SPECTER OF DEATH

Ben Raines and the company of Rebels walked into the town just as dusk
settled over the land. The surrendering Blackshirts sat on the curbs and
sidewalks, their hands on top of their heads. None of them would meet
Ben's eyes. They were terrified of him. More than a few crossed
themselves when he drew near.

Ben turned to Lieutenant Ballard. "Jackie, what's going on here?"

"We haven't been able to figure that out, sir," she replied. "At first,
we thought it might be some sort of trick."

Another Rebel walked up. "They believe you have supernatural powers,
General. They think you're a shape-changer."

A low murmuring began as the Blackshirts spotted Ben ambling along,
carrying the old Thompson.

"El Lobo! El lobo espectro!"

Ben caught the phrase being used and it amused him.

They were calling him Ghost Wolf.

2

BENEATH THE CALM OF THE DEEP, BLUE SEA, HEART-POUNDING DANGER AWAITS

DEPTH FORCE

THE ACTION SERIES BY IRVING A. GREENFIELD

#4: BATTLE STATIONS (1627-1, $2.50/$3.50)

#5: TORPEDO TOMB (1769-3, $2.50/$3.50)

#9: DEATH CRUISE (2459-2, $2.50/$3.50)

#10: ICE ISLAND (2535-1, $2.95/$3.95)

#11: HARBOR OF DOOM (2628-5, $2.95/$3.95)

#12: WARMONGER (2737-0, $2.95/$3.95)

#13: DEEP RESCUE (3239-0, $3.50/$4.50)

#14: TORPEDO TREASURE (3422-9, $3.50/$4.50)

Available wherever paperbacks are sold, or order direct from the
Publisher. Send cover price plus 50? per copy for mailing and handling
to Zebra Books, Dept. 4161, 475 Park Avenue South, New York, N. Y.
10016. Residents of New York and Tennessee must include sales tax. DO
NOT SEND CASH. For a free Zebra/Pinnacle catalog please write to the
above address.

3

BATTLE IN THE ASHES

WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE

ZEBRA BOOKS

KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

4

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and
incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used
fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

ZEBRA BOOKS are published by

Kensington Publishing Corp.

475 Park Avenue South

New York, NY 10016

Copyright Š1993 by William W. Johnstone

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form
or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher,
excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

Zebra and the Z logo are trademarks of Kensington Publishing Corp.

If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this
book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to
the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any
payment for this "stripped book."

First Printing: May, 1993

Printed in the United States of America

5

BOOK ONE

6

7

The Rebels had sailed tens of thousands of miles, fighting pitched
battles on island nations from Ireland and England, south around the
Horn, then northwest up to Hawaii and back to America. They had freed
hundreds of thousands from the yoke of slavery and tyranny and thought
that when this voyage was over, they could rest for a time.

That was not to be.

The war-weary Rebels were returning to America to begin preparations for
what would soon be the largest guerrilla action ever undertaken in
modern history.

They had discovered while fighting halfway around the world that a
massive army had been training for years in South America. The army's
mission: to conquer what was left of North America and reeducate its
citizens ... those that would be left after a savage purge of men,
women, and children they considered to be inferior.

Nazism had once more reared up its ugly face and was on the march,
goose-stepping its way north. But the new leader making use of Hitler's
ravings was more subtle

8

in his indoctrination methods. Within the ranks of the New Army of
Liberation could be found men and women of all races, all nationalities,
all colors. The man behind the movement knew that he must use people of
all colors in order to win. After the battle was won, then he would
purge his ranks of those he considered inferior. But in order to do
that, once the battle was won, he would need the help of a certain type
of North American ... a rather ignorant type of person. Unfortunately,
that type still existed in large numbers in North America, for as much
as some Rebels might want to, they couldn't just shoot anyone who did
not subscribe to their way of thinking.

Even though the world would be much better off had they done just that.

Years before the Great War ravaged the world, offshoots of nearly every
terrorist group operating around the globe had learned of the new
movement and rushed to South America to join the ranks. A terrorist
lives for terror, to kill and maim and destroy. Terrorists don't
particularly care what cause they're fighting for (many soon forget
their original passion and live only for the blood-letting), as long as
they are causing pain, spilling blood and blowing this and that to bits
... including old people, babies, animals, and other innocents. But
terrorists almost always share one philosophy: they hate America and
Americans with a red-hot passion. So when the world's many terrorist
groups learned that an army was being secretly formed and trained to
take over America, they jumped at the chance.

Then the Great War blew the world apart. The New Army of liberation
stayed down and low and continued training in small bases all over the
jungles and mountains

9

of South America. Soon after the germ and nuclear strikes, one man
emerged out of the rubble and panic and confusion and chaos of war.

He was an American, and his name was Ben Raines.

Now the terrorists and the bigots and the hate-mongers and the lawless
and the ignorant and the lazy and worthless of the world could really
have someone to hate.

Ben Raines.

Ben soon formed a small gathering of like-minded people. They spread out
all over the country, seeking others who shared their philosophy of
living and their dreams of rebuilding the shattered nation. While the
central government (politicians) of the United States were still
staggering around and pointing fingers of blame at each other and
appointing and forming seemingly endless (and useless) committees to
study this and that, Ben Raines and his growing band of followers, soon
to be called Rebels, were cleaning out and setting up their own brand of
government in the Northwest. It was called Tri-States, and before the
nitwit politicians who made up the new central government of the United
States, its capital now in Richmond (Washington, D.C. had been
destroyed, and many Americans, whether a part of the Rebels or not, felt
that was long overdue) knew what was happening, they discovered that
there was a country within a country, and everything was just fine in
the Tri-States.

The Tri-States had zero crime, zero unemployment, clean, pure running
water, electricity, social services, schools that really taught the
young, medical care for all, and all the other amenities that made life
good for the law-abiding. And things just hummed right along in

10

the Tri-States. And they did it all without help from the central
government, and even had the audacity to tell the central government to
keep their noses out of the business of Tri-States.

"My God!" cried the politicians, blithering and blathering about in
Richmond. "We can't have this. Why, this is positively unamerican!"

Then the central government in Richmond learned that criminals were
actually being hanged in Tri-States, for such innocuous things as murder
and rape and armed robbery and other such minor offenses that everyone
knows is not the fault of the perpetrator, but rather the fault of
everyone else. After all, if the homecoming queen won't date a person,
or the coach won't let a person play in the big game, or if somebody has
a nicer car or newer tennis shoes or flashier jacket, a larger TV set,
or a better boom box or Walkman, why it makes perfect sense for that
less fortunate person to go out and steal a gun and blow somebody away,
for the mental scars left there by these horribly traumatic situations
would certainly justify violent acts against an uncaring society.

So after the liberals in Congress ceased months of blubbering and
snorting and weeping and stomping on hankies, and after forty-seven
committees had concluded 5,593 meetings and fact-finding tours (all at
taxpayer expense), the central government reached its decision: The
Tri-States would have to cease and desist and disband and stop all this
foolishness.

The citizens of Tri-States, through their elected leader, Ben Raines,
told the President of the United States and the members of both houses
of Congress to go fuck themselves.

11

Well! Nobody tells Congress to do that!

The government of the United States declared war on the Tri-States. They
thought they had wiped out all those malcontents who had the nerve to
think they knew more about running a government than professional
politicians.

They were wrong.

Ben Raines gathered a handful of survivors around him and proceeded to
rebuild his army. Once that was done, the Rebels proceeded to kick the
crap out of the thugs and bully-boys the central government sent after them.

The Rebel philosophy spread and the Rebel army grew in numbers. Just
when Ben Raines and the Rebels had seized control of the central
government, tragedy struck the world in the form of a rat-borne plague,
and when it was over, there was not a stable government left intact
anywhere in the world.

Anarchy reigned. Gangs of thugs and warlords ruled the cities and
countryside, wreaking havoc and misery on the battle-torn and weary
population. Everywhere except inside the borders of the new Tri-States,
that is.

Ben Raines had gathered his Rebels around him and started all over, in
the Deep South. When they had their sector cleaned out and running
smoothly, the Rebels began the job of sweeping out the nation, coast to
coast, and border to border. It would take them years.

And down in isolated areas of South America, Field Marshal Jesus Dieguez
Mendoza Hoffman continued building and training his army of Nazis,
staying low and out of sight. Their time would come. They waited.

12

Now it was time for Ben Raines and his Rebels, and Field Marshal Hoffman
and his NAL to meet.

The battleground: North America.

The stakes: Freedom.

13

Chapter One

"Arms in the hands of citizens may be used at individual discretion ...
in private self-defense."

John Adams

Ben Raines stood alone-as alone as the Rebels would ever let him
be-looking south from his temporary CP in Texas. Everything was packed
up in Hummers and cars and trucks, and his personal company of Rebels
were ready for him to give the word. Ben was dressed in denim work
shirt, jeans, and lace-up boots. Gone were the famous tiger stripe BDUs
of the Rebels. Every Rebel now dressed in civilian clothing. Their
uniforms had been laundered and packed away in plastic bags and stored
in the Rebels' many underground bunkers, located all over the lower
forty-eight.

For the moment, Texas was clean of any members of Hoffman's
goose-stepping, black-shirted NAL. But Ben knew that was about to
change, and that change was more than likely only moments away.

This upcoming fight came as no surprise to Ben, for he had always
predicted-even years before the Great

14

War, back when the world was more or less stable-that the final action
was going to take place on American soil. Only who they were fighting
came as any surprise to him.

Ben stood and clenched his big hands into fists. "Goddamn you
mealy-mouthed politicians," he swore, smoldering anger behind his words.
"Goddamn you all. You brought us to this. Everything that happened is
your fault. Everything that we now face is your fault. I should have
gone along with the plan years back and toppled you bastards in
Washington. I regret now that I didn't."

That those hated political leaders were long dead in their graves held
little consolation for Ben. He wished they would all rise up from the
ground so he could personally shoot them.

"Only a handful of you had the good of the tax-paying, law-abiding
majority in mind," he muttered darkly. "I hope you bastards are burning
in hell with hot pitchforks jammed up your asses!"

"The general is pissed," Cooper, Ben's driver, said, standing with Ben's
personal team a few yards away.

"No kidding, Coop?" Jersey, the diminutive dark-eyed, dark-haired little
beauty who was Ben's self-appointed bodyguard replied. "Here we are,
about to be attacked by several hundred thousand goose-stepping
Nazis-who only have us outnumbered about two hundred to one. The entire
Rebel army is spread out over four or five states, and with all of us
dressed like people getting ready to go to a rodeo, or a country music
honky-tonk. We have the supplies for a long operation but getting to
them is going to be a bit of a problem. He knows the Rebels are going to
take a lot of losses over

15

the months ahead. Intelligence says about fifty to sixty percent of us
are going to die, Coop. And that's weighing heavy on his mind. In
addition to all of that, General Raines knows that none of this would be
happening today if the damn politicians of America had paid attention to
the demands of the majority of citizens back umpteen years ago and let
the Constitution be the road to travel instead of their own stupid
mumblings. And you think the General is pissed, Cooper? Naw. Why would
you think that?"

Cooper winked at her and tilted her ball cap down over her eyes. Jersey
laughed and took a mock swing at him.

Corrie stood wearing a light backpack radio, earphones covering one ear
to catch any messages. Beth, the historian and records-keeper of the
team, had Ben's Husky, Smoot, on a leash. The animal had filled out and
matured, now nearly a full-grown Siberian husky of about seventy pounds.
She would get bigger still. The husky got her name because, as a pup,
she made sounds that sounded like she was saying, "Smoot! Smoot! Smoot!"

Suddenly Ben's team, to a person, stiffened when they realized just what
they were seeing. Ben was once more carrying his old Thompson SMG, the
old Chicago Piano slung over one shoulder. And belted around his waist
were two Colt .45 auto-loaders.

"Son of a gun!" Corrie said. "We haven't seen those in a long, long time."

Ben heard and turned around and looked at them. "I carried this old
dinosaur when it all began, years back." He sighed. More years than he
liked to think about. So many good friends dead. Hundreds and hundreds of

16

men and women who gave their lives for the Rebel cause. "So I'll be
carrying this old Thompson when it ends ... one way or the other."

Actually, the Thompson had been reworked so many times by Rebel armorers
there was not an original part left in it. It was still a slow-fire
weapon when compared to an Uzi or HK, but that monstrous slug it spit
out would inflict horrible damage upon a person.

All of Ben's team knew that just the sight of those .45-caliber monsters
would be a great morale boost to all Rebels, and that was probably one
of the reasons General Raines had done it.

Ben had put aside the old Thompson a long time back, because many
people-including a lot of his own Rebels-were beginning to think the
legendary old submachine gun had magical powers, and many of them
wouldn't touch it. They were just as much in awe of the SMG as they were
of Ben. Ben had convinced most of his people that he was not some sort
of God. But there were many living in the battered nation who felt he
was just that, and no amount of talking would ever make them believe
otherwise.

"What's the word on Thermopolis and his bunch, Corrie?" Ben asked.

"All set up and dug in deep and tight in Arkansas, sir."

"Did he take Emil with him?" Ben asked with a smile.

"Very reluctantly, sir."

"At least that will keep the little con artist out of trouble for a while."

Thermopolis and his band of hippies made up part of Ben's HQ's Company.
It would be their job to keep track of all units of Rebels. A demanding
and nerve-wracking job. Ben had handed that to Therm because

17

he was a fine detail man and had never liked the killing involved in
fieldwork. Thermopolis had a staff of just over 250 men and women. And
the finest communications equipment known to exist in the world.

"Latest position of Herr Field Marshal Hoffman and his New Army of
Liberation?" Ben asked, contempt thick in his voice. Then he spat on the
ground.

"About five miles south of the border, sir."

General Jesus Dieguez Mendoza Hoffman was the commanding general of the
NAL. Spelled Nazi. He was the grandson of a very infamous Nazi SS
general who escaped to South America after the Second World War. Hoffman
had been schooled from birth to despise America and everything Americans
stood for. His sole purpose in life was to destroy the very last
vestiges of America and establish a new Nazi order that would ultimately
rule the world.

But first he had to kill Ben Raines and the Rebels, and that was
something that; thousands had been attempting to do for years, with no
success. Yet.

Field Marshal Hoffman was looking forward to mixing it up with Ben
Raines and his Rebels. He paid little attention to his advisors when
they warned him not to become overconfident. True, he had suffered some
minor losses shortly after the Rebels returned from Hawaii, but those
were only very unimportant skirmishes. There was not a doubt in
Hoffman's mind that this upcoming campaign would be a short one. There
was simply no way the Rebels could stand up to his mighty army. No way.
That was so ridiculous a thought it was laughable.

"All of General Payon's people over the border, Corrie?" Ben asked.

18

"All that's coming across."

Ben again turned to face the south. The Rebel commanders had looked
over, discussed, and rejected dozens of plans on how best to confront
the Nazi hordes fast approaching what had once been called the United
States.

"Loosely united," Ben muttered, disgust in his voice. "And ruled by
federal judges."

Even before the Great War cast its long darkness over the land, Ben had
written that the United States was no more than a slightly benevolent
dictatorship, and anyone who believed that the American people had any
real power over their own lives was living in a dream world.

"General," Corrie called. "Buddy wants to know why in the hell you are
still here with Hoffman's scouts less than five miles away?"

Buddy Raines, the powerfully built and brutally handsome son of Ben.

"I'm surprised that Tina hasn't put in her two cent's worth, as well,"
Ben said.

"She has," Corrie told him. "And so has Dr. Chase. I just didn't tell
you. What do I tell Buddy?"

"Tell him to worry about his own ass. I'll take care of mine."

"Rat," Corrie whispered Buddy's code name, "the Eagle says to thank you
for your concern and that he will be along presently." Corrie was
forever rewriting and rewording Ben's remarks from the field.

"I'm sure that is exactly what he said," Buddy responded.

"Would I lie?" Corrie replied sweetly.

19

"Tell that middle-aged Rambo-type to get his butt out of there!" Dr.
Chase thundered over the air.

Dr. Lamar Chase, Chief of Medicine, a man well into his seventies, had
been with Ben since the Rebel dream of true liberty and justice for all
law-abiding citizens began, years back.

"Yes, sir," Corrie acknowledged the transmission.

"That must be Dr. Chase bitching about me being here," Ben said, without
turning around.

"Ah ... right, sir."

"Tell him to clear the air and leave it open for emergency transmissions
only."

"The Eagle says we are bugging out of this area very soon, sir," Corrie
radioed.

"I just bet he did," Chase snorted. "You're a sweet girl, Corrie. But
you're a terrible liar! Chase out."

"Feels funny not being in uniform," Jersey said.

Ben heard her. "We are in uniform, Jersey. From this moment on. But I
know what you mean. Does feel odd. The Hummer all packed and ready to
roll, Coop?"

"Yes, sir."

Ben walked back to his group and knelt down, petting Smoot for a moment,
rubbing the husky's head. "You're going to Arkansas, Smoot. You'll be
safe there." He stood up. "Take Smoot to the airstrip, Beth. Coop, drive
her there. Smoot will be safe with Therm and his bunch."

Ben had cut his personal detachment down to his small team and one
platoon of Regulars, all of them hand-picked by Ike McGowen, the
Russian, General Striganov, Dr. Chase, the mercenary, Colonel West, the
former SAS Officer, Colonel Dan Gray, and Ben's children, Buddy and
Tina. That one platoon had the fighting

20

capability of approximately a full company of any other soldiers in the
world.

Ben squatted down in the shade of a truck and rolled a cigarette. "We're
all standing on the darkened and scorched edge of history," Ben
muttered. "Waiting for the flames to destroy it all."

"Beg pardon, sir?" Corrie said.

"Nothing, Corrie. Just talking to myself. When is that damn Nazi son of
a bitch going to make his move?" he said irritably.

"General Ike says if you don't get your butt in gear and get out of
here, he's going to come down here personally and kick it for you,"
Corrie said, after ten-fouring a transmission.

"Tell Tubby to watch his own ass," Ben replied. "He's got a lot more to
look after than I do."

Ike was a bit on the stocky side. The ex-Navy SEAL was another who had
been with Ben since the beginning.

"Shark," Corrie radioed, "the Eagle is just about to fly."

Ben smoked his cigarette, thankful that Dr. Chase was miles to the north
and not standing here bitching and raising hell about Ben's few
cigarettes a day.

"General," Corrie's voice held a different note. "Scouts report
Hoffman's Blackshirts are moving north. All columns on the roll."

"Tell the Scouts to bug out and rejoin us here," Ben said quietly,
standing up. "Tell them to push it." When Corrie had radioed the orders,
Ben said, "Advise all units Hoffman is moving. Tell Ike to blow
everything from San Diego to El Paso. We'll make those goose-

21

stepping bastards work for every damned inch of American soil they
choose to be buried in."

"Is anybody going to say, 'well, this is it?' " Cooper asked.

"You do, and I'll hit you, Coop," Jersey warned. "I swear I will."

Heir General Field Marshall Jesus Dieguez Mendoza Hoffman stood several
miles south of the Mexico/U.S. border, felt the ground tremble beneath
his polished boots, and watched the huge clouds of dust rise into the
air. The dust clouds stretched for as far as the telescope-assisted eye
could see. The Blackshirts of the NAL could all accurately guess what
had just happened.

Hoffman was not impressed. His cold black eyes were startling to see
beneath his very blond hair and pale skin. Many of the NAL were a
mixture of Spanish and German blood. Hoffman lowered his binoculars and
let them dangle from a leather strap. "Bridges and roads," he said. "So
we will be delayed for a few days in crossing. Does the famous General
Ben Raines think this action will strike fear into our hearts? Nonsense.
What are the very latest intelligence reports from our friends north of
the border?" he asked an aide.

"Still very confused, Field Marshal. No one seems to know just what Ben
Raines is planning. He has spread his forces all over several states,
from small units to large ones."

"I personally think it is some sort of trick," a senior aide spoke up.

"What kind of trick? Be more specific, Karl."

22

"I don't know, sir. But his actions make no military sense. They run
contrary to every rule of engagement."

Hoffman smiled. What Raines was doing made perfect sense to him. He was
going to wage a campaign of terror and harassment against the NAL. A
purely guerrilla action just as soon as they crossed the border. No
matter. They would amount to no more than a stinging bee.

But what Hoffman didn't know was that the Rebels were pure killer bees,
not for the most part docile honey bees. The NAL was about to learn a,
hard lesson concerning Ben Raines's Rebels.

"Order patrols across," Hoffman said. "Let's see if the famous Ben
Raines has the courage to face us."

But Ben was heading straight up Interstate 35 toward a preset
destination some sixty miles from Laredo. Ned Hawkins and a contingent
of his New Texas Rangers had laid down a trail a drunken city slicker
could follow, heading up Highway 83 toward Carrizo Springs. Buddy and
his people had taken off toward Freer, and Tina and a contingent had
left quite a trail as they headed toward Hebbronville.

Twenty miles away from each of their positions, other contingents of
Rebels lay waiting. Twenty miles further on, yet another ambush was
lying wait ... and so on for a hundred miles in all directions.

Hoffman's patrols reported back by radio. "We are across into North
America. No resistance. Both cities are deserted."

