Ben nodded. "Sometimes I just want to give up.
Just pull back, claim territory, rebuild
to our liking, and to hell with the rest of the people."
  "I know, Ben," Ike said. "I know."
  "It would be a grand thing," Dan said. "A
simple house, a garden, a lady, perhaps some children.
I could work the land, have some cows for meat and milk. And
together we could live peacefully. It would be a grand
thing," he said wistfully.
  "We had it in the Tri-States," Ike said.
"And I'd be lyin" if I said I didn't miss
it."
  Ben looked at his close friends. "Do either of you
ever think about the fact that we've been fighting other
peoples' battles, off and on, for fifteen
years? And it never seems to stop. Is this our
destiny? Is this our hell? Is our philosophy
so alien to others? Or is it so simple it's
complex? What in the hell is it that people are clinging
to?"
  Both men knew Ben did not expect a reply,
so
  neither offered one.
  "Shit!" Ben said.
  Ike grinned and clasped his friend's shoulder.
"Destiny, Ben? Hell? Maybe it is. But
maybe it's just that we're all so goddamned
hard-headed we won't give up on a dream. You
ever think about that?"
  Ben smiled and hitched at his web belt.
"Well, boys, let's follow that dream."
So we beat on, boats against the current, borne
back ceaselessly into the past.
  -F. Scott Fitzgerald
Chapter Twenty-three
  The Rebels waited and rested. They cleaned
equipment, spent hours pouring over maps of
territory assigned them once they were inside
IPF'-CONTROLLED territory. They waited for
weird from Ben Raines to strike.
  But there was only silence from Ben.
  The men and women of the Rebels would see him at the
most unexpected times and places. Always with Lora
with him, sometimes with Sylvia. Sylvia no longer
shared Ben's blankets. No one knew what had
happened between them to cool the brief affair, and no
one was going to ask the general. Lora, who stayed with
two Rebel women at night, had nothing to say on
the matter; the child could be as taciturn as Ben.
  The outlaw warlords had yet to make their
appearance. If any of them had the sense God
allowed an idiot, they would have turned around and headed
east, putting as much distance between themselves and Cecil
Jefferys and his people as time would let them. For years the
outlaws had called the tune as they rampaged about the
ravaged and torn land, killing and raping and maiming and
torturing at will.
  There simply had been no organized force large
enough to stop them.
  Most of the survivors still clung-as Ben and his
Rebels were constantly being reminded-to the concept of
law and order that had died with the nation.
  In other words, they were waiting for someone else to do
it for them.
  That someone had arrived, in force.
  Now, all the outlaws had to do was tangle with that
force. Just one time.
  "Contact has been successfully made,"
Colonel Khamsin was informed.
  "And? ..." the colonel asked.
  The aide shrugged expressively.
  "Don't give me gestures!" Khamsin
berated him. "Speak to me."
  "The persons contacted were very interested. But they must
have some time to think about it."
  "How much time?"
  "Our radio contact was brief, Colonel. That
was not discussed."
  "Very well. What else?"
  "Our scouts' report confirmed any fears we
may have had concerning Ben Raines and his Rebels.
They are well-trained, highly disciplined,
extremely well-armed, motivated, and quite large in
numbers."
  "How large?"
  The aide sighed. Dealing with Khamsin was, at
times, difficult. "The Rebels are spread out
over a large area, Colonel. There are several
thousand Rebels in the west. At least a
battalion left in reserve
  up in what was once known as Georgia. About a
company of Rebels helping to train resistance
fighters on the borders that surround our territory.
Four or five thousand Rebels in all. And that is
not counting the underground people and various other civilian
groups aligned with Ben Raines. We have no way
of knowing how many those might be."
  "What else did Hartline have to say?"
Khamsin did not fully understand these underground people or
what they represented. But he felt that anyone who
lived in caves and tunnels could not amount to very much.
So he dismissed them.
  "He laughed a lot, so our scouts reported."
  "That would be like Sam."
  "Is the man a fool?"
  "Hardly. Just very arrogant."
  "Hartline said he could put Ben Raines in a
box anytime he wanted to. He refused
to elaborate on that."
  "That also would be like Sam. And it also might mean
he does not have
any
plan. With Sam Hartline, one must always be very
careful. He can speak with glibness out of both sides
of his mouth."
  "The mercenary is demanding a great deal,
Colonel."
  "Now we get to it. Well, speak."
  "A state."
  "Hartline wants an entire
state!"
  "Yes, Colonel."
  "What state?"
  "He says he'll think about that and let you know.
He said to tell you to ..." The aide hesitated.
  "To tell me what?"
  "To keep your britches on. He'll get back
to you." The aide waited for Khamsin's explosion.
  Khamsin leaned back in his chair and laughed.
"How very much like Sam. It is good to know he has not
changed over the years. He is still an
unscrupulous bastard."
  "Can he be trusted, Colonel?"
  "No. But in this particular matter, he
will do what he says."
  "How can you be sure?"
  "Because there is no other force on earth, that I know
of, larger and stronger than ours. Sam Hartline
fell in with the Russian because he believed the
Russian had the manpower to defeat this Ben
Raines. Hartline obviously now believes that
Raines will defeat the Russian. Hartline
always
wants the winning side. As long as we remain
victorious, Hartline will keep his word."
  "Hartline, it is reported, has a very powerful
group of mercenaries behind him."
  "No doubt."
  "We wait?"
  "What else can we do?"
  "We can kick the ass off that bunch of
pussies," Skinhead said. He lowered his
binoculars and looked at the other warlords.
  "Sure looks that way," Popeye said, his
eyes bugging out. He flapped his crooked arms like a
vulture.
  Grizzly and Sonny Boy exchanged glances.
"Maybe not," Grizzly said.
  "What'd you mean?" Popeye asked.
  "Looks too easy," Sonny Boy told
him.
  "I think it's a setup," Grizzly stuck in
his two cents' worth. Some native warning device
alarmed within him.
  "Shit!" Popeye said. "Sam said there was a
nigger commandin' this bunch of Rebels. I can't
believe you guys is scared of some goddamn
sambo."
  "That nigger down yonder was Vice-President
of the United States," Sonny Boy reminded them
all. "And he's Ben Raines's
second-in-command. That makes him have some
smarts."
  "I don't like it," Grizzly said, once more
looking through binoculars at the Rebel camp
located in the small valley below the ridge. "And
there's something else, too."
  "What?" Popeye asked.
  "How come Sam was so goddamn anxious to get
rid of us? I never have trusted that slick bastard,
noways. I'd like to know what he's got up his
sleeve."
  "I agree," Sonny Boy said. "We left
in a big rush all hepped up and rarin'
to go. Now we've all had some time to think about it."
He glanced at Popeye. "Some of us have thought about
it, that is. And I don't like what I've been
thinkin." his
  "So what are we gonna do?" Skinhead slobbered
the question.
  "Back off," Grizzly said, his voice low.
  "To where?"
  "Let's head back an" link up with Piano
and his boys. We'll compare notes about Sam
Hartline."
  "How many guys is Piano got?" Popeye
asked.
  "Three, four hundred. Buck's runnin' about
two fifty or so. If we was to link up with them,
that'd give
  us more'n a thousand men. Nobody could stop us
then."
  About five hundred meters away, two
Rebels lay in the timber, watching the warlords through
binoculars. They waited until the outlaws had
pulled out. Picking up her walkie-talkie, the
Rebel pressed the talk button.
  "They're not buying it," she spoke softly.
"They're pulling back."
  "Keep them in sight and wait until our forward
team reports back," she was told.
  They waited in the timber for fifteen minutes.
They listened as the forward team, located some five
miles east of their position, radioed in.
  "They're all leaving," the forward team reported.
"Heading straight east. Must be five or six
hundred bikers and chopper riders and dune buggies
and pickup trucks. Never seen such a mess."
  "They're leaving no one behind?"
  "No. They appear to be riding with a destination in
mind."
  "They made us," Cecil said. "They smelled a
trap and bugged out."
  "Shit!" his XO summed up all their feelings.
  Cecil laughed at his XO'S disgusted one-word
summation. "There'll be plenty of fighting in the near
future," he said.
  "I guess so, sir. But when is General
Raines going to
do
something?"
  "Only Ben knows that. And so far, he's not
talking. But bet on this: he's worrying ideas around
in his
  head like a dog with a bone."
  "Goddammit!" Ben said, looking at his bare
hook. "Stole my bait again."
  Lora looked up as they sat on the bank of a
small creek. She smiled at him. "It's
easier to catch them with your hands."
  "For you, maybe. But this is so relaxing. And
fun."
  Lora thought about that for a moment, watching as Ben
put a fresh worm on the hook. "If it's so much
fun, why do you cuss?"
  Ben stuck his pole into the ground and lay back on
the bank, laughing.
  "Now you're having fun," Lora said. "Laying
down. But not fishing."
  Ben ruffled the child's hair. "You think too much,
Lora. Be a kid for a while."
  A Rebel stationed some distance behind Ben, in the
brush, cleared his throat. A reminder to Ben that no
matter where he went, he was never alone. A full
squad of Rebels accompanied him whenever he
stepped out of the house he was using for a command post.
  Worse than being a damned king, Ben thought.
  "I don't know how to be a kid, Ben," Lora
said. After several weeks of Ben trying
to get her to call him by his first name, she had finally
agreed.
  "Yeah, I know, Lora. Someday the fighting will be
over. At least, this fighting. And when that's over, you
young people are going back to Georgia. There, you'll
learn to read and write and have fun. That sound okay
to you?"
  "Whatever you say, Ben."
  Ben could tell she felt some degree of
excitement about that, but would not let her feelings show.
She'd been through too many disappointments in her young
life.
  "I promise you it will get better, Lora. I
promise."
  "Okay, Ben. Ben?"
  "What?"
  "There's a fish on your hook and your pole is out
in the middle of the crick."
  Ben jumped up, and in his haste slipped down the
bank and fell into the creek, face first. A dozen
Rebels came rushing from all directions, weapons
at the ready.
  Lora sat on the bank and clapped her hands,
laughing at Ben's antics. "Now we're havin'
fun, Ben!"
Chapter Twenty-four
  "What's he waiting on?" Georgi
Striganov muttered, more to himself than to his officers
gathered at his command post.
  "Perhaps he's afraid of us?" a young IPF
lieutenant suggested.
  Striganov looked at the fresh-faced officer.
There, he thought, stands a fool! But Striganov
did not like to dress down fellow officers in the
presence of brother officers, so he said nothing.
  "The man is like an old lobo wolf," a
senior officer said. "He can sense many things the younger
wolves have yet to learn." He looked at the young
lieutenant as he said the last.
  The young lieutenant flushed.
  Striganov hid his smile. No need
to personally berate the young man; the major had done
it for him, quite well.
  "He's playing a waiting game, sir," the
grizzled, battle-hardened major continued. "Cat
and mouse, so to speak."
  "But who is the cat and who is the mouse?"
Striganov tossed the question out.
  A question no one chose to answer.
  "On another matter, sir," a
captain said. "There is something odd going on in
Oregon."
  "Odd? With Hartline, you mean?"
  "Yes, sir. Our people up there report that
Hartline left his base camp for several days.
When he returned, he was, well, different."
  "Different? My God, give me something more to go
on than different."
  "Well, sir, he's spending a lot of time with his
communications people, for one thing."
  Striganov was immediately suspicious. Sam had not
been in radio contact with him, he knew that. "Any
idea who he might be contacting?"
  "He's using ham radio equipment with special
scramblers. Our people are busy trying to break it down
now. But they have pinpointed the location of the returning
transmissions. South Carolina."
  Striganov turned in his chair, gazing at
nothing. He had known it was bound to happen, someday.
And that day had dawned.
  Sam Hartline was selling out.
  "Something wrong, General?" the major asked.
  "Yes," Striganov replied, his back still
to his men. "Sam Hartline is turning on us. It
does not surprise me. Disappoints me,
yes, but comes as no surprise."
  "Do you wish to send in a K team, General?" the
major asked.
  "Not yet. Let's let Sam dig his own
grave."
  "A lot of radio between Oregon and South
Carolina, General," Ben was informed.
  "Can you make it out?"
  "Bits and pieces. We know for certain
Hartline is talking with the commander of the Islamic
Peoples Army. Not talking to him directly, but
the messages are directed to this Colonel
Khamsin."
  "So the Hot Wind is beginning to blow," Ben
said. "Any further word from our recon teams?"
  "Yes, sir. They're in place along the
border of South Carolina. Teams from Base
Camp One are working with resistance fighters.
Recon reports everything is shaping up, but they're
not very large in numbers. Not nearly strong enough to try
anything head to head with the IPA."
  "How about those outlaws and warlords that pulled out of
here?"
  "They're linked up with those outlaws Hartline
put between us and the Mississippi. They're
pretty careless about radio security. We can, so
far, track every move they make. And ... something
else, sir. I think, our intelligence people think,
Sam Hartline is going to turn on the
Russian."
  Ben nodded his head. "It would be like Sam to do
something like that. Sam wants on the winning side.
Always. What else?"
  "Your name keeps cropping up in these radio
transmissions, sir. And, sir ... General
Jefferys has ordered more security around you, at
all times."
  "Goddammit!" Ben exploded. "I've got a
squad around me now. I can't move without bumping
into someone."
  The Rebel said nothing.
  Ben cooled down a bit. "I'm not yelling at
you, son. Just letting off a little steam in general."
  "Yes, sir."
  "James Riverson will be in charge of your
security, sir," Ben was informed.
  "James is getting entirely too goddamned
old for this business," Ben bitched.
  The young Rebel wondered how old Ben Raines
was. Somewhere around fifty, he thought. He
hoped when he was that old he would be as active as
Ben.
  "Sir? Ike radioed in. His people are getting
restless."
  "I'm sure," Ben said. "And he's getting
too goddamn old for this mess, too."
  Again, the Rebel said nothing. Ike McGowan was
like a bull, commanding just about as much respect as Ben
Raines.
  Suddenly, Ben smiled. The young Rebel watched
him closely.
  "Let's go stick some needles into the IPF,"
Ben said. He slung on his battle harness and
picked up his old Thompson. "Like right now,
boy."
  "All right," Ben told his hurriedly gathered
commanders. "Striganov wants us to bring the fight
to him. Fine. We'll do just that. A little at a time.
He wants the whole sandwich-we'll give him
crumbs."
  Ike, Cecil, and Dan began smiling. They
had known all along that Ben would not stand and slug it out
with the Russian. The Russian had the superior
numbers.
  Ben was going back to his original
plan: a dirty little guerrilla war.
  "Ike," Ben said, "send your teams in from the
  south. Dan, your people will come in from the north. I'll
come in from the east. Cec, once again I'm asking you
to stay in reserve."
  Cecil nodded his understanding if not his liking.
  Ben glanced at his watch. Noon. "We'll
jump off in twenty-four hours. They'll be
expecting us to strike either at night or at dawn.
I'm betting they won't be expecting us at high
noon, broad daylight. Carry short rations.
We'll live off captured IPF supplies and the
land. What you won't be carrying in rations, make it
up with explosives and ammo. Until we
establish some sort of front, we won't have any
heavy support. So our first objective will be
to clear the roads and get some heavy support in behind
us. It's important we all strike at
precisely the same time. Within seconds of each
other. Good luck; God be with you all. Take
off."
  All had noticed that Sylvia was conspicuously
absent at the briefing. And all wondered why.
  But no one was going to ask.
  When the room had emptied, James
River son came to Ben's side. The huge
Rebel towered over Ben. The two men had been
friends for years, since back in '88, and there was no
military formality between them.
  "Risky, Ben," James said. "Leaving her behind
with all the hard evidence we have against her."
  "I think I'm probably doing the same thing
Striganov is doing, James."
  "Oh?"
  Ben walked to a window and gazed outside.
Summer was in full bloom in the wilderness. It was
a gloriously beautiful day.
  James waited, not verbally pushing Ben. He would
  get to it when he was ready.
  Ben gazed at the beauty of nature now
uncontrolled by man's interference. He turned
to look at James. "We're absolutely
certain now that she has met with people from Colonel
Khamsin's IPA?"
  "Yes, sir. She was followed on two
occasions."
  "But we still don't know why she was meeting with them,
do we?"
  "No, Ben, we don't."
  "All of a sudden she cooled toward me.
And I don't know why. Why in God's name would she
be meeting with representatives of something as odious
as the IPA?"
  "There again, Ben, I don't know. But I damn
sure don't trust her."
  "I share your feelings, James."
  "What are you and the Russian doing, Ben?"
  Ben's face hardened. "Letting a traitor
dig their own grave."
Chapter
Twenty-five
  None of the commanders told their people, not yet, but they
knew that once Ben started this push there would be no
turning back for any of them.
  Two things awaited them: victory or the
grave.
  Cecil returned to his battalion in the
eastern part of the state. Ike returned to his people
waiting just south of Clear Lake and began moving them
out in small teams, toward the IPF'S main
battle lines. Dan headed back north and began
breaking up his people into teams, sending them out toward the
northernmost IPF lines. As Ike was doing,
Dan's people would be moving into position on both sides
of the IPF lines-whenever that was possible. That
part of the operation was iffy, for if only one
behind-the-lines team was discovered, the entire mission
might well be jeopardized.
  Ben had already begun sending teams west of
Interstate 5, moving them toward the heavy timber and
dense wilderness areas.
  Ben found Lora and knelt down in front of
her, taking her hands. "I'll be back. You look
after things around this place, okay?"
  "Okay, Ben."
  "Keep your eyes on Sylvia, Lora. And
don't trust her too far."
  "She's a traitor, Ben," the girl said.
  "I know."
  "I thought she liked you, Ben. I mean ...
liked you a lot."
  "So did I, Lora. When did you first
suspect her?"
  "When she started taking long walks in the woods,
by herself. The underground people followed her; some of their
kids told me about it."
  "Why didn't you tell me?"
  "Because you already knew."
  Ben smiled. "What did she do in the timber,
girl?"
  "Met with dark people."
  "Dark ... like Cecil?"
  "No. Not that dark. But darker than a good sun
tan."
  Members of the Islamic Peoples Army. But
why? Why would she do it?
  Ben had to find out the why.
  "I wonder what they talked about?" Ben said,
directing the question as much to himself as to the child.
  "I don't know. They never could get that close.
But ..." She hesitated, then made up her mind.
"The underground people know where the dark people are hiding. They
can kill them whenever you want them dead."
  And Ben realized then that for all his grand dreams of
schooling for Lora and the others like her, and taking
into consideration how much he liked her and she liked him,
Lora would never give more than a part
  of herself; the larger part would remain true to the
silent code of the wilderness. Her future was as
surely set in place as Ben's. Her formative
years were behind her, her destiny outlined.
  "You'd like to go back to your friends, wouldn't you,
Lora?"
  "A big part of me would," she said quickly.
  "How about school and parties and having
fun like other kids, Lora?"