"Surely everything is booby-trapped?" Hoffman questioned.

"Nothing is booby-trapped," his people radioed. "We have found nothing.
But large forces of Rebels have

23

scattered in all directions, using all the highways leading out."

Hoffman smiled. "Oh, Ben Raines. You are a devious devil, you are. You
want me to head straight up your Interstate system and then you and your
Rebels will fall in behind us and attack from all sides. I see your
plan. It is a good one, but I am too smart for you."

All his aides and flunkies and gofers smiled and nodded their heads.
Field Marshal Hoffman would never fall for something so obvious.

"Four battalions across the river," Hoffman ordered, picking up a map.
"Each battalion to be backed up by armor."

"Gunships, Field Marshal?"

"No," Hoffman said drily. He had sent a dozen gun-ships across the Rio
Grande a few days before to harass the Rebels. He discovered then that
the Rebels had the most sophisticated surface-to-air missiles known to
the world. Even better than his own. Everything from Stingers to the
SA-14 Gremlin. None of his gunships had returned. "We shall keep them on
the ground for the time being."

The Rebels had reached their destinations and were working furiously to
get into position, hoping that the Blackshirts would fall for this ruse.

Hoffman had his trailer pulled up, and he sat with his boots off, feet
up, sipping tea and relaxing. His people were resting, all certain that
in a few hours, the battalions would report back-victorious, of course.

Miles down each road, Rebel Scouts lay concealed, waiting to signal
their friends of the approaching Black-shirts.

"Hoffman may be a jerk-off," Ben said to his team, as

24

they waited for word of pursuit. "But his troops are seasoned veterans.
We don't ever want to make the mistake of selling them short. What
happens on this day is going to make the rest of his people very cautious."

Ben had ordered his people to ground several miles outside of the
deserted town. This was brush country, at one time the site of many
ranches and farms. Now it was all grown up. The Blackshirts would be
expecting an ambush in the towns; they would not be expecting Rebels to
pop up out of the ground in open fields and meadows and start hurling
rockets at them-Ben hoped.

The Rebels had the finest rocket launchers, everything from the German
Armbrust to the American TOW. They had AT-4s, Carl Gustafs, and Milans.
And they were skilled in their use.

They waited.

"Everyone is in position," Corrie reported. The ambush sites were all
approximately the same distance from Laredo, the furthest one being
sixty-eight miles, the nearest one fifty-six miles. But the nearest one
was located on the worst road, so the Blackshirts should arrive at all
sites within a couple of minutes of each other.

At least that's the way Ben planned it.

The Rebels were still outside their hastily dug holes, and Ben looked
over at Jersey and smiled. She had turned her ball cap around, bill to
the back, and looked about fifteen years old.

These kids, he thought-and they were kids, at least to Ben-have seen
precious few moments of joy and peace in their lives. Take those guns
and knives and grenades and battle harnesses from them, and they'd look
like young people on their way to a square dance. But Ben knew these
young men and women were among the most

25

brutal, savage and skilled fighters in all the world. And their loyalty
toward him border-lined on the fanatic.

Cooper was chewing on a weed. "Coyote probably came along right before
we got here and peed on that thing, Coop," Jersey told him.

Cooper spat out the weed and gave her a dirty look.

Beth was writing in her journal, and Ben knew it would be in the neatest
handwriting he had ever seen, and very concise. Corrie was dressed in
jeans and pullover shirt, an earth-tone bandanna tied around her head.
She felt Ben looking at her and smiled at him. He winked at her.

"Jersey," Ben said. "What time is it getting to be?"

She grinned. "Kick-ass time, General!"

"Damn right," Ben said.

The Rebels were dug in 250 meters from the interstate. Their vehicles
hidden about a mile away. Ben did not want to risk hiding them in the
town, for fear the Blackshirts would first shell the town.

Ben looked across the way and chuckled softly. Those Rebels who were in
sight certainly did not appear worried about facing a force of
Blackshirts that would outnumber them ten or twenty to one. Several of
them were sleeping, their ball caps or cowboy hats over their faces.
Others were reading old paperbacks or hardcover books. Several were
working crossword puzzles.

"Large force, approximately battalion size, just passing by the Scouts'
position," Corrie said.

"Head's up!" Ben called to his people. "Give it all to me, Corrie."

"Open and canvas-covered trucks, deuce and a halves, escorted and
trailed by main battle tanks."

Ben looked over at Jersey. "Kick-ass time," she said.

26

Chapter Two

The battalion commander of the Blackshirts rode in an open scout car,
behind several main battle tanks, which were not buttoned up. The BC was
an experienced soldier, a veteran of many, many battles and a devoted
follower of Hoffman and his wacko philosophy. The BC was also a very
arrogant man who believed that the Blackshirts were invincible in
battle. After all, they had never really lost a battle. True, they had
experienced some setbacks against General Payon's forces, but in the
end, had been victorious. And they would be victorious against these
stupid Rebels as well. He firmly believed that.

His final thought was that no force on earth could defeat the
Blackshirts. He took that thought with him into eternity as a slug from
a .50-caliber sniper rifle blew away most of his head. The BC's brains
splattered all over the driver and in a horrified panic he spun the
wheel just as a rocket struck the vehicle and turned it into a burning,
smoking, twisted mass of junk.

Some of the tanks were rendered inoperable as rockets blew the treads
off; others took hits that exploded the

27

fuel tanks and set off the ammunition storage bins, turning the inside
of the tanks into a man-made hell.

The troops riding in the trucks had no chance at all as rockets blew
them to bloody chunks and heavy machine guns chopped up what was left.
Eight hundred men and women of the Blackshirts' infantry and eight tanks
and crews were killed, badly wounded, or frightened out of their wits in
less than thirty seconds.

"Mop it up," Ben ordered. "And bring me any prisoners."

Ned Hawkins and his New Texas Rangers turned the highway outside of
Carrizo Springs into a smoking mass of twisted metal and broken bodies.
They began gathering up what weapons and equipment were still useable
and stripping the bodies of boots. At Ben's orders, they took what
uniforms were not burned or shot or blown to bloody rags. Ned did not
have the foggiest notion why the General wanted the uniforms, but he was
not about to question Ben's orders.

"Help me!" pleaded one Blackshirt with both legs blown off.

"There ain't nothin' I can do for you, partner," a Ranger told the man.
"I'm not gonna waste pain-killers on you."

"You're devils!" the man gasped.

"No," the Ranger corrected. "We're Americans. And you fucked up bad
comin' here."

Outside of Freer, Texas, Buddy and his teams gave the Blackshirts a very
deadly surprise and left their broken,

28

burned, and bloody bodies on the road and shoulders and ditches. On the
east side of Hebbronville, Tina and her Rebels ripped into the
Blackshirts' column with the ferocity of a pack of angry wolverines. So
complete was the ambush, not one Blackshirt in any of the four columns
had the chance to get off a single radio transmission to warn Hoffman
what was happening.

The four Rebels teams piled up the bodies, poured gasoline on them, and
set them afire, to disguise the fact they had stripped the bodies of
uniforms, then slipped back to their vehicles and drove away.

In the once lush lower Rio Grande valley, Rebels had set fire to
everything that would burn. They left a smoking, charred, and burning
hell behind them, leaving nothing of value for Hoffman and his
Blackshirts. So intense were the flames that the advancing forces of the
Field Marshal had to back up and cut west in the hope of finding another
way across the river.

In his lushly appointed trailer, Hoffman sipped tea and waited for news.

Worried aides haunted the radio operators for reports that never came.
All the frantically working operators could pick up were the
undecipherable slurping sounds of burst transmissions from Rebel units.

"An entire regiment simply does not vanish from the face of the earth!"
a colonel yelled at a frustrated and browbeaten radio operator.

"I know, Colonel. I know. I'm doing all I know to do."

It fell on the shoulders of Hoffman's top aide to carry the silence to
Field Marshal Hoffman. The aide was not looking forward to this-at all.

To the north, west, and east of Hoffman's position,

29

great black carrion-eating birds were ceasing their endless circling and
gliding to earth for a feast.

"You have good news at last, my friend?" Hoffman asked with a smile.

"I ... have no news, sir."

Hoffman stared at the man.

"We cannot make contact with any of the battalions."

"What you are saying is impossible."

"We have lost contact, sir."

Hoffman slowly pulled on his boots and stood up, straightening and
buttoning his uniform. "Ridiculous!" he snorted, and opened the door,
stalking out of the trailer.

Ben ordered all units to fall back to a line that stretched west to
east, following Highways 57 and 87, from Eagle Pass to Victoria, Texas.
There was now a long, loose Rebel line stretching from California to the
Gulf of Mexico, and Hoffman's Blackshirts were beginning to realize they
had one hell of a fight facing them. Reports poured in to Hoffman's CP.

"That's sixteen hundred or so miles!" Hoffman stormed. "It's impossible.
Raines doesn't have that many troops. It's a damn trick. And where in
the hell are those four battalions I sent out? Have any patrols reported
back?"

"Not yet, sir. We're expecting word any minute."

It came. And Hoffman appeared to be in mild shock. He stood for a
moment, speechless, his mouth open. "All of them?" he finally spoke.

"All of them, sir," the radio operator said softly. "All four battalions
destroyed."

30

"Survivors?"

"A handful. They are being transported back here as quickly as possible."

Field Marshal Jesus Hoffman stared at the man, his black eyes burning
with fury. "Give me the actual number of personnel lost."

"Over twenty-three hundred, sir."

Hoffman sat down hard in a chair, clearly stunned. A handful of Rebels
had wiped out four full battalions of top combat-seasoned troops along
with their escorting armor. Impossible. But it had happened. How was the
problem Hoffman knew he had to solve. And how to prevent it from ever
happening again.

"Hoffman has ordered an immediate halt to all advancing troops," Ben was
told. "They moved up to a line about thirty miles inside our borders and
stood down."

Ben nodded. "He's busy working out mind-problems. He's trying to figure
out what his best move would be and he's not going to commit any more
troops until he does. We clearly won the first round, but let's not get
cocky about it. Hoffman's people are going to kick the shit out of us
before this is over." Ben paused for a moment, and those around him knew
he wasn't through. He tapped a folder lying on the battered old table in
the dining room of the once fine home about thirty miles outside of San
Antonio, just off Interstate 35. "Bad news, people. This is the final
analysis of months of intelligence work by our people. They conclude
that thousands and thousands of Americans, all of them living outside of
Rebel zones, have gone over to Hoffman's

31

side. Copies of this report have been sent to all of our batt comms.
From this moment on, we don't know who to trust."

"But we damn sure know the types of people who rolled over," Ned Hawkins
said. "At least, I do. I used to be one of them. I can spot them at five
hundred yards without binoculars."

Ben smiled. "Yes," he said drily. "So can I, Ned." The Rebels all knew
the type. Their numbers were made up of people of all colorss who,
before the Great War, blamed everyone except themselves for the problems
facing themselves and the nation. Whites who hated blacks. Blacks who
hated whites. People of all colors who wanted something for nothing.
Give me money for doing nothing. I demand this and I got a right to
that. All niggers is lazy, they stink, and they're cowards. All honkies
is racist and out to get us brothers and sisters. The only good Indian
is a dead Indian. We were here first, the land belongs to us and by God
we want it and to hell with everybody else. I demand more social
services from the government but I want big government to stay out of my
life. I got more bills than I can pay, I done it knowin' I was doin' it,
I had a fine time doin' it, so now I'll just declare bankruptcy and to
hell with my creditors. I got a right to party down and screw anybody I
wants to screw, and if I get pregnant, the taxpayers can just damn well
pay my medical bills and support my child'en from cradle to grave and
give me welfare. I got a right to eat, I got a right to have proper
housing, I got a right to have money in my pocket, and you can't make me
work if I don't want to. Give me money, money, money. For if you don't,
I'll boycott, I'll picket, I'll disrupt services, I'll blow up your house or

32

your store, I'll burn a cross on your lawn. I demand government
subsidies for this, that, and the other thing. I ain't gonna send my
kids to school with no goddamn nigger or spic or Jew. I don't want my
kids to associate with a lot of racist honkies. All niggers is bad. All
whites is good. All Blacks are good. All whites are bad. You're picking
on me. I'll sue you. Just 'cause you caught me breakin' into your home,
that don't give you the right to use force against me, and if you do,
I'll sue you and there are sure as hell a lot of lawyers around who'll
take my case and win it. On and on and on.

Oh, yes. The Rebels knew the type well.

Ben leaned back in the chair and closed his tired eyes for a moment. He
wished there was a place he could take his Rebels and to hell with
everybody else. A place where they could live and prosper in peace.

But he knew there was no such place.

He knew that wherever they went, they would have to fight for their
right to exist. He smiled at that. Our right? he thought. Let's don't be
hypocritical, Ben. Don't start sounding like all those protesters of
years back, demanding this and that. What you and the Rebels are doing
is attempting to rebuild a nation. Moral issues can be hashed out later.

Ben opened his eyes. "If those groups out there, which we all know
comprise hundreds of thousands of people, would put aside their hate for
one another and band together, they'd have a damn good chance of
defeating us."

"They won't do that," Tina told him. "They hate each other more than
they hate us. Our best hope is that they wind up killing each other."

Ben stared at the Rebels crowded into the room.

33

"We're not going to wait for Hoffman and his goose-steppers to get a
firm toehold in America. Corrie, order all units to immediately launch a
full-scale guerrilla action against the Blackshirts. Coast to coast. Get
geared up, people. We're taking the attack to them!"

General Payon, the commander of all Mexican forces, ordered teams of
skilled guerrilla fighters to head back into Mexico, swing around, and
attack the Black-shirts from the rear, stinging them and then quickly
withdrawing.

From Texas to California, all along the border, Ben's Rebels began
quietly getting into place to raise some hell with Hoffman's Blackshirts.

"Lovely night," a Blackshirt commander said, stepping out of the
abandoned house along the New Mexico border. "I love this climate here."
He smiled and breathed deeply. "I shall ask to be permanently assigned
here once we have defeated Raines' Rebels."

Those were the last words he would ever say as three fire-frag grenades
bounced on the patio and blew, spreading him and two others all over the
rear of the house.

His personnel ran onto the blood-slick patio and began firing wildly in
all directions. They hit nothing. The dark shadows melted into the night.

In a once lovely home just south of Tucson, along Interstate 19, two
squads of top-notch battle-hardened Blackshirts had just finished their
supper. Their last supper. They were looking forward to a group of
ladies coming over for a little entertainment. The "ladies" were from a
Ben Raines-hating group who called themselves

34

CRAPO. The Committee for the Removal of All Political Opposition. The
ladies would come over, but the two squads of Blackshirts would be in no
condition to entertain them. Not after three rockets from Armbrusts tore
into the house and blew it to bloody bits.

Fifteen miles away, a ten-man Blackshirt patrol in two trucks pulled up
behind a man working on his old pickup truck along the side of the highway.

"What's the problem, friend?" the team leader asked.

"Worn out," the man replied. "Everything is just worn out." He smiled at
the men, his teeth flashing in the night. "Forgive. I forget my manners.
I have fresh fruit in the back. Apples and oranges and melons. I would
be honored if you would take my small offering."

"We couldn't take your food, senor."

"Please. I would be offended. Nothing is too good for the people who
would finally relieve us of the yoke of oppression placed on our necks
by that damnable Ben Raines and his filthy followers."

Hiding in the ditches alongside the highway, the battalion commander of
Thirteen Battalion, Raul Gomez, stifled a groan. Amelio was a natural
born ham and on this night he was really putting on quite a show.

"Ah," the Blackshirt team leader said. "We were told this area had a lot
of people who were sympathetic to our cause."

"Oh, my, yes, patron. Many, many of us welcome your coming. Words cannot
express my true feelings," Amelio added with just a touch of irony.

The Blackshirts slung their weapons and flipped back the tarp over the
bed of the truck. They stood dumbfounded, for the bed was empty. They
looked for Amelio. He was gone. The last thing they would experience

35

on this earth was the pain as bullets from M-16s ripped into their bodies.

The Rebels took their weapons and what uniforms could be patched up,
tossed the weapons in the Black-shirt trucks, and headed out into the
desert, leaving the bodies for the buzzards.

It was only the beginning of what was to be a very, very bloody night.

36

Chapter Three

When the news of the night's work reached Jesus Hoffman early the next
morning, the man very nearly lost his composure. He forced himself to be
civil to the messenger and sat back down at his table, looking at his
breakfast. He pushed it from him; his appetite was gone.

They had not yet penetrated forty miles into North America and already
the losses were unacceptable. And casualty reports from the bloody night
just past were still coming in.

It was impossible, but yet it was happening. Then Herr Hoffman said what
people had been saying for years about the commander of the Rebel Army.
"I hate that goddamn Ben Raines!"

Hoffman bathed and shaved and splashed on cologne. He dressed in a field
uniform, tan pants, and black shirt, and stepped out of his trailer to
face his most senior commanders, gathered at his orders. He had prepared
a speech in his mind, but looking at his commanders, found the speech
not what he really wanted to say. He waved his people to follow him to
where a large canvas had been stretched to offer protection from the

37

elements; it was open on all sides. Under the canvas, he turned to face
his people. Following a decidedly discouraged sigh, he began to speak.

"You all know that Raines' Rebels struck last night. Reports are still
coming in. Many of our most forward units have been virtually wiped out
or bloodied badly. I have ordered those still functioning to bunker in
until further orders. Now then, certainly none of us expected the taking
of North America to be easy. But none of us ever dreamt the offensive
would start on such a dour note." Jesus Hoffman paused for a moment,
then blurted, "Gentlemen, I am open for suggestions."

The hundreds of small teams of Rebels scattered all over the country
didn't need any suggestions. They knew what to do: Kill Blackshirts and
anyone who supported them, overtly or covertly. And those many hundreds
of citizens who were on the side of Hoffman learned this very quickly
and vacated Texas posthaste. They knew better than to waste time trying
to explain to the roaming Rebel patrols why they chose to support
Hoffman and his Blackshirts. The Rebels were not interested. The Rebels
had a nasty habit of hanging or shooting collaborators. On the spot.
They also knew all the ways of extracting information from recalcitrant
suspects. The Rebels did not use physical torture-under physical
torture, the suspect will tell his or her questioners anything to stop
the pain. Instead, the Rebels used polygraphs, Psychological Stress
Evaluators, drugs, and hypnosis. It was unpleasant.

John Masters was the leader of one such group of people who dreamed of
the day Ben Raines would die

38

and the Blackshirts would rule. He fantasized of a world free of blacks.
And free of Ben Raines and his goddamn Rebels. John believed that
everything bad that had happened to him and America could be traced
right back to blacks. His followers numbered just about ten thousand and
they lived in a town in North Texas.

Luis Carrero was of Spanish descent (although he was fourth generation
American), and Luis dreamed of a world free of everyone except Spanish
speaking peoples. He hated people like Ben Raines. And he hated the
Rebels. Everyone around him hated Ben Raines and the Rebels. Luis's
followers numbered about ten thousand. And Luis dreamed of the day Jesus
Hoffman and his Blackshirts would take power.

Moi Sambura hated everyone who was not black. Moi (real name Charles
Washington) held sway over a following of about ten thousand spread over
several counties in what used to be Eastern Mississippi and Western
Alabama. Moi and his followers had caused no trouble and managed to stay
clear of the Rebels over the years, even though they were well aware the
Rebels knew of their presence. General Cecil Jefferys, himself a black
man and second-in-command of all Rebel forces, detested Moi and
everything he and his followers stood for. Cecil had bluntly stated for
years that someday the Rebels would have to go in and wipe that bunch
from the face of the earth. Ben had held him back.

"They're not causing any trouble, Cec," Ben had cautioned.

"The hell they're not," Cecil would reply. "They've either run off or
killed every white person in eight counties. They're in a constant
squabble with Wink Payne and that bunch of white trash that follow him."

39

"We'll get to them all in time, Cec," Ben would say.

Now was that time.

"General Jefferys on the horn," Corrie told Ben. "He sounds unhappy
about something."

"Moi Sambura and Wink Payne," Ben said, walking across the living room
of the house in Texas, about seventy-five miles north of Hoffman's
command post. "He's found out they both have linked up with Hoffman's
Blackshirts. God, what an unholy alliance that must be."

"Go, Cec."

"Ben, we've got to move against Moi and Wink. They've both linked up
with Hoffman-for totally different reasons-and having them at your back
is unacceptable."

"And what do you propose, Cec?"

"Leading my forces against them. All-out ground and air assault and wipe
them clean once and for all."

"Cec," Ben said patiently. "You are still recovering from heart surgery.
How many pacemakers do you want installed in your chest? And even if you
were a hundred percent, your pulling out would leave Base Camp One
unprotected. No. We'll deal with these splinter groups when the time comes."

"You're making a mistake," Cecil warned.

"Cec, we're spread too thin as it is. I've got eyes and ears on Moi and
John Masters and Wink and Luis. And that silly-assed CRAPO bunch in
Arizona. They're a threat, but not much of one. They all have high
numbers of followers, but they're all too lightly armed to pose much of
a threat. We've got our hands full dealing with Hoffman."

40

"All right, Ben. It's your show. That was good work last night."

"We made him bleed, for sure. How are you feeling?" Cecil had undergone
emergency heart surgery just a few months back.

"I'll be one hundred percent in a few weeks, Ben."

Ben knew that was bull and so did everyone else. But they also knew that
Cecil would push it to the limit unless Ben kept a tight rein on him.

"You do what the doctors tell you to do, Cec," Ben warned. "I need you
right where you are."

"That's ten-four, Eagle. Out."

And Ben knew Cecil would follow orders. He might not like it, but he was
a soldier's soldier. And Ben knew too, that Cecil was irritated at not
being able to get into the field. But Ben needed Cecil right where he was.

To the south of Ben, Hoffman sat behind his desk looking at General Hans
Brodermann. Brodermann stood before him, in full dress uniform, but not
the uniform of the regular army. Brodermann was dressed all in black,
with the silver death's head insignia of the old Nazi SS on his collar
and cap. If there was a cruder man anywhere in the world, Jesus Hoffman
was not aware of it. Hans detested everything about America, for it was
the American army, fifty years back, who had hanged his grandfather, who
was one of Mengele's assistants at the death camps. And Hans's mother
and father had never let him forget that fact. Hans, unlike Field
Marshal Hoffman, had no Spanish blood in him. He was Aryan. Pure Aryan,
he chose to think. And while he had many nationalities serving under his
command, his personal detachment of soldiers were all Germanic ... or at
least gave that appearance.

41

Hans was one of the select few who knew that once North America was
taken, many now serving faithfully in Hoffman's Blackshirts would be
disposed of. Especially the Arabic, Oriental, and Negro ... the fate of
any others was negotiable.

Hans smiled at Hoffman. It was not a condescending smile, for Hans truly
admired and liked the young field marshal, some fifteen or so years
Hans's junior. Hans had studied Ben Raines extensively over the years,
as had every officer in Hoffman's army, and knew that he and Ben were
about the same age, and very nearly the same height and weight. He also
admired General Raines. He detested him, but he admired him as well. "So
you have decided to pit me against General Raines, mein Field Marshal?"

"Ja, Hans," Jesus momentarily slipped into German. "Your SS division
will spearhead the America invasion, Hans. Crush everything in your
path. Bring any resistance to their knees, and strike fear in the hearts
of anyone who even remotely believes in the Rebels."

Hans clicked the heels of his polished riding boots in reply.

Hoffman stood up and walked to a huge map of the United States, secured
to the wall of his trailer office. With his back to Brodermann, he
thumped his fist against Texas. "I want this place secured, Hans. I
don't care if the ground is so soggy with American blood it slops under
my boots. Secure it!"

Again, the click of heels.

Jesus turned, a cold look in his black eyes. "How you do that is of no
consequence to me, Hans."

"Carte blanche, Field Marshal?"

"Exactly."

42

"When do I leave?"

"Forty-eight hours." He gave the Nazi stiff armed salute. "Heil Hitler!"

"Heil Hitler!" Hans shouted, then spun around and walked out of the trailer.

Ben sat silently in his chair for a long time, staring out the window,
or where the window used to be. He was alone in the room and had given
orders he was not to be disturbed for anything short of a nuclear
strike. He doodled on scraps of paper, drummed his fingertips on the
table, paced the room and cursed and prayed. When he made up his mind,
and it was only after the most agonizing hour of his life, he stood up
and called for Come and the rest of his team to come in.

"Come, do we know the frequencies of the known groups aligned with
Hoffman and is it possible to jam them for any length of time?"

"Yes, sir. Those people aren't really that smart to begin with. They
don't know that we've broken every code they've ever devised within a
hour of their transmitting it. They could easily be jammed. For however
long you wanted it."

Buddy and Tina were in the general vicinity, and General Georgi
Striganov had radioed that he was on the way in.

"I want the rest of the batt comms here ASAP," Ben said. "Transmit that
by burst and tell them to get here fastest means possible. I will not
make this decision alone."

Four hours later, the fifteen battalion commanders, including Ben, were
seated' in the large room. They had

43

all looked at and studied the clear plastic covered U.S. map on the
wall. Ben had drawn a line east to west, from the Virginia coast clear
over to the California coast.

Ben sat on the edge of the heavy old table, staring at his commanders.
"I will not make this decision alone, people." He pointed to the map.
"The thirty-sixth parallel. If possible we're going to contain Hoffman's
people below it. Above it will be all those who, while they might not
agree with our philosophy, at least are not aligned against us."

"A mass evacuation, Ben?" Georgi asked.

"Yes."

"That leaves Cecil with his ass hangin' out in the wind, boy," Ike drawled.

"No, it doesn't," Ben spoke very softly. "For only we have the antidote
to the gas our scientists perfected."

Pat O'Shea, the Wild Irishman, as he had promptly been dubbed, whistled.
"And if the winds were right ..." he trailed off.

"Yes," Ben said. "Hoffman's people would die by the thousands. So the
entire state of what used to be known as Louisiana will be a neutral
zone. We have antidotes for every type of gas Hoffman has, and he knows
it. We have nuclear weapons, and he knows it. Bet that Hoffman and his
top people have studied me extensively. They know I'll use both if
pushed to it."

"And any who refuse to go north?" Jackie Malone, commander of Twelve
Battalion, asked. She and Tina were the only female batt comms. Not that
there weren't more females qualified, the Rebels just didn't have the
personnel to field any more battalions ... yet.

"We cannot guarantee their safety, and neither can

44

we guarantee that we won't shoot them on sight, mistaking them for the
enemy or enemy sympathizers."

"I like it," West, the mercenary, said. "It would certainly give us a
wide-open field of fire, so to speak."

The others nodded their heads in agreement. Danjou, the French Canadian
and commander of Seven Battalion, said, "The evacuation would have to be
started immediately. I mean, like this evening."

"Yes. Provided we are all in agreement on this plan. Let me see a show
of hands."

Every hand went up.

"All right, that's it. I don't know that we can contain them at the
thirty-sixth parallel. I only know that we'd better give it our best shot."

"I hate to be the one to throw cold water on this plan, father," Buddy
spoke up. All heads turned to him. "But there is no way we're going to
evacuate all innocent people out of hundreds of thousands of square
miles. It is, simply put, impossible."

"I agree," Ben said. "But what choice do we have, son, except to try?
Hoffman has not yet turned his mad dog loose. But it's only a matter of
time before he does. General Payon says that General Hans Brodermann is
a monster. Totally ruthless. He will kill anything or anybody who gets
in his way. Brodermann commands a full-size division. He has more men in
that one division than we do in our entire army. Payon, who by the way
could not attend this meeting because he is ... ah, busy this afternoon ..."

Everybody laughed at that. They knew that Payon and his teams were
harassing the hell out of pockets of Blackshirts.

"... told me that Brodermann is the crudest man he

45

has ever seen. He loves torture; enjoys seeing men and women and
children humiliated and degraded. This man would make Sam Hartline look
like an angel."

Ben had killed the torturer, Hartline, in hand-to-hand combat several
years back.

Ben said, "We'll be lucky if we can get forty percent of the population
above the thirty-sixth parallel. Fifty percent will be nothing short of
a miracle. But we have to try. Let's go, people. We have a lot of work
to do."

After the others had exited the room, Ike walked to Ben's side and said,
"It's a grand and noble plan, but it ain't gonna work, Ben."

"I know it," Ben spoke quietly. "But we have to give it our best
effort." He smiled at Ike's attire. The man was dressed in bell-bottomed
jeans and wore a sailor's cap on his head. He resembled a fat Popeye.
"You know what you look like, Ike?"

"Don't say it, you string-bean," Ike told him. "Ben," Ike's tone turned
serious. "You take care, now, you hear?"

Ben held out his hand and Ike shook it. "Luck to you, old friend."

"Same to you, Ben."

Ike turned and walked out into the fading light.

"We're sure going to need all the luck we can grab," Ben muttered. He
picked up his Thompson just as the gas lantern sputtered and died. "I
hope that's not an indication of things to come," he said.

46

Chapter Four

The Rebels broke up into small teams and began scouring the countryside,
going house to house and alerting the people there. It was a futile
gesture, and they all knew it, but all felt it was something that must
be done. They asked each person they contacted to alert at least two
more families. Most survivors agreed to move north; some refused to leave.

"Your funeral," the Rebels told them, and moved on. They had neither the
time nor the inclination to argue.

Hoffman's intelligence people knew something big was going on north of
their position, but didn't, as yet, know what. On the morning that
Brodermann and his SS troops were preparing to pull out for the first
big push, Ben broke the news to Field Marshal Hoffman.

Hoffman read the communiquéseveral times, then handed it to Brodermann,
who read it and passed the paper around to the other commanders.

"He's bluffing!" a tank commander said. "Raines would never use poison
gas or nuclear weapons."

"Ben Raines doesn't bluff," Hoffman said, meeting the eyes of Brodermann
and seeing the slight nod of

47

agreement from the man. "If he says he'll do something, he'll do it.
Don't ever sell this man short. He's ruthless. But in a strange sort of
way, a fair man." He turned to the map. "Raines says we can use this
area of Louisiana to set up hospitals and long-term patient care and no
one there will be bothered as long as it is used as that as nothing
more. Everything else is a free-fire zone. Advise our medical personnel
that this designated area is to be a non-combat zone. We will also
respect all of the Rebels' medical facilities. After all," he said, "we
are not barbarians."

Ben read the communiquéand nodded. "Brodermann is on the march. He's
moving on three fronts. Heading up Eighty-three, Eighty-one, and
Fifty-nine. Armor and heavy artillery. Approximately seven thousand men
per column. And the columns are staggered." Ben sighed. "All right,
people. Start blowing every bridge south of Highway Ninety. Burn every
town, every village, every house. We'll not leave one scrap of useable
material. We can't stop the bastards, but we can damn sure make life
miserable for them."

"Hoffman is attacking along the borders of California, Arizona, and New
Mexico," Corrie said. "Pouring across in large numbers. Intell says we
vastly underestimated the size of his army."

"We, hell!" Ben said. "Intelligence did, not us. What's the latest
estimate?"

"Probably two hundred thousand."

"'Goddamn!" Ben said. "We're outnumbered two hundred and fifty to one.
And that's being optimistic."

Ben looked over at General Payon, who had just

48

pulled in that morning. The Mexican commander was dead tired and his
clothing grimy from the road, but he managed to smile sadly. "It is a
grim time we live in, my friend."

Ben was silent for a moment. "We have three Rebel battalions to the west
of us, and six battalions here in Texas. I'm going to hold the rest in
reserve to the north of us. But close enough so they can come busting in
if we need them. Order your people to fall back and join those
battalions north of us, General. They need the rest."

"They are weary, General," Payon admitted.

"General, I hate formality. What do your friends call you?"

Payon smiled. "You'll hear it sooner or later. My nickname comes from my
early days in broadcasting. Mic the Mouth. like in microphone. I used to
get quite excited at soccer games."

Ben laughed. "Mike it is."

General Hans Brodermann halted his column just south of the now fiercely
burning town of Cotulla and ordered his break-off columns to stop and
hold their positions. They were just south of the ambush sites at Freer
and Carrizo Springs. Both of those towns were also blazing. Gas fumes in
long unused buried tanks were exploding, sending debris flying into the
smoky sky.

Brodermann stood up in his armored scout car and looked at the scene
through binoculars. "Ruthless man," he murmured. "Ben Raines is going to
be a formidable enemy. I like that. He'll give me a good fight." He sat

49

down and spoke to an aide. "Be certain we don't outdistance our supply
trucks. Have the scouts found a way around this inferno?"

"Yes, sir. But the roads are very bad and we won't make good time."

"We shall take all the time we need, Peter. This is going to be a very
long campaign."

The column moved on, its speed reduced to a crawl. Which is what Ned
Hawkins and his small team of New Texas Rangers had counted on. There
were half a dozen armored scout cars in the column, so they had no way
of knowing which one Brodermann and the senior officers were riding in.
Besides, General Raines had told them to concentrate on the supply and
support vehicles. A column can't move if it doesn't have fuel.

Ned's team put four rockets into huge, lumbering tankers and the old
rutted highway was enveloped in a massive ball of fire. Vehicles near
the tankers exploded, both incinerating and blowing body parts in all
direction.

Ned and his team jumped into stripped down fast attack vehicles and took
off across the country, weaving and zigzagging and presenting no targets
at all for the guns of Brodermann's SS troops. The fast attack vehicles
were well out of range in under a minute, almost silently speeding
across the brush country, the wide fat tires digging into the earth. The
exhaust systems of the vehicles were muffled down to near silence.

"No pursuit!" Brodermann was quick to tell his radio-operator. "That's
what they want. They'd chop any pursuers to bits. Secure the immediate
area and let's check damage." When his men assured him the area was
clean-and it was-Brodermann got out of his armored

50

scout car and stretched his joints and muscles, looking all about him.

"Get my camp chair and place it over there," he told his driver,
pointing to a shady spot. "And establish radio contact with Field
Marshal Hoffman."

"On scramble, sir?"

"It doesn't make any difference," Brodermann said. "I suspect that
Raines's Rebels have the capability to decode anything we might
transmit." He told his senior people to come with him. Out of the fierce
Texas sun, Brodermann spoke. "We have to start thinking like Ben
Raines," he told the assembled group. "We will not be fighting a
conventional war. We shall be fighting a very unconventional war. It
will be like no war we ever waged. Oh, we all have experience in
guerrilla tactics, but on a much smaller scale. I suspect Raines has
probably twelve to fifteen thousand Rebels. He's broken them up into
tiny units and sent them all over the nation. Day after day, week after
week, he's going to peck at us. And if we let him, he will inflict
horrible damage. He's not going to fight us on our terms, so we have no
choice but to fight him on his terms."

Brodermann chuckled without humor. "Years ago, we thought we would walk
into this nation and seize the cities, thus controlling the countryside.
Raines burned the damn cities to rubble. Then we changed our method of
operation and decided to concentrate on the Rebel outposts. We managed
to destroy a few, but now Raines has disbanded all of them south of the
thirty-sixth parallel and sent them scattering in all directions. We
know that the Rebels have huge underground supply caches, but only the
most senior officials of the Rebels know the locations. It would be
amusing to torture a

51

Rebel, to see how he or she withstands pain, but nothing constructive
could come of it. Those supply caches can keep the Rebels supplied for
years. Raines's Base Camp One is off-limits to us. His factories there
are working day and night in the manufacture of munitions and supplies.
If we attempt to interfere with any of that, he will unleash his poisons
upon us, and we have no antidote for them." Aides brought them all
coffee, and they sugared and creamed and stirred and sipped for a moment.

Brodermann said, "Most of those Americans who refused for years to come
under the rules of the Rebels now have no choice in the matter. They
have to follow Raines. This is one smart bastard, people. He's not only
a ruthless warrior, but he is a damned intelligent one."

"Then we must destroy Ben Raines," a colonel said.

"Oh, very good, Wiesenhofer," Brodermann said, sarcasm thick in his
words. "That's excellent thinking. You have a plan, I suppose?"

"Ah ... no, sir."

"I thought not. Colonel Wellmann?"

"No, sir."

"Colonel Marke?"

"No, sir."

"You have all read the dossiers compiled on General Raines. He has no
family that we are aware of. At least not outside the restricted area.
There is no leverage to use against him and the bastard wouldn't yield
to any if we had it. Captain Blickle, what was that message you spoke of
about an hour ago? Something about motorcycle thugs attacking a patrol
of ours?"

"Yes, sir. Yesterday a gang of biker hoodlums, male and female, attacked
and wiped out a patrol of ours

52

working over in Florida. Two of our people pretended death and heard
them talking. The group is heavily armed and commanded by two people:
Leadfoot and Wanda."

"Leadfoot?" Brodermann asked, arching one eyebrow.

"Yes, sir. Obviously a code name of some sort. They are all operating
under code names. But I don't know why that is. The survivors said
others were called Beerbelly, Hoss, Sweetmeat, Sugar, Hognose, and Pisser."

"My word!" Colonel Wellmann said.

"Have our people in intelligence analyze those names," Brodermann
ordered. "They have some significance, surely. Pisser?" he muttered,
shaking his head. "Well, I have to confer with Field Marshal Hoffman. It
would be futile to continue pushing forward with great armies. We'd be
all bunched up fighting shadows."

"Then what do we do?" Colonel Wellmann asked.

"Come up with a better plan," Brodermann said simply.

"You bastard!" a man told Ben. Everything the man and woman and the
three children owned was piled into the beds of two old pickup trucks,
parked in front of a freshly painted and well-kept house.

"Oh?" Ben said, smiling at the man and not taking offense, for he knew
what the man was referring to, and it wasn't Ben's ancestry.

"I hate you and your damn harsh right-wing rule, Raines. But even you're
better than those Blackshirts. I think."

53

Ben laughed. "Right-wing, huh? It's been awhile since I've heard that
phrase. You're way too young to be a part of the old peace and love
generation. You weren't even born then, I don't imagine. So what's your
problem?"

"You've forced me to pick up a gun and fight, that's what's wrong!"

"Are you telling me that you have lived here since the Great War and
never had to take a human life?"

"No. I can't say that. I've defended home and family when it was
necessary. But I didn't take some perverted delight in killing."

"And you think I do?"

"Yes."

"Well, to a degree, you're right," Ben admitted. "I enjoyed killing Sam
Hartline. I think I did the world a favor by destroying Sister Voleta
and Khamsin and Lan Villar and Kenny Parr and Ashley and Matt Callahan
and all the rest of those terrorists. I enjoyed wiping out most of the
Night People. But what you may not know is this: we have about three
thousand or so former criminals in our ranks. I offered them amnesty and
they took it. They've turned into top-notch fighting men and women. And
at least they are fighting for this country. What are you doing, except
running your mouth."

"There are about two hundred or so of us here, General. We've done
pretty well so far and we haven't asked you people for a damn thing."

"Yet," Ben said. "And don't think you've done your kids any favors, for
they haven't been vaccinated for any of the childhood diseases. I know.
For you people don't have the capability to make the vaccine-any of it.
We do. Disease is rampant in this nation, mister. But with

54

your mentality, if your kids get sick and die-God forbid-you'll probably
blame me for it."

The man stared at Ben. There was no hate in his eyes, only disgust. "And
you think you would be blameless?"

Ben smiled and leaned up against a fender. Brodermann and his forces
were a hundred miles south, and Ben was in the mood for a good argument.
Since Thermopolis had moved part of Intell and HQ to a secure position
in Arkansas, Ben had not had a good head-butting difference of opinion.

"You mean," Ben said, "you want it like before: free rides for everyone?"

The man, who had told Ben his name was Charles, shook his head and
grimaced. "You right-wingers always have an easy explanation, don't you?"

Ben carefully rolled a cigarette before replying. "If you mean that I
don't believe in something for nothing, yes."

"I ..." Charles shook his head. "No. No, I'm not going to argue with
you, General. You've got us right where you want us, so what is the point?"

"You disappoint me, Charles. I was so looking forward to a spirited
debate." Ben sighed. "Well, go on, take your family, and get them across
the thirty-sixth parallel. Draw weapons and learn how to point them in
the right direction. There'll be medics there to vaccinate your kids and
see to any of your needs. Big Brother's back now, Charles. But you don't
seem very happy about it."

Charles stared at Ben. "You ... goddamnit, Raines. None of us wanted Big
Brother in our lives!"

"Really? Why, Charles, your kind wanted cradle to

55

grave protection from all things. You wanted the best law enforcement
but you paid many of our cops shit wages and saddled them with so many
rules and regulations they couldn't function. Your kind talked out of
both sides of your mouths. On one hand, you bawled and squalled and
stomped on hankies every time a punk got killed. You bellowed and roared
because you couldn't be safe in your homes or on the streets, but then
you filed lawsuits about overcrowded prisons and jails until they were
being run not by the corrections people but by federal judges. You
wanted adequate health care but you slapped doctors with so many
lawsuits many of them either had to quit or raise their rates so high it
was unaffordable to a great many people. Then you started hollering
about a universal health plan and the goddamn ambulance-chasing lawyers
and lobbyists and attorneys for the doctor's organizations stalled it in
committee for years. You want me to go on, Charles?"

"You're twisting things all out of context, General."

"Am I really, Charles? Am I?"

The man refused to reply. He spun on his heel and stalked away, getting
into the lead pickup and driving off, heading for the north. And safety.
In the dreaded hands of the Rebels, whom he professed to despise.

"Didn't bite, did he, General??' Jersey asked, standing close to Ben.

Ben cut his eyes and smiled at her. "Wasn't because I didn't try, Jersey."

"Why do they hate our way so much, General?"

"You can't make a fair comparison. None of you. Because you've never
known any other way, Jersey. You, Beth, Corrie, and Cooper never knew-or
have blocked out-the way it was before the Great War."

56

"I remember just a little bit of it, General," Corrie said. "I have this
picture of my parents sitting around the table-I think it was the
kitchen table-once a month and wondering how they were going to pay all
their bills. Isn't that funny? I can't even remember what they looked
like. But I remember that."