  "You don't miss what you never had, Ben."
  "I want you all to learn to read and write,
Lora. All of you."
  "And if we do that for you, Ben?"
  "Then the choice of what you want to do and how you
want to live the rest of your lives will be up to you."
  "It's that important to you?"
  "Yes."
  She nodded her head. "All right, Ben. We'll
do it. For you."
  And Ben knew where they would go, probably en
masse, once the rudimentary teaching was concluded.
Back to the timber.
  He ruffled her hair and stood up.
  "You're always going to have to have eyes and ears for you,
Ben Raines," the child said. "That will be us."
  "You take care, Lora."
  "See you, Ben."
  In his Jeep, Ben looked at his driver. "I
would like to see what type of societies will flourish
a hundred years from now. I certainly think it will be
very interesting."
  James Riverson walked up to Ben's Jeep
and smiled at him. "The spokesperson for the
woods-children pass along their wishes, Ben?"
  "Sure did."
  "I wondered when they'd tell you. And how. Their
life may be hard, Ben, but it's one they've
chosen."
  "Maybe I can save a few of them by education."
  "Maybe."
  "But you wouldn't bet on that, would you, James?"
  "No, I wouldn't, Ben. How much did Lora
know about ... the person we discussed?"
  "A hell of a lot more than I did. Or any
of our intelligence people."
  "I thought she might. Don't worry about her,
Ben. The person in question won't be able to trick
Lora. That is one sharp cookie."
  "One sharp cookie?" Ben laughed. "That
expression dates you, James."
  James joined in the laughter. "After we kick the
ass off the Russian and kill Hartline, what
then, Ben?"
  "Then we stick the Hot Wind on ice."
  "The bikers and outlaws and warlords?"
  "We deal with them, too."
  "Never stops, does it, Ben?"
  "Well, ol' buddy, if you'll
recall, we started this back in ... '88 or
'89. Hell, I can't remember what year it
was."
  "History will, Ben," the huge Rebel said
gently. James Riverson was one of the gentlest and
most easygoing men Ben had ever known. Until he
got mad. Then he was awesome.
  "I hope you're right about that, James. But if it
is to be recorded, people are going to have to know how
  to
read
it."
  "Our people will know how to read it, Ben. Our
grandkids and their kids and so on up the line. You've
seen to that."
  Other Rebels had gathered around the Jeep, standing
quietly, listening to the exchange between the general and the
highest ranking sergeant in the Rebel army.
  Ben had offered James officership many, many times
in the past. He always refused it, feeling and knowing
he could accomplish more as a command sergeant major.
  "That isn't enough, James. Education is the key
to wiping out savagery and barbarism and it's the only
way to bring this nation back from the ashes. And I will
destroy anyone or anything who tries
to prevent me from accomplishing that." He winked at
James. "Head "em up and move 'em out,
Sergeant Major."
  "That dates
you,
Ben!" James said with a laugh.
  He moved away, yelling orders.
  "What'd the sergeant major mean by that,
General?" Ben's driver asked.
  "That was a line from a very popular TV show of
years back," Ben explained. "I think Clint
Eastwood used to star in it."
  The driver blinked. "Who is Clint
Eastwood?"
  Ben and his people rode as far as they dared and then
stepped down. From here on in, they would walk.
  "Recon out," Ben ordered.
  The recon teams began moving out.
  Ben looked up at the sky. It would be full
dark in another two hours. They could cover a lot
of ground in that time. Ben took a sip of water from his
canteen and squatted down, his team commanders gathered
close-by.
  "No point in going over it again," Ben said. "You
all know where you're supposed to go and what
to do when you get there. But I'll tell you now, this is
one hell of a gamble. If the Russian has
troops that I'm unaware of... well, we might
find ourselves in a box with lid nailed down."
  "Seems like everything we do is a gamble,
General," a Rebel captain said. "I think
we've all got to be pretty good odds-makers
by now."
  Ben stood up and pulled his Thompson off
right-shoulder sling. "Let's go, gang."
  As the recon teams had reported, there were no
IPF troops between Interstate 5 and the edge of the
great wilderness area. The Rebels force-marched
until four o'clock in the morning. That put Ben's
team less than two miles from the tiny town of
Paskenta, on California state road A9.
Ben called a halt, put out guards, and told the
rest of his people to get some rest.
  Five hours later, Ben's eyes popped open.
It was rare for Ben to sleep more than four or five
hours at any stretch. And he seldom took
naps.
  He bathed and shaved with cold water out of a camp
bucket and began applying camouflage cream to his
face. Black, green, and bark brown.
Finished with his face, he painted the backs of his
hands.
  As he walked the silent camp, he noticed that
those
  Rebels who had slept their fill were busy with
face paint. Getting ready.
  Moving up to his forward outpost, Ben slipped
into the ditch beside the Rebel manning it. "Seen
anything?" Ben asked.
  "Nothing lately, sir. But someone is on the
roof of that building just to left of that old gas station."
  Ben took his Steiner Commander binoculars from their
case and sighted the building in. The 7x50
glasses brought it in close. He did not have
to worry about sun glinting off the lenses for it was still
morning and the sun was to their backs. Exactly as Ben
had planned it.
  "Damn!" Ben cussed.
  "What, sir?"
  "They've got an electronic listening device
mounted up there. It looks like a good one, too. Those
things can pick up sound from a mile away. Maybe
even farther than that. Depends on the make.
Shit!"
  He once more studied the building through the
long lenses.
  "How's that ditch running up to the right of the
building?"
  The sentry's eyes twinkled and a smile cut his
young face.
  "Yeah," Ben said, smiling. "That's what I
figured."
  "They're just to the left of that clump of trees,
General. They went in about two hours ago."
  "Type of grenades?" Ben asked. He was not the
least irritated that some of his people had taken the
initiative. Raines's Rebels were taught that.
  "Fire-frag, sir."
  Probably the most lethal hand grenade every
produced.
  The fire-frag is a combination of fragmentation and
incendiary.
  "Pray they don't get detected," Ben said.
"Everybody has to jump off at precisely the
same time." He looked at his watch. "Sweat-out
time," he said.
  Striganov was in a rage, storming around the
office, shouting and insulting anyone who happened to have
the misfortune to come near him.
  His XO stood at formal at-ease in
front of the general's desk, waiting out the tirade.
  General Georgi Striganov finally wound down
and sat down heavily in his padded leather desk
chair. His face was flushed, his blood pressure
up.
  "How?" he said to his XO. "How does the
son of a bitch know these things?"
  "General Raines?" the XO asked.
  "Who the fuck else am I talking about, you
idiot!" Striganov screamed.
  It was at that moment that the XO realized that what
he had been fearing for some months was true. General
Striganov was borderline insane. He had
suspected, but now he felt his suspicions were
true. The XO was a soldier, one hundred
percent the Universal Soldier. But he preferred
the type of soldiering that conformed to the Geneva
Convention. Rules to follow. He did not like
torture or other maltreatment of prisoners.
Especially against fellow officers. That was
unconscionable. And the perversions the general had so
recently begun to enjoy. Sick. Sex with mere
children. Sick. Sick. Sick.
  But he had been with General Striganov for
years.
  And his thoughts of betrayal made him ill.
  But something had to be done.
  But what?
  Perhaps a meeting with General Raines? ...
  "... Goddammit, pay attention to me!"
Striganov was screaming.
  "Yes, General. I was thinking ..."
  "When I want you to think, I'll tell you."
  "Yes, General."
  "We are alone now. We can expect no help
from Hartline. It's confirmed that he has gone over
to the wog. We know there has been a pull-out of
Raines's troops. So he's going to strike. Question
is, where?"
  "He'll use guerrilla tactics, sir!"
  "Nonsense! He'll hit us hard at one point
and try to break through. I know that. I know how
Raines's mind works."
  "Yes, sir." I have to confide in somebody, the
XO thought. We have to stop the general before we lose
everything we've fought too hard to attain.
  But who?
  Striganov rose and walked swiftly to a wall
map of California. He punched a spot. "There!
Right there is where that damnable Raines will
strike."
  Wrong, the XO thought. You're wrong. You're
losing your grasp of reality, Georgi. And something
has to be done. Quickly.
  But Striganov was giving orders. "Move
everything from the coast to Weaverville north to form a
line from Crescent City to Youreka, west to east.
Order artillery out, immediately. Then I want you
to-was
  "No!" the XO screamed. "No, goddamn you,
no." He fumbled for his sidearm, pulling out the
pistol.
  "What?" Striganov said, turning, his face
paling in shock. "How dare you!" he shouted.
  The XO jacked back the hammer on the pistol.
"Listen to me closely, Georgi. You're sick.
You've got to have help. I respect and admire
you, Comrade, but I've watched you deteriorate,
mentally, over the months. Please, Georgi, let
me help you."
  "Put that gun down! Put it down and we'll
say nothing about this outrage. But do it now."
  "I can't!" the XO'S voice was choked with
scarcely controlled emotion. It was tearing his guts
out to disobey the man he had served for so many
years.
  Striganov took a step toward his desk, his hand
outstretched for the button panel.
  "Don't do it!" the XO shouted.
  "You won't shoot me," Striganov said.
  "I will if I have to. Don't make me wound
you, Georgi. Please. I'm begging you."
  The office door suddenly banged open, startling
both men.
  General Georgi Striganov's executive
officer pulled the trigger.
Chapter
Twenty-six
  "One more hour," Ben muttered. "I hate
waiting."
  He looked at his watch.
  It was a minute later than the last time he'd
glanced at it.
  Twice he had detected movement on the
rooftop through the long lenses. Those troops up there
must be roasting beneath this hot sun, he thought. But that was
good. They would not be as attentive with sweat running
into their eyes.
  He wondered how Ike was taking the waiting.
  "Goddammit, I hate waiting!"
Ike bitched.
  Ike and his team were poised on the northernmost
finger of Clear Lake, just outside a small town.
An IPF outpost had been spotted and pinpointed.
But unlike Ben's team, Ike had managed, due
to the terrain, to get close enough for their small 60 mm
mortars to be effective.
  He glanced at his watch. "Come on, come on!"
he muttered.
  He wondered how Dan was taking it.
  "Thank you," Dan said to his batman. "There
is nothing like a good hot cup of tea to refresh one.
Please join me, Carl."
  "Thank you, sir. I believe I shall."
  The two Englishmen sat on the ground and sipped
their tea.
  Dan's team was located between Big Bar and
Helena, waiting for the time to plunge deep into the
Trinity wilderness.
  The former SAS man stretched out on the cool
ground and closed his eyes. "Awaken me in thirty
minutes, would you, Carl?"
  "Certainly, sir."
  The slug from the XO'S gun caught Jane in the
center of the forehead, busting out the back,
splattering brains all over the wall. The girl
hit the carpet, trembled once, then lay still.
  "Oh, my God!" the XO shouted. "I
didn't mean-was
  He never got a chance to finish it. Striganov
leveled his own pistol and shot the man dead.
  The room filled with men and women.
  "He went insane," Striganov said, holstering
his weapon. "After all the years we spent together, he
turned on me, tried to kill me. Poor
Jane." He shook his head.
  The bodies were removed from the room.
  Striganov repeated his original orders.
"Full scale," he told the officers. "We stand
and slug it out with
  Ben Raines. As men of honor should do.
Professionals. Move out."
  "Sir!" Carl's voice brought Dan wide
awake.
  Dan glanced at his watch. "Carl, I've just
closed my eyes."
  "The entire northern line of IPF troops are
moving forward, sir."
  "Are you serious, Carl?"
  Carl handed Dan his binoculars.
"Look, sir."
  Dan looked, then paled slightly as the lenses
picked up the northern movement of a couple of thousand
men in combat gear, half-tracks and tanks and
motorized artillery moving behind them.
  "Lady Di's bustle," Dan muttered. "Would
you take a look at that."
  Carl frowned at this disrespect toward royalty.
  Dan waved his second-in-command over to his
side. "Order all the lads and lassies to hunt
a hole and to keep their heads down. Pick areas where
the foot troops and the vehicles are not likely
to go. Move!"
  Dan smiled at Carl. "Come on, Carl.
We've got to get to a radio."
  Momentarily safe in timber on a small
rise, Dan raised Ben's radio operator.
"Get General Raines right now!" he said.
  Ben listened, disbelief clouding his features. But
he knew Dan too well. If the Englishman
said IPF troops were advancing en masse, they
were. "How many, Dan?"
  "At least three battalions, sir. With
tanks and artillery with them."
  Ben could hear the rumble of tanks and
motorized artillery over the air, through the miles that
separated them. "Jesus, Dan! They must be right
on top of you."
  "Close enough to permit me the indignity of smelling
them," Dan said.
  Ben grinned at the Englishman's calmness. "I
don't know why Striganov is doing this, but the odds
have suddenly swung in our favor. Dan, I've
ordered the battalion north of you down. You swing in
behind the IPF troops. Hit them hard, Dan."
  "Yes, sir." Dan clicked off.
  Ben radioed Ike, bringing him up to date.
Ike laughed. "And a good time is gonna be had
by all. Good luck, Ben."
  "Same to you, buddy. Look at your watch,
Ike."
  "Twelve straight up, Ben."
  "Go!"
  Ike turned to his XO. "Drop the little
birdies down the tubes."
  Ben punched the talk button on his
walkie-talkie. "Hit 'em hard!"
  The rockets
thunked
out of the tubes.
  Two hundred miles to the north, fire-frag
grenades were tossed onto the roof.
  The attack was on.
  "We are meeting no resistance," the commander of the
IPF'S northernmost troops radioed back
to General Striganov. "We have not even
seen
the enemy."
  "Fool!" Striganov screamed into the mike.
"Of course the Rebels are there. Where else
could
they be?"
  All in your crazed mind, the grizzled major
thought, but did not vocalize. He had heard the
XO had been killed by Georgi. That something
terrible had happened. That the young girl, Jane, was
dead. That the XO went insane and tried to kill
Georgi. That Georgi had, all that morning,
ranted and raved like a ...
  Like a ...
  Madman!
  From his APC, the major made up his mind.
"Halt advance!" he ordered through his headset.
  The thinly spread column ground to a halt.
  The foot soldiers dropped to the ground,
thankful for the respite, however brief.
  Less than a thousand yards away, a mortar
team from Dan's command had leveled the bubble on the
tube. His team had panted and sweated and cussed the
115-pound 81mm mortar through and over terrain that
would have made a moose stagger.
  Now the cammie-painted faces, streaked with dusty
sweat, grinned. Now it would be worth it all.
  "At the max we're gonna have time for three
rounds before that Russian can react and move," the
Rebel said. His team was the best in the Rebel
army, able to get off one round every 3.05 seconds.
"HE," he ordered, "followed by WP, then a
frag round, then a WP. Do it."
  It was luck, with more than a tad of skill. The
first round landed ten feet from the APC. It lifted the
armored personnel carrier off the ground and dumped it
wrong side up. The second round landed on top
of the APC, sending bits and pieces of seared
  and smoking metal and fried flesh all over the
silence-shattered landscape.
  There were three battalions of IPF troops
spread over a ninety-mile stretch. Two full
platoons of IPF infantry were close to the
APC when the attack started. The IPF
troops had no way of knowing how large a force was
attacking them. Or how small a force.
  Had they known that only a handful of Rebels
stood between them and victory, they would have taken the
initiative and easily overrun the Rebel's
position.
  Instead they panicked and ran.
  The leading edge of the battalion of Raines's
Rebels, moving swiftly from the north, had
barreled down existing highways, the battalion
split, one section coming down Highway 96, the
other column rolling south on Highway 3. That
column turned west at Weaverville and smashed
through to Junction City, catching the IPF forces
by surprise in a flanking movement.
  They left the landscape littered with dead and dying
members of the IPF.
  The westernmost column of Rebels split up
at Hoopa, taking a secondary highway and
meeting the IPF troops just north of Highway
299.
  Using sappers, they blew the bridge over the
Redwood River and blocked Highway 299,
trapping several platoons of IPF troops. The
IPF troops could do nothing except
retreat back to the south.
  Leaving only a small force of heavily armed and
well-dug-in Rebels north of the Redwood, the
remainder of the motorized column headed east on
299.
  With tanks spearheading, the Rebels blasted and
smashed through the thin lines of already confused and
demoralized IPF troops; those IPF troops
now leader less and in a panic.
  The IPF troops, neither trained nor skilled
in guerrilla warfare, found that whatever direction they
turned, they faced some new hideousness from the
Rebels.
  Those bastards and bitches that made up Ben
Raines's Rebel army just simply did not play
the game of warfare fairly.
  And what in God's name-God's name?-were children
doing in war?
  God's name?
  That thought seared through the minds of many IPF
troops as they ran in panic, searching for someone
to tell them what to do.
  But there was no one.
  So the IPF ran and sweated and died.
  Ike's team knocked out the small force
of IPF personnel and stormed across the battle
lines. All up and down Highway 20, from Fort
Bragg on the coast to Nice, the Rebels surged
across the line and into IPF territory.
  Ike stepped around a corner and came face
to face with a young Russian. Lifting his submachine
gun, Ike sent the Russian into the arms of that
shrouded bony gentlemen.
  Swinging his weapon, on full auto, Ike
cleared the street of all living things and waved his
team forward, ejecting the empty clip and slapping
home a full, fresh one.
  He grabbed his radio operator and told him
to get Ben on the horn.
  "Ben! I'm going to skirt the heavy timber and
ram up the coast on 101. Can you pull
Cecil's bunch in?"
  "Affirmative," Ben radioed back, the sounds
of gunfire and explosives loud in Ike's ears
through the headset. "Pull all your civilian
fighters up from the valley and spread them along
Highway 20. That'll close off the south end of the
box. I'll have Cecil's gang spread along the
edge of the wilderness, closing off the eastern escape
hole. I'll put Dan in charge of
everything up north and we'll start the squeeze. You
copy this?"
  "Ten-four, Ben. Ou."
  "I copy your transmission, General," Dan
radioed in. "Carrying out orders."
  "Ten-four, Dan."
  "I'm moving now, Ben," Cecil radioed.
"We'll plug it up from this end."
  "Go!" Ben spoke into the mike. "Go, Go,
Go!"
  "Now I see why you wanted out," a mercenary said
to Sam Hartline.
  The men sat monitoring a radio. They could not
understand any of the Rebel transmissions-they were all
scrambled-but they could understand the frantic radio
messages from IPF.
  "Yeah," Sam said. "Striganov flipped out.
I've been watching him over the months; especially
the last few months. I could see it coming.
Striganov is finished. Raines waited him out and
he's going to
  win." He reached over and flipped off the radio.
"Fuck him!" Sam said. "Khamsin may be a
goddamned wog, but at least he's stable."
  "But can he be trusted?"
  "No," Sam said, then smiled. "But then, neither
can I."
  They all got a good laugh over that.
  "How about the kid your patrol just captured?
What's his name?"
  "Rich is all I know. I think he's a
fag."
  "The girls got away?"
  "Every one of them. One of my boys said one young
chick had an ass and a set of tits you wouldn't
believe. But looked to be just a kid."
  "Shame," Hartline said. "Good-looking, young,
tight pussy is getting hard to find. Bring the kid
in."
  Hartline watched as Rich was shoved into the room.
He could go either way, Hartline thought. Just a little
push and he's queer all the way.
  "Has he been searched?"
  "All the way, Sam."
  "He's clean?"
  "Right."
  "You guys leave us alone. I wanna talk
to Rich."
  Sam and the boy were alone. Rich refused to meet
Sam's knowing eyes."
  "Get naked, boy," Sam told him.
  Rich stripped and stood before Sam. He had a
slight erection.
  "I thought so," Sam said. He unzipped his
trousers and exposed himself. "You ever seen a cock this
big?"
  Rich shook his head.
  "Come here, boy. You give me some good head.
  And then you and me are goin" to have a little chat.
Aren't we, Rich?"
  "Yes, sir."
  "Come here, boy. Let's get to know each other."
Chapter
Twenty-seven
  Ben called a halt to it at five o'clock. His
Rebels had the IPF on the run, and it was a near
rout.
  Ike and his people had advanced more than sixty miles
up Highway 101. With the IPF on the run,
Ben's forces had driven all the way through the
wilderness area and linked up with Ike's troops at
what remained of a town called Cummings, about
thirty miles from the coast. Cecil and his troops
had begun the dangerous job of mopping up behind Ben.
Dan Gray and his troops had driven
down and retaken towns all the way down to Highway
36. His people had taken two of Striganov's
research centers.
  "How do they look?" Ben had radioed.
  "Disgusting. Sickening," he was told. "What do
you want done with the IPF medical people we
captured?"
  Ben's first thought was to shoot them. Then he realized
that they might best be kept alive. They were the ones
who had done this to the humans they'd captured. He
wanted to talk with them; see what kind
  of people would do-whatever it was they had done-to another
human being.
  "Keep them alive," he ordered. "I want
to talk to them."
  "Yes, sir."
  "What do the ... those experimented upon look like?"
  "It's ... they're babies, sir. The
doctors told us they were perfecting a worker race.
They aren't human, but they aren't animal, either.
Sir, what are we going to do with them?"
  "I don't know, son. I just don't know."
  "Sir?" Dan's voice broke out of the speaker.
  "Go ahead, Dan."
  "The woods-children tell me the underground people
will take the ... ah, babies. Care for them.
Raise them."
  Ike sat looking at Ben and listening, sucking
on a pipe stem. When Ben looked at him, Ike
lifted his shoulders in a "don't ask
me"
gesture.
  "You're a lot of help," Ben good-naturedly
bitched at him.
  "Beg pardon, sir?" Dan spoke.
  "Not you, Dan. Ike."
  "Oh, yes, quite. Fatso."
  Ike almost swallowed the pipe stem.
  Ben signed off quickly.
  Vasily Lvov had ordered the loading of those
patients-so-called-and the babies from the two medical
centers close to Striganov's command post.
  Then he went to see the general.
  "It's over now, Georgi," the scientist said
softly but bluntly.
  "No," Striganov said. "I shall defeat Ben
Raines."
  "Sometime in the future, I am certain of that,"
Lvov said. "But not now. Georgi, we only have
two full battalions left us."
  Striganov looked at the doctor, inner pain
visible in his pale eyes. "Two?"
  "Two."
  "But I had eight full battalions,
Vasily. And two in reserve."
  "Yes, I know. And it's very doubtful Raines's
Rebels destroyed them all. But they are in a
panic; a rout. When we get settled, they'll
join us. Just like before. Remember, Georgi?"
  Striganov sighed. Yes, he thought. Just like before,
when Ben Raines and his Rebels slapped us down
to our knees.
Goddamn
the man!
  God?
  Then it came to General Georgi Striganov.
My old friend was right. I am sick. Mentally
sick. "Vasily?"
  "Yes, General. I am here."
  "Where will we go?"
  "Canada."
  "You've thought much on this." It was not phrased as a
question.
  "Yes, General. I have that."
  "Vasily, is Ben Raines a god?"
  "I ... I don't know, Georgi. I rather
doubt it. But I can't be sure. Do you believe in
God, Georgi?"
  "I ... I think I might, Vasily. Some
... form of higher power, at least."
  "Truth time, Georgi?"
  "Of course."
  "I always have."
  "I'm sick, Vasily."
  "I know. But you're not very sick. You've been under
tremendous pressure. But you're going to get
well. We need you, Georgi. And I mean that.
Not as a scientist; you don't know beans concerning that
area. But as a leader, we need you."
  Georgi managed a smile. "I suppose I
have been a very large pain in the ass, haven't I,
Vasily?"
  The doctor returned the smile. "At times,
Georgi. At times."
  The two men enjoyed a rare moment of humor.
  Vasily said, "I'm going to give you a shot,
General. You will not remember the flight to Canada.
It's very doubtful you will remember very much for several
days. I'm going to keep you sedated. You're going
to rest, you're going to eat, and you're not going
to worry about anything. Do I have your permission, old
friend?"
  "Yes." He stood up and rolled up his
sleeve. "I'm ready anytime you are."
  Ben had been asleep for several hours when
James shook his shoulder, waking him.
  "Ben. Lots of planes taking off and leaving from
the IPF HQ near the coast."
  Ben quickly dressed and stepped outside, walking
to the makeshift radio room in a deserted motel.
He picked up the mic. Dan was on the other end.
  "Where are they heading, Dan?"
  "North-northeast, General. All of them taking
and maintaining the same heading. My lads at the
border report the course is true."
  "And lassies," Ben said with a smile.
  "Ah, yes, sir. Must'n forget the ladies.
Your orders, sir?"
  "Go back to bed and get some sleep. We're not
going to do anything this night. Continue mopping up and
advancing at first light. I've got a hunch
Striganov is bugging out for Canada. Alberta
or Saskatchewan. We'll find out soon enough,
I'll bet. Thanks, Dan. And good night."
  "Good night, General."
  Ben stopped on his way back to his bed. He
looked toward the north. "I wonder what that
goddamned Hartline is up to?"
  "Hello, baby," Sam spoke around his grin.
"My, aren't you a little thing. What's your name?"
  "Lisa."
  "Pretty name for a pretty girl. We're going
to have fun, baby. Just you and me."
  She cut her eyes to Rich. There was a smirk
on his face. "You told."
  He shrugged.
  "Oh, don't blame him, pretty baby.
Rich just found something he liked better than
pussy."
  "The others got away," Lisa told Rich.
"Kim figured it was you who tattled. They'll get
you, Rich. They'll get you."
  "You wanna watch this, Rich?" Sam asked the
boy.
  "I wouldn't miss it for the world," Rich said.
  "It isn't Rich's fault," Ann said to the
others. "He can't stand any type of pain. And he
is what he is because of his parents. I grew up with
Rich. We were neighbors."
  "I'm not blaming him for what he is,"
Kim said. "We have boys and girls like that among our
group back in the safe territory. They fight right
alongside the rest of us. Some of them have gone to their
death silently. So could Rich. My hunch is he
never had any pain put on him. He's just weak
all the way through. And I'll tell you something else
he is."
  The others waited.
  Kim finished. "He's dead!"
  Colonel Khamsin had difficulty sleeping that
night. Finally, in the hours just before dawn, he
kicked off his thin covering and got up. His recon
teams to the west had reported a large-scale
battle yesterday. And now many planes had been
taking off from the Russian's location.
  What did it mean? Was the Russian leaving?
Had he been defeated? Or had Ben Raines been
defeated?
  It was so like Sam Hartline not to radio and inform
him as to what was taking place.
  When this was over and done, Khamsin felt the best
thing he could do would be to kill Sam Hartline.
  With that thought in mind, Colonel Khamsin
returned to his bed and slept soundly.
  Ben was not prepared for the sight that greeted
him at the experiment station near Striganov's
offices.
  He walked outside and vomited his lunch on the
ground.
  "Jesus God!" Ben said. "What kind of
creatures are those in there?"
  "A near-perfect worker breed," one of the
captured IPF doctors said.
  Ben looked at him.
  "And if you people had not come meddling along with your high
and mighty-and ill-thought-out, I might add-ideals of
races being equal, we would have succeeded in perfecting
the breed."
  Ben resisted an impulse to shoot the bastard where
he stood.
  "Why were these few left behind?" Ben asked.
  "They probably didn't have room for them."
  "Where did Striganov go?"
  "I do not know, General Raines. But if I
may make an educated guess? ... Thank you.
I would suggest Canada."
  "Alberta, Saskatchewan?"
  "Probably. It would be a fertile area where
crops would grow. General Striganov has
admitted on more than one occasion that this area
was wrong; that he made a mistake coming here."
  "Listen to me, whatever your name is ..."
  "My name is-was
  "Shut your mouth!"
  The Russian's mouth clamped shut. Tightly.
He wasn't accustomed to being spoken to in such a
crude manner. He was a scientist, not some
grunting soldier. But he decided he'd best
kept those thoughts to himself.
  This Ben Raines was a savage-looking man.
Such mean eyes!
  "How many women left here are pregnant with these
... things?"
  "I'll have to examine them, sir."
  "Fine. Good. You do that. And then you will abort
them. Is that understood?"
  "Yes, sir."
  "And goddamn you, they'd better all survive.
Do you understand
that?"
  "Sir! As a doctor and scientist, I cannot
give any guarantees as to-was
  Ben slapped him, first open-palmed, then a
savage backhand. The man fell to the ground,
moaning and holding his busted and bleeding mouth.
  "Bear this in mind, then,
Doctor.
For the rest of your life, and that might be very short, you
are going to look after these unfortunate men and women you
slimy bastards and bitches used as guinea pigs.
So don't screw up, Doctor. You can't afford
it. Understood?"
  "Yes, sir!"
  "Move your ass!"
  Hartline was oblivious to the girl's pain-filled
cries and the bleeding where he had ripped her with his
savage attack.
  He rose from the floor where he had taken her in
a maddened lust, and looked down at her.
  "You'll see, baby," he said. "It'll get
good to you after a time."
  He threw back his head and laughed. "Tell
me, Lisa, baby. You still think Ben Raines is
a god?"
  "Yes," she moaned.
  Sam picked up his belt from the dresser and began
beating her nakedness.
  Seated in a chair, Rich watched in wet-lipped
fascination. "Hit her again, Sam!" he yelled.
"Hit her harder!"
Life is eternal; and love is immortal; and
death is only a horizon; and a horizon is
nothing save the limit of our sight.
-
Rossiter W. Raymond
Chapter Twenty-eight
  Ben stood firm with his initial orders: no
prisoners from among any IPF troops.
  The order was really not necessary, for no IPF
troops offered to surrender. Now Ben's Rebels
had the unenviable task of mopping up after the swift
victory.
  And any combat vet can tell you that mopping up can
be pure hell.
  And nothing was heard from Sam Hartline. It was as
if the mercenary did not really give a damn what
happened south of the Oregon border.
  But Ben wasn't buying that. He knew-felt,
rather-than Hartline was up to something. Trouble was, Ben
didn't know what.
  Ben wasn't about to knock heads with Hartline
... yet. Hartline's mercenary army was just about as
large as Ben's force of Rebels. And they were
well-rested and just as well-equipped as the
Rebels.
  So what were they waiting for? Why didn't they
strike and strike hard?
  Ben didn't know.
  As Ben stood by the stone fence on the bluffs
overlooking the Pacific Ocean, his thoughts
  kept turning away from impending war to the sight of the
raging ocean. Huge waves battered the coastline,
smashing with a seemingly organized fury. Ben
wondered what had caused such climatic changes in
the Pacific; and where did all this fury
originate?
  Standing by the stone fence, it was impossible to carry on
any type of normal conversation. So when Ike
approached him, Ben stepped away from nature's
frenzy and walked with his friend to a spot where they could
talk without having to scream at each other over the
howling winds.
  "That's a hell of a sight back there, isn't it,
Ben?"
  "Yes. And if it keeps up, that writer who
predicted the fall of California is going to be
correct. The coastline can't take many more years of
this."
  "The babies are gone, Ben," Ike said
quietly.
  "When?"
  "Early this morning. Wade and Ro each came
to a center and asked that all personnel leave. When
the personnel returned, the babies were gone. What
do you reckon the underground people will
do
with them?"
  "Raise them, I suppose, Ike." And once
again, the thought came to Ben that in a hundred years, the
inhabitants of earth would surely be a sight
to see. And he wondered if, at that time, it would be
called the Ashes of Peace, or the Ashes of
Silence?
  He would like to view it.
  "The areas clean, Ike?"
  "Clean as a whistle. All the way from the Bay
area to the Oregon line. If there are any
pockets of IPF folks left, damned if we
can find them."
  "Probably in the heavy timber. Hell with
them,"
  Ben said. "Any word from the girls I sent
into Hartline's territory?"
  "The original three are okay. One of the kids
they picked up got taken prisoner.
By Hartline's men."
  "A girl?"
  "Yes. And a boy. The boy first. The girls
think the boy betrayed them. They're not leaving until
they get the girl back and see the boy dead."
  Ben sighed. "How old was the girl taken?"
  "Twelve, maybe thirteen. Cute kid, so
Kim radioed back."
  "You can bet that Hartline has used her badly."
  "I'm sure."
  "Ben?"
  Ben cut his eyes.
  "Cecil just sent word that Sylvia is in
cahoots with some IPA people. It's firm."
  "I suspected as much. It's the why of it that
puzzles me."
  "Me, too. But I have no idea."
  "I'll deal with her very shortly. Lora?"
  "Learnin' her ABC'S. Some of Doc
Chase's people took her in. Ben, you know she's
gonna go back with her own kind, don't you?"
  "Yes." But the word came hard; Ben had grown
terribly fond of the child.
  "I damn near forgot what I came over here
to tell you, Ben. The civilian leaders
are here. You wanted to talk to them, remember?"
  "Yes. Come on, walk with me. We'll talk
along the way."
  Walking along, Ben said, "We lucked out again,
Ike."
  "I know. We'd have had a hell of a battle on
our hands if the Russian hadn't of flipped out.
Or whatever happened to him."
  "We're not going to be so lucky with Hartline.
I feel that in my guts."
  "You ain't alone. That plus all those bikers and
warlords between us and Base Camp One."
  "We're going to stay right here until we can
figure out what Hartline has on his mind. I
want our people rested and ready to go." He smiled.
"As soon as we can determine where we're going, that
is."
  Ben met with the civilian leaders in the warm open
air of California summer. He was mildly
surprised to see George Williams from Chico
in attendance. The man looked fit, was dressed in
decent clothing, and was standing a little taller than the
last time Ben had seen him.
  George shook hands with Ben, away from the others.
"I guess you got to me, General
Raines," George admitted. "I don't
agree with all you say or stand for, but for a time, yours
is the only way. I finally got that through my thick
head."
  "Good to have you with us, George."
  Ben shook hands with the other George, from Red
Bluff; Harris from Redding; Pete Ho from
Ukiah; and John Dunning from Santa Rosa.
  "We'll be leaving this area in a short time," Ben
told the gathering. He watched their faces
closely. No one seemed at all surprised by the
announcement.
  "By now you all know that General Striganov is
gone. We have reason to believe he and what is
left of his IPF went to Canada. It's doubtful
that he'll return. But Sam Hartline is still very
much around.
  We're going to deal with Sam in due time. But
let me warn you all of a new danger. Colonel
Khamsin and his Islamic Peoples Army have landed
in South Carolina. And I mean his
army.
He has thousands of men and women. You may think because
you're all some three thousand miles away, you have
nothing to fear.
  "You're wrong."
  Ben let that soak in.
  "We have reason to believe Sam Hartline and his
people have linked up with this Khamsin. My people will deal with
Hartline. Most of you are not ready to join us as
regulars. Not yet. But in time you'll be called upon
to assist us. I'm not going to fight all your
battles for you.
  "I'm going to leave a small force of Rebels
behind. They will train you. And people, you'd better
goddamn well get ready for some hard training.
What you'll be receiving is a combination of Ranger,
SEAL, Marine Force Recon, and Green Beret
training, with a touch of Special Air Service and
French Foreign Legion training tossed in for good
measure. When my people get through with you, you'll all be
able to fight a grizzly with a stick ... or you'll be
dead. One or the other."
  Pete Ho raised his hand. Ben nodded at him.
"General, some of my people might not want to take part
in this. What happens then?"
  "Are you referring to able-bodied men and women,
Pete?"
  "Yes, sir."
  "That won't cut it, Pete. We
don't allow shirkers. One is either one hundred
percent for the movement,
  or one hundred percent against it. It has to be that
way. That answer your question?"
  "And those who won't fight?" Pete persisted.
  "You run them out," Ben said flatly.
  "That's pretty hard, General."
  "Hard times, Pete."
  The warlords and outlaws had gathered in
Colorado. Calling them a motley crew would be
understating the matter. This gathering was the largest meeting
of malcontents, trash, scum, and human filth
to come together in years. One would be hard-pressed to find
one redeeming quality in the entire force.
  Their names were what one might expect from men of such
low degree: Booger, Utah Jack, Pisser,
Stud, Big Luke, Flash, Long Tongue ...
and so it went.
  Some had roamed the country together for more than a
decade, raping, robbing, killing, having their way
wherever they chose and however they wanted it.
  But they were always careful to abide by one hard and fast
rule: Stay away from areas controlled by Ben
Raines and his Rebels.
  Now they felt they were strong enough to tackle
Ben Raines and his Rebels-and come out on top.
  "You trust Sam Hartline?" Piano asked
Grizzly.
  "No. Least not no hundred percent. He knows
that we know he's usin' us. He also knows he can't do
much of nothin' about it. We got to have him; he's got
to have us."
  "How "bout these here Arabs you was tellin" us
about?" Buck asked.
  "Colonel Khamsin. A Hot Wind."
  "So's a fart," Booger said.
  "Lemme put it another way," Grizzly said.
"Khamsin impresses Sam Hartline."
  That was enough to sober the outlaws. Sam Hartline
might be a mercenary, but he was no dummy. If
Khamsin had enough beef behind him to impress Hartline
... well, that was good enough for the outlaws.
  "And now we do what? ..." Booger asked.
  "We contact Hartline and wait for word. Way
I figure it is Hartline will use us to mop up
what's left of Raines's Rebels."
  "Sounds good to me."
  The rest of the outlaws gathered around laughed. "Just
think," one said, straining his brain. "There must be four
or five million pussies left in the
States."
  "So?" Skinhead asked.
  "Without Ben Raines and his people standing in our way,
hell, man! They're all ours!"
  "Yeah!" they breathed.
  "I like it!" Skinhead slobbered.
  "I don't like it, Ben," Cecil said. "You're
deliberately setting yourself up for a lot of trouble."