"Yes," Beth said. "One of the few things I remember clearly was my
mother and father saying often that taxes were killing them. And that
something was dreadfully wrong with our government. I don't even know
what they did for a living. I don't really know how old I am."

"My granddad used to say this country was going to hell in a hand
basket," Cooper said. "Of course, I didn't know what he meant. But I've
listened to the older Rebels talk for years. I sure as hell don't want
to go back to the way it was before the Great War."

Thoreau's line about leading "lives of quiet desperation" came to Ben's
mind. But how to explain that to these young people who had never had
the chance to experience that quiet desperation?

And when I am gone, and war is over, what kind of world will these young
people build? Or will they still be young when peace reigns? Will they
live to see peace?

Ben shook his head and opened his map case. They were a few miles north
and west of the ruins of San Antonio, in the hill country not far from
the deserted town of Bandera. The group had stopped and set up camp at
one of the many old dude ranches in the area. Bandera, Ben had read in
an old brochure, had once been called the dude ranch capital of Texas.

Bands of wild horses now roamed the area, descendants of the tame horses
that city folks once came to ride and play cowboy with for a week or so.
Half-wild

57

cattle could be found everywhere, and the Rebels never lacked for fresh
meat.

And neither will Brodermann's people, Ben mentally added.

But Ben couldn't see any way to prevent that.

"Scouts report that more and more people are leaving the area and
heading north," Corrie broke into his thoughts. "But a lot of them are
joining up with John Masters and his people up in the Panhandle. He's
got quite a following, General."

"Estimates?"

"Ten thousand."

"That's men, women, and children. How many fighting personnel can he field?"

"About thirty-five hundred."

"That's still too many to have at our backs. Tell Buddy to regroup his
Eight Battalion and get ready to strike from the north. I'll pull
together my One Battalion and hit them from the south. We've got time.
Brodermann is still trying to devise a battle plan. Saddle up. Let's go
deal with Mr. Masters and his hate group."

58

Chapter Five

John Masters looked the part. And he played it well. He was one of those
quasi ignorant, heavy-jowled, pus-gutted, piggy-eyed loudmouths who had
an unshakable opinion on everything and was given to thundering Godlike
pronouncements through a bullhorn, which his followers hung on
breathlessly. To say his followers were just slightly less knowledgeable
than John would be like saying fire is hot.

Since the Great War, dozens of groups, large and small, made up of
people who blamed everything bad that had befallen them on those who
were not the same color, religion, race, or whatever, had sprung up all
over the nation. If they did not get in the way of the Rebels, or draw
too much attention to themselves, Ben had pretty much left them alone.

Then groups such as Masters's began embracing the puke from the brain
and mouth of Jesus Hoffman, who preached the somewhat diluted teachings
of Hider.

That was more than Ben Raines could take.

"Raines ain't a gonna do nothin' to us," Masters boasted, when he
learned that two groups of Rebels

59

were approaching his location, one from the north, the other from the
south. "They's too many of us. 'Sides, Raines has got his hands full
tryin' to deal with the Blackshirts, and they gonna walk all over Ben
Raines and then we'll be shut of that nigger-lovin' bastard forever."

It never seemed to occur to people like Masters that armies numbering
hundreds of thousands had been trying to 'walk all over Ben Raines' for
a decade. Ben was still very much alive and very much in command.

And as far as Ben being a "nigger-lover," Ben didn't place a whole lot
of emphasis on the color of a person's skin. It was what was in the
individual's heart and brain that mattered to Ben. Ben and his Rebels
had fought Blacks, Whites, Hispanics, Asians, and just about any other
ethic group one could think of... if they were stupid enough to declare
war on the Rebels.

The Rebel Army was made up of men and women of all nationalities, all
religions, all races. Ben's critics, and they were many, had accused Ben
of taking the cream of the crop and ignoring the rest. That was true in
part.

For the most part, the men and women who made up the Rebel Army were a
tolerant bunch who used a great deal of common sense in day-to-day
dealings with their peers. Anyone could do it; most simply would not.
And that included people on both sides of whatever color line was
involved. Whatever the color or faith.

So in that respect, Ben did have the cream of the crop.

But even among Rebel ranks, many had to continually work at being
tolerant of others. Sometimes tempers flared and violence followed. It
was not often, but it did happen. As Ben had pointed out many times, the men

60

and women who made up the Rebels were not perfect ... they just tried
very hard to be.

John Masters looked at the communiquéhanded him by a runner from his
communications center. He wadded it up and tossed the crumpled note to
the ground. "Brodermann says for us not to engage the Rebels. He wants
us to cut and run. Hell with him!"

"Why, goddamn, General," a follower of Masters said. Masters insisted on
being called General, even though he had no prior military training and
could not even make it through the first few weeks of Boy Scout
training, back when such organizations existed. He was kicked out when
he said he wasn't sharin' his tent with no goddamn Jew-boy. "We'll just
whup Raines proper and have done with it."

"Damn right!" Masters replied. "Git ever'one to arms and in position
around the town."

"How many's comin' at us, General?" Sonny asked.

"Brodermann says two Rebel battalions. That's about fifteen-sixteen
hundred Rebels. I figure each battalion's got at least three-four
hundred women and niggers and Jews and spies and the like. They can't
fight and ever'one knows it. So that means we're prob'ly lookin' at no
more'un a thousand people. It won't take us long to deal with this. I
just can't figure how come ever'body is so scared of the Rebels."

For years, Masters and his hate group had been isolated in one corner of
the panhandle of Texas. They had grown their crops, maintained the oil
rigs and refineries in the area, and kept their heads down. They had
communications equipment, but had never been able to

61

break even one of the Rebel codes. Masters and his people had no
knowledge of burst transmissions and no concept of military tactics.
Their slogan was Stay White And Pure. SWAP. It was a mystery to Ben how
Masters and his SWAP people were going to get along with Hoffman and his
mixed bag of fighters. But since few radical racists had the ability to
see past the ends of their hoses, that small obstacle had probably never
occurred to Masters.

Masters and his fearless fighters grabbed their guns and got behind
barricades, ready to defend their wimmin an' child'en against the dark
hordes of racial equality, common sense, and justice.

Ben and his son Buddy pulled their battalions up to within a mile of the
town and circled it, out of range of anything Masters had in the way of
armament.

Behind the barricades, General Masters stood, a green beret on his
head-he had taken it away from a little boy years back-and his trusty
.30-.30 at hand. "Our moment of glory is here, men!" he shouted. "We'll
go down in history as the first to defend our right to live white and
free and pure."

Actually about a half a million had gone down under the guns of the
Rebels. Six feet down in most cases. Mass graves.

"Stand ready to repel the charge!" Sonny shouted. He remembered that
line from his high school lit class.

"Aw, shit, Sonny," Bubba said. "I was gonna say that."

But no charge came.

Ben leaned against the fender of his Hummer and viewed the town through
long lenses. Paul Blair, a Cherokee Indian and a graduate of the
University of Tennessee

62

stood beside Ben. Paul was a company commander in Ben's One Battalion.
He had found a chicken feather and stuck it in his cowboy hat.

"Take plenty scalps this day," Paul grunted, a twinkle in his eyes.
"Paint face and dance. Then count coup."

Ben looked at him. "What are you going to use for a coup stick, O Great
and Noble Red Man, your economics degree or your minor in education?"

Paul grinned and showed Ben a child's rubber tomahawk he had found amid
the rubble of an old five and dime. "Will this do?" It was surprisingly
realistic.

Ben laughed at the man. "That thing is going to get you in trouble
someday, Paul."

"The dossier on John Masters says he hates Indians."

"Masters hates everybody. What else is new?"

"I want to get close to the man, wave this tomahawk, and yell some
Cherokee words at him."

"I wasn't aware you knew any Cherokee."

"I know how to say 'good morning' and 'it looks like it might rain.' "
He pulled out several tubes of lipstick and knelt down, looking at his
reflection in the outside mirror of the Hummer. He began carefully
streaking his face with purple and red and orange.

Jersey looked at him and slowly shook her head. "How come One Battalion
always gets the people who are full of shit?" she questioned.

Paul cut his eyes. "Look, Little Bit, you're about a quarter-breed
Apache, yourself."

"You're right," Jersey said. "Let me use that lipstick when you're through."

"Jesus," Ben muttered. "You people better start taking this seriously.
John Masters is a certifiable nut, but his guns are very real."

63

"Buddy on the horn, sir," Corrie said.

"Go, Rat," Ben said.

"What's the poop, Pop?"

Ben chuckled. His kids took every opportunity to take as many liberties
as possible, knowing that Ben didn't mind and the other Rebels got a
kick out of it. "We wait. Intell says there are lots of children in
there and I want to keep collateral damage to a minimum."

"That's a big ten-four, Big Daddy. Rat out."

"A whole battalion of jokers," Ben muttered. "Corrie, order snipers up
with their .50s. Start picking off SWAP people on sight."

"Yes, sir."

When Ben turned around, he was momentarily startled. Paul Blair had
taken off his shirt and had painted his chest with the lipstick.

"Are you going to take off your shirt, too, Jersey?" Cooper asked,
standing well away from her.

Jersey told him to go commit an impossible act upon his person.

"Request permission to take some of my people in after dark, sir," Paul
said.

"Your people being those of Indian heritage, I'm sure," Ben replied.

"Well ... that's a possibility."

"Permission granted. Now get out of here." He looked at Jersey. "And,
no. You're not going."

"The thought never entered my mind, General."

"What the hell are they waitin' on?" a SWAP member asked, wiping his
sweaty hands on his britches.

64

"They're just standin' out there lookin' at us. All they've done is call
for our surrender."

"And General Masters told them what they could do with that, didn't he?"
his buddy replied.

"Damn shore did."

That was the last thing he would ever say. A sniper's bullet took him in
the center of the face and blew out the entire back of his head. The
force of the .50-caliber slug slammed him backward and knocked his body
into a staring, horrified, and blood and brain-splattered SWAP member.
He dropped his rifle to the street and it went off, the bullet striking
a man in the knee and sending him howling to the ground in pain. His
rifle clattered to the street but did not discharge.

"Goddamn!" a team leader yelled. "Fire at them Rebs. Far, goddamnit, far!"

"Far, hell!" a SWAP member hollered. "Far at what? I can't see nobody to
far at?"

With good reason. The sniper teams, laying a mile to a
mile-and-a-quarter out of the city limits, were using ten-power scopes
and firing the .50-caliber Haskins M500. A monstrous powder charge blows
the 1.5-ounce slug out of the muzzle with five to six times the energy
of a 7.62 mm NATO round. Using various types of rounds, the Haskins can
deliver slugs that will either pierce four-inch armor or explode on
contact, turning the steel body into flesh-shredding shrapnel. The
bullet arrives at its target long before the sound of the rifle can be
heard, and at that distance, sometimes it is not heard at all.

"Order the sniper teams to use armor-piercing rounds," Ben ordered.
"Let's liven up the day for the SWAP members."

65

The streets of the town had been barricaded with old junked cars and
trucks, rusted out and useless. The .50-caliber armor-piercing rounds
blew right through them and tore great gaping holes in the flesh of the
defenders crouched behind the rusted hulks, sending the SWAP members
hollering and racing for better cover.

"Sir," Beth said to Ben. "Sergeant Hanks requests permission to speak to
the General."

"Beth," Ben said. "What is with all this sudden formality? We've never
stood much on ... Jesus Christ!" Ben yelled, as he turned and eyeballed
something that looked straight out of an African jungle movie.

"Easy, General," Sergeant Hanks said, jerking off his grotesque wooden
mask. "It's me, Hanks."

Ben stepped back and looked at the man. He was speechless. The black
sergeant from upstate New York was naked except for a loincloth and a
whole bunch of chicken feathers he had glued to his body. He held the
sun-bleached skull of a cow in one hand and a horribly ugly ceremonial
mask in the other. He was smiling at Ben.

Ben found his voice. "Robert ... what in the name of God is going on
around here?"

The words had just left his mouth when the sounds of tom-toms reached
him. He listened for a moment, looking all around him as the sounds
drifted through the early summer air.

Corrie spoke into her headset and said, "Buddy wants to know if you're
having a dance over here and why he wasn't invited?"

"Oh, that's Captain Blair, sir," Hanks said. "He's got about a dozen of
his Indian buddies with him and they're doing a war dance. I thought I'd
dress up like a

66

witch doctor-I found this mask in a house down the road-and do some
psychological warfare on the folks in the town. They've got nothing in
that town that will reach this far."

Ben knew that for a fact. His Scouts had already gone in, scratching
themselves and hawking snot on the ground, cussing blacks and Mexicans
and Jews and everybody else they could think of. They had looked around,
had a meal, and sized up the situation. Small arms only, and that was
not unusual.

Years back, Ben and his people had swept the nation clean, seizing and
storing weapons of all descriptions. They had left very little for others.

Wild yelling and chanting came over the sounds of the tom-toms.

"Where in the hell did Captain Blair get tom-toms?" Ben asked.

"Oh, those are fifty-five gallon drums, General," Hanks said. "We fooled
around with various levels of water in them to get just the right sound.
Pretty good, huh?"

"Right," Ben said. "And I suppose you have several more of your buddies
of ... color to assist you in this, ah, witch-doctor dancing?"

Hanks grinned.

"Oh, go on," Ben said, doing his best to hide a smile. "While you're at
it, see if you can conjure up a plate of fettuccine for me."

"General Masters!" an aide yelled, busting into Masters's house. "They's
a whole bunch of damn nigger

67

witch doctors a-whoopin' and a-hollerin' on the road. Shakin' skulls at us!"

Masters spilled his coffee all down the front of his shirt. He heaved
his fat ass and his pus gut out of the chair and lumbered after the man.
Using binoculars, he viewed the scene.

"By God!" he breathed. "Them's real Africans out yonder. They's callin'
down some curses on us."

"Do they work?"

"How the hell do I know. Folks say they do. That voodoo's some powerful
stuff, boy."

Sergeant Bob Hanks and a few of his buddies had a really nice dance step
all worked out. Sergeant Hanks had to threaten to shoot two of his
friends before they'd agree to do it. And they was a good thing they all
wore old Halloween masks, for they hid their embarrassed grins.

The four men, all nearly naked except for loincloths and chicken
feathers, would take three steps forward, hold up cattle skulls in the
direction of the town, shout "Ugh!" and back up.

"This is terribly repetitive," one of the men said. "Not to mention
embarrassing."

"Just shut up and go 'Ugh!' " Bob told him.

"Boy, that's playin' dirty," John Masters said. "I mean, that's dirty
even for Ben Raines."

"I don't feel good," a SWAP member said. "My stomach hurts. I think they
done caused me to come down with some terrible disease."

A doctor among the group looked at the men in disgust. "Don't be
stupid!" he admonished them. "Just ignore all that ranting and raving.
It can't hurt you."

Then the sound of tom-toms reached the defenders of SWAP. Wild Indian
yells followed that.

68

"What the hell is that?" Masters demanded.

"Injuns!" he was told. "Look through these here field glasses and you
can see 'em. All painted up and doin' a war dance."

Cooler and more intelligent heads among the SWAP forces tried to
prevail. But it was no use. Ignorant and misinformed to begin with,
bitter and hate-filled long before the Great War, now isolated for
years, with little emphasis placed on learning, many of the SWAP people
began to unravel. Children began crying and that only added to the
confusion.

"Shut them goddamn kids up!" Masters hollered. "I cain't hear myself
think with all that catterwallin' goin' on. I got to think, y'all. Damn!"

A sniper's bullet slammed through a concrete block and sent stone
splinters into Masters' face and neck. He bellowed in fright and pain,
hit the ground and flattened out. As much as his pus-gut would allow.

Hanks and his dancers were really getting into the rhythm of it, and
getting very innovative. The tom-toms were banging and Blair's Indians
were yelling.

Ben was sitting in a camp chair by his Hummer, drinking coffee and
thinking this was a hell of a way to fight a war.

Both Buddy and Ben had sent some of their Scouts in close and they were
now flitting among the buildings on the edges of the town. In a hour's
time, the Scouts had grabbed about sixty young kids and passed them back
to their lines, turning them over to the medics.

"The kids are in pretty good shape, physically," a Rebel doctor reported
to Ben. "But they're filled with hatred toward anybody not of their
color. It'll take a long time to bring them around."

69

"I'm not going to try," Ben said, surprising those gathered around him.
"Base Camp One is very nearly overwhelmed now. And we've only had
limited success in working with the kids of outlaw and hate groups. When
this is over, we'll reunite them with their mothers and let them go.
It's the best we can do under the circumstances."

He stood up and again looked at the town through binoculars. He scanned
the town for a few seconds, then lowered the field glasses and turned to
face his team, a hard look in his eyes. "Beth, tell Blair and Hanks to
knock it off. They've had their fun, now it's time to get serious. Come,
tell Masters to send out the women and kids. We don't want to hurt them.
Get the mortars set up."

The tom-toms ceased their drumming and Hanks and his now nearly
exhausted "witch doctors" vanished from the long lenses of the SWAP members.

"What the hell's Ben Raines up to now?" Masters questioned. The cuts on
his face from the stone splinters had been dabbed with iodine and he
looked like he was suffering from some horrible pox. "Where'd all them
niggers and Injuns go to? What the hell's goin' on out yonder? What's
all them wimmin back yonder squallin' about?"

" 'Bout sixty-seventy kids is gone," he was informed. "The Rebels done
been in the town and snatched 'em. They cut a bunch of throats and they
used silenced guns to kill more of our'n, too. Nobody saw nothin'.
Bastards move like ghosts, they do."

"Raines is tellin' us to send out the women and kids," a radio operator
said. "Says he don't want to see them hurt."

70

Masters felt something cold and slimy roll around in his guts. He'd
spent years boasting about how he and his people would kick the crap out
of the Rebels should they ever show up. Now they were here and Masters
had lost about fifty people to sniper bullets, the Rebels had arrogantly
slipped into his town and kidnapped dozens of kids, cut throats, and
killed his people without being seen, and his SWAP forces had not been
able to fire an effective round against the Rebels.

"Send out the women and kids, John," a doctor urged him. "We can then
make our stand, if that's what you want to do."

"What do you mean, if?"

"You want to die for nothing?" the doctor questioned.

"What do you mean, nothin'? Our cause ain't nothin'. We got a free white
society. We got what we always wanted. This is what we worked for, even
before the Great War."

"And when we die, we will have a cold lonely grave," the doctor said. "I
don't take much comfort in that. General Raines let some of his troops
have a little fun at our expense. That's how confident he is. I'm taking
my wife and family and leaving under a white flag. The rest of you can
stay here and die. For your cause." He walked away.

Masters leaned against the wall of a building. He hated Ben Raines
almost as much as he did niggers. But the idea of dead kids and women
didn't appeal to him. "Send out the women and kids," he ordered. "And
everybody else that's turned chicken-shit. Me ... I'm stayin'."

"They're showing a white flag," Ben said, looking

71

through long lenses. "Corrie, ask Buddy if he's receiving the same signal."

"That's ten-four, General. Women and children and a few men in the bunch."

There were six highways leading into the town. The Rebels had blocked
them all. 60 mm mortars had been set up and the crews were standing by,
ready to drop the rockets down the tubes.

"Tell those surrendering to get their vehicles and drive out of here,"
Ben said. 'Jesus, we can't handle all those people. Tell them to head
down to Interstate 40 and then cut west. I don't ever want to see any of
them again. There must be four or five thousand of them. My God, they
could overwhelm us by sheer numbers."

"Hell of a way to fight a war," Jersey muttered.

72

Chapter Six

The old cars and trucks smoked and rattled and rolled on, the occupants
staring silently through hate-filled eyes at the Rebels as they drove past.

"We'll probably have to fight those kids someday," Buddy radioed to his
father.

"I'm certain of that," Ben replied, watching as a boy of about ten gave
him the middle finger from the back seat of a car. Ben resisted an
impulse to return the bird.

"The children sure have lovely manners, don't they?" Jersey remarked.

"Yes. Remarkably well-behaved," Ben replied drily. "They have certainly
been steeped in the social graces."

"What will happen to them, I wonder?" Beth asked.

"Oh, they'll drive until they find some deserted and isolated little
town," Ben replied. "Then they'll set up there and once more start
teaching and preaching hate against people not of their color or faith
or personal opinion or whatever. Years back, those of us with any sense
knew that laws and legislation alone could never erase hatred and
prejudice and bigotry ... anymore than governments could effectively
legislate morality. It

73

was going to take education and a hundred percent effort on all sides of
the color line."

"But none of us had to go to school to be able to get along with
others," Corrie said.

"True," Ben said. "So maybe there is hope for the human race after all.
But not for that bunch holed up in the town. Corrie, tell them to
surrender. They'll have one chance and one chance only."

Corrie did and listened for the reply. She smiled sadly. "They said for
you to go to hell, sir."

"Start dropping in mortars," Ben ordered.

"Here we go," Jersey said.

Mortar teams had ringed the town from about 2,500 yards out, and their
crews started dropping in M734 preset rounds of HE. Some exploded on
contact with earth. Others detonated near the surface, and still others
were used as proximity rounds, killing anything within a predetermined
range.

Still other mortar crews dropped in willie peter, and the white
phosphorus rounds soon had flames leaping into the dry air and thick
smoke billowing up from the burning town.

Those inside the town had the Rebels outnumbered, but anytime a fighting
force bunkers themselves in tight with no escape routes, the outcome of
the battle is nearly always predictable.

John Masters was only minutes away from learning a hard lesson about the
fighting savagery of Ben Raines and the Rebels.

There were those who tried to run from the flames. Snipers cut them
down. Confusion was the order of the day as the mortar rounds never
stopped coming in. Each mortar crew was throwing six to twelve rounds a
minute

74

at the town, and it was a constant roar of deadly booming thunder. Old
burning buildings were collapsing all around the SWAP defenders and
flying rubble was causing as many casualties as anything else. Men were
being buried alive under tons of brick and mortar. The Rebels had come
with plenty of supply trucks following them, and planes were ready to
fly in more rounds if needed.

"We gotta surrender, John!" a weeping man screamed at Masters. "We're
all gonna die in here if we don't."

"Hell, no!" Masters shouted. His face and head were dripping blood from
minor wounds caused by flying debris, he had lost his beret and his
rifle, and was armed only with a .357 revolver, which was about as
effective as a club since the Rebels were still a good mile and a
quarter away, most of them lounging on the ground, smoking or reading or
gossiping or catnapping.

"John, goddamnit, look around you!" his friend shouted. "The damn town
is bein' destroyed around us whilst we talk. Can't you see what them
Rebs is doin'? They're walkin' mortar rounds in, John, startin' at the
outskirts and workin' in. They're pushin' us back to the center of the
town. Once they have us all within a two or three block area, they'll
just pour it on and kill us down to the last man."

Masters looked at the pistol in his hand and threw it to the
rubble-strewn street. "Git on the horn and tell Ben Raines we give up.
Go on, do it." When his friend had raced away, Masters turned and looked
toward the south. "Goddamn you, Ben Raines. I hate you!"

"You ain't never gonna make me take orders from no nigger, Ben Raines!"
Masters declared, standing in front

75

of Ben, who was sitting in a camp chair, drinking a cup of coffee. "I
ain't never took no orders from a coon and I ain't about to start now.
Not you, not God, not nobody can make me do that."

A Rebel psychiatrist was seated a few feet away, observing and listening
to Masters. As for Ben, he hadn't as yet made up his mind exactly what
to do with the prisoners, about fifteen hundred of them, but he was
working that out in his mind.

"You might as well go on and shoot me now, Raines," Masters stood his
ground. " 'Cause there ain't nothin' gonna convince me that niggers is
good for anything other than bein' a white man's slave. And what are you
doin' with all them goddamn witch doctors, anyways?"

All the Rebels standing around laughed at that.

"Y'all quit laughin' at me!" Masters hollered. "Stop it, now, you hear?"

That just got the Rebels laughing all that much harder and louder.

"What are we going to do with all these people, father?" Buddy asked.

"Put them on trucks, send them to California, put them on a couple of
those ships we have out there, and dock them at San Carlos, Baja, Mexico."

"Are you serious?"

"You have a better idea?"

"Unfortunately, no."

"You ain't sendin' me down to live with no damn bunch of lazy-assed,
greasy beaners!" Masters hollered.

"On second thought," Buddy said, "I approve of your plan. Wholeheartedly."

"Thank you. I think those warm, friendly, and very

76

pleasant people down in the Baja will know exactly what to do with
Mister Masters and his ilk."

"I think General Payon is going to get a big laugh out of this," Jersey
said.

"I hate Mexican food," a SWAP member said. "Makes me fart."

"We have lost a stronghold in North Texas," Jesus Hoffman was informed.
"Raines and his Rebels wiped out John Masters and his group. It is
unconfirmed, but reports are he killed them to the last man."

The Rebels had sent out that report.

Field Marshal Hoffman sighed and shook his head. This campaign was not
going well at all. "What is General Brodermann's location?"

'Just south of San Antonio. But the Rebels have put the city to the
torch. They have destroyed it. General Brodermann reports that there is
little left."

"Order him to halt there." Hoffman was thoughtful for a few moments,
staring out the window of his trailer. He wanted North America, but he
wanted it whole, not the charred useless remains of it. The U.S. had
factories he could reopen; but not if Ben Raines kept putting them to
the torch.

Hoffman thought he knew Ben Raines' long-range plans, and they
distressed him. Ben Raines was looking far to the future; planning for
decades after his own death. The man was not looking for immediate
personal creature comforts and glory, he was thinking of his
grandchildren and his grandchildren's grandchildren. Ben Raines' plan
was to tear it all down and re-

77

build from scratch, politically, judicially, and economically.

He must be stopped.

"What Masters said back there, General," Beth asked. "Before we shipped
them out. Was any of that true?"

Ben and Buddy's columns were heading south, to take up positions just
north of San Antonio. Ben had received word that Hoffman's columns had
stopped and were bivouacked just south of San Antonio, about forty miles
apart.

"To a degree, yes," Ben replied. "But people like Masters always take
things out of context. The government did put in place a number of
programs aimed at helping minorities, and some of them were blatantly
unfair. Anytime the government forces private industry to hire someone
or promote someone based on color instead of ability, that's wrong ...
on the one hand. On the other hand, many companies would not have hired
or promoted minorities had the government not put those laws in place.
It was a Catch 22 situation.

"But Masters was right when he said that too many times minorities cried
racism when none existed, or was intended. And he was right when he said
that the welfare system was abused. It was. By too many people, of all
colors. And he was right, again, to a degree, in saying that the
government-when we had a government- pandered to minorities and crapped
on the white middle class. Just before the Great War knocked everything
down, race relations were at their lowest point in three decades. The
much-put-upon middle class had grown weary to the point of armed
rebellion by seeing certain

78

types of minorities burn and loot and riot every time some decision or
event went against their beliefs. And he was right in saying that you
didn't see white Americans taking to the streets and looting and burning
and acting like crazy people when a black person shot a white person.
People like Masters are uncomfortably correct on a lot of points, as far
as they choose to take the issue.

"But, Beth, up until the 1960s, many blacks, and other minorities, in
certain parts of the country, weren't even allowed to vote. They had to
pay taxes, serve in the armed forces, and obey the laws, but they
couldn't vote, go to a school of their choice, sit in the front of
public transportation, eat in a public restaurant, stay in a white hotel
or motel, or walk in certain parts of town. They were beaten, lynched,
tarred and feathered, castrated, raped, falsely imprisoned, kept from
holding public office, and forced to suffer all sorts of other
indignities. Most received substandard education, using hand-me-down
textbooks and were taught in dilapidated, poorly maintained buildings."

Ben looked out the window at the seemingly deserted countryside. "Takes
a long time for people to forget. It doesn't excuse lawless behavior or
preferential treatment, but I don't blame them for not forgetting."

"But on the other hand ..." Corrie said with a smile, wanting Ben to
warm further to the subject.

Ben laughed. "What do you want me to say, Corrie? That we all have a
streak of bigotry or racism in us? Well, we all do. Anyone who says they
don't is a damn liar. What we have to do-black, white, yellow, red,
tan-is work to overcome that. The white people can't be expected to work
at one hundred percent in overcoming

79

it, and allow the blacks to work at fifty percent. It must be a joint
effort, pulling in double harness all the time. But it wasn't, it isn't
now, and it never will be. Cultures will always clash. But what we can
do-the Rebels-is attempt to teach people to clash gently, not violently.
To talk it out instead of duking it out. Or shooting it out. To convince
people to stop pointing fingers and saying 'you owe me something for
what your ancestors did to mine.' That's (bullshit. What's past is past.
Let's bury it, stand side by side, and look toward the future." Ben
smiled. "Just please turn down that goddamn boom-box!"

The Rebels headed south, with a lot of laughter coming from Ben's
command vehicle.

The battalion commanders met at Ben's CP north of San Antonio. Payon,
the Russian, Striganov, Rebet, Danjou, Ned Hawkins of the New Texas
Rangers, and O'Shea, of the Free Irish.

They commanded some 6,000 men and women. Against some 21,000 elite SS
troops under the command of General Brodermann.

After greeting everyone, coffee was poured and the commanders sat down,
while Ben moved to a large wall map of Texas. "Here is the latest from
Intell, and it's easy to see what Brodermann has in mind. Green denotes
where his main forces are located, ready to thrust north. Highways 83,
35, and 37. Orange denotes his smaller units-trained and experienced
guerrilla forces. They are poised on Highways 181, 123, 80, and 183.
Well, Brodermann just made his first fatal mistake. He split his forces
to meet us at our own game. He fails to

80

realize that we've been playing this game for years. He's a comparative
newcomer at it. But it won't take him long to learn. He's an experienced
commander. Now then, his men are still in bivouac. So we're going to get
in place and hit him hard at first light day after tomorrow. Buddy is in
place over here, on Highway 90, in hiding and ready to strike from the
east the instant we hit from the north. Georgi, I want you and Payon to
launch full battalions in what will appear to be a major assault at the
westernmost column along Highway 83 at 0535. At the same time, the rest
of us will hit the smaller units over here, from the north, while
Buddy's people come at them from the east.

"The instant the attack begins, preset charges will be blown, knocking
out the bridges across the Nueces, the Leona, and the Frio, west of
Brodermann's CP, which is here, on 35. Bridges will be blown on the San
Antonio and the Atasosa. Brodermann's two centrally located columns will
be cut off, unable to head straight east or west. They'll have to detour
far south and then cut across. By that time, our work will be done and
we'll be gone." Ben sighed and then smiled faintly. "Hopefully. If we do
this right, we will have eliminated a very elite part of Hoffman's army
and demoralized the hell out of the rest of it. There is no point in
taking prisoners." That was said very flatly and it left no doubt in any
commander's mind. "There will be no circling around or prolonging this
affair. We hit them hard, gather up as much equipment as we can in a
very short time, and get the hell out of there. If the enemy wants to
pursue us, that's going to be their funeral. I don't think they will.
But if we're successful, Brodermann just might be so angry

81

he'll throw caution to the wind and come chasing us." He smiled. "I hope
he does."

Beth and Cooper passed out briefing kits to the commanders and they sat
for a time, studying them. Jersey sat in a chair in a far corner of the
room, her M-16 across her knees. She was expressionless. Jersey made
even hardened commanders nervous.

Striganov finally turned his head and stared at Jersey. "You don't trust
us, girl?" he rumbled.

"When it comes to the General's life, I don't trust anybody," Jersey said.

Payon laughed at the expression on the Russian's face. "With a battalion
like her, we could win the war in a week, hey, Georgi?"

"Less than that," Georgi replied.

Payon had noticed that Ben's team always positioned themselves at
separate locations around any room he was in, offering him the maximum
of protection. Outside any building Ben was in, there was always at
least one full squad of heavily armed Rebels, and a hundred yards away,
ringing them, another squad or two.

"You ready, my friend?" Georgi asked the Mexican.

"Yes. It is going to be payback time for my people."

"You want to lead the assault?"

"I would be honored."

"So it shall be."

The Russian and the Mexican left the room.

Soon the others filed out, until Ben was sitting alone at the scarred
old once-lovely dinner table in the huge dining room of the big ranch
house. Cooper walked over and refilled Ben's coffee cup. Ben thanked him
and rubbed a palm over the wood. "A lot of good times were had around
this table," he said aloud, speaking to

82

no one in particular. "Families gathered for anniversaries, birthdays,
family reunions, Christmas, Thanksgiving. From the old pictures we found
scattered about, several generations have sat around this table. Years
of meals were enjoyed here. Families were planned, futures all mapped
out, engagement parties held here, wedding gifts were shown here and
baby shower presents piled high. Today, I sat here and planned the
deaths of hundreds, perhaps thousands of men. And tomorrow, the home
will be burned to the ground. Is it the end of one era and the beginning
of another, or just the end, period?"

"You always get this way before a campaign, General," Beth said. "Go
have a drink or two."

Ben's eyes widened, for Beth was the quiet one. Then he started
laughing, for what she had said was true. He quickly sobered when Corrie
said, "Dr. Chase is here, General."

"Chase! Hell, he's supposed to be in the neutral zone in Louisiana,
setting up hospitals for the wounded."

"He's pulling up right now. He flew into that strip on the Llano and had
a driver bring him here."

"Goddamned old goat. Doesn't he realize this whole area is only hours
away from being a free fire zone?"

"Oh, shut up, Raines," Dr. Chase said, stomping into the room. "You
don't have enough medical people here to handle the job and you know it.
You're going to have badly wounded and you know that too. So stop
bitching about it and pour me a cup of coffee."

Cooper was terrified of the old doctor. Jersey just sat and stared at
him. If she was afraid of anything, no one knew what it was.

"You, girl," Chase said, looking at her. "Stop giving

83

me the evil eye. I've known this middle-aged Don Quixote a lot longer
than you."

"So what does that make you?" Jersey popped back. "Sancho Panza?"

Lamar Chase blinked and Ben laughed at the expression on his face. "So
let's hear your comeback to that, Lamar."

"Impudent child," Chase grumbled, and sat down. He glanced over at
Jersey, smiling at him. "You really read Cervantes?"

"Sure."

"I would have thought your tastes would be more in line with Cosmopolitan."

Jersey blinked. "What the hell is that?"

84

Chapter Seven

After chatting for a few minutes, with Lamar bringing Ben up to date on
conditions in the neutral zone, he asked, "Where do you want my MASH
units, Ben?"

"I've got dust-offs and fully set-up medivac planes spotted around the
area north of both battle sites. Put your field hospitals here at
Junction and at Caldwell. Landing strips at both places. I've made
agreements with Hoffman to honor his field hospitals and he has agreed
to honor ours."

"Do you think he will?"

"For awhile. Until the battles start turning sour on him. And they will."

"You are a supremely confident man, Ben. Considering all that we're up
against."

"It's been written that the right cause always wins, Lamar."

"Oh, yes. God on our side and all that," the doctor said. "I just hope
somebody remembered to tell Him about it."

"Didn't Joan Baez sing a song about God On Our Side, or something like
that?"

85

"Raines, how the hell would I know? You listened to Joan Baez?"

"Sure. And Bob Dylan and Procol Harum ..."

"Do you have something stuck in your throat?"

"No! That's the name of a group. They did "A Whiter Shade Of Pale." Good
tune."

"You listened to Bob Dylan?"

"Sure. I can borrow Cooper's guitar and sing you some of his songs?"

"Oh, God, no! The last time you tried to sing your dog ran away from
home, women miscarried, and it rained for a week straight. Spare me your
dubious vocalizing."

"Now you've hurt my feelings, Lamar."

"Nobody can hurt your feelings. You're an insensitive oaf." He looked at
Ben and shook his head. "Don't pout, Raines. It doesn't become you."

"Can I giggle and simper instead?"

"You're making me nauseous. Do you have anything to drink around here?"

"Water."

"Now you can add lying to your other faults," Chase said. "There hasn't
been a time in all the years I've known you that you didn't have a
bottle stashed somewhere."

"Sorry, Lamar. You're out of luck."

"Isn't it about time for your annual visit to the proctologist?" Chase
asked sweetly.

"The booze is over there in my knapsack," Ben said quickly, pointing.

"I knew you would never even consider refusing an old man a drink of
whiskey," Chase said, chuckling as he walked to the knapsack.

86

"You're an evil old man, Lamar," Ben told him. "I'll never deny it. But
it sure has been fun on the journey to that point."

Stretching out east to west for almost two hundred and fifty miles, the
Rebels quietly got into position. They moved out in tiny units of two
and three vehicles, too small for detection. Hoffman had learned not to
put helicopters in the air, for the Rebels had the most sophisticated
SAMs in the world, and not one chopper Hoffman sent out had ever
returned to the pad.

There were still a lot of people in Texas, and in every other state,
whose loyalties did not lie with the Rebels, but they had learned that
the Rebels, in this fight for survival, dealt very harshly with
collaborators. If a turncoat was not shot or hanged on the spot, they
were shipped to California, put on board ship, and off they went to some
godforsaken island thousands of miles away, and dumped. And Ben Raines
had lots of ships and lots of crew for them.

Those who supported neither Raines nor Hoffman were advised in the
strongest of terms to keep their mouths shut. Just behave like those
three monkeys: hear nothing, see nothing, and do not speak. And after
seeing the cold killing grimness in the eyes of the Rebels, those who
wished to remain neutral, and not make the retreat north to the
thirty-sixth parallel, quickly agreed that it would be best if they saw
nothing, heard nothing, and spoke not a word.

On the night preceding the attack, aides came to the trailer of General
Hans Brodermann. Brodermann had

87

a headache and was in no mood to listen to the gloom and doom reports.

"Don't be ridiculous!" he snapped at his people. "The Rebels are not
going to attack us. We're too strong and they are too weak. Raines made
a mistake in breaking up his battalions into small guerrilla units. He
rendered himself nearly impotent. He'll realize that mistake in time,
but by then it will be too late. We will hold our positions until long
range artillery can join us. Then we shall begin the forward march,
clearing out great swatches of territory as we advance. Now return to
your commands and get a good night's sleep. We have forward observation
posts on alert, and they are manned by the best people we have. Raines
and his little mosquito bands will not trouble us here."

Brodermann was correct to a degree. He did have forward observation
posts, and they were manned by some very good people. But not as good as
the Apache, Pina, Navaho, and Zuni Indians who made up Ben's Special
Operations Teams. While Ben and his Rebels had been overseas, those
units had been training Stateside in preparation for this. Brodermann's
SS units were about to discover what the U.S. Army had learned more than
a century past: never underestimate the fighting skills and the stealth
of the warriors who made up the Southwest Indian tribes. The SP teams
had learned that the SS forward observations teams, with predictable
Germanic precision, reported in at 00 hours and again at 0030 hours. On
the dot. To the timed second. Which was why Ben had timed the assault to
begin at 0535. For at 0531, the forward observation people would be dead
in their bunkers. Brodermann would learn to

88

never underestimate the savage and unorthodox fighting techniques of Ben
Raines.

The fast attack vehicles of the Rebels had driven to within a couple of
miles of the forward observation posts and then cut their muffled down
engines and waited. Strict noise discipline was being observed. No one
moved, no one talked, no one lit up smokes. At 0525 radio operators
turned up the volume and began listening more intently to their
earphones for the clicks that would tell them the outposts were cleared
of all hostile living things. Except for perhaps a stray scorpion or a
rattlesnake.

The sky was just beginning to tint a faint silver in the east when Come
said, "There it is, General. Two clicks. Repeated. We're clear."

Ben looked at luminous dial of his watch. 0533. "Two minutes to go.
Start engines."

Brodermann was beginning to stir under his blankets. He opened his eyes
and stretched, reluctant to leave the warmth, for the night had turned
unusually cool.

In about sixty seconds it would, quite unexpectedly, warm considerably.

"One minute," Ben said.

Cooper slipped the Hummer into gear. The bolts of mounted .50-caliber
machine guns were pulled back. Big Thumpers were armed. Mounted 7.62
M-60s were readied. Grenades were taken from battle harnesses. People
swallowed to relieve the mouth-dryness of tension.

"Go!" Ben said.

Corrie relayed the orders as the FAVs lunged forward, big fat tires
digging at the ground. Cooper floor-boarded the HumVee as Beth stood up
and worked her way into

89

the harness behind the roof-mounted M-60. She was bullet-proofed from
her head down to her hips. The material wouldn't stop a .50-caliber
slug, but it would stop anything up to that.

The FAVs sped past the silent forward observation posts and silently
screamed toward the still-sleeping camp of the elite SS troops south of
Interstate 10 and east of Interstate 30. Ben and his battalion were
taking the heaviest unit of SS troops, on Highway 181, next to the San
Antonio River and the closest unit to Brodermann's location. Rebet was
tackling the SS troops located on 123, east of Cibolo Creek. Danjou and
Ned were attacking the SS forces bivouacked on Highway 80, and Buddy was
roaring in from the east, hitting those along the Guadalupe River and
Highway 111-183.

All units struck within seconds of each other. Striganov and Payon had
slipped in and set up old 8I-mm mortars and gave Brodermann's camp a
full 90 seconds barrage of HE and willie peter as they were storming in.

Hans Brodermann heard the fluttering of mortar rounds and was out of bed
and jumping into his trousers and boots just as the first round hit.

"Mein Gott!" he muttered. "It can't be. Raines wouldn't dare!"

But then he had no more time to think as a round exploded very near his
quarters and tipped the trailer over. Brodermann went rolling and
sliding ass over elbows on the tiled floor and banged his head on the
base of the commode, knocking himself goofy for a few minutes.

Outside, the scene was chaos, highlighted by tanker

90

trucks being ignited, vehicles burning, and the area filled with racing
Fast Attack Vehicles and pickup trucks and Hummers, the vehicles
scooting around, the machine gunners pouring out heavy fire at anything
that moved. Big Thumpers were knocking out grenades and spreading death
and confusion all over the place.

The central command of Hans Brodermann was in total chaos. Commanders
were trying to rally their troops amid the clattering of machine guns
and the roaring of 40 mm grenades. No one could believe it was
happening. Something like this was simply not done to the elite troops
of the SS.