  "Reading between the lines, Cec," Ben replied,
smiling, "it would be a good plan if I weren't
planning on leading it. Right?"
  Cecil muttered something extremely vulgar under
his breath.
  "I must concur with General Jefferys, sir,"
Dan said. "You are needed here. Not traipsing about the
countryside, shooting outlaws."
  "I got to go along with them, Ben," Ike said.
"Let me take the unit out after the outlaws." "I
shall go!" Dan said.
  "No, I'll go!" Cecil said.
  "I'm leaving in the morning," Ben put an end
to it.
Chapter Twenty-nine
  Ben started sending his unit out in the darkness of
night. As quietly as possible, running
without lights. He had ordered his Rebels to bandage
various parts of their bodies; to limp and stagger as if
badly hurt. To be helped into the waiting trucks.
  He knew Hartline had long-range recon
teams watching the base camp through long lenses. And
he knew Khamsin's people were close-by, watching.
Maybe they would think the badly wounded were being
trucked back to Base Camp One.
  Maybe it would work long enough for Ben's unit to get
close to the outlaws.
  Maybe.
  Ben and his personal team would be the last to pull
out. Just moments before leaving, Ben walked
to Sylvia's quarters.
  She was sitting in a chair, as if expecting him.
  The man and woman looked at each other in the
sputtering light of a camp lantern.
  "I cannot tolerate a traitor," Ben broke the
silence.
  "How long have you known?" she asked.
  "I've suspected for some time."
  "But you don't know or understand why I did it, do
you, Ben?"
  "No. I'd like to be able to say I'm not
particularly interested. But I'd be lying."
  "We had something good beginning, Ben."
  "Using vernacular before you were born: You blew it,
kid."
  "It isn't too late, Ben."
  "I could never trust you, Sylvia. Not ever again.
You see, kid, I knew someone like you years ago.
Back when the nation was whole. I fell hard for her.
The only difference being, ours was a purely
Platonic relationship. Do you know what that means?"
  "Yes."
  "As a matter of fact, you look a lot like her.
You have many of her mannerisms. Perhaps that's why I
felt something for you I haven't felt in a long,
long time."
  "You must have loved her a great deal, Ben."
  Memories took Ben winging back over the
years. She slipped into his mind, as she did from
time to time. He had never spoken of her, not
to anyone-ever. He had been about twenty years older
than the girl-and even though she was in her twenties,
she was still a girl. A girl in a woman's body.
  And he loved her then, almost as strongly as he
loved her now.
  The tough ex-soldier and
ex-soldier-of-fortune-turned-writer had
fallen asshole over elbows in love.
  If she had asked for the stars and the moon, Ben would
have somehow gotten them for her.
  Yet, so it seemed, to Ben, every time he turned
around, she was crapping all over him.
  Ben almost drank himself to death over a period of a
few months ... until he slowly began wising
up and realizing what the young woman really was.
Greedy, grasping, ungrateful, petty,
petulant. A very pretty but shallow person.
  And she had taken him like a schoolboy enduring the
pain of first love.
  And it still hurt.
  Ben looked at Sylvia. "How much have you told
Khamsin's people?"
  "Troop strength. Placement. Plans for the
future. Everything I knew."
  "Why, Sylvia?"
  "They have my father."
  "How do you know it's him? I thought you told me
he was dead?"
  "He fits the description. It's him."
  "Why didn't you just come to me and tell me?"
  "I didn't think."
  "That's right ..." He almost called her
by another name. She didn't think either. Only of
now. Never of the future.
  Ben felt he was reliving the past.
  "You've probably gotten some Rebels
killed, Sylvia. Have you thought about that?"
  "I don't
care
about that. It's my father."
  "If he fell in with Khamsin, then he must be a
sorry bastard."
  She did not reply. But Ben saw her right hand
move ever so slowly toward her right boot. She
carried a knife there.
  "You know what happens to traitors, Sylvia,"
he said softly.
  "I love you, Ben."
  "You're a liar."
  Just like ... her.
  "How do you know that? You can't be sure."
  "I've been here before, kid. Unfortunately,
I know your type very well."
  "Asshole!" she hissed at him.
  "We all have one."
  "Aren't you afraid of dying, Ben Raines?" she
asked him.
  "Not particularly." He smiled. "But it always
seems to come at such an inconvenient time.
Doesn't it, kid?"
  She came up fast, the double-edged dagger in her
right hand.
  Ben shot her right between her flashing green eyes.
The .45 slug tore out the back of her head,
lashing the wall behind her with fluid and gray matter and
bits of bone. Sylvia slumped to the floor.
  Ben walked out of the house just as Rebels came
running.
  Ike was the first to reach Ben. Ben cut sad eyes
to his friend.
  "Tell the underground people to destroy the IPA'S
forward recon team, Ike."
  "Okay, Ben. Jesus, Ben! What happened
in there?"
  "A twenty-year-old one-sided love affair just
ended, Ike."
  "What?"
  Ben walked away, the .45 in his hand. Ike
noticed two things about his friend, as Ben walked into the
velvet of night.
  The man seemed to be a bit lonelier.
  And Ben Raines was crying.
  "What the hell's he up to, now?" Sam
Hartline said, more to himself than to the other mercenaries
gathered in Hartline's command post.
  "Pullin' his wounded out, looks like."
  "Maybe. But why didn't he fly them out?
That's what he usually does."
  No one had an answer to that.
  "Anyone spotted Raines today?" Hartline
asked.
  "Our guys had to pull back. Things were gettin'
too hot. The recon team from Khamsin bought it
early this morning. Our guys got a little edgy and
moved deeper into the timber."
  Hartline nodded his handsome head. "Those weirdos
that live in the caves?"
  "Yeah."
  Sam Hartline walked to a window and looked out.
"Raines is up to something. I just don't know what.
But what I don't want to do is butt heads with
him just yet. We might be able to take him, but it would
cost us. And Oregon just isn't worth it."
  "You want me to contact Khamsin?" Sam was
asked.
  Hartline shook his head. "Not yet. Let's
find out where that convoy went first. See if you
can get ahold of those bikers. Ask them-no,
tell
them, to keep their heads up, stay alert. Raines
is about to pull something. Sneaky son of a bitch."
  "How's Rich?" a mercenary asked, a smile
on his face.
  Hartline laughed. "He has just about outlived his
  usefulness. Any of you guys want him?"
  No one did.
  "I hate to just shoot the little bastard. He gives
great head," Hartline said. "And he's like a whipped
dog. He'll do anything you tell him to do."
Hartline dismissed Rich with a curt wave of his hand.
"I'll keep him around until I get tired of
fuckin' with him." Sam laughed. "I been tryin'
to get him to pork Lisa, but he won't do it."
  Sam had left her alone for a couple of days, and
some of the soreness had eased within her. Lisa had thought
of and rejected a dozen plans of escape. Rich was
always with her, watching, ready to tattle.
  "You're a fool, Lisa!" Rich spat the words
at her. "Why don't you be nice to Sam? He'd
make it a lot easier on you if you'd just be nice
to him."
  "Like you're nice to him?" Lisa's words
were scornful.
  "I'll slap you!" Rich hissed.
  "I'll kick your ass, too!" Lisa backed
him down.
  "He'll get tired of you, Lisa, if you
don't start being nice to him. Then he'll give you
to his men. You'd like that, wouldn't you, bitch?"
  "No, I wouldn't, Rich." Her smile was not
nice, filled with knowing. "But you would."
  "God, I hate you!"
  "Rich, if we worked together, we could get out of
here."
  "Why should I? I've got it made here. I have
plenty to eat, nice clothes to wear, I can bathe every
day in hot water and good-smelling soap. Sam
likes me."
  "Sure, Rich. Just as long as you suck him off,
that is."
  "I know you hate me."
  "Rich, I don't hate you for what you are.
That's your business. Your right. You can stay here or
leave. That's up to you. I'm just asking you to help me
get out. Will you?"
  They both heard Hartline enter the fine house.
Rich jumped up and ran out of the room.
  "Sam! Sam!" Rich yelled. "Lisa's
trying to get me to help her escape!"
  Sam walked into the room and looked at Lisa.
"You stupid bitch. You don't know what side your
bread is buttered on, do you?"
  Lisa sat on the floor, looking up at him.
  Sam slowly removed his belt. "Strip,
baby. I guess I'm going to have to break you like a
goddamned horse."
  Lisa made up her young mind. "I'll die
first," she said.
  "That's a distinct possibility, baby," Sam
told her. "But if I can't break you, then I'll
give you to my men. And if you think I'm kinky, you
haven't seen anything yet."
  Lisa jumped from the floor and tried to run out the
door. Rich tripped her, sending her sprawling.
She felt her jeans being ripped from her and Sam's
laughter ringing in her head.
  "I gave you a chance, pretty thing," Sam said.
"I guess you were born to like it rough."
  She was jerked to her knees and the leather began singing
and popping against her flesh.
  "We get to ambush a convoy of wounded
Rebels," Piano said to Grizzly.
"They'll be here in a couple of days. And they're
headin' right for us."
  "How many?"
  "Hell, what difference does it make? For
chris-sakes, they're all shot up. Piece of
cake."
  "Any women with "em?" Big Luke asked.
  "Sure. And about a platoon of Rebels
escortin" them. Let's start gettin' set."
  "I'm gonna enjoy this," a biker said. "That
goddamned Ben Raines has been a pain in the
ass for years. I was down in Arkansas when him and
them Rebels rolled in. Run me and my boys
out. Didn't even give us a chance. I'm gonna
really like this."
  "Did they fall for it?" Ben asked James.
  "Scouts report they did. They're getting
into ambush position." He pointed to a spot on a
map of Colorado. "Right there."
  "How many?"
  "About three hundred of them. The others have spread
out north and south."
  "They picked a pretty good spot for it," Ben
conceded. "Have they mined the road?"
  "Negative, Ben. They've got some
dynamite and grenades, but no mines that our
observers can detect."
  "Straight bang-bang, shoot-"em-up
ambush, huh? They must think we're idiots."
  "I don't know what they think, Ben. I would
imagine most of them are very stupid and
  very arrogant. And that's a bad combination."
  "Lucky for us, though. All right, James.
Send First
  Platoon to the north, Second Platoon to the
south.
  How about those vehicles we found?"
  "They'll run long enough to get the people there."
  "That's all that matters. Tell our teams
to skirt the outlaws north and south and get
into position on the east end of the highway. Wait for
our signal."
  "Why are you doing this, Ben?" James asked.
  "Why the bikers first?"
  "Saving the best for last, James. Hartline is
going to be a tough nut to crack."
  "You really want to kill him, don't you, Ben?"
Ben nodded. "Hartline doesn't know it. But he's
a walking-around dead man."
Chapter
Thirty
  The outlaws had indeed chosen a fine place for
an ambush. If the person they wished to ambush had
not been Ben Raines, that is.
  Ben was often referred to by his enemies as being a
sneaky son of a bitch. The latter was totally
incorrect. The former summed it up quite well.
  The outlaws and warlords and their motley crews had
gathered on both sides of the interstate, carefully
hidden among the rocks and brush on each sloping
side of the carved-through mountain. They lay in wait with
automatic weapons and grenades.
  They had only one small problem: Ben Raines
wasn't about to drive through the ambush site.
  Ben had halted the column less than two
miles from the ambush site and ordered his people out to have
lunch. Sitting by the side of the road, in the shade
of the trucks.
  "Of all the stupid, shitty times to stop and
eat!" an outlaw leader named Flash said, looking
at the halted convoy through binoculars. "Jesus
Christ! Here we
  sit up here, sweating our balls off in the sun,
and them fuckers is
eating!"
  "It ain't fair," another biker said. "We
didn't bring no food with us."
  "Well, that ain't my fault!" Flash said
irritably. "How the hell did I know we was
gonna be up here this long?"
  None of them could hear or see the Rebels high
above them, quietly getting into position. None of the
outlaws could see or hear the Rebels who had
circled around and were now getting into position on the
east side of the interstate, about five hundred
meters east of the ambush site.
  The outlaws were now, unknowingly, in a deadly
box. And the lid was just about to explode.
  Literally.
  Ordering his people to not so much as glance in an easterly
direction, Ben sat by the side of the road and ate
lunch. James Riverson sat beside him.
  The walkie-talkie between the two men clicked
twice, then clicked twice again.
  "First Platoon is in place and everything is
go," James said.
  Ben nodded and chewed his food carefully.
  The walkie-talkie clicked three times, then
repeated the signal.
  "Second Platoon ready," James
said.
  Ben finished his lunch and buried the trash in a
hole dug with his knife blade. No Rebel
dumped trash indiscriminately; the land was littered
enough without adding to the mess.
  "Start the fireworks," Ben said softly.
  James lifted the walkie-talkie and said,
"G."
  The tops of the cut-into mountain exploded as high
explosives were detonated. Tons of rock were
lifted up and dropped down on the ambushers,
crushing the life out of those caught in the rocky
onslaught.
  Ben carefully rolled a cigarette-one of the few
he allowed himself daily-and listened to the panicked
screaming of the outlaws who survived the initial
blast and rolling boulders as they ran from the reverse
ambush, running for their bikes and dune buggies and
choppers.
  But the Rebels had been there first, and had done a
little work on the vehicles.
  The first chopper to be cranked exploded in a
massive fireball, hurling chunks of hot
metal and fried parts of human bodies high into the
air. The exploding vehicles touched off
other fuel tanks, and soon the depot was an
almost-solid area of flame.
  Outlaws ran from the raging inferno, their clothing and
flesh on fire. They ran howling and shrieking,
rolling on the rocky ground, attempting in vain
to put out the fire that covered their unwashed bodies.
They screamed their way into the darkness of death.
  And Ben Raines sat by the side of the road and
calmly smoked his hand-rolled cigarette.
  His hard facial expression did not change as
he slowly puffed.
  Those outlaws who had elected not to run toward their
cached vehicles escaped the hideous burning death
of their buddies.
  They were shot to death by Rebels lying in ambush,
blocking all avenues of escape. They were shot from
the front, the back, or the side.
  The Rebels offered no quarter, and expected
none.
  One unwashed outlaw, the stink and stains of a
recent rape and murder still on his clothing, threw up
his hands and hollered, "I quit! I give up."
  He was shot between the eyes.
  Let me get out of here! another panicked
outlaw thought, his breath ragged as he ran from
planned murder and assault and rape. I'll be
good! he thought. The same thought that thousands of others like
him had thought back through the years.
  And few had ever carried out once safe from whatever
dilemma had faced them.
  He rounded a bend in the rocky path and came
face to face with a woman Rebel, a CAR-15 in
her hands.
  Good-lookin" cunt, he thought.
  "I surrender, baby," the outlaw said.
  She smiled at him and hope filled the outlaw.
He wondered if she'd be any good in the sack?
He wondered if she liked it up the ass?
  Those were the last thoughts he ever had.
  She lifted her CAR and shot the outlaw twice
in the chest. She spat on the rocky ground and
trotted off.
  Ben sat on the ground and yawned. He had seen
the outlaw carefully edging his way toward Ben's
location. Ben had clicked his Thompson off
safety and waited as the outlaw made his approach.
  James was reading a worn paperback he'd found
back in a nameless town the convoy had rumbled through.
  The outlaw's boots grated on rock. James
froze.
  "Easy," Ben whispered. "I've been watching
him for a couple of minutes."
  "How's he armed?" James whispered.
  "Pistol in his hand. How's the book?"
  "Good. You want him?"
  "Yeah. I'll let him get a little closer."
  "Damn, Ben! I'm supposed to be guarding you,
remember?"
  "Read your book."
  "Somehow I seem to have lost my concentration."
  Ben chuckled softly. "Here he comes. He's
about to make his play." i
  The outlaw inched closer. Ben's fingers tightened
on the Thompson.
  "Taking his sweet time," James muttered.
  "And he hasn't got much of that left him," Ben
replied.
  James smiled.
  The outlaw brought his pistol up and jacked back
the hammer. Ben lifted the powerful old Thompson
submachine gun, leveled it, and pulled the trigger,
holding it back.
  The .45 caliber slugs took the outlaw in the
chest, raking him from left to right, making little bloody
dust puffs as the slugs impacted. He was
flung backward, arms outstretched, his pistol
dropping from suddenly lifeless fingers.
  Ben and James rose and looked around them,
listening. The battle appeared to be over.
  "Call in our people," Ben said. "Let's get the
hell out of here."
  High up in the still-dusty air of the slope, the
outlaw Flash lay unnoticed and very, very still. And he
wasn't about to move until these crazy bastards and
bitches got long gone outta there.
  Flash was so frightened he had both pissed and shit
  his jeans. He wore no underwear.
  Dust, dirt, and small rocks covered him. As
long as he didn't move around, he'd be safe.
High above him, he could see the buzzards circling.
Flash suppressed a shudder. He hated
buzzards. He had seen how the bastards tore at
dead flesh, and he knew they always went for the eyes and
kidneys first.
  Flash just wanted to cry.
  And Flash hadn't done that in more than twenty
years. Not since he'd stood before that judge in
juvenile court. After Flash had killed his sister.
  Flash had put on quite an act that day. Flash
had blubbered and snorted and wiped snot
away with the handkerchief the judge had ordered given
him. Stupid old bastard. Since he was a
juvenile, Flash had spent three years in a
country-club prison and then walked out, a free
man.
  Thanks to the almost-total asininity of juvenile
laws ... back then. Before.
  Only thing Flash had ever regretted about the
whole mess was that his sister had died before he could
fuck her again.
  Stupid cunt.
  Flash heard the Rebel trucks crank up and
begin moving out, backtracking around the now-blocked
highway. But Flash wasn't about to move-not just
yet. Ben Raines was such a sneaky son of a bitch
he probably left people behind to shoot any outlaw who
might have survived.
  One of the few times in his life Flash was right.
  Flash lay very still for more than thirty minutes after
the battle. He counted seven shots that shattered the
dusty stillness, and knew that seven of his buddies had
bought it.
Goddamn
these Rebels! Flash thought. They just don't,
by God, play fair.
  "Let's go!" Flash heard a man shout.
  Flash heard two vehicles crank up and
drive off. Still, he lay quietly for another
hour. Only then did he move.
  Three hours later, after jerking a pair of jeans
off a dead outlaw and changing out of his own shitty
jeans, Flash stumbled into the outlaw's base camp.
He was worn out, almost hysterical with fear. He
babbled out his story.
"Everybody
is dead?" Piano shouted at the nearly exhausted
Flash.
  "Ever'body," Flash confirmed it.
  "We gotta change out psyco ... psycol...
way of doin' things," Long Tongue said.
  "I agree with whatever it was he said," Utah
Jack looked at Long Tongue.
  "Don't panic!" Booger shouted down the sudden
babble of voices. "Now, goddammit, just ever'body
hold it down for a minute."
  The gaggle of human filth quieted down.
  Another outlaw leader, nicknamed Pisser, said,
"You got a plan, Booger, I'd sure like to hear
it. "Cause I'm about a minute away from
pullin" my boys out and gettin' the hell
away from that area."
  Other leaders, including Utah Jack, Stud,
Big Luke, agreed with Pisser. Loudly and
profanely.
  "Now, boys," Grizzly said, calming the
group, or at the very least, quieting them. "Okay,
we took a lickin'. No doubt about that. But since
ol' Flash come staggerin' in, I been thinkin'. And
I'm thinkin' our
  big mistake is that we don't act like Ben
Raines."
  "What do you mean?" Piano asked.
  "I mean the mainest thing is, we got to think like
Ben Raines. We can't just say "okay" to the first
plan we come up with. We got to really study a
bunch of them."
  "I think I know what you mean," Utah Jack
said. "We're screwin' up by each of us actin' on
our own. Is that part of it?"
  "That's right!" Grizzly said. "The mainest thing
is, we got to start actin' like soldiers!"
  "Does I get to be a general?" Skinhead
slobbered the question.
  "No," Grizzly dashed his hopes. "But you do
get to be an officer."
  "I thought a general was an officer?" Skinhead
drooled.
  "It is," Piano said. "Now shut up."
  "They's degrees of generals," Grizzly said.
"But another mainest point is this: there can't be but one
top general. One man givin' the orders."
  "Who is that gonna be?" Popeye asked.
  "We're gonna have to vote," Grizzly said.
"But I got another idea to do first."
  "Whut?" Sonny Boy asked.
  "Let's get the hell outta this place!"
Chapter Thirty-one
  Not one Rebel had been wounded in the ambush.
No loss of life among the Rebels.
  "That's the way I like it," Ben told James as
they rode the deserted state highway in
Colorado.
  They were circling, trying to pick up the trail of the
outlaws.
  They were on Highway 9, now just a few miles
outside of Kremmling. "Pull over here," Ben
told James. "Let's wait for the scouts'
report."
  The convoy halted near the banks of the Colorado
River, on the south side. Ben and
James walked down to the river's edge.
  The men stood there for a moment, silent, each with their
own thoughts.
  James broke the silence. "How are we going
to handle Hartline, Ben?"
  Ben shook his head. "I don't know," he
admitted. "But I think we're going to have to slug it
out with him."
  "I don't have to remind you that he's got us
outgunned."
  Ben nodded his agreement. "Yes, and it's going
to
  be costly for us. I've thought of and discarded half a
dozen plans. Including the use of planes."
  "They wouldn't have a chance. Hartline's got
plenty of SAM'S."
  "Sure does." Ben sighed. "Long-range
intel says he's making no plans for a bug-out.
I didn't think he would. What he's planning on
is these outlaws knocking a hole in our ranks.
That's why I'm not going to jack around with them. But this
ambush was easy. I have a hunch they're going to get
cautious; smarten up some."
  "As much as they're capable of," James said,
grinning.
  "Colonel, our western patrol has gone
silent," Khamsin was informed.
  "How long have you been trying to reach them?"
  "All day, sir."
  Khamsin shrugged. "They have met Allah. They
have done well. Have you tried to contact Hartline?"
  "Yes, sir. He says his eastern-based
warlords have ambushed Ben Raines, and probably
inflicted heavy casualties on the Rebels."
  "Probably? Sam doesn't know for certain?"
  "Apparently not, sir."
  "Sam is getting careless. We're going to have
to be very careful in our dealings with Sam Hartline.
From what our, ah, newest convert has told me,
General Ben Raines and Sam Hartline are old
enemies. That gives me some cause for alarm.
What has the woman told you?"
  "Nothing, sir."
  "Are you certain she has anything to tell us?"
  "Yes, sir. One of our patrols stole her out
of the Rebels' base camp in Georgia. She is
the wife of one of the Rebels now fighting in the
west."
  "Oh. Interesting. Truly his wife, blessed
by Allah?"
  The IPA member shrugged. "Who knows, sir.
These remaining Americans are such a godless
bunch."
  "What is her name?"
  "Nina. She is the wife, or mistress,
whatever, of one Ike McGowen."
  "Ike McGowen?" Colonel Khamsin's brow
furrowed in thought. "That is one of Ben Raines's
field commanders and closest friends."
  "I believe so, sir."
  "I
know
so. Have you tortured the woman?"
  "Yes, sir."
  "Cease it at once. See to her wounds and then
bring her to me."
  "We'll have to carry her, sir. She cannot walk.
We have pulled out all her toenails."
  "Then carry her. I know a way to split Ben
Raines's western forces."
  "Yes, sir. Right away, sir."
  The outlaws had vanished, seemingly dropping off
the face of the earth.
  Ben called a halt to the search and ordered his people
to dismount and make camp for the night. "Told
you they'd smarten up," he said to James.
  "They've tasted some of the hell and misery they've
caused over the years," James said, quite unlike the
  big man. "And they don't like it."
  "Very good, James. But don't worry, ol'
buddy. We're going to give some more hell and
misery."
  "I never doubted that, Ben."
  "Let's get some rest. We'll find them and
start rooting them out in the morning."
  "And you're sure that's where Lisa's being held?"
Kim asked.
  "I'm sure," the ragged little boy said. "I've
been in there four, five times begging for food. I
seen her twice."
  "And the last time was? ..." Judy asked.
  "Yesterday. I flashed her a signal and she
winked at me. She was walkin' kinda funny,
though."
  The girls exchanged knowing glances, shaking their
heads in disgust.
  The small boy picked up on the exchange.
"You all don't have to talk around me. I been where
she is. I know why she's walkin' that way."
  Sandra put an arm around the boy's
shoulders. So thin. "What's your name, Scooter?"
she asked. "I mean, besides Scooter."
  "I don't know no other name. I been called
Scooter all my life."
  "How many years do you have?"
  "Nine or ten, I think. But I really don't
know. I been travelin ever since I can
remember."
  "No blood kin?" Judy asked.
  "Not that I know of," the ragged boy replied.
  "Can you shoot that pistol you're carryin' ?" Kim
asked, looking at the .22 caliber revolver
belted
  around Scooter's waist.
  "I sure can. Some grownups tried to bugger me
last month. I kilt two of "em 'fore the others
run off."
  "You wanna stay with us?" Sandra asked.
  "That'd be nice," Scooter said, looking up at
the taller person. "We gonna get your friend away
from Hartline?"
  "Yes. And it's gonna be dangerous doing it."
  The boy shrugged. "Livin" day to day is
dangerous. That ain't nothin' new. Do I get
to meet Ben Raines?"
  "Probably. Soon as we get Lisa outta
there." Kim looked at the compound below the heavily
timbered knoll where they were hidden.
  "I gotta tell you all something," Scooter
said. "Hartline is ten times worse than the
Russian. The Russian was bad enough. But
Hartline will grab you and torture you just for fun. t
heard some of his men talkin' one time. They said Sam
Hartline is crazy. I believe it. I seen
what he dome to a friend of mine a few months
back. Right before Ben Raines shot him up."
  "A girl?" Judy asked softly.
  "You know it," Scooter replied. "When he got
done with her, he just throwed her out in the road." He
pointed. "Right down there. Come dark, I dragged her
back in the timber and tried to care for her. Me and the
underground people. We couldn't do nothin' for her. She
bled to death. She was about my age, but real little.
Pretty. Hartline split her open. You know what
I mean?"
  The girls knew.
  "If you want your friend to live," Scooter
continued, "we gotta get her out of there. Hartline
will do it
  to her ever' way he can, then he'll give
her to his men. I know some girls, and one boy, who
went crazy after some time down there. You know what them
men done to them after that?"
  The girls waited.
  "They used "em for target practice. It was
awful."
  Judy was drawing the compound area on a dirty
piece of paper. It was an amazingly accurate
drawing, right down to the last detail.
  "You got it?" Sandra asked.
  "I got it."
  "Let's get back to the others. We gotta
plan this out real good."
  Sam Hartline looked at the sobbing girl on the
bed, the rumpled sheets stained with sweat and blood.
He had beaten her practically unconscious but still
she would not voluntarily submit to him.
  He had to fight her every step of the way. Not that that was
very difficult-it wasn't. It was just becoming
annoying.
  Sam Hartline could never-even back when the world was
whole, understand why women thought so much of their pussy.
Hell, it was there for screwing; what was the big deal?
  He looked at the sobbing girl. "I've about had
you, bitch," he snarled at Lisa.
"Couple more days, if you don't shape up, I'm
gonna toss you out that goddamn door and let my
boys have you. Can't you understand that I
like
you?"
  Lisa lifted her tear-stained face.
"Like
me? If you liked me, you wouldn't hurt me. Can't
you be tender sometimes?"
  Hartline's great booming laughter filled the
room.
  "You
hurt
me!"
  "What the hell's that got to do with the price of
eggs, baby?" He stood naked before her. "Hell,
if I hadn't liked fighting so much, I could have been
a porn star. Made millions."
  "What's a porn star?" she asked.
  Hartline looked at her in disgust. "Aw,
shit!" He turned and dressed, then slammed the
door on his way out.
  Lisa painfully rose from the bed and walked to the
bathroom, running a tub of hot water. Easing
her way into the soothing and calming liquid,
she heard the door open and close. That would be
Rich. He would sit on the commode seat and smirk
at her.
  But she could put up with Rich. She didn't
hate him; she just felt sorry for him.
  Ben slipped out of his blankets and looked at the
horizon. Just breaking dawn. For the first time, he
allowed his thoughts to return to Sylvia.
  Of all the things in this world-or what was left of this
world, he amended that-he could not abide a traitor.
  He could tolerate many things, but never that.
  Ben's radio people had heard from one recon team
sent east to Khamsin's borders. Sylvia's
betrayal had cost one team their lives.
  One entire squad gone. Loyal lives
snuffed out; people who were willing to lay down their lives
for freedom.
  Gone. Because of a traitor.
  He pushed the woman from his thoughts. He would not
think of her again.
  He hoped.
  James River son came to his side.
"Recon reports finding a band of outlaws about ten
miles from here, Ben."
  "Get the people up, James. Let's go
to work."
Chapter Thirty-two
  The small band of outlaws knew what hit them,
of course. There was little doubt in their 'rids about that.
But they didn't have much time to think about it.
  Ben hit them with a fury he had not experienced in
years. And he knew what had brought it on. He
had finally reached the limit of his understanding. He was
weary of people who wanted something for nothing. Tired of
ignorance and people who wore that un-enlightenment as a
badge of honor. He was fed up with those who demanded
a life of terrorism and barbarism. Insisted upon
it. Ben was reaching back to the days of the
Tri-States; bringing it the forefront.
  And he knew, now, the Tri-States"
philosophy would rise again. He realized that his
days of wandering, alone, throughout the ashes of what had
been, were over. Here was where he was needed, and so here was
where he would have to stay.
  Leading the fight as long as there was breath left in
his body.
  A dirty, unshaven, wild-eyed outlaw made
the mistake of trying to escape by overrunning
  Ben's position surrounding the camp.
  Ben rose from his concealment and laid his
Thompson on the ground. Ben felt the years leave
him, a new youthfulness fill him. A man who for
years had done hard exercise after he realized he
could no longer take his body for granted, Ben
smiled as the outlaw slid to a halt.
  Ben smiled at the unarmed outlaw. He lifted
his fists. He knew then how he was going to take out
Sam Hartline.
  With his bare hands.
  "I'll kill you!" the outlaw panted.
  "So come on, then," Ben challenged him.
  The outlaw lunged at Ben, both fists swinging.
Ben tripped him, sending the outlaw sprawling on the
dirt. Ben kicked him in the side and the outlaw
yelped in pain. Ben's training would have had him kick
the outlaw in the head, shattering the skull and ending it,
but Ben wanted this fight to last a while longer.
  Ben stepped back, his hands open in the martial
arts fashion. "Is that the best you can do?"
  The outlaw roared off the ground, attempting
to butt Ben in the stomach with his head and grab him in
a bear hug. Ben sidestepped and kicked the outlaw
on the knee with his boot. The outlaw, dressed in
leather and chains, screamed in pain and fell to the earth,
both hands holding his knee.
  Ben kicked him in the mouth. The outlaw's head
snapped back as he slumped to the ground, almost
unconscious.
  Ben walked to him and took out his canteen,
emptying the contents on the outlaw's head. "Get
up, you bastard!"
  The outlaw grabbed Ben's leg and jerked, putting
Ben on the ground. Ben rolled over and over, coming
up some ten yards from the outlaw, who was still trying
to get to his feet and shake the feathers out of his
foggy, pain-racked brain.
  Screaming his hate and rage, the outlaw charged
Ben. Balling his hands into fists, Ben met him
head-on and toe-to-toe. Ben staggered the heavyset
man with a chopping right to the jaw then followed that with a
short left hook-that glazed the outlaw's eyes.
Ben hit the man in the center of his face with a
vicious right that flattened the outlaw's nose and sent
blood flying.
  Ben laughed at the man.
  Dimly Ben could hear James Riverson's
voice. "Let them alone," the sergeant major
ordered. "The general's gotta do it his way."
  "Why?" a Rebel questioned.
  "Because he's Ben Raines, that's why,"
was James's reply.
  Ben hammered at the man's stomach with hard
fists, punishing the man. Blood from the outlaw's
mouth sprayed Ben.
  "Gimme a break," the thug panted.
  "All right," Ben said, then broke the outlaw's
neck with a hard karate chop.
  The outlaw fell to the ground, dying. He looked
up at Ben through confused eyes. He seemed to want
to say something. But before he could, death took him. And
that surprised Ben, for he had seen lots of people
live a long time with a broken neck. Then he saw
the pink froth leak from the outlaw's mouth. Either he
had ruptured the man's stomach-which
  wasn't unlikely-or he had shattered a rib
and the rib had punctured a lung. Or nicked the
heart.
  Ben took several deep breaths. "Report,"
he said.
  "The outlaw camp is wiped out. We suffered
two wounded. No dead," James reported. "How
do you feel, General?"
  Somewhere down the line, Ben had lost his black
beret. He took out a cammie bandana and wiped the
sweat from his face, then tied the bandana around
his head, leaving the ends dangling. "Good," Ben said.
  James smiled. "Now you look like Rambo,
Ben."
  "Who the hell is Rambo?" a Rebel asked.
  Ben and his Rebels made a wide circle, at
one point moving deep into Wyoming after the outlaws.
The Rebels found a half-dozen outlaw camps,
destroying them, killing perhaps, in their two-week
pursuit, an additional three hundred outlaws,
not counting the several hundred killed in the botched
ambush on the interstate.
  They hammered straight across the center of what had
once been known as Nevada. When they reached the
base camp in Redding, Ben was met by a
grim-faced Ike.
  Ike brought Ben up to date. Quickly. "This
goddamned Khamsin's grabbed Nina. Sent me a
message, through Hartline. Hartline found it
amusing."
  "I just bet he did," Ben said. "Ike, can you
push aside your emotions as the highly trained
SEAL you are?"
  Ike stiffened. "You know damn well I can,
Ben."
  "You'll be doing what you were trained to do,
years
  ago, Ike. Fighting a dirty little guerrilla
war with the only supplies that you can carry with you."
  "I know, Ben."
  "And you know that Nina may be long dead?"
  "I know."
  "How many personnel you want?"
  "Two platoons," Ike said quickly.
  "You've thought this out carefully?"
  "Many, many hours."
  "All right, Ike. Call Base Camp One
and get as many planes out here as you think you'll need
to transport your people east. They'll leave immediately.
Either way it goes, Ike, stay out there. Start
helping train resistance fighters and put the needle
into Khamsin. We'll never be strong enough to take him
head to head, so we're going to have to hit and run.
Might as well get used to it."
  "Sam Hartline?"
  "I'll take care of Sam Hartline. And I
know just how I'll do it. I've given it much thought.
I know how to pull the arrogant son of a bitch out of
his fortress."
  Ike cocked his head to one side. "How, Ben?"
  "We're going to have a funeral, ol'
buddy. With lots of weeping and wailing and moaning and
slow walking and sad singing."
  "A
funeral!
Whose?"
  Ben smiled. "Mine."
Chapter
Thirty-three
  The transport planes roared in and settled
down on the runways late the next day. The
pilots slept for a few hours, then took off again
in the dead of night, carrying Ike and his hand-picked
teams.
  Ben made himself comfortable inside his command post and
stayed put. He ordered Dr. Chase and his people
to start scurrying back and forth between the hospital and
Ben's command post.
  Cryptic messages began filling the air between
the base camp and the outposts now manned by Rebels.
From Youreka to the rocky raging coast of California
the message went out:
THE EAGLE IS DOWN.
  In Oregon, Sam Hartline studied the
messages as they came in. He was not sure what
they meant; and until he was certain, he was
going to stay put.
  "It could mean only one thing," one of his field
commanders pointed out. "Ben Raines is down."
  "But from
what!"
Hartline questioned. "He and his people kicked the shit out of the
outlaws. If he'd been wounded, we would have been
informed, right?"
  The commander shrugged. "Maybe, maybe not.
  But Ben Raines is down, Sam. Bet on
it."
  "You wanna bet your life on it?" Sam
challenged.
  The commander hesitated. "Yeah, Sam. I do.
The boys is gettin' restless. They got to have some
action or they're gonna go stale."
  Hartline expelled a long breath. "Yeah, I
know. But you been with me a long time. You know how
sneaky Raines can be. This could be a trap.
We'll wait a few more days. I want every
intercepted message on my desk within minutes after
decoding it, understood?"
  "Right, Sam."
  Sam Hartline leaned back in his chair, his
eyes on the ceiling.
  If Ben Raines was down, hard hit, and Ike
McGowen gone back east, all that commanded the
Rebels was that nigger, Cecil Jefferys. And
Sam had never seen a spook that was as smart as a
white man.
  He sat for a long time with his thoughts. None of them
very pleasant for anybody, especially Ben
Raines.
  Sam punched a button on his desk. An
aide stuck his head into the door. Sam never used
women for anything in his army. Except to fuck.
That's all they were good for.
  "Yes, sir?"
  "I want a fly-by," Sam said. "Four of
them. Beginning at 0600 in the morning. Another at
0800, another at 1000, and the last one at
1600."
  "Yes, sir."
  "Where's Lisa?"
  "Out back, sitting by the pool. Guards are
posted at all four corners."
  "Good. I'm gonna take a nap. Wake me
in a hour."
  "Yes, sir."
  Sam went into a bedroom and closed the
door.
  Guards were around the pool, at staggered intervals.
One of them sort of staggered as the knife blade
entered between ribs, the long blade ramming into the
heart. Young hands lowered the cooling carcass to a
chair and set him in quietly. Young feet moved
around the wall that encircled the pool, slipping to the
next guard. Kim drove the blade of her dagger
into the man's throat, the needle point pushing out the
other side, dripping blood.
  At the same instant, Judy's knife took out
the third guard, and Sandra's dagger plunged deep
into the back of the fourth man. Scooter and Mary and
Larry helped lower the bodies to the concrete.