But it was being done. And being done devastatingly well. Along and
south of a two hundred and fifty mile stretch of highway, the Rebels
were kicking the shit out of the troops of Field Marshal Jesus Hoffman
and enjoying the hell out of it.

The Rebel vehicles made one long pass through the camps and when they
pulled out, they left behind them a scene of burning, ruined confusion,
the camps littered with dead, dying, and badly wounded.

Ben and his teams hit the SS camp and caught the elite troops of
Brodermann with their pants down ... many literally so, with their bare
butts hanging over the edge of the latrines.

It was a dangerous but highly successful move on the part of the Rebels,
but also one that in all probability they could never pull again. After
this attack, Brodermann would reassess his security and tighten it down.

But that wouldn't help him a bit on this bloody gray Texas morning.

Buddy and his battalion slammed into the SS camp

91

from the east and caught Hoffman's finest completely by surprise. It was
a rout. Many of the SS troops weaponless, caught walking to or from the
latrines, to or from the mess tents, or just getting out of bed. Some
were naked except for a towel around their waist, ready to walk to the
portable showers.

At every location, the Rebels roared up and down between the lines of
neatly pitched tents and chopped those SS troops still in their sleeping
bags or blankets to bloody rags with automatic weapons' fire. Many of
the drivers of the heavier Hummers just took dead aim at the
arrow-straight rows of tents and drove right over them, crushing and
maiming those unlucky ones still inside.

Hans Brodermann struggled to his feet and fought to claw his way out of
the overturned trailer, which he knew could turn into a death trap at
any second. He crawled out of the front door, now facing toward the sky,
and tumbled to the cool earth, landing heavily on his belly and
momentarily knocking the wind out of himself. Cursing, he fought his Way
to his feet and stood for a moment, shocked and stunned by the sight in
front of him.

The early morning grayness was torn by sounds of the deadly surprise
attack. Fires were burning out of control and the dead and wounded were
sprawled anywhere and everywhere he looked. It was chaos on a scale that
he had never before witnessed. His people simply could not get a handle
on it; they could not get organized enough to mount even a small
counterattack.

Brodermann hit the ground as a FAV came roaring past. The machine gun on
the open roof, mounted on the roll-bar, opened up in his direction and
the lead

92

howled over his head, tearing great holes in the floor of his trailer.
He could do little else but curse Ben Raines. And that he did, with
great feeling.

Danjou and Ned ripped through the SS camp at high speed, Rangers in the
back of the fortified pickup trucks throwing grenades, manning heavy
machine guns, and using Big Thumpers to hurl out their deadly charges.

As Striganov and Payon were completing their final swing of Brodermann's
main camp, they gave the orders for the 81 mm mortars to resume their
shelling of the camp, using HE and willie peter. Brodermann and his SS
troops could do nothing except keep their heads down and try to survive
this bloody, terrible, and totally demoralizing Texas morning.

In every Rebel battalion, Ben had issued orders to certain teams to do
nothing except concentrate on crippling or destroying Brodermann's
vehicles. When the assaults finally ended-the attacks lasting no more
than three or four minutes maximum-the Rebels left behind them a scene
that was enough to make even the most seasoned combat veteran weep.

Flames were leaping upward, the smell of burning rubber offensively
harsh in the cool air. The smoke from the many fires was thick, hanging
close to the cool earth, and nearly blinding. The screaming of the
wounded was awful. Many of those caught in their tents had crushed limbs
from the Rebel vehicles running over them. Stores of ammunition were
cracking and popping and for any of the SS troops to move was a danger
from the exploding rounds of their own stockpiles.

The Rebels had killed or wounded nearly fifty percent of Brodermann's SS
troops. They took no prisoners. They showed no mercy. The Rebels were
ruthless and

93

savage and to the survivors of the early morning attack, it told them
what they had to look forward to in fighting Ben Raines and his people.
Most did not relish the thought.

An aide came running up to Brodermann as he was slowly getting to his
feet. Brodermann was badly shaken. Nothing like this had ever happened
to him. It was ... unthinkable. Gnats like the Rebels were supposed to
be merely irritating, certainly not deadly and dangerous.

"Do we mount a counterattack, General?" he yelled to be heard over the
roaring of the fires and the cracking and popping of small arms ammunition.

Hans Brodermann stared at the wild-eyed man with blood from a slight
head-wound trickling down one side of his face. "No," Brodermann,
finally found his voice. He coughed to clear his throat of the nearly
choking smoke that swirled all around the camp. "Raines would love that.
You may be sure he has planted ambush teams all along the roadways,
hoping for us to pursue. Are we in contact with the other battalions?"

"All units seem to have been attacked. The Rebels struck at every
location. We have reports that bridges were blown all around us."

"Send out small patrols to assess the damage. Check the forward posts. I
have a hunch you will find only dead men."

"Yes, sir. I will send men over to right your trailer and start repairs."

Brodermann turned and looked at his bullet-pocked quarters, lying on its
side like some dead prehistoric beast. "Leave the son of a bitch where
it is," he said bitterly. "You can bet Ben Raines does not have such
luxury with him. We can no longer count on fighting a

94

conventional war, Willie. When all damages have been tallied, report to
me. Then I must report to Field Marshal Hoffman. It is a bitter day,
Willie. A bitter day." Hundreds of yards away from Hans Brodermann, two
senior SS sergeants looked at one another. One said, "I think we made a
mistake in coming to North America. A very fatal mistake."

95

Chapter Eight

The Rebels lost five people, with a dozen wounded, two of them
seriously. Miles north of the burning camps of Brodermann's troops, they
quietly buried their dead in secluded places and conducted simple
ceremonies.

Then they mounted up and pulled out, heading for a central rendezvous point.

"Spread out," Ben told his people. "From the Devils River in the west to
the San Jacinto in the east. Hit whatever you think you can successfully
tackle. I want these goose-stepping bastards held below the
twenty-eighth parallel for as long as possible. The longer we can
contain them down here, the stronger our people get above the
thirty-sixth." The Rebel commanders shook hands all the way around and
took off.

Ben and his teams moved to just outside Kerrville, secured their
vehicles in several of the many buildings in the old religious
encampment, and settled in, monitoring the still-frantic radio
transmissions from the Black-shirts.

Even Ben was stunned to learn that the attacks had killed or wounded
nearly half of Brodermann's forces.

96

His eyes touched the eyes of his team and several other Rebels attached
to him. The eyes were smiling, hard warrior smiles.

It was then that Ben realized the Rebel movement would never die, never
be defeated. As long as there was one Rebel left alive, the movement
would live. The Rebels did not consider their way to be perfect. They
were not striving for perfection. The past system of justice and law and
order and all that went with the forming of a society had deteriorated
to a confusing and non-workable mess when the Great War came and wiped
the slate clean. Then the Rebels spent years cleaning out the scum and
the dregs of society, the human predators. They knew their system of
government worked; they had seen it work for nearly a decade. Not for
everybody, for a system of laws and rules cannot be devised that will
please everyone. But enough people agreed with the Rebel way to try to
live under it, with more coming in everyday.

It would not die. The Rebels would not, could not, let it die.

And Ben knew they wouldn't let that happen.

"Company coming," a guard called out. "Forward people are bringing them in."

Ben stepped out to meet the people, and pegged them at once. Religious
fanatics. He'd never met a religious fanatic yet who didn't share, to
some degree, the same look of arrogant smugness, of a closed mind to all
opinions save what they personally embraced, and they all irritated the
hell out of Ben.

"General Raines," the Rebel said, "these people are from something
called the Church of the Only Holy Way."

97

"Wonderful," Ben muttered. "I guess that means if you don't belong to
their faith you will be denied entrance to Heaven."

"Exactly, sir," one of the younger men in the group said.

"Horseshit," Ben told him.

The young man blinked. "I beg to remind you there are ladies present, sir."

"If you say so." Ben looked at the dozen or so men and women, most of
them in their late twenties or early thirties. They all looked healthy
and well-fed. And Ben didn't like or trust any of them. "What do you
people want?"

"Protection from the advancing hordes of mongrels."

"Where are your weapons?"

"We don't believe in violence, sir."

"Then turn right around and carry your butts on out of here," Ben
replied. "I'm not your nanny."

"General," a rather pretty woman said.

"I'm not going to argue the point with you, lady. If you don't place
enough value on your life to fight for it, then I have no use for you.
Now is there anything else you want?"

"I was told you were a cruel man, General Raines," a beady-eyed young
man said, waving a Bible at Ben. "But until now, I did not realize just
how cruel."

Ben stared at the young man. It has been noted by everyone who ever got
personally close to Ben that when he stared at you, his eyes could take
on the predatory stare of an eagle just before it sank its talons into
prey. The young man suddenly got a case of the twitchy-itches.

"I may be cruel, sonny-boy. That's not for me to decide.

98

But what I really am is a realist. And you are beginning to get on my
nerves. Now it would be a very wise thing for you and your little group
of religious bigots to get in your jalopies or on your bicycles and
drive or pedal the hell north. Up to the thirty-sixth parallel. That is
roughly a line stretching east to west, right across the center of the
nation. It goes through some fascinating places. Roanoke, Louisville,
St. Louis, Colorado Springs. Of course, few of those cities are standing
now, but I'm sure you could find some converts among the rubble. I'm
equally certain they would rape your women, butt-fuck you men, and then
turn you into slaves, swap you off for a good horse, or have you for
dinner. And if you're so stupid you won't pick up a weapon to save your
own lives, then I want nothing to do with you. Now get the hell out of
here."

"May God strike you dead, Ben Raines!" a woman shouted.

Ben laughed at her. "Now that is interesting, lady. First you tell me
you don't believe in violence, now you're imploring God to strike me
dead. You're not very consistent, are you?"

She stood and glared at him.

Ben said, "Get them out of here and on their way north. Somebody up
there will look after them."

"Suppose they won't go?" the Rebel asked.

Ben shrugged his shoulders. "Then that makes it their problem, doesn't it?"

"You'll burn in the hell-fires for this, Ben Raines," the beady-eyed
young man shouted, waving his Bible "God is on our side."

"I do believe I've heard that one before," Jersey muttered.

99

Ben smiled and waved at the group and stepped back inside the building.
Some of the religious fanatics tried to follow him. Jersey stopped that
movement by applying the butt of her M-16 to the belly of the beady-eyed
follower of the Church of the Only Holy Way. He folded up like a piece
of paper and hit the ground, coughing and gagging.

"You'll suffer mightily for that, sister!" a woman shouted. "For you
have struck a messenger from God."

Jersey narrowed her eyes and opened her mouth to give the woman a
personal message. A very personal message. Cooper could attest to the
fact that when Jersey decided to verbally unload on a person, it was
like firecrackers exploding around one's head.

"Let it alone, Jersey," Ben said from the open doorway. "It just isn't
worth it. Believe me, I know from experience."

When Jersey gave the beady-eyed messenger the butt of her rifle, the
area around the front of the house suddenly filled with armed Rebels.
The group who had confronted Ben very quickly got the message: their
lives were on the line, and they were toeing that line awfully close.

"Peace, brothers and sisters," one of the group said. "Allow us to leave
and we shall depart quietly."

"Haul your butts, then," Cooper said.

The group got their messenger up on his feet and led him away. He was a
little pale and a tad shaky.

Ben was studying a map when his team joined him in the large office of
the old complex. A seasoned Rebel medic, but a newcomer to Ben's
personal detachment, said, "You don't like those kinds of people very
much, do you, General."

100

Ben looked up and smiled at the Rebel. A medic that Doctor Chase had
transferred to Ben's command. "Book-burners," he said. "Self-appointed
censors hiding behind their own narrow interpretation of the Bible. In
their own way, they are no better than the worst racist group we have
ever encountered. We demand a lot from our own people, but there is no
one religion among our ranks. I don't care if you worship a kumquat.
Just don't try to force me to do it. I've disliked those kinds of people
ever since I was old enough to reason. They're bullies and cowards
waving a Bible. I don't give a damn what happens to them." He put his
reading glasses back on and resumed his studying of the map. The subject
was closed.

Field Marshal Jesus Hoffman sat in his quarters and looked at the wall.
The report transmitted from General Hans Brodermann and typed up by his
staff lay on his desk. The most elite and combat-experienced of all his
troops had been overrun and their numbers cut in half by a Rebel sneak
attack during the predawn hours. Tons of equipment lost. Vehicles
destroyed. Hundreds of weapons and thousands of rounds of ammunition
gone, much of it taken by the marauding Rebels. His people were badly
demoralized. The advance had been brought to an abrupt halt.

What manner of men and women were these Rebels?

He called out at the knock on his door, and the office filled with his
most experienced commanders, from Captain to General. They sat at his
gesture and waited in silence.

Hoffman stood up and looked at the group. Finally he

101

said, "We have marched thousands of miles. We have faced and overcome
savage Indian tribes and armies whose numbers were ten times greater
than those of the Rebels. Now we have scarcely advanced one hundred and
fifty miles into North America and our losses number into the thousands.
And they have been inflicted upon us by a band of men and women whose
numbers don't even equal one of our divisions.

"To the west of us, a mere three battalions of Rebels have effectively
halted our advance into California, Arizona, and New Mexico. A very
magnificent advance of ten to fifteen miles, I might add. The entire way
drenched with blood. Our blood-not theirs. Disgraceful. To date, a rag
tag band of North American malcontents, led by a middle-aged man, have
managed to bring down the government of the United States, wipe out most
of the bands of outlaws and mercenaries, kill off the world's best known
and respected terrorists, defeat and destroy the armies of Khamsin, Lan
Villar, and others, then sail halfway around the world and defeat Jack
Hunt and his armies in Ireland, move to England and destroy the gangs
there, free Hawaii, and now they have stopped us dead in our tracks. How?"

His commanders remained silent. They no more had the answer to that than
did Field Marshal Hoffman.

Hoffman did not let up. "And to further worsen the situation, Ben Raines
has not defeated us with mighty salvos of artillery and huge tank
battles. His people are attacking in small numbers in pickup trucks and
light vehicles. And on at least two occasions my armies have been
stopped and humiliated by a bunch of goddamn Texas cowboys on horseback!
We are the finest equipped army on the face of the earth"-Wrong! He just
thought

102

that. Ben's Rebels had equipment that Hoffman and his people did not
even know existed-"and our people are being defeated by mounted Texas
Rangers. On horseback, for God's sake! Charging us with six-shooters
blazing!"

"Ah, actually, Field Marshal," a general dared contradict, "most of
those Rangers were using 9-mm semiautomatic pistols and H&Ks or Uzis."

"They were still riding goddamn horses, weren't they?" Hoffman flared,
sitting down behind his desk.

"Ah ... yes, sir. Twice, that we know of."

"What do you mean: 'that we know of?' "

"They don't take prisoners, sir. And they seldom leave survivors."

"Well, don't just sit there with your long faces hanging out. You are
among the finest minds I have. Give me some suggestions and solutions."

A young major stood up. "Sir. What Ben Raines wants us to do is break up
our forces and fight him guerrilla style. I feel that would be a grave
mistake."

"State your objections to that," Hoffman ordered.

"General Raines and all his commanders know the country. They know it
from coast to coast, border to border. They have supplies hidden in
hundreds, perhaps thousands of secret caches. They have millions and
millions of gallons of fuel hidden. Probably billions of rounds of
ammunition and explosives. Several years ago our intelligence people
reported that Raines' doctors and scientists have antibiotics-in powder
form, sealed in air-tight containers-which will last for years. All they
have to do is set up a portable lab, add water, or a few chemicals, and
go from there. General Raines planned for this invasion, all the while
hoping it would never come, but he was certainly going to be ready for
it if it did occur. Our

103

supplies are right now days behind us, struggling to reach us. And
that's if we don't move from this location. I realize I am the youngest
and least experienced man here, Field Marshal. But you asked for
suggestions. I am afraid I do not have any solutions."

"Thank you for speaking your mind, Major." Hoffman knew the young major
was brilliant, and felt that he had not spoken everything on his mind.
He smiled at the major. "What would you do if you were sitting in this
chair instead of me?"

"I honestly do not know, sir. And I admit that I have thought of what I
might do. I could reach no conclusion."

Hoffman stared at the young major for a moment, then nodded his head.
"Thank you, Major Weber. I appreciate your candor."

Weber sat down. He knew he had not won any points with the older
commanders present, but he had won some points with the Field Marshal,
and that was all that mattered.

Hoffman drummed his fingers on the desk for a moment. "General
Brodermann learned a hard lesson about the Rebels. But what happened was
not entirely his fault. We had to learn how the enemy would fight, and
now we know. With savage ruthlessness. Giving no quarter, asking none.
And that's the way we must fight them. We will hold here until our
supplies reach us. A week; no more than that. Brodermann has asked that
he be allowed to maintain his point position. I have said yes. General
Schiller, start our terrorist groups marching at once. Spread them all
over the nation. They know what they must do, and being terrorists, they
do it extremely well."

104

"Yes, Field Marshal. At once."

"General Jahn, are your fallschirmtruppen ready?"

"Ya, Field Marshal. My paratroops are ready to go at your signal."

"Colonel Barlach, are you ready to receive prisoners for interrogation?"

"Yes, sir."

Hoffman smiled. "General Daimler?"

"Sir?"

"Do be so kind as to bring Colonel Barlach some prisoners. You know how
testy he can be when he is not inflicting pain on someone."

105

Chapter Nine

"General Payon's eyes and ears in Mexico say that Hoffman's supply
trucks will reach him in less than a week. Planes are already landing at
the strip near his CP," Corrie said.

"I wish I knew what he was up to," Ben mused. "Beth, did our people get
anything of value from those prisoners we picked up and shipped over to
Cecil?"

"Nothing, sir. They just don't know anything of value. Obviously,
Hoffman and his top people play it pretty close to the vest."

"And reports of random acts of terrorism are still coming in?"

"Yes, sir," Corrie said. "Savage, brutal, and totally senseless acts."

"He's cut his radical fringe loose," Ben said.

"All those messages we received for years were true," Beth said. "The
hate for America never died."

"So it seems," Ben said softly. "Those fruitcake groups still hate
America and Americans as much, or more, as before. I didn't understand
it then, and I still don't." He smiled at his team. "Don't look so startled,

106

people. There are a lot of things that I didn't and don't understand.
Probably never will. Where was the latest attack, Corrie?"

"About a hundred miles northeast of here. A Rebel patrol found what was
left of the elderly couples. Four couples. Patrols had tried to evac
them but they said they'd lived in that area all their lives and weren't
about to move now. They were all tortured to death."

"Let's take a ride," Ben said.

The four couples, all in their late seventies or early eighties, had
lived in a large rambling one story home. They had worked a large
garden, had chickens and hogs, and kept the place neat and had obviously
been living a quiet and contented life. Ben stood in the large living
room and looked at the words written in blood on the walls.

"Mideast fanaticism shit," he said, disgust in his voice. "Praise Allah
and all that crap. Die in battle and go straight to paradise. Real brave
bunch, this group is. Killing a small band of nearly helpless elderly
men and women really strikes a blow for their cause. Providing they even
know what that cause is, which I doubt."

His team remained silent, for they knew that the harming of helpless
children and elderly or innocent animals could push Ben's danger meter
over into the red. Cooper, watching Ben's face, had him a hunch that
when they caught up with this bunch-and they would, he had no doubts
about that-the outcome for this terrorist group would be about as
pleasant as a crucifixion.

"Buddy's here," Jersey said, looking out a blood-splattered window.
"He's got a prisoner."

Ben stepped outside to face the dark eyed, olive-

107

skinned man with his hands tied behind his back. Father looked at son.
"Where'd you find this piece of shit?"

The prisoner hissed and spat at Ben, the spittle staining Ben's shirt.

"About fifteen miles from here. We think he got separated from the main
group. The only thing he will say is how much he hates America and
Americans."

"Jew-lover!" the man spat out the words, his hard bright eyes staring at
Ben.

"And that," Buddy added. "He has a terrible complex when it comes to
Judaism."

"Torture me!" the man shouted. "I will tell you nothing. I will soar on
the wings of pain to Paradise."

"Oh, you're going to soar, all right," Ben told the man. "But not on the
wings of pain." Ben looked at the man and woman from the Reads'
intelligence section. "He's all yours."

The two-person team picked up their briefcases of chemicals and walked
toward a small shed. "Come on, Ali," the woman said without looking
back. "You're going to sail as high as an eagle can fly."

"I will tell you nothing!" the man shouted.

"Wanna bet?" Ben asked, his smile as hard as flint.

"I think we might have overdone it," the woman said. "We turned him into
a babbling idiot."

"I'm very nearly overcome with grief," Ben said, pouring a cup of coffee
from the pot on the grate over the small fire in the yard. "I might
start flailing myself with ropes and chains at any moment. What'd you
learn?"

"His team is working close," the man said, as the

108

woman poured herself a cup of coffee. "Hoffman sent out several hundred
teams to terrorize and demoralize the citizens, all over the United
States. Every damn lunatic group that ever existed has linked up with
Hoffman. And since you used to work for the CIA, you're a main target,
General."

"What else is new?" Ben muttered. "Back when the world was more or less
functioning I used to get a half dozen death threats a year ... at least."