  Lisa was already moving, on the run toward the friends
she had thought she would never see again.
  Rich chose that time to walk out to the pool area. The
boy stood, his mouth open in shock.
  Sandra's knife flashed end over end in the hot
air of summer.
  Rich uttered one word before the knife point hit
him in the center of his chest.
  "No!" the boy said.
  He fell to the concrete
  "I wasn't gonna kill him,"
Sandra said. "We talked it over. But it's too
late now. Come on, Lisa, let's get the hell
outta here."
  Rich could hear them talking through a mist of pain.
  "There's something you oughta know," Kim said to Lisa.
  Rich listened.
  "Ben Raines is dying."
Chapter
Thirty-four
  "Well, the little bastard was loyal to me after
all," Hartline said. "You just by God never know."
  "So Ben Raines is really dying," a mercenary
said. "Ain't that a kick in the. ass?"
  "Yep," Hartline said. "But this time, we're
going to be the ones who kick ass."
  "It's about goddamn time."
  Everyone, including Hartline, laughed at the
truth in that remark. For years, Raines's
Rebels had been kicking ass all over the
battered nation. And a lot of the time, the asses kicked
were Sam Hartline's mercenaries.
  "Never have been able to understand Raines," Hartline
was fond of saying. "The man was a mercenary in his
time, just like me."
  Ben Raines had never been a mercenary.
He had been a soldier of fortune for a time, after his
time in the Army. But never a mercenary. A mercenary
will fight for any flag, any political
ideology, regardless of the savagery of that
particular regime.
  A soldier of fortune will almost always fight with those
waging war for democracy-many times for no
  pay, other than personal satisfaction.
  There is a lot of difference between a mercenary and a
soldier of fortune.
  As much difference as between Sam Hartline and Ben
Raines.
  "What do you want done with Rich's body?"
Sam was asked.
  Sam laughed. "Dump the little shit in the ocean!"
  The word spread like a raging, unchecked woods
fire: Ben Raines is dying.
  In less than a week, the rumor had spread
all across the torn nation: Ben Raines is dying.
  Only a few of Ben's most trusted Rebels
knew the truth. The majority believed him to be
near death.
  Sam Hartline's fly-bys confirmed it. The
spotters reported large groups of Rebels
gathered around Ben's command post standing and
sitting quietly. Waiting.
  But still Hartline was not certain; not yet convinced in
his own mind that it all wasn't some clever ruse on
Ben's part. Sneaky son of a bitch!
  "Wait," he told his people. "When the bastard is
cold in the ground, that's when we'll move."
  Then the word came, buzzing out of the radios:
THE EAGLE IS DEAD.
  Hartline sent a team into California, ordering
them to get as close as possible and check it out.
Report back.
  They reported back, grim satisfaction in their
report: Ben Raines is dead. The Rebel
movement is in chaos. Ben Raines is being buried
in the morning.
  And Sam Hartline leaned back in his chair and
howled his laughter.
  "Get the boys ready," Hartline ordered.
"We're gonna kick those Rebels clear into the
sea."
  On the South Carolina border, a young Rebel
captain said, "We can't get much accurate intel
out of there, Ike. This Khamsin, whoever he is and
wherever he came from, is one hell of a top-flight
soldier. But we have found out one thing that's
firm."
  Ike looked at him.
  "He's got three divisions," the captain
finished it.
  "Shit!" Ike breathed. "I hope you're
talkin' short divisions?"
  "A little over thirty thousand personnel, Ike."
  Ike shook his head. "I don't suppose
there's much point in talkin' about artillery and
tanks, right, Captain?"
  "He's got it all, Ike."
  "You know where this puts us, don't you?" Ike
asked.
  "Between a rock and a hard place, I reckon."
  Ike nodded. "Well, me and Ben have been in
tougher spots." But he couldn't recall a one.
  "General Raines? ..." the captain started
to speak.
  "Let it slide, son," Ike quieted him.
"Just believe."
  "Okay, sir."
  Ike looked back at his teams. They were split
up into twenty 6-person teams. "It's still up
to y'all," Ike drawled. "I ain't orderin'
nobody in that don't wanna go. Is that
understood?"
  The men and women of the Rebels squatted and stared
in silence at him. "Let's go," Ike said
softly.
  Cecil had called his section leaders, company
commanders, and platoon sergeants together. Dan Gray
stood beside the tall, well-built black man with the
salt-and-pepper hair.
  Dan knew what was going on in Cecil's mind,
for the same thing had been buzzing in his mind since Ben
had told them of his plan.
  Ninety-nine percent of the Rebels believed Ben
to be dead. Now, with hard intel that Sam Hartline
and his army was on the move toward the Rebels
strongholds, Ben was suddenly going to appear.
  And that was only going to further the myth that Ben was
larger than life. Not quite human.
  A god.
  "One of the risks of this plan," Ben had said, just
hours before his "funeral."
  Cecil stood on a raised platform and looked
at the Rebels in the room.
  "What do we do now, General?" a senior
sergeant asked.
  "We follow Ben Raines," Cecil
said.
  A low murmur spread around the room. Cecil
let them talk for a moment before waving them silent.
  "Rebels," he announced. "Let me try
to explain. All that has happened over the past
week was just a ruse. A plan of Ben's to pull
Sam Hartline and his army into our territory. Ben
is very much alive and well."
  "No!" a Rebel shouted. "That's not true."
  Ben walked out of a side room, his appearance
bringing the room to a dead silence.
  He climbed up beside Cecil and looked at the
shock-numbed crowd. "As you can all clearly
see," he said. "I am very much alive and doing quite
well."
  The Rebels stood and stared at him.
  "I apologize for tricking you," Ben said.
"I'm sorry to play with your emotions in this manner.
But we had to pull Hartline and his people out of their
stronghold. We've done that. They're on their way
right now. Our forward recon teams report the
mercenaries have neared the border and are barreling toward
us." He looked at Cecil. "Join your
battalion, Cec. Close it off behind us. Good
luck."
  The men shook hands and Cecil quickly left the
room. A light plane would fly him to his
battalion, located on both sides of
Interstate 5, near Youreka.
  Ben looked back at his Rebels, still staring at
him in open-mouthed shock. "Wait until noon before
breaking the news to your sections that I'm still alive.
That will put Hartline and his people south of Cecil's
position. They won't be able to turn back even should
they hear the news.
  "Now you listen to me, people. We've got a hard
fight facing us. And it's just beginning. We have no
choice in the matter. We have to fight, and we have
to win. First against Hartline, then against Colonel
Khamsin and his IPA. And we're going to take
losses. Plenty of them. Hard losses. We're
going to lose loved ones and close friends. But it's
either that, or live as slaves. I refuse to bow
down to any person. That's why we're Rebels.
  "There isn't going to be much rest for us. It's
going
  to be one fight after another, for God only knows
how many years. I'm not looking forward to it, and I
know that none of you want to fight for the rest of your
lives." Ben sighed. "Maybe someday we
can all settle down and live in peace. I have
to keep that hope alive. But I, and you, must keep
this thought in mind at all times: We are all that stands
between freedom and slavery. It's up to us. No one
else. Get with your teams and prepare to fight.
Move out!"
  The room emptied, with most of the Rebels
glancing back over their shoulder to look at Ben.
  Ben was calmly folding and tying a cammie
bandana around his forehead.
  He looked at Colonel Gray. "Let's do
it, Dan."
Chapter Thirty-five
  The news cut through the camp like a bullet. Even
though no member of the Rebel Army that was present
when Ben appeared out of the grave had spoken of it,
somehow the other Rebels knew.
  The somber cloud that had invisibly covered the
camp lifted and a fresh new spirit filled the men and
women of the Rebels.
  Cecil and Dan had already received orders from Ben
as to how the attack was to be carried out, and they had
informed their people long before Ben made his exit from the
grave. Now the camp hummed with a new, fresh
melody; a warlike song to be sure, for
war was all that many of, these Rebels had ever known,
many of them having been with Ben since back in '89.
  Ben walked among the Rebels as they feverishly
broke camp, moving out to pre-assigned positions.
He spoke to as many as possible, stopping to chat with a
few of them.
  "This time we finish Sam Hartline, Charlie."
  "You bet, General!"
  "Kick-ass-and-take-names time, Wes."
  "Right, General!"
  "Watch your butt now, Claire. It's time for
you and Eddie to be thinking of having some babies."
  "Oh, General!" she blushed. One of Dan
Gray's Scouts, Claire was as good a soldier
as any in Ben's command.
  "Bob, you got your lucky coin with you?"
  "Damn right, General! This time we finish Sam
Hartline once and for all, right?"
  "That's right, Bob. Simon, you were wounded about
two weeks ago. What the hell are you doing with this
bunch?"
  "Gettin' ready to kick the hell out of that
schtoonk, Hartline, that's what."
  Ben laughed. "Give him hell, Simon."
  And so it went, up and down the lines of
trucks and Jeeps and the lines of tiger-stripe or
lizard cammied men and women who made up
Raines's Rebels.
  A thin line, the thought came to Ben. How few of
us there are. But we have grown, he thought, his eyes
finding the two Georges from Red Bluff and
Chico. Harris and his people from Redding. Pete Ho and
his bunch from Ukiah. John Dunning and several
hundred fighters from Santa Rosa.
  Some of the newer fighters would be mixed in with Ben's
regular Rebels; others would be held in reserve,
just behind the lines, to take the place of any Rebels
wounded.
  Ben watched his people move out. The tanks and
artillery had moved out early that morning, when the first
news of Hartline's advance reached the base camp.
  Lora walked up to him and kicked Ben on the
shin.
  "Oww! Jesus Christ, Lora. What was that
for?"
  "It isn't nice to have people think you're dead and
gone, Ben Raines. I cried a whole bunch over
you."
  "Yeah? Well, you just brought tears to my eyes,
too. I guess that makes us even."
  "Oh, yeah. Well ... guess so. Ben?"
  "What, Lora?"
  "I never did liked Sylvia. Never trusted
her." She slung her carbine and turned to go.
  "Wait a minute! Where are you going, Lora?"
  "To join my friends. There's a fight coming up, Ben
Raines."
  "I
know
that, Lora. How about staying here with me?"
  She smiled, and as she did, Ben saw the
wisdom in her young eyes. "It don't pay to get
too close to people, Ben. More likely than not, you're
gonna get hurt when you do that. "You really liked
Sylvia, didn't you, Ben?"
  "Yeah, I did, kid."
  "Lots of times, Ben, the people you want, don't
want you. Ain't that the truth?"
  "That's the truth, Lora. You be careful out there."
  "Oh, I'll be careful, Ben." She walked
off, a very small and very brave Rebel, her black
beret cocked to one side of her head.
  Ben felt eyes on him and turned to look at
Dr. Chase. "Lamar."
  "Goddamned shame when kids have to fight
wars, isn't it, Ben?"
  "Yes, it is, Doc. You want to be the one
to tell those kids they can't fight?"
  "I think not. How's your shin?"
  "It hurts."
  Chase chuckled then looked at Ben. "I rather like
that bandana tied around your head, Ben."
  "Oh?"
  "Yes. Makes you look more like the damned
roguish pirate I know you are."
  He walked off, leaving Ben sputtering.
  Hartline abruptly halted his column
halfway between Youreka and Mount Shasta. He had
suddenly developed a very uneasy sensation in his
guts.
  "What's up?" one of his company commanders radioed
to Sam's APC.
  "Bad feeling," Sam radioed back. "Check
the communication truck. See what they've been
receiving the past few hours."
  In a few moments, Sam got his reply.
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
  "Not a peep, Sam."
  "I don't like that worth a shit!"
  "Hell, Sam. The Rebels are in mourning!
They don't even know we're on the way."
  "Don't be a jerk, Benny. Raines may be
dead-and I'm still very dubious about that-but the Rebels
aren't stupid. They might relax their guard some, but
not much. I got a feeling we're heading into a
trap. Put out guards. You guys meet me up
here pronto."
  Hartline's field commanders gathered around his
APC. All but one.
  Sam looked around him. "Where in the hell is that
goddamned Harrison?"
  No one had seen Harrison.
  "He was in the drag, wasn't he?" Sam
demanded.
  "Last time I saw him he was."
  "Don't just stand there. Go check him out."
  Ralph came back, his face a bit pale.
"He's gone. His driver's gone. Everything is
gone."
  "What do you mean,
everything
is gone?" Hartline yelled. "Where's his Jeep!"
  "I'm tellin' you, Sam. It's gone!"
  "That goddamned Ben Raines has done
it to me again," Sam bitched. "That sorry, no-good,
low-life, sneaky son of a bitch has screwed me
again!"
  "Sam!" the excited yell came from the middle
of the long column. "Sam!"
  But when Sam turned around and yelled, "What?"
no one answered.
  Angry, Sam ran back to the center of the
well-spaced main column. He had split the
column up into three parts. With a mile between each
column.
  Sam jogged up to a mercenary. "All right,
asshole! What do you want? What'd you yell
for?"
  The mere looked at him. "Huh?"
  "I said, what did you yell for?"
  "I ain't yelled jack-shit, Sam!" the mere
protested.
  Sam looked around him a bit nervously. He
began edging his way back to his APC. There, he
crouched down, his back to the steel place. "Raines
is playing with us," he said.
  "Ben Raines is
dead."
one of his senior commanders said, exasperation in
his voice. "Goddammit, Sam, you're paranoid
about Ben Raines."
  "Yeah, a ghost can't hurt you," another mere
said.
  From deep in the timber, there came a
hollow-sounding laugh.
  One of the younger mercs looked around him, his eyes
wide, his face pale.
  "Get the column outta here!" Sam yelled.
  No sooner had the words left his mouth when an
explosion to the north of them rocked the land.
  Sam jerked up his mike. "What the hell was that?
Rear column, answer me!"
  "Bridge is blown," came the weary reply.
"Next road leadin' anywhere is 97 to the north.
And scouts reports that road is closed. Next
highway is 89. And that ain't gonna do us a
damn bit of good."
  "If I want a goddamned scenic route
mapped out, Ira, I'll ask you for it!" Sam
snapped.
  He tossed the mike to the seat. He rubbed his
face, deep in thought. He frowned as laughter
once more came from the dark timber.
  Sam frowned and once more picked up the
mike. "Ira?"
  "Right here, Sam."
  "Are you cut off from Battalions One and
Two?"
  "All by my lonesome, Sam."
  "Dig in and hold what you've got, Ira."
  "Do I have a choice, Sam?"
  Hartline chose not to reply. He picked up a
map. "Chances are, Raines sent the sambo north
with one battalion. Ira can keep him busy.
We've still got Battalion Five east of us and
Battalion Four to the west. We've got
Raines outgunned and out-manned. Smart-assed
bastard may have planned this too carefully. He
may have cut it too fine for his own good this time."
  Once more, from the dark timber, came that taunting
laughter.
  "I know what that is now," Sam said, visibly
relaxing. "The underground people. They don't use
guns. They have bows and arrows and spears and shit like
that. Long as we don't get in the deep timber,
we're all right."
  "Sam? We're sittin' ducks out here in the
middle of the damn road."
  "Yeah, I know. Tell Battalions
Four and Five to hold what they've got. Advance
only at my orders. What's in the next town?"
  "Nothing. It's deserted."
  "You hope," Sam said sourly.
Chapter Thirty-six
  Ike and his personal team had entered South
Carolina just north of Mount Carmel, where the
Georgia-flowing Broad River merged with the
Savannah River. In typical Navy SEAL
fashion, Ike and his people entered enemy territory at
night, by water.
  "Damn alligators probably in here," one
team member bitched.
  "Beats the hell outta "Nam," Ike put
an end to it. "Let's go."
  Dawn found Ike and his team hiding in a deserted
house near what had once been the small town of
Bradley. They would spend the hot daylight hours
resting, then move out again at night.
  The Rebels" main problem-other than staying
alive-was that they were not sure exactly where Nina
was being held.
  But Ike knew how to find out.
  "We grab some IPA dude and get the information
out of him," he said.
  "That could get bloody," a Rebel said.
  Ike's smile was as savage as the IPA.
"I'm sure it will," he said.
  Nina listened to Colonel Khamsin's talk,
her face impassive. She hurt, but not as badly
as a couple of days ago. She could hobble about, with the
aid of canes. She could not wear shoes or sandals,
because of her swollen feet-where her toenails had
been removed with wire-pliers.
  The savages of the IPA had broken parts of her
body, but not her spirit. Nina did not think they could do
that. She really did not know why there were torturing her.
For she knew very little about the Rebel movement. She
knew there were Rebel outposts scattered throughout the
Southeast, but did not know exactly where they were.
  And she had told her interrogators as much.
  That alone did not cause the pain to stop. Rather, it
increased, for they felt she was lying.
  And, of course, they had raped her. Nina had
endured it silently. She had been raped before. Before
she met Ike, and had fallen in love with the man.
  Ike! she thought, staring at Khamsin's dark,
evil face. Where are you, Ike?
  "... So you see, Miss," Khamsin was saying.
"The men and women of the IPA are not that
different from your Ben Raines and his Rebels. We
both strive for the same things. Peace,
productivity, law and order. Don't you see?"
  "BLIVET!" Nina said.
  "I beg your pardon?"
  "BLIVET. It's something Ike taught me.
It's an old military expression."
  "I'm not familiar with it. It means? ..."
  "Ten pounds of shit in a five-pound bag!"
  Khamsin's eyes turned even more dark and evil.
He rose from behind his desk and calmly walked around
to Nina's side. He slapped her out of her chair.
  Khamsin reached down and grabbed Nina's bandaged
feet. He squeezed her toes, laughing as she
screamed from the pain.
  "Scream, little bird," Khamsin said, his voice
taunting. "Perhaps your Ike McGowen will hear you and
come to your rescue."
  "Wrong," she whispered. "Rebels are
expendable. No matter how much Ike cares for me,
he won't risk people coming after me." Nina knew that was
not true, but maybe she could give Ike a fighting
chance to get through to her.
  She felt he was on the way. Perhaps very near. But
she would never tell that to this camel-humper.
  Khamsin stepped back, regained his composure,
and gestured for her to get back into the chair. She
did, slowly and painfully, almost falling as she fought
the pain in her tortured feet.
  She sat and stared up at him, defiance in her
eyes.
  Khamsin watched the woman. He knew, from
years of active terrorism, that anyone and everyone
could be broken. But sometimes, one had to weigh
carefully what would be gained by it.
  Khamsin believed the woman knew very little about the
Rebel movement. So therefore there was little use in
continuing her physical discomfort.
  Khamsin felt a stirring in his groin as he stared
at the fair-skinned woman. He felt himself begin
to thicken as passion took him.
  He walked to her and picked her up effortlessly,
  placing her on a bunk. "I will not hurt your
feet, little bird."
  I won't die from rape, she thought. Come on,
Ike-hurry!
  Ike wiped the blood from his knife, sheathed it, and
tossed a ragged blanket over what just vaguely
resembled a human body lying on the dirty,
rat-droppings-littered floor of the house.
  He look at the two remaining IPA members.
They stared at him with something very close to horror in
their dark eyes.
  And something else, Ike picked it up. Fear.
  "What are you thinkin', partner?" Ike asked the
younger of the captives.
  "That you are a savage!"
  Ike laughed at him. "Me, a savage? You
simple son of a bitch! Bastards like you have been
waging a war of terrorism since before you were born,
boy. You've killed innocent people, men, women,
kids, all over this world. You've raped,
kidnapped, tortured, maimed, and killed; and like
some of those nuts that used to wage war in Ireland, you
don't even know what you're fightin' for."
  "Our homeland," the young IPA man said.
  One Rebel laughed. Like Ike, he was old enough
to remember the terrorism of the 1980's. "Why in the
fuck don't you go back to your homeland, then, and
leave us the hell alone?"
  "We are claiming this land in the name of Allah."
  Ike knelt down in front of the young man, his
knife in his hand. "You wanna meet Allah,
boy? Okay. But
  I guaran-damn-tee you, boy, the
journey's gonna be a long and painful one."
  The IPA man spat in Ike's face.
  "Gag "im," Ike ordered.
  "This is as far as we go," Hartline radioed.
"We form battlelines here. And here we stand and
slug it out. Dismount and dig your holes. Tanks and
artillery, Station up."
  And that decision was to be Hartline's last and
fatal one. The mercenary had the Rebels
outnumbered three to one. He could have rammed through almost
any point in Ben's thin lines. And by doing that, could
have had the Rebels in a box, closing it with flanking
movements.
  But his caution overrode his solid military
background.
  And as he dug in, Sam Hartline wondered
what had happened to those remaining loud-mouthed warlords.
  Sonny Boy, Grizzly, Skinhead,
Popeye, Piano, and the others were camped far from the
battlelines. At this juncture, they wanted no
more of Ben Raines. They all knew they would
rebuild their ranks; the battered nation was full of
sorry people who wanted something for nothing, and who would be
more than willing to join the outlaws.
  They had never gotten around to voting on a
top general. Running for their lives from the
Rebels, that had slipped their minds.
  For now, the warlords and outlaws would simply
wait. And stay far away from Ben Raines and his
Rebels.
  "Ben?" Cecil radioed. "Looks like you were
right-again. We're going to stand and slug it out with
Hartline."
  "Not yet, Cec." Ben radioed his reply.
"What we're going to do is annoy the hell out of
Hartline. We've got the time; it's on our side
in this operation. So we're going to pick and prod at
Hartline and his men. We're going to put the needle
to them. All day, and all night. A war of nerves.
They're not going to get much sleep, Cec. And some
of our people will be so close to them, that when they relax their
guard, they get their throats cut."
  Cecil's chuckle was grim. "Ben, you are a
real bastard, you know that?"
  "Yep."
  "Doesn't bother you at all, does it?"
  "Nope." Cecil laughed and signed off.
  Hartline's people dug in, deep and solid. They
waited.
  And waited.
  The long hot days began to melt into each other.
Every fifteen minutes, on the dot, a round from
mortar or tank or artillery would crash into or very
near some position manned by Hartline's men.
  And with every hour that passed, Ben's Rebels became
more secure and dug-in; moving several yards
closer, tightening the deadly ring around the mercenary's
bunkers.
  Hartline's men could only move about at night,
for Rebel snipers had the range, and they were
dead-accurate.
  Some people might have questioned Ben's tactics, wondering
why, if he had Hartline boxed, didn't he just
starve the mercs out?
  In terrain such as both sides were holding, that's
only done in the movies. Hartline and his men could have
slipped out during the night, with many of them making it.
But they would have been forced to leave their artillery, their
vehicles, their heavier machine guns and larger
mortars.
  Hartline had dug himself into a safe hole, but not
a very enviable one.
  And the waiting game was beginning to tell on
Hartline's men.
  "What the hell are they waiting on?"
one mercenary CO asked Hartline.
  "For us to screw up," Sam replied calmly.
"Once we show the first signs of cracking, Ben's
people will be all over us like ants to honey."
  "Well... why don't we pull something like
Raines done? Fake it?"
  "Because Ben wouldn't fall for it," Sam
grudgingly conceded. "He's too goddamned smart
for that."
  A sniper round blasted into the log-enforced bunker
of Sam Hartline. The CO winced; Sam stood
impassive, his eyes staring at nothing.
  "Jesus!" the CO whined. "Them people are tough with
them rifles."
  "Yeah. XM-21'S."
  The young CO looked at him, waiting for
explanation.
  "Accurized M-14's, using an ART
scope. Back in 'nam, 800, 900-yard
first-round kills were common with that weapon. They're
good."
  Dusk was spreading her dark skirts over the land.
Sam called for as many section leaders as could make
the run to his bunker to come on over.
  "Boys," the mercenary admitted, "I
screwed up. Staying in this place is like fucking for
virginity. I hate to say it, but we're gonna have
to bust out. Raines is not going to stand and slug it out with
us."
  Even though the risks were awful, the mercenary
section leaders knew what Sam was saying was the
only way any of them were going to survive.
  "Where's the bust-out point, Sam?"
  Sam pointed south. "Straight ahead. As near
as I can figure it, Raines's people are spread
pretty thin all around us. The nigger's up north with
Third Battalion. They can keep the nigger
busy. I'll take First Battalion and cut
west, link up with Fourth Battalion. You take
Second Battalion and cut east, link up with
Fifth Battalion. As soon as that's done,
we'll start inching back toward the border. With any
kind of luck, we can hook up with Ira's boys."
  "When do we bug out?"
  "Midnight."
Chapter Thirty-seven
  "Something wrong, Dad?" Tina Raines asked,
walking up to Ben's side.
  Ben shook his head. "Nothing tangible,
Daughter. It's just that I think we've
held Hartline in a box just about as long as we're
going to. He's an arrogant prick, but a good
soldier. He'll admit he made a mistake in
digging in."
  "And then? ..."
  "Well, if I were in his shoes, I'd order a
bust-out. Question is, where and when."
  Tina waited, knowing her dad had given this
considerable thought.
  Ben said, "Sam's got a battalion to the
west, one to the east, and one that's pulled back
into Youreka. He's got his battalion and one other
dug in. Now, he could do any number of things.
He could retreat back to Youreka and bust through
Cec's lines, linking up with that battalion. But
he'll quickly reject that because of those blown
bridges.
  "Sam could bust out to the south, then swing around and
join the western group. But that would put his back to the
sea. He won't do that. If he moved
  both his battalions to the east, that would mean he'd
sacrifice the western battalion. And he won't
do that because he needs those people.
  "If I were Sam, I'd split my forces, one
battalion to the west, one to the east, link
up, and begin retreating back toward the Oregon
border."
  "Then you think he'll be coming straight out of the
chute, heading south, then split east and west?"
  "That's what I'd do."
  "And you want us to do? ..." She left the question
open-ended.
  Ben grinned. "Why, open the gate, dear. Just
give him all the space he needs." Ben's
smile broke into a wide grin.
  "Until he splits his forces, that is," Tina
said. "And then we hit them hard."
  "That's it, dear."
  "But you don't know for certain when he'll try
to bug out, do you, Dad?"
  "No, not for sure."
  "But you have a feeling it'll be soon, right?"
  "Like ... tonight, daughter."
  "What else do you have up your sleeve, Dad?"
  Dan Gray had joined the group, standing quietly
and listening. The Englishman began to smile.
  Ben looked at Dan. "You finish it, Dan."
  "I never presume to know what is in another
man's mind," the ex-Sas man said primly.
  "Horseshit!" Ben replied.
  "You've been hanging around Ike too long,
General. How crude. Very well. I would draw the
Rebels back several hundred meters; put them
deep in the timber. Then just as soon as Hartline's
people passed,
  and I mean within seconds, I would move the
Rebels into the abandoned bunkers, reposition the
mortars and other artillery, and use the mercenaries"
own weapons against them. That's what I'd do."
  "But suppose Hartline has booby-trapped his
bunkers and artillery and tanks?" Tina asked.
  "No time," Ben said. "This would be a snap
decision on Sam's part. I know he called a
meeting early this afternoon. In his bunker. I ordered a
double bino watch. Those behind the long lenses report
no unusual activity. Any type of behavior
other than what we've grown accustomed to would be a
dead give away on Sam's part. Dan, start
pulling the Rebels back. Give Sam a chute
to use. He may fall for it, he may not. I'm
betting he will."
  "Yes, sir."
  Nina fought away her feelings of suicide. She
had been a survivor all her life; she was not
going to quit now.
  She had thought once Khamsin had his way with
her-how long had it been?-a week, she guessed-then
he would leave her alone.
  It was not to be.
  The man was worse than a goat. She had
endured the assaults as silently and stoically as
humanly possible.
  The only thing about her that had improved was her
feet. Most of the pain was now gone, but her tortured
toes were still very tender.
  She heard footsteps in the hall. A guard
knocked on her door. Nina swung her feet off
the bed and
  carefully slid her feet into house slippers.
"Yes?" "The colonel is ready for you, woman."
"Charmed, I'm sure," Nina muttered. Ike!
she
  thought. Where are you, Ike? Please,
Ike-hurry!
  Ike was less than two miles away. He and
his team had been in the Columbia area for several
days. They had slipped in at night, moving
carefully, and just as carefully mapping out Colonel
Khamsin's headquarters, where Nina was being held.
  The last member of the IPA patrol that
Ike had questioned had broken under Ike's knife,
spilling his guts-literally.
  Ike and his team had moved out for the Columbia
area before the terrorist's body had cooled.
  "Okay, gang," Ike said. "It has to be
tonight. We've already pushed our luck too hard. One
more recon of the area is not only useless, but risky.
We go in at midnight."
  Ike and his team were on the second floor of an
old warehouse. Ike knew how they were going to get
Nina out; but then getting away was quite another matter.
  Ike looked at his radio operator. "You got
the other teams on the horn, scrambled?"
  "Yes, sir."
  "Tell them at
exactly
midnight, on the dot, I want diversion strikes
all along the borders, as many as possible. I
wanna shake Khamsin's people up. For fifteen
minutes, minimum, get our people on the borders
to throw everything they've got into South Carolina.
That's all the time we're gonna have, people. Fifteen
minutes to get in, grab Nina, and get out."
  Ike glanced at his team. "Let's take it from
step one, people."
  "I'm at the gate," a Rebel said.
  "I drive the truck," the second Rebel
said.
  "I carry Nina," a big Rebel said. "In
case she's been tortured and can't walk."
  "I start the fires," a woman Rebel spoke
quietly.
  "And you and me," Ike said, looking at another
Rebel. "We bust her out."
  The radio operator was busy transmitting
Ike's orders.
  Ike glanced at his watch. "Let's go."
  Ben glanced at his watch, then at Tina.
"Everybody pulled back, girl?"
  "Yes, sir. Hartline's got a hole wide
enough to stampede cattle through."
  He should be making bug-out any second."
  His walkie-talkie crackled.
  "Speak," Ben said.
  "Bugging out, sir," came the whispered report.
"And traveling pretty light."
  "Keep your head down," Ben ordered.
  Up and down the lines of pulled-back Rebels,
the scouts radioed in to Ben. Sam Hartline and his
men were bugging out.
  Ben looked at his daughter. "It won't take
Sam long to realize he's been had. But by then,
I'm hoping, he'll be past the point of no
return. But either way, we can still kick the shit out of
him."
  "Gonna finish him this time, Dad?" Tina
asked.
  "I'm going to give it my best shot, girl."
  "Too easy," Hartline whispered to his aide.
"That goddamned Ben Raines is up to something. But
damned if I can figure what it is."
  "I feel like I'm being watched," one of his men
whispered. "And I heard something move behind me about a
mile back."
  "Yeah, me, too," a mercenary said. "But it
sounded like they, whatever it was, was movin' back the
way we come."
  Then the light bulb of full understanding clicked on
in Sam's head. "That sneaky son of a bitch!" he
growled.
  He halted the snakelike column and stood for a
moment, listening. He could just detect the sounds of
breeches opening and closing; the sounds of tank-mounted
howitzers being raised.
  And Sam Hartline
knew,
Ben Raines had bested him-again.
  "Matt?" Sam called softly.
  "Right here, Sam. What's up?"
  "Every man for themselves," Sam Hartline gave the
orders. Gave them with a bitter, copper-like taste in
his mouth. The taste of defeat.
  And Sam Hartline took off running, running as
if the hounds of Hell were snarling and biting at his
ankles.
  Ben Raines lifted his walkie-talkie.
"Guns facing east?"
  "Yes, sir," came the quick response.
"Guns facing west?" Ben asked. "Yes, sir.
Locked and loaded." "East and west," Ben said.
"Have your forward observers pinpointed your targets?"
"Yes, sir," came the dual reply. "Commence
firing."
  Ike's team hit the gates of Khamsin's command
post fifteen seconds after midnight. They had
slapped C-4 onto doors and buildings and
operational vehicles as they made their way to the
compound.
  The charges began blowing just as Ike and his team
opened fire and began tossing fire-frag
grenades about the compound.
  The news of the attacks along the border had just
been rushed to Khamsin when Ike's team began their
assault. The compound erupted in confusion and smoke
and explosions and gunfire.
  A team member had driven two
deuce-and-a-half trucks into the only street that
had not been blocked off. The Rebel backed off,
rolled a grenade under each truck, then ran like
hell back to the compound to join in the fight. The
transport trucks blew, blocking the street with
fire and hot metal and smoking glass.
  The attack had been so sudden, so totally
unexpected it had caught the IPA with their pants
down-or off, as the case was, with many of them
sleeping.
  Ike tripped a running IPA troop. With the
blade of his knife against the man's throat, he
snarled, "The woman prisoner? Where is she?"
  The man spat in Ike's face.
  With the point of his knife, Ike dug out one of the
man's eyes. Ignoring the screaming, Ike
repeated the question.
  With his eyeball dangling down the side of his
face, and the blood spurting, the IPA
troop answered Ike's question.
  "Shoulda told me that in the first place, stupid!"
Ike kicked the man on the side of the head,
knocking him out, but allowing him to live. For a time
longer.
  Ike ran up the outside stairs of what had
once been a walled office complex and kicked in the
door. He grinned at Nina.
  "Hello, baby! Ready to go home?"
Chapter Thirty-eight
  Ben hated to do it, knowing that unless his people set
backfires to check the burning woods, half of
California might well be wiped out. He
hesitated, then called for WP rounds.
  The night sky erupted in flames as the white
phosphorus rounds exploded, as the fires
caught, the sap in the trees ignited, burned, and
exploded. And Hartline and his men were caught smack
in the middle of the raging maelstrom, with absolutely
no place to run.
  Sam literally stumbled into a lifesaving hole in
the ground. The soft earth under his boots gave way and
he fell about five feet into a slanting cave.
He slid another twenty-five or so feet before
reaching bottom. He carefully put out his
hand, feeling the rocky surface beneath him. No bat
shit. Good. Sam hated bats. Filthy fuckers.
  Using his flashlight, Sam inspected the cave.
About ten feet high at the widest point, perhaps
eight or ten feet wide at the widest point,
narrowing down to no more than several inches wide.
  One way in, one way out. Fine with him.
  Then he wondered why the smoke from the fires was not
entering the cave. He crawled as far as he could
deeper into the cave. Air fanned his face, coming out
of the small crack. That explained that. The updraft
kept the smoke out.
  Sam curled up on the floor, making himself as
comfortable as possible, and went to sleep.
  Khamsin had hurled himself to the floor when the first
explosion sounded. When automatic-weapons fire
began raking the compound, he crawled under his desk.
But he left his ass exposed.
  A grenade blew just outside his main office,
sending ragged shards of glass flying in all
directions.
  A long jagged piece hit Khamsin square in
one cheek of his buttocks, penetrating several
inches. Khamsin howled in pain and rage and
frustration. When he reached back to pull the
glass out, he sliced his hand open, to the bone.
  On his knees, the Libyan cursed America,
Americans, and especially Ben Raines.
  By everything that was holy, Khamsin swore to someday
kill Ben Raines.
  But the pain in his ass overrode his prayers and he
wondered where in the shit his medics might be hiding.
  "You won't want me no more, Ike," Nina
said. "I'll leave and let you find yourself a whole
woman when we get back."
  "Girl," Ike said, looking at her. "What in
the holy
  billy-hell are you talking about?"
  "That camel-humpin' bastard used me pretty
bad, Ike."
  Ike grinned at her in the darkness of the
canvas-covered bed of the truck. "You reckon he
wore it plumb out, baby?"
  "Ike!"
  "Then don't worry about it, baby. Tell you
what. When we get back, how's about you and me
gettin' hitched?"
  "Ike?"
  "Yes, baby?"
  "I love you."
  "Is that a fact? Well, dip me in shit and
call me stinky!"
  "If you folks will quit all that romancin' up
there," a Rebel called from his post by the tailgate.
"Here comes a whole bunch of those
camel-jockeys."
  "Ridin' camels?" Ike called.
  "I wish!"
  Ike picked up his CAR-15 and joined the
guard. "How about us start rollin' out some
surprises for them folks, Ed?"
  The Rebel grinned and held up both hands full
of fire-frags. "Like these?"
  "How did you guess?"
  "Cease fire!" Ben ordered. "Cease fire!"
The night became eerily quiet, except for the
popping of trees as the sap exploded. Fires
ringed the interior of the battleground. And the cloudy
skies cracked just a bit and a light
  mist began falling. After only a few moments,
the mist changed into a sprinkle, then a downpour.
Ben looked up, the rain streaking his face, and
smiled.
  "Thanks," he said.
  Dan Gray came to Ben's side.
"I've ordered the troops to start mopping up,
General."
  "Fine. Have you any prelims on troop
loss?"
  "We lost no one. It appears that Hartline
suffered approximately ninety percent loss of his
battalions. We'll probably never know for
sure."
  Ben nodded. "I'm going to get some rest. Take
over, Dan."
  "Yes, sir."
  The Englishman watched as Ben walked away,
back to his command post for some much-needed sleep.
  A Rebel approached Dan. "Sir?"
  "Yes, son?"
  "General Jefferys was just on the horn. He
reports that his people are kicking ass north of here.
Your people have engaged the other battalion and have them on
the run. Looks like we won, sir."
  "Thank you. Keep me informed and don't disturb
the general."
  "Yes, sir."
  "Carl?" Dan called.
  "Here, sir!" the batman said.
  "A bit of tea would be nice. Perhaps a
cracker or cookie to go with it."
  "Right away, sir."
  Dan sat down on a log and rested, waiting for
his early morning refreshment. He wondered how
Ike was doing?
  "Sir!" the shout came from the cab of the truck.
  "Go ahead!" Ike hollered.