"Didn't the Agency protect you?" the woman asked, looking up from the fire.

"You have to be joking!" Ben said with a smile. "Someone filed some
lousy reports on me. They shoved me out in the cold and left me
dangling. Said I'd been a bad boy. I told them if I hadn't of been a bad
boy, I wouldn't have spent years in Operations. They failed to see the
humor in that." He laughed. "It could have been worse. They could have
kept me on and assigned me to the Mideast desk."

"What do you want us to do with the sheik of Araby in there?"

"Drag him outside, pump him with enough joy-juice to float him to
paradise and leave him for the buzzards."

"And then?" Buddy asked.

"We go terrorize some terrorists. They won't be hard to find. We'll just
follow the trail of blood and bodies they leave behind. That's all the
hell they've ever known how to do. And they do it well."

Ben split his teams and told them to work every road. Visit every house
in every hamlet. Get any people left started north across the
parallel-if they chose to go- and kill terrorists. Continue burning
anything that

109

would torch. Leave nothing behind for Hoffman's Blackshirts.

Ben's team drew first blood. A forward FAV, ranging miles ahead, radioed
back that they had spotted what appeared to be very furtive movement in
a tiny hamlet that had been reported totally void of life only a few
days back.

"Hold it there," Ben said. "Don't give away your position. We're on the
way."

It was dry rolling hills country. Ben and team parked, hiding their
vehicles carefully and walked to the Scouts' position on a rise that
overlooked the dusty little hamlet.

"We've counted eighteen so far," the Scout leader said. "We think
there's maybe double that. It appears to be a meeting of some sort. Two
groups have joined the ones already here. They work in six person teams."

"All right," Ben said. "We'll wait and see if more join them. We'll send
as many as possible of these cowardly bastards to hell. Spread out. Work
low and slow."

"General," Corrie said. "Buddy is in a firefight with some sort of
hostile group about thirty miles west of here. He says they'll be able
to contain the situation, but won't be able to lend us a hand for
several hours, at least."

"I don't recall asking for his help. My God, but he's getting to be as
worrisome as Ike. Tell him to mind his own business."

Come turned her head and bumped Buddy. But she softened Ben's reply, as
Ben knew she would.

The Rebels crept into position and waited. The terrorists below them
were fruitcakes and screwballs, but they were also professionals who,
judging by their movements, had received extensive amounts of training in

110

their deadly art. The Rebels soon pinpointed the location of the guards
and as the day wore on, knew to the minute when they would be changed.
Four more six-person teams drifted in, all coming in from the north and
the east. That made at least forty two terrorists in the small village
and possibly as many as sixty, or more.

Ben smiled at the number. He had twenty-four people with him, having
eluded the others that Ike had saddled him with. It should be a real
interesting fight.

"We have to assume there are no civilians down there," Ben said. "And if
there are, they're there willingly. We have heard no screams of pain or
shouts of protest." He looked at his watch. Two hours had passed since
the last team had checked in. "Those people made one big mistake, gang.
There is but one road leading in and out of that village. And we have it
covered. Tell the mortar crews to start shelling, Come."

The town must have been where the terrorists were storing supplies.
Perhaps they had returned there to re-supply. The Rebels would never
know. The third mortar round landed in the center of an old service
station garage and when it blew it took nearly all of that side of the
block with it. Bodies and body parts were flung in all directions and
the blast was so heavy the concussion from it flattened two frame
structures located directly across from the garage, on the other side of
the street.

Wounded and dazed and confused terrorists staggered out of the remaining
buildings and the Rebels shot them down where they stood. The memory of
those tortured and butchered elderly people was vividly fresh in their
minds.

Ben and his people left their positions and walked down to the tiny
town, now devastated, the streets slick

111

with blood spots. Ben stood over a woman with more than a tad of
Oriental blood in her ... and all around her. Ben guessed her age at
about thirty five. It was hard to tell. Her eyes shone hate up at him.
She spat at him, the bloody spittle landing near Ben's lace-up work boots.

"What nitwit group did you belong to?" Ben asked her.

She cursed him in very fluent English.

Ben picked up her Uzi, handed it to a Rebel, and walked away, leaving
her to die with a curse on her lips and hate for America in her heart.
"Be sure and strip the ammo belt from her," Ben called over his shoulder.

"Sure is a mixed bag," Jersey remarked, walking beside Ben. "Oriental,
Black, Hispanic, and Arabic." She looked around at the dead and dying
and the ripped and shattered bodies. "They must have had a ton of
explosives in that garage."

Ben squatted down and rolled a cigarette. He watched as his two medics
went from terrorist to terrorist, checking them. He offered them no pain
killers, no medicines, no patch jobs. They had dedicated their lives to
inflicting pain on innocents; they could die the same way.

There was an occasional shot as some of the less seriously wounded
terrorists tried to make a fight of it. It was not much of a fight.

"Buddy just a mile out of town," Come said.

Ben ground the butt of his cigarette out under his heel. He didn't feel
like putting up with another antismoking lecture from his son.

"Father, where is the rest of your detachment?" Buddy asked, walking up.
He sniffed the air

112

suspiciously and looked accusingly at his dad. But he sensed Ben was in
no mood for a lecture and left it at that.

"I sent them to another suspected terrorist site. It's rather difficult
to move about unobtrusively with a goddamn platoon following me."

Buddy looked around him at the devastation. "What did you drop on this
town, a mini atomic bomb?"

"Three mortar rounds, kid. The third round landed in a storage area
filled with some sort of explosives and drums of gasoline. It was a
rather large boom."

"So I see. That group we came in contact with mistakenly thought we were
part of Hoffman's army. They did not like our surrender terms."

"And?"

"Well, after negotiations failed, we eventually stacked die bodies in
several buildings and set them on fire. It was a dreadful smell."

"Before or during the burning?"

"Both."

The Rebels talked casually of the deaths of their enemies. Most would
work feverishly to save the life of a hurt dog or cat. They would weep
over the body of a fallen buddy. They would risk their lives a hundred
and one times a day to save any innocent person. But their unofficial
motto was an eye for an eye plus the head of an enemy. A Rebel would
crawl through his own blood, holding his guts inside his shattered
stomach with one hand, just to kill an enemy. Ben had told them once
that was the unofficial motto of the old Israeli Mossad, and it fit the
Rebels rather well. Which was why they had never been defeated and never
would be defeated. They would lose battles, but not the war.

One final shot was heard at the far end of the mangled

113

street. A Rebel walked over to investigate. "Another terrorist,
General," he called. "She shot herself in the head rather than surrender
to us."

"Gather up everything we can use and load it in the trucks Buddy has
tagging along with him."

"Thank you very much, father," Buddy said sourly.

"You're quite welcome, son. What are you doing with those deuce and a
halves, looting the countryside?"

Buddy walked off, muttering to himself.

Ben was not nearly as charitable as his son. He ordered the bodies left
where they were. "Let the buzzards have them," he told his people.
"Mount up. We've got to hunt a hole and stay down for a time."

"Twenty eight teams have failed to check in," Field Marshal Hoffman was
informed the next morning. "Including most of the Syrian teams."

"How overdue are they?" Hoffman asked, as his stomach abruptly turned
sour. He belched and patted his lips; with a napkin. He looked down at
his breakfast and suddenly lost his appetite.

"A full twenty-four hours."

Hoffman sighed and pushed back from the table. "They're lost, then.
Goddamn that Ben Raines. Goddamn him, you hear?"

The Blackshirt heard, as did anyone else within a hundred yards of the
lavishly appointed trailer, for Jesus Hoffman was shouting.

The word quickly spread and the commanders of the thousands of troops
gathered in the huge miles-long encampment rushed to the trailer, to
stand outside and listen to the Field Marshal rant and rave.

114

"No more!" Hoffman shouted. "No goddamn more! I will not tolerate it."

The news of the Field Marshal's tantrum quickly spread and the entire
encampment soon grew eerily silent. Mechanics put down their wrenches,
cooks turned the fires low, infantry personnel stopped the cleaning of
weapons.

"We did not march thousands of miles to be held at bay by a ragged bunch
of malcontents led by an idealistic dreamer!" Hoffman thundered.

"No, sir," the messenger said. He wished he was facing a band of Rebels
at this moment. He wished he could be anywhere except where he was.

Hoffman lost what was left of his composure. He picked up his freshly
poured cup of coffee and hurled it against the wall of the trailer.

Hoffman whirled to face the young messenger. "Without Ben Raines, the
Rebel movement would crumble. Chop the head from a snake and the snake
dies." Hoffman looked at the messenger as if seeing him for the first
time. "What do you want? Send someone in here immediately to clean up
this mess. Get out of here!"

The messenger hit the air.

Jesus Dieguez Mendoza Hoffman clenched his fists, forced himself to take
several deep breaths, and calmed his raging emotions. He stood for a
moment, staring out of the window of the trailer. For the first time
since his outburst he was aware of the hundreds of troops all gathered
outside, quietly waiting. He looked at his commanders, standing close to
his quarters. Hoffman walked to the door and slowly opened it. He waved
to his senior commanders, motioning them to his quarters.

115

His composure fully restored, Hoffman sat down at his desk and waited
until his people had taken seats. "Gentlemen, we have been held at bay
by a pack of barking dogs long enough. We have allowed ourselves to be
frightened and cowed by this tiny band headed by Ben Raines. Effective
this moment, that will cease. The greatest army on the face of the earth
has been forced into a defensive position. Think of the absurdity of
that. The ridiculousness of it. Impress that upon your troops. Show them
how they have been humiliated by a tiny band of men and women in blue
jeans and cowboy boots, racing about in little puny vehicles ... and on
horseback," he spat the last. "Brandishing six-shooters and waving the
flag of Texas."

Hoffman stared at his commanders, crowded into the room. He smiled at
the group. Three days from now, at dawn, we move out. In force. We
launch a full-scale attack against the Rebels. In one week, I plan to
have the entire state of Texas under our control."

116

Chapter Ten

"Not damn likely," Ben said, after reading the communiqué just decoded
by his people. He laughed softly. "So Herr Hoffman plans to strike fear
into our hearts by flexing his muscles, eh? All right. We'll let him
flex his muscles. Corrie, has this communiquébeen sent out to all our
people?"

"Waiting for your orders to do so," she replied.

"Do it. Then tell them to stand by for further instructions."

Ben walked to a map thumb-tacked to a wall of the old church rectory and
studied it. He smiled and looked at Beth, standing by with pad and pen
at the ready. "As soon as Hoffman makes his move, have all our people
fall back. Have our people immediately begin gathering up all the broken
weapons we've picked up, all the worn-out clothing and boots. All the
patched and useless tarps and ground-sheets and shelter-halves. Gather
up all the ripped and torn underwear and socks. Pile up busted canteens
and rusty eating utensils and the like and get ready to scatter them
along the way. I want this to look like a complete rout on our part. We
are fleeing

117

for our lives, people. We are turning tail and running away from the
awesome forces of Hoffman. We are frightened to death of the
Blackshirts. Their advance has demoralized us all. Their might has
turned us into rabbits. Order everyone to fall back to the thirtieth
parallel. Start all the battalions I've held in reserve working their
way south. Right now. Tell them to stay at least a hundred miles east or
west of Hoffman's northern push." Ben chuckled, but it held an ominous
note. "So come on, Hoffman. Show me what a brilliant strategist you are.
Strike fear into my heart, you evil bastard!"

"Ike reporting, sir," Corrie said. "He says that the Blackshirts are
pulling away from their lines and heading east, on the south side of the
border. Hold on, sir. Colonels Gray and West calling in. They say the
same thing."

"Get hold of our eyes below the border, Corrie. Ask them what Hoffman
has left down there for reserve. He's got to have stretched himself
pretty damn thin."

"I did, sir. He's left behind small garrisons of troops in selected
towns. But mostly he's depending on the local bully-boys to keep the
people in line."

"We know he has several more divisions down in South America," Ben
mused. "But we also know he's short on wheeled transportation. Like us,
he has plenty of prop-planes, but damn few jets and fewer pilots to fly
them." Ben paced as he spoke. "We'd be wasting explosives blowing
airports. You can land most of those old transports of ours, and his, on
practically any runway a crop-duster could use."

Ben walked to the ever-present coffee pot and poured a mug. He sugared
and stirred and sipped. Then he smiled. "Hoffman anticipated my move. He
felt I would

118

swing troops around to nip at his sides, so he's pulled his western
troops in to protect his flanks. And he's hoping I wouldn't pull my
battalions out of the west and give him a hole that I'm wagering he had
no intention of using. Well, the Nazi son of a bitch guessed wrong!"

"Order our three battalions in, sir?" Corrie asked.

"You bet." He smiled once more. "Float like a butterfly and sting like a
bee."

"Sir?" Beth asked.

"A champion prizefighter used to say that ... or something to that
effect. It fits us rather well, I think. Because that's exactly what
we're going to do."

Jersey and Cooper exchanged glances, Cooper whispering, "Now it's
gettin' down to the way the General likes to fight."

"Yeah," Jersey returned the whisper. "Kick-ass time!"

There were those in Hoffman's command who questioned his decision to
launch a full-scale attack deep into the heart of Texas, but only the
most brave questioned it aloud, and then only among the closest of friends.

Brodermann was not one of those who questioned his Field Marshal's
order. He looked forward to this massive thrust of men and machines of
war. Hans had a very personal score to settle with Ben Raines, and the
sooner the better was his philosophy on the subject.

He had asked to spearhead, and was given the green light. His people
were ready, and he now waited for the word.

"What is the status of those Rebels in California, Arizona, and New
Mexico?" Hoffman asked, on the night before the pullout.

119

"They are still there. Your plan worked, sir. They remained in position,
afraid to leave the route unguarded."

Hoffman smiled. It was going to work.

Actually, the three battalion commanders did leave some people behind.
Seventy-five from each battalion. They kept cook fires burning, kicked
up dust running around in cars and trucks, played catch with baseballs
and footballs and so forth, and in general maintained a very high profile.

Since the black-shirted troops left behind to watch the Rebels were
fewer in number than those they spied upon, neither side was in very
much danger from the other. It was just a variation on the game of hide
and seek, so to speak.

Albeit a deadly one if those south of the border ever caught on to what
was actually happening north of them.

Brodermann radioed back to Hoffman, excitement in his voice. "It's a
rout, Field Marshal. A complete rout. They're leaving equipment behind
in their haste to retreat. Our people are stocking up on field
rations-cases of them. We've tested them and they have not been tampered
with. They're really quite delicious."

The Rebels had been only too happy to throw away the goop that Dr.
Chase's lab boys and girls had dreamed up for them to eat. It was highly
nutritious and packed with vitamins and minerals and tasted like shit.

"They abandoned clothing and weapons and canteens. Many were so
frightened they left their boots.

120

They left behind cases and cases of field rations. More than enough to
sustain my people for a week or more."

The only hitch the Rebels' lab people hadn't worked out was that the
rations tended to make one constipated. As Brodermann's people were
about to discover.

"Maintain your position," Hoffman ordered his spear-header. "I want to
see this personally."

"They took the bait," Corrie reported, after all the info was in from
communications. "They sound elated."

"I hope they eat all that goopy shit," Ben said, aware of Dr. Chase
standing close, scowling at him. Ben turned to meet the frowning chief
of medicine. "And I'm telling you for the last time, Lamar: have your
people come up with something less nutritious and more on the tasty side."

"I've already ordered that, Raines," the crusty old doctor popped right
back at him. "The first shipments should be arriving by planes within
hours."

"Good. Green eggs and ham was wonderful in book form. It isn't worth a
damn at four o'clock in the morning."

"You are belaboring the point, Raines. Shut up about it. And where did
you get that sombrero you've plopped on your head? You look like Hoot
Gibson."

"Who the hell is Hoot Gibson?" Jersey whispered to Cooper.

"He's taking a hell of a chance," Thermopolis spoke to a few of his
staff members at one of their communications and HQ bunkers deep in the
Arkansas mountains. "This could backfire on him. But I can see why he's
doing it."

121

Emil Hite, the little ex-conman turned loyal Rebel, was not his usual
joking self. He was serious as he studied the big board, denoting the
positions of all the Rebels, all around the shattered land that was once
called the United States. Someone was constantly changing the board.

"But if Hoffman continues to fall for it," Emil said, "he'll be in one
hell of a bind, I once the General starts attacking from all sides."

"Big 'ifs,' Emil," Therm said softly. "Real big 'ifs.'"

Ike, Dan Gray, and West were moving east, staying on secondary roads and
keeping Scouts ranging far out front at all times.

Leadfoot and Wanda had cleared their sector of Hoffman's Blackshirts and
all the collaborators they could find and were now barreling west. They
had taken the southernmost route across Louisiana, staying in the bayou
country, and had crossed into Texas on what remained of old I-90. The
ex-outlaw bikers had picked up dozens of other bikers who wanted to be a
part of Raines' Rebels, and it was an awesome sight as the several
hundred strong bikers, all heavily armed, came roaring westward on their
choppers and custom motorcycles. In the old Sam Houston National Forest,
they pulled in and made contact with Ben's HQ.

"Leadfoot on the horn, sir," Corrie said.

Ben took the mic. "Go, Leadfoot."

"Got nearly four hundred bikers now, Eagle," Leadfoot radioed. "We're in
the southernmost trees named after one of the commanders at the Alamo.
You ten-four that?"

122

"Sam Houston National Park," Beth said, lowering a map.

"I copy that, Leadfoot. Straight west of you is a MASH unit. You know
their frequency. Head there and await orders."

"That's a big ten-four, Eagle. Give 'em hell. Wolf Pack out."

"Hoffman and Brodermann just think they've seen unconventional warfare,"
Ben said with a smile. "Wait until they tangle with that bunch of outlaws."

"You have done well, Hans," Hoffman said, beaming with satisfaction at
the seemingly endless trail of discarded equipment left behind by the
"fleeing Rebels." "I am now certain we shall be in full control of Texas
in a week's time. After that, it's just a matter of tracking down the
retreating Rebels and disposing of them. Do try to take General Raines
alive. Colonel Barlach is so looking forward to interrogating the good
General Raines."

"I shall do my best, sir."

"I know you will."

Dr. Chase had moved his MASH units about a hundred miles north, to
Ballinger on old Highway 83, and to Hillsboro on 35. Ben and his Rebels
carried on with their systematic destroying of towns and cities and the
blowing of major bridges.

If at all possible, Ben intended to hold Hoffman south of I-20. But with
the massive firepower of the man, he didn't know if that was possible.

123

Like the mule, all he could do was try.

"It's time to pull the plug on Hoffman's advance," he told his team.
"We've got to knock out some of his tanks. Once that's done, we can
uncork our own tanks and meet his on an equal basis. Our tanks are far
superior. They're better armored, have heavier firepower, and are
faster. What are the latest reports?"

"Hoffman has committed eight divisions north of the border," Beth said.
"He has four divisions in reserve."

Ben shook his head. He had been stunned when he had heard the rumor of
the revised figures of Hoffman's strength. He had been shocked when he
found out they were true. "Twelve full divisions," Ben said softly.
"Approximately two hundred thousand men. Minus about fifteen thousand
that our little ragtag bunch of boys and girls have managed to send to
that great Nazi heaven in the skies."

Ben walked to a map. "The arrogant bastard has spread himself over three
hundred miles of territory, committing a full division up eight routes.
Look at what's he's done. We've stopped him dead bang cold on 163 just
north of Barnhart by blowing those bridges. We've stopped him at the
ruins of San Angelo. We've trapped him and stopped him between the Llano
and the San Saba. We've blown every bridge on 87 and stopped him dead.
Same on Highways 16, 281, 81, and 77. He's most vulnerable on Highway
77. His people are exposed and in danger and the silly bastard can't see
that. Order Buddy, O'Shea, and the Wolfpack to start hammering at that
part of the division that someone foolishly placed over here on 36.
They're cut off. We've blown all the bridges between 77 and 36. Get them
moving, Corrie."

124

There was nothing Hoffman could do except pace up and down as his
engineers, now stretched pitifully thin along three hundred miles,
worked feverishly to lay temporary bridges across rivers and creeks.
None of his commanders dared approach him to point out that several
battalions of his troops were cut off and dangerously exposed. Hoffman
was in no mood for a critique of his strategy.

Hoffman ordered spotter planes up; the Rebels brought them down with
SAMs. Rebel long-distance shooters, armed with .50-caliber sniper rifles
lay hidden along the north shores of the rivers and creeks and
terrorized the Nazi engineers.

Hoffman dared not send teams across to hunt down the snipers, not after
the first few attempts. Ben had anticipated that and had Scouts and
Recon teams in place to ambush the Blackshirts as they tried to circle
around the snipers, who were firing from as far away as a mile and a half.

Hoffman ordered his artillery to lay down covering fire in an attempt to
kill the snipers. As long as the bombardments lasted, the snipers were
quiet and his engineers could work. Once the bombardments ceased, the
snipers popped up and started shooting. Hoffman's engineers finally had
to build thick shields and work behind them, which slowed them down to
less than a snail's pace.

Hoffman's massive army had been stopped cold.