  "Our teams have smashed across the border and put the
IPA on the run. They're waiting for us just five
miles up this road. As soon as we pass,
they'll blow the bridges over the Little Lynches and
Lynches Rivers. After that, we're home free."
  "Right!" Ike leaned back and let the weariness
flow over him. Nina was lying on a blanket,
looking up at him through the darkness. "We made it,
babe," he said.
  She winked at him.
  Khamsin lay on his stomach and endured the pain as
the doctor stitched up his buttock.
  "I simply cannot believe that many Rebels made
it across our borders, penetrated our security, and
successfully executed this raid," Khamsin
spoke through gritted teeth.
  Khamsin's XO had dreaded this moment. "There
weren't that many Rebels, sir."
  "There had to be a full battalion," Khamsin
said.
  "Six, sir," the XO said.
  "Six
battalions!"
Khamsin cut his eyes to the XO, disbelief in the
evil darkness.
  "Ah, no, sir. Six ... people."
  Khamsin began roaring his rage. "Six! Six
men did all this?"
  "Five men and one woman, I believe, sir."
  Khamsin began pounding his clenched fists on the
operating table, screaming his fury.
  The XO waited until his colonel had
exhausted his fury-hopefully. "They were led by Ike
McGowen. That's the former U.s. Navy SEAL,
sir."
  Khamsin said some very uncomplimentary things about
Ike McGowen.
  General Georgi Striganov was awakened from a
sound sleep by an aide.
  "Sir? A great many confusing radio reports from
California. It seems some great battles have been
taking place there."
  Striganov looked at his bedside
clock. It was time to rise anyway. In the few
weeks he had been in Canada, Striganov was
feeling better than he had in months. He had
placed himself in the capable hands of Vasily Lvov
and had followed the doctor's orders to the letter.
  He dressed and walked out to where the aide was
waiting in the hall. Striganov followed the aide
to the radio room, took a seat, and began listening.
  It soon became apparent that Sam Hartline was
finished. Now Ben Raines's Rebels were mopping
up, and Georgi Striganov knew what the
Rebels did when they "mopped up."
  They took no prisoners.
  Sam Hartline was through.
  But had Sam escaped?
  The radio reports gave not a clue. And
Striganov knew Ben Raines well enough to know that the
commander of the Rebel Army did not boast. If the
reports said one thing, take it as fact, for it
was.
  Striganov listened and sipped hot tea until
the
  radio messages became repetitive. He
left the radio room and went to his office. He
sat down behind his desk and allowed himself a
few moments of quiet meditation.
  He would stay in Canada; God forbid crossing
the border back into America for a long, long time.
  If ever.
  Lvov entered his office and sat down before the commander
of the IPF.
  "Something, Vasily?"
  "Intercepted radio messages from South
Carolina, Georgi. Some of Ben Raines's
Rebels struck hard at the command post of the IPA.
Heavy damage was inflicted. Colonel Khamsin
escaped serious injury."
  "How many Rebels struck?"
  Lvov smiled. "Six," he said softly.
  Georgi laughed, this laugh holding real mirth.
"Khamsin is learning just how vicious the Rebels
can be, correct?"
  "It would appear that way, Georgi. Have you
considered Khamsin's proposal?"
  "Yes. And I have rejected it."
  Lvov sighed with relief.
  "I am weary of it all," Georgi said.
"Tired of war. Tired of fighting General
Raines. And tired of constantly being bested by the
man. No matter where he goes, the man
gains strength. I am weary of letting slip the
dogs of war."
  "Georgi?"
  Russian eyes met, locked.
  "I have ordered a halt to all human
experimentation. I have instructed my people to focus on
non-aggressive experiments. A way to produce
better crops,
  medicines. How do you feel about that?"
  "I feel a load lifting from my back,
Vasily. That's how I feel. I do not wish
to make enemies of those Canadians remaining. We
shall work with them, be friends with them-as we should have done with the
Americans."
  "I have destroyed those mutant babies,
Georgi."
  "God forgive us all, Vasily."
  "I wonder if it's too late for that, old friend.
And believe me, I have given it much thought of
late."
  "As have I."
  "Ben Raines?"
  "In time I shall approach him, by radio," he
added drily. "And extend the dove of peace to him.
I can only hope he will accept."
  "He probably will. But if you do that, bear this in
mind: Ben Raines makes peace with no force who will
not fight side by side with him."
  "I think it's past time we did something decent
for a change, Vasily."
  The two men rose and shook hands.
  "To a new way, Georgi."
  "No, Vasily. Just a better way."
Chapter
Thirty-nine
  By late afternoon, it was apparent to all that Sam
Hartline's mercenaries were no more. Those remaining were
running in wild-eyed panic from the troops of Ben
Raines. Panic because they knew they could not
surrender; fear because they knew there was no place
to run; terror because they each knew death was all that
awaited them.
  They engaged the Rebels in spotty combat, and
died. Even though the mercenaries and the Rebels were just
about equal in numbers, the Rebels were fighting for a
just cause, with a definite goal in mind; the
mercenaries fought only for booty and rape and
torture and joy in killing.
  And they died for it.
  Ben left the camp and walked the
battleground, his usual complement of Rebels
surrounding him. He could still find grim amusement in
all the attention paid him.
  Better get used to it, Ben, he thought. This is
the way it's going to be-from now on.
  The rain had put out most of the fire; some trees
still smoldered and smoked. And the Rebels were
  soon filthy from the soot and ash.
  Ben removed his camo headband, poured water on
it from his canteen, and washed his face and neck,
retying the camo bandana around his forehead. His
Thompson was on sling.
  Broken bodies littered the forest. Some had died
from gunshot wounds, others from the heavy shelling of the
night before, still others had no marks on them. Either
smoke got them or they died of fright.
  Ben's walkie-talkie crackled. "Go," he
spoke into the mouthpiece.
  "Ike made it back across the border, General.
Nina is okay. Reports are that Khamsin got
shot in the ass."
  "Good," Ben laughed the reply.
  They walked on, their boots making little noise in
the ashes of fire and war. A slight noise turned
Ben's head. He waved the patrol
quiet and down. Ben walked toward the source of the
small noise. Crouching down near the mouth of a
hole in the ground, Ben could hear the sounds of someone
climbing up, clawing at the rock and dirt beneath the
surface of the earth.
  Ben signaled for his patrol to remain where they
were. He squatted and waited.
  Sam Hartline's head popped out of the hole, his
eyes darting left and right.
  Like a large rat.
  Sam turned in the hole, and Ben placed the
muzzle of his Thompson between the man's eyes, the
metal pressing against flesh.
  "Hello, Sam," Ben said. "I can't tell you
how I've looked forward to this day."
  "Wish I could say the same, Ben."
  "Very slowly, Sam-very slowly, pull yourself out of
that hole. And there better not be anything in your hands
except skin."
  "I'm not a fool, Ben." Hartline pulled
himself out of the hole to stand before Ben. "You going to give
me a fighting chance, Ben Raines?"
  Ben laid his Thompson aside and smiled.
"Oddly enough, Hartline, I am."
  "You're a fool, Raines! You can't
take me with your hands."
  "We're about to find out, Sam."
  "Mind if I limber up a bit, Ben? It's
been sort of cold and cramped sleeping on
rock."
  "Help yourself, Sam. I'm feeling rather
magnanimous this morning."
  Neither man noticed when a Rebel lifted his
walkie-talkie and spoke very quietly. Since
neither man took his eyes off the other, they did not
notice the woods filling with Rebels until
several hundred had gathered silently.
  Sam stretched and did several deep knee
bends, flexed his arms, and shadowboxed for several
seconds.
  "How's it going to be, Raines?" Hartline
asked.
  "Rough-and-tumble-anything goes, barehanded."
  "And if I win?"
  "You won't," Ben said flatly.
  "Let's assume."
  "One of those Rebels will shoot you dead."
  "Well, goddamn, Raines! You're giving me
a hell of an option, aren't you?"
  "I've giving you a last chance to do something
  you've never been able to do before."
  "What?"
  "Best me in anything."
  That stung Hartline. He flushed, then grinned.
"Rani had some good gash, Raines. You should have
heard her scream when I took her like a dog."
  Ben did not change expression.
  "I heard another of your women turned on you,
Raines. Made a deal with the Libyan. What'd you
do with her, slap her on the wrist and tell her she's
been bad?"
  "I shot her between the eyes-personally."
  Hartline narrowed his eyes.
"You
shot her, Ben? You killed a broad? I thought you
were the last of the great romantics ... women on a
pedestal and all that shit."
  "You pays your money you takes your chances,
Sam."
  Hartline grinned. "Yeah, I guess you're
right, Ben." He studied Ben for a moment. "You'll
never beat Khamsin, Raines. I know him from years
back. He was Abu's right hand. Until the world
blew up."
  "I'll beat him, Sam."
  Hartline nodded his handsome head. "Maybe. We
gonna talk all the damn day, Raines?"
  "No," Ben said, then took a quick step forward and
hit Hartline flush on the jaw with a hard right
cross. The blow knocked the man backward and down
into the soot and ashes. Ben stepped forward and kicked
Hartline in the side with his boot, sending the man
rolling on the sooty earth.
  Hartline sprang to his booted feet quick as a
big cat. He grinned at Ben, the blood leaking
from a cut
  somewhere inside his mouth. "Sneaky bastard, aren't
you?"
  "Yep," Ben agreed, and ducked a roundhouse
swing from Hartline. He grabbed the man's arm and
flipped him. Hartline landed on his back on the
earth, sending great clouds of ash and soot billowing.
Just as he was getting to his feet, Ben kicked him
low, just above the left kidney. Hartline squalled
in pain and rolled, coming up on his hands and knees.
  Ben stepped in to give the mercenary a knee in the
face and Hartline grabbed Ben around the knees and
dumped him to the ground. Sam was immediately on top of
Ben, straddling him, pounding at Ben's face with both
fists.
  Ben worked one arm out from under Sam's leg and
grabbed Sam's genitals in one strong hand,
clamping down hard and twisting with all his strength.
  Hartline screamed like a panther and dropped both
hands to Ben's wrist.
  Ben rolled over, still holding on, and worked his way
to his knees. He lifted Hartline's buttocks
and legs off the ground and then suddenly released his
hold and stood up. Sam was huddled on the ground,
in a painful ball.
  Ben stood for a moment, blood leaking from his mouth and
nose. He caught his breath just as Sam slowly
got to his booted feet. The two men went at
each other with fists, hammering at each other, all
thoughts of their many skills in the martial arts
forgotten.
  This had once been known-back when the nation was
whole, before-as Oklahoma oilfield,
bare-knuckle, slug-it-out type of fighting.
  Hartline hit Ben in the wind with a solid left
that staggered Ben. Ben responded with a vicious hook
to Sam's jaw, the punch driving the man back.
Ben stepped in and hit the man in the face with both
fists, a jumping type of punch. Hartline went
to the ground, spun, and kicked Ben on the
knee with a boot.
  Ben fell to the earth and rolled, narrowly missing
Sam's boot aimed at his face. Ben grabbed up
a handful of ash and soot and flung it into Sam's
face, momentarily blinding the man.
  Ben got to his feet and went to work, slashing at
the man with both fists, left and right combinations, to the
body and to the face. Sam was staggering now, his eyes
glazed. He backpedaled, shook his head, and came
up with a knife in his hand, jerked from the sheath on his
web belt.
  Ben stepped back and pulled his own Bowie-type
blade. He feinted with his left hand and Hartline
swung his blade in that direction. The blades
clanged and echoed through the charred woods. Each man
was as good as the other with the blade, and it did not take
either of them long to realize that.
  Sam stepped in close and tried for a gut cut.
Ben sidestepped and swung his heavy knife,
cutting Sam from temple to point of jaw. Sam
yelled and dropped his guard for just one second.
  That was all Ben needed.
  Ben drove the point of his knife into Sam's
stomach, driving it into the hilt. Ben stepped back.
  Sam's fingers opened, his knife
dropping from suddenly numbed fingers. Sam Hartline
sank to his knees, his eyes mirroring his
disbelief that this could happen to him.
  "You ... you killed me!" Sam said, blood
pouring out of his mouth.
  "Sure looks that way," Ben panted.
  Sam tried to pull the blade from his mangled
stomach and guts. But he did not have the strength. He
lifted his eyes to Ben. "You gonna bury me right,
Ben?"
  "Nope."
  "You owe me that much. We're ... soldiers and
all." His voice was getting weaker.
  "You're a disgrace to the profession, Sam.
I'm just gonna let the buzzards have you."
  "You ... to was Sam never got to finish it. He
fell forward on his face and chest and stomach, the force
of his fall-driving the knife blade deeper into his
guts.
  His fingers dug into the soot and ash, clawing as
life began leaving him.
  "You ... to was Sam once more whispered.
  Ben waited.
  Sam Hartline never spoke another word. His
legs trembled and his body jerked in
spasms of pain. Blood poured from his mouth, staining
the dirty ground.
  Ben walked to Dan, standing by Tina. He winked
at his daughter and shifted his eyes to Dan. "Give
the orders, Dan. Let's go home."
Chapter Forty
  "You people don't have enough numbers to sway what will
happen one way or the other," Ben told the
civilian freedom fighters from California. "So
it would be best if you stayed out here. But that doesn't
mean I might not call on you."
  "We'll roll as soon as you call, General,"
John Dunning assured Ben.
  Some of the materials taken from the Russian and from
Hartline were given to the new Rebels in the west.
Much of it was tied down on trucks and readied for the
trip back east, to Base Camp One.
  Ben ordered the miles-long column out in
sections, with ten miles between each section. It was an
awesome sight in the early morning mist, this eastward
trek of Raines's Rebels. Thousands of men and
women, hundreds of trucks and Jeeps,
APC'S, tanks, gasoline transports,
motorized artillery.
  In Utah, Ben ordered the column
to halt for repairs and rest. The newest vehicle
among the many was fourteen years old; that was the last
year the United States of America had ever
produced anything. Parts for the vehicles were no
problem, millions of them lay
  all over the nation; but the vehicles did break
down often.
  Ben set up his command post in what remained of a
motel, after having it cleaned free of rat shit and
other debris. He ordered his radio operator
to make contact with Base Camp One and got Ike
on the horn.
  "Ike? Congratulations. How's Nina?"
  "She's fine, I think. The IPA used her
pretty badly, Ben. Physically, she's
okay."
  "What are we going to be up against, Ike?"
  "More than we've faced since the government
assaulted the Tri-States, Ben.* The IPA
are all seasoned fighters. From what I got out of
prisoners, fighting is all they've been doing for
ten to twelve years."
  "Do you have any hard intel on the warlords and
outlaws still alive?"
  "Only that they've pulled in their horns
and are somewhere up in the midwest, gathering strength.
They won't be as easy to take the next time,
Ben."
  "I know. There is always something to contend with. But
it's Khamsin and his people that I'm concerned with at the
moment."
  "Ben? Remember Sister Voleta8"**
  "How could I ever forget her? Don't tell me
she's popped up again?"
  "Oh, yes. With her son. You ready for this? Ben
Raines Blackman."
  Ben's reply was a grunt.
*Out of the Ashes
  **
Blood in the Ashes
  "Yeah, I knew you'd be thrilled. Anyway,
Sister Voleta and son have a commune up in
Michigan. Accurate intel is hard to get, but it
was reported to me that she's got about a thousand or so
people."
  "You're just a regular fountain of glad tidings,
Ike."
  Ike's laughter boomed over the miles.
"Yeah, I know. Sam Hartline is really dead,
Ben?"
  "He's dead."
  "That's good news. His men?"
  "Most of them destroyed. I'm sure a few of
those remaining will pop up around the country, but Sam's
army is only history."
  "I wish I could tell you something about the
Russian, but he's keeping low."
  "I'll see you in about ten days, Ike. Hold
the fort."
  "What's the word?" Grizzly asked the
trail-worn biker who had just roared into camp..
  "This kookie Sister Voleta's got a hell
of an outfit, Griz. She claims to be
religious, but man, she's one mean bitch. She and
her son run the place. Ben Raines
Blackman."
  "Are you serious?"
  "She claims the guy is Ben Raines's
son."
  Grizzly and the other warlords smiled. "Let me
guess. This Sister Voleta is claimin' that her
son, Ben Raines Blackman, has some of the
powers that the real Ben Raines is supposed to have,
right?"
  "You got it."
  "And she wants us to join her group. I gotta
ask, Why?"
  "Protection. That's it simple. If we
wanna link up with her, all we gotta do is
abide by her rules. We don't have to pray with them
or any of that shit. And the rules is easy.
We'll be her army-or at least part of it. Griz?
Don't sell this bunch short. They did better
fightin' Ben Raines a couple years back than
we just done."
  "So I heard," Grizzly said, scratching his
bushy beard, his fingernails seeking,
unsuccessfully, a flea. "We'll vote on
it."
  Two hours later, the outlaws were riding toward
Michigan.
  "We should strike
now!"
Khamsin's XO was unusually blunt with the commander
of the IPA. "We could easily take Ben
Raines's Base Camp in Georgia."
  "Nothing worthwhile is ever done easily,"
Khamsin reminded the man. He tapped a huge
pile of papers on his desk. "After studying all this
intelligence about Ben Raines, I have
discovered that in battle, for every Rebel killed,
five of the opposing side are destroyed. Rebels
do not surrender. They might, rarely, be overrun and
taken, but they never surrender. They fight to the death.
They are fanatics. We all saw, or heard,
firsthand, what the Rebels can do." Khamsin shifted
uncomfortably on the pillow beneath his ass. He
grimaced in pain. "No." He made his mind.
"We shall wait." He mopped his sweaty face with a
handkerchief. Silently, he cursed this miserable
climate. "Those are my orders."
  "Yes, sir," the XO said, and left the room.
  Ben and his Rebels made their way slowly
eastward. And once more, Ben was amazed at the
number of survivors they encountered along the way.
He was forced to upgrade the number of people who had
survived the war, the disease, and the savagery and
barbarism of the past decade.
  But the majority of those Ben saw were not
doing
anything. They were not striving to rebuild, were doing
nothing-that Ben could see-to struggle out of the ashes.
He knew that there must be thousands of men and women,
living off the beaten path, so to speak, who were
rebuilding the country and their lives. Their
own personal little part of the country, that is.
  But how to pull them all together?
  A question that Ben and the Rebels had been attempting
to answer for years.
  And sometimes Ben felt he was no closer to the
solution than when he had started.
  But he knew that was not true.
  With a sigh, Ben knew he would have to postpone his
dream of a chain of outposts stretching coast to coast.
The first step in rebuilding.
  Someday. Always someday.
  For now, his Rebels had to face the dark, evil
threat of Khamsin. The Hot Wind.
  The Hot Wind now blew over the cooling ashes,
finding a spark in the ashes. Igniting it.
  And only one thing stood between the Hot Wind and
total enslavement of the survivors of war.
  Ben Raines and his Rebels.