On the easternmost flank of the Blackshirts, Buddy, O'Shea, and the
Wolfpack quietly got into place along a seventeen mile stretch and
waited for the fall of darkness.

125

The Blackshirt commander knew he was exposed, knew that he was light
when it came to tanks, and suspected the Rebels would try to hit him
sometimes during the night. But where was his main concern. And how
would they do it? He spread his men thin, all along the seventeen mile
stretch of old highway.

Knowing how the Rebels loved risk-taking and doing what was least
suspected of them, the commander made a fatal decision and faced the
bulk of his troops to the west, thinking that the Rebels would probably
slip up between the two cut-off armies.

"We're dealin' with a bloody fool," O'Shea said to Buddy. "Did the man
think we'd walk into a box like that?"

"He just had to make a choice," Buddy said. "And he made the wrong one."

"He'll ne'er get another chance to choose," the Irishman said grimly.

"Count on that," Buddy finished it.

The sun slipped over the horizon and deceptive shadows began creeping
and lengthening. Field Marshal Hoffman ordered all work stopped and all
men to take up arms. There was a sick, tight feeling in his belly. His
early supper lay like a slimy blob in his stomach.

"What's wrong?" General Schiller radioed, irritation evident in his
voice. "My engineers are nearly finished. Another hour and we can cross."

"No," Hoffman radioed his reply. "Every man behind a gun. I feel the
Rebels will make a charge this night."

"From the front?" Schiller questioned. "That would be suicide, Field
Marshall. Ben Raines would never do anything like that."

126

"Don't question my orders!" Hoffman snapped. "Every man on the line."

"Yes, sir," his generals acknowledged. And to themselves: But if Raines
does come, it won't be from the front. We are not dealing with a fool.

"Make them use up ammunition," Ben told Corrie. "We've got them ahead of
their supply trucks. Let's wear them down. Get them shooting at shadows."

At full dark, the Rebels began lobbing mortar rounds in the general
direction of Hoffman's lines and the Blackshirts panicked, immediately
opening fire, pouring rounds into the darkness, hitting nothing but
rocks and trees and empty air. All along the three hundred miles of
front lines, the Blackshirts wasted thousands of rounds of precious
ammunition. The early night sparked and sang deadly songs, the ragged
tune coming from the Blackshirts side of the rivers and creeks. The
Rebels kept their heads down and let the lead whistle and howl.

Buddy, O'Shea, and the Wolfpack had worked their way so close to the
lines of the Blackshirts they could hear them talking. They could
practically smell the fear emanating from the cut-off Blackshirts.

"Now!" Buddy shouted.

The Rebels slammed into the eastern side of Highway 36 with the savagery
of hungry piranhas.

The commander of the Blackshirts on the eastern edge of Hoffman's
northern push got off one short radio message. Hoffman's face drained of
blood and his stomach churned as he read the message, god help us all.

127

Chapter Eleven

The Rebels were all over the Blackshirts before they could reposition
from west to east. This was bloody and brutal hand to hand fighting,
something the Rebels had perfected over the long years of war. This was
pistol and knife and hatchet and club warfare. Back to the raw basics.

The Blackshirts had never, ever, encountered such savagery. The Rebels
did not come screaming over the top-they came like deadly silent wraiths
and it was that very silence that panicked and broke the enemy line.

The disciplined soldiers of Hoffman's army looked at outlaw bikers,
bearded and leathered and tattooed, swinging deadly barbed lengths of
chain; their female counterparts armed with silenced machine-pistols,
spitting out quiet death.

The soldiers of Hoffman broke and fled for their lives, running toward
the west. Those that chose to stay and fight died. The Rebels took no
prisoners.

The Rebels smashed through the thin lines and split up, working north
and south along the rutted old highway. They captured hundreds of
assault rifles, fine

128

weapons, and thousands of rounds of ammunition. They captured machine
guns and light vehicles and mortars and cases and cases of mortar
rounds. They captured hundreds of boxes of field rations, which to the
Rebels, after years of eating their own highly nutritious but
crappy-tasting goop, were like gourmet meals.

The Blackshirts even abandoned half a dozen of their big battle
tanks-the crews running off into the night. The Rebels promptly cranked
them up and drove off, along with the trucks and other light vehicles,
after loading them with guns, ammo, food, mortars, boots, and anything
else the Rebels felt they could use.

The Rebels did not come out of the battle unscathed. They had their dead
to carry off and bury and their wounded to transport to Chase's MASH
units. But the Blackshirts suffered terrible losses. All who did not run
off were killed and many of those who tried to flee were gunned down.

It was wasn't a matter of being callous. It was merely a question of
chopping down the enemy to a more manageable size. Every Blackshirt
killed now was one less the Rebels would have to someday fight.

By the time troops from Hoffman's Eighth Division got over to the battle
site, there was nothing left but the silence of the dead.

General Ramos Schleyer, CG of the Eighth Division, stood in the center
of the carnage and was stunned speechless. The dead were sprawled
everywhere. The Rebels left behind no wounded.

"Barbarians!" Ramos hissed, finally finding his voice. "Filthy savages."
Strange words from a man who took great delight in raping young girls,
violating young boys, and killing anyone who did not agree with his
political

129

views. He pointed his riding crop at an aide. "The Rebels will pay
dearly for this, Hugo. Dearly, I say. Mark my words."

"Field Marshal Hoffman, sir," a radioman handed the general the field phone.

"No, sir," Ramos said, in reply to Hoffman's very direct question. "They
were wiped out to the last man. The filthy barbarous bastards left no
wounded behind." He listened for a moment. "No, sir. The Rebels took all
the equipment. Guns, vehicles, boots, food, mortars, tanks, gasoline ...
everything." Again, he listened. "Yes, sir. I will see that our people
are properly buried. I have chaplains coming in now to insure proper
burials."

After Hoffman had broken the connection, Ramos said, "Get me General
Krosen at the Second Division. We have to make plans to rid ourselves of
Ben Raines. That and nothing else, must be top priority. We have to
convince Field Marshal Hoffman of that. We must."

"We are now dirty filthy barbarians," Corrie told Ben, who was sitting
behind his desk, his stocking feet propped up.

He smiled and lifted his mug of coffee at her. "I'm glad to hear it.
Obviously, Buddy's report was factual. What officer called us that?"

"The CG of the Eighth Division. General Ramos Schleyer. He is furious
and saying that he will have your head on a pole for this atrocity."

"That would be unpleasant," Ben said. "What else?"

"We've decoded some rather odd transmissions and cryptography is trying
to make sense out of them now."

130

"And they all concern me, right?" Ben asked, a strange smile on his lips.

"Yes," Corrie said. "How did you know?"

"like so many others we've faced, Corrie, the leaders of the Blackshirts
believe that if I'm killed, the Rebel movement would collapse. They just
can't see that I'm merely a part of it. I'm not the whole. But we're
going to have to be careful from now on. For if the generals convince
Hoffman of their theory, assassins will be coming out of the woodwork
after me." His eyes swept the room, lingering for a moment, touching all
the members of his team. "And that includes all of you. And don't ever
forget that."

"Well, if that's the case, Ike oughta be storming in here at any
moment," Jersey predicted. "That ol' mother hen will be wanting to
relocate you up way up in North Canada."

Ben smiled. Jersey had pegged the ex-SEAL correctly. Ike was very
protective of Ben. As soon as the decoding experts did their work and
reported the news to all Rebel commanders, Ike would be rolling in and
raising hell about Ben's safety.

"The Blackshirt generals are requesting a meeting with Hoffman," Corrie
called out. "They want to meet first thing in the morning at Hoffman's
First Division HQ,"

"It's started," Ben said. "Fine. That will give us another day to shift
troops around and make plans. I ..."

"General Ike on the horn, sir," Corrie said. "He says it's very important."

Ben laughed and walked to the radio. "I bet it is," he said, taking the
mic as Corrie flipped over to speaker.

131

Ike was already yelling. "Goddamnit, Ben. Pack it up and get gone from
there."

If they were not transmitting from a "fixed" base, to improve the range
of communications, and to prevent the enemy from getting any accurate
fix on locations, in the field the Rebels used a very upgraded version
of the suitcase repeater.

"Where would you have me go, Ike?"

"Away from where you are," Ike said simply, calming down.

"That's not a bad idea," Ben said, but not to Ike. "But we'll do it on
the Q.T." To Ike: "No, Ike, I think we'll just stay put for a time. But
I will take your very fine suggestion under advisement."

Ben never said things like "taking your very fine suggestion under
advisement," and Ben knew Ike would grab the hidden message immediately.

"No way I can convince you, huh?" Ike said, a very subtle change in his
voice.

"Not a chance, Ike." Ben knew other Rebel communications people would be
monitoring the transmissions and they would put it all together.

To insure that everybody knew what was going on, Ben and Ike began
conversing in double-talk, using terms that would lead the
Blackshirts-if they could unscramble the transmissions-to believe that
Ben was staying in his present location.

When they had spoken enough gobbledygook to tip off even the sleepiest
of Rebel communications operators, Ben hooked the mic and said, "Pack it
up, people. We're pulling out."

Within minutes, the team had packed their gear and

132

were heading out. They rolled into Dr. Chase's HQ a few hours later.

"Get your MASH units down and moving," Ben told the chief of medicine.
"To just north of I-20. And don't argue. I think Hoffman will be
mounting a major offensive very soon."

"Me, argue?" Chase said innocently.

Ben rolled his eyes. "Move!"

"Most of them can move," Chase said, becoming very serious. "I've got
two who can't be moved for seventy-two hours. And that's final."

"All right, Lamar. It's your show."

"You staying here, Ben?"

"Until dawn." Over coffee, he explained what he felt the Blackshirts
were going to try next.

Chase nodded his head. "That's the way it always is, Ben. Back to
playing cat and mouse." He refilled their cups and looked hard at Ben.
"The game is just about to turn deadly serious, isn't it?"

"Yeah. We're going to start taking casualties now. Hoffman will make
fewer and fewer mistakes counting on the day when he feels we have to
stand and slug it out."

"And will that day come, Ben?"

"Oh, yes. It'll come, Lamar. We can't hit and run forever. But that time
must not arrive until we've killed off a lot of his troops. This has got
to stay a guerrilla-type action. We just don't have the people to stand
nose to nose."

Lamar toyed with his coffee mug for a moment. It was very late, past
midnight, and the MASH tents set up around the small house Chase was
using as his quarters and office were silent. The doctor lifted his eyes,

133

looking at Ben. "Old friend, are we going to win this one?"

"I don't know," Ben said softly. "The movement itself will never die. I
know that. But whether you and I and those close to us will live through
this fight ... that's up for grabs."

Lamar sighed. "Well, I'm an old man." He smiled. "With a reasonably
young gal and a baby to look after. It won't matter much if I don't make
it. You, now, you've got a few more good years ahead of you." And ..."
He paused and frowned. "If you'd quit smoking cigarettes, that is."

"I haven't lit one in your presence so far, have I?" Ben said with a smile.

"No. But you'd like to. Oh, go on and roll one, Raines. You're beginning
to fidget like a virgin in a locker room."

"And what, Lamar?"

"What do you mean, Raines?"

"You started to say something then paused and started your usual
harangue about my smoking."

"I do not harangue anyone, Raines." He took a sip of coffee. "Ike's
right, you know."

"Oh, Lamar, not you, too!"

"Listen to me, Ben. You've got to listen to me. You talk of the
movement. Ben, you are the movement. I know all the times we've
discussed this. I know all your arguments: Buddy and Tina will take
over, blah, blah, blah. And I know that someday they will have to assume
the lion's share of what you now do. But not yet. The time is not now.
You said it yourself, Ben: we are facing the most crucial time since the
Great War. Now, more than ever before, we need you."

134

It was said with such sincerity, such quiet emotion, Ben sat and stared
at the older man for a moment. "What do you want me to do, Lamar?"

"I can't ask you stay out of the field, Ben. That's in your blood. But
do so with caution. Don't spearhead. Don't lead wild charges. And don't
get careless and let yourself get boxed in somewhere."

Ben slowly nodded his head. "All right, Lamar. I'll rein in my horns. I
won't go looking for a fight, but damned if I'll run from one."

"That's good enough for me, Ben. Go get some sleep. We'll talk more at
breakfast." He smiled. "Fresh eggs and ham."

"That's an invite I'll accept."

Far to the south, Hoffman sat in the darkness of his trailer. He felt he
knew perfectly well what his generals wanted to discuss in a few hours.
The taking of Ben Raines. But Hoffman, even though he was younger than
Raines, and did not have near the experience, was nonetheless a very
intelligent man. He knew that should he, Hoffman, die, his army would
fight on. And so would the Rebels. Perhaps not with the cunning that
Raines possessed, but fight on they would. And he felt that Ben Raines
knew that, too.

Any of Raines' colonels or generals could step in. He knew. He had
studied the dossiers on them all. Dan Gray was a brilliant leader of
men, as was Ike McGowen. General Payon was tough and smart. General
Georgi Striganov, the Russian Bear, was a tough old soldier with years
of experience behind him. The mercenary, West, was as mean as a cornered
panther.

135

Ben's son, Buddy, was fearless in a fight and showed great potential as
a leader.

No, Hoffman concluded, his generals were wrong. Very wrong. But they
were right about one thing: they could not continue to allow the Rebels
to chip away at them. How to stop the bastards and bitches from doing
that had caused Hoffman endless hours of sleeplessness. But there had to
be a way. There just had to be a way.

Hoffman ordered every division to hold their positions and not to
attempt any advance. Every commander in Hoffman's army doubled and
sometimes tripled security on the edges of their perimeters.

Ben ordered his own people to back off and take a wait and see attitude
until after the generals met with Hoffman. It would be interesting to
see what came out of the high-level meeting.

"Gentlemen," Hoffman kicked off the meeting. "Let's face facts. And the
overriding fact is that our eight divisions and Brodermann's short
spear-header division are surrounded by a thin line of Rebels. Now I do
not perceive that as much of a threat; we could punch through at any
time. However, when we do punch through, and we will, Raines will simply
order his northern-based troops to fall back, and realign his forces to
the east, west, and south. We will conquer nothing, because Raines is
destroying everything in his path. We will kill no Rebels, because
Raines will not allow any face-to-face fighting, except on his own
terms. And we all know that is savage surprise ambushing."

He paused and looked at his commanders for a moment. "And we have
learned some hard lessons

136

about ourselves and the Rebels during this short campaign. I myself have
learned that up until we crossed the border, I was an arrogant fool. I
believed that we would just roll over the Rebels and march on to glory.
I said that Texas would be ours in a week. Well, comrades, Texas will be
ours, but it certainly will not be ours in a week, and probably not in
several months. Unless we are very, very careful, Texas could very
easily be our Russian front, our Waterloo, our Dunkirk. If we don't
succeed here, we're finished. Think about that for a moment."

Hoffman waited until the sudden babble of voices had fallen back into
silence. "Gentleman, Raines is not going to fight us on our own terms.
He simply will not do it. And if we continue fighting him, using the
tactics we have thus far practiced, he'll eventually defeat us. Look at
the facts. For every Rebel we've killed, they've killed five hundred of
our people. At least. We thought, I thought, we could occupy the towns
and cities and turn the people against the Rebels. I did not count on
Raines evacuating everybody and relocating them north. And north of the
thirty-sixth parallel he has Rebels training many of those evacuees,
whipping them into an army five or six times our size. That son of a
bitch Raines is the most unpredictable goddamn bastard I have ever
encountered in my life!"

Hoffman stomped to a window and stared out, struggling to regain his
composure. He turned slowly, looking at his men. "Who among us ever
dreamt General Raines could very nearly successfully evacuate an entire
state? That's impossible! But he did it."

Hoffman paced the room like a caged animal, around and around the neatly
aligned chairs.

"Field Marshal," General Timmermann spoke. "Does

137

not that prove what we here maintain? Kill Ben Raines and the movement
dies?"

Hoffman shook his head. "No. It does not. Raines is the driving force.
But the Rebel movement-no, their philosophy-is ingrained. The death of
Ben Raines will not cause the Rebel movement to dissolve. They would
falter for a step or two, and then, I believe, grow even stronger. For
then, Ben Raines would not be a leader, he would be a martyr. I sure as
hell don't want that. Many of the people of the United States who
presently dislike the man would pick up a gun to fight us."

The more Hoffman spoke, the more frustrated he became. He felt like
going away where no one could see him and jumping up and down and
screaming in a temper tantrum. He could not remember ever feeling so
helpless.

Taking a deep breath, he said, "Ben Raines has approximately fourteen
battalions. About eight hundred to a battalion. Eleven thousand men and
women, and those badly outnumbered forces are kicking the shit out of
us!" he screamed the last. "They are doing what tacticians would claim
is impossible."

"We could kidnap his son and daughter," General Schmidt suggested.

"Raines does not negotiate with criminals," General Maihofer said. "And
he would call that a criminal act. Besides, we don't even know their
location."

"Hell," General Kroesen said. "We don't know the location of any of
Raines' people. We send out patrols, they never return. We send up
planes and helicopters, they're shot down. Hunting the Rebels is like
searching for a single ship on the ocean. You know it's there, you just
can't find it."

138

"We had dozens of collaborators in this state," General Schleyer said.
"Feeding us very good information. Raines hanged some of them, shot a
few more, and the others got the message. They now claim to have no
knowledge of anything. The three monkeys personified."

"Take some of them to Colonel Barlach," General Mohnhaupt suggested.
"He'll get whatever is in their heads."

"It would be of no use by the time they were transported to him and he
did his work," Hoffman nixed that. "Raines and his Rebels do not stay
long in any one spot. What we have to worry about is whether our former
spies are now spying on us!"

General Jahn had remained silent thus far. Hoffman met his eyes and
said, "Something on your mind, General Jahn?"

"Break my paratroops up into small, highly mobile guerrilla teams and
drop them far behind enemy lines."

"The planes will be shot down!" General von Hanstein flared.

"Shut up," the tough paratrooper told him, steel in his voice. "I have
that problem all worked out."

General Jose Schmidt then uttered what every person who had ever fought
Ben Raines and the Rebels had said at one time or the other. "I hate
that goddamn Ben Raines."

139

Chapter Twelve

"Our Scouts on the western and eastern fringes of Hoffman's position
report hearing planes go over last night," Corrie told Ben. "They did
not return."

"What do our people at the thirty-sixth parallel report?"

"Nothing. Their radar picked up no air traffic at all."

Ben thought about that for a moment. "How many planes, Corrie?"

"A large number."

"Well, Hoffman is either dropping supplies to the few of his people we
know still remain north of us, but I think that's unlikely. I think he
probably dropped paratroopers north of us, then the planes took a wide
half circle back home and none of our people heard them."

"Somebody down there finally got some brains working," Jersey remarked.
"I was beginning to think this was going to be a piece of cake."

"I knew it was too good to last," Ben said. "All right, Corrie, have
communications alert all our people for impending guerrilla action.
These boys and girls are going to be tough. From what our intell people
have managed

140

to find out, General Jahn is smart, tough, mean, and a damn good
soldier. And you can bet this, too: Jahn jumped in with them. The German
authorities arrested him and kicked him out of the German army just
before the Great War because of his Nazi views. He was an up and coming
career man, too. Only the Great War prevented the Germans from putting
him in prison. But he's a top-notch soldier."

After Corrie had done her work, she turned in her chair and said,
"Speaking of Germany, Thermopolis up at communications is getting some
strange signals in German. He just bumped me about an hour ago. He says
that Germany is now stabilized-kind of like we thought we were in the
States-and the messages are saying something about you to hang on, two
units of GSG 9 are on the way to help us. Therm says he has no idea what
GSG 9 means."

Ben's boots hit the floor and he jumped to his feet. "GSG 9? Hell,
that's Colonel Wegener's old outfit. I think Uwe Dee was commanding
officer when the Great War came. GSG 9 is, or was, a top antiterrorist
unit. You get Therm on the horn and have him find out who's commanding
these units and then have our people in England verify it. Man, oh, man.
I hope these boys are on our side."

"Are they that good, General?" Beth asked.

"They're tops, Beth. Or were. I imagine they still are. Come on, boys,"
Ben urged. "We need all the help we can get."

It did not take Corrie long to determine that the GSG 9 people were for
real and they were on their way to assist Ben and the Rebels. They were
still a few hundred

141

miles off the South Carolina coast, and Ben ordered trucks from Base
Camp One to be there to meet them.

"Who's in command?" he asked.

"A Colonel Lenz is in overall command," Corrie told him. "The battalion
commanders are Major Streicher and Major Dietl."

"So this gives us about two thousand more people, right, General?"
Cooper asked.

Ben smiled. "Well, not ... quite, Coop. I figure about four hundred."

"Four hundred!" Jersey blurted. "But you said two battalions."

"No, I didn't. I said two units. Their combat units consist of two
hundred men per unit ... or at least they used to. But don't worry,
gang. Those four hundred will more than carry their weight."

Ben was silent for a time, standing by a boarded up window, staring out
through the cracks in the warped old boards hastily nailed up years ago.
The old home showed signs of having been involved in several battles
Over the long, bloody years. He turned from the window.

"Corrie, bump Thermopolis on burst and ask him to start contacting other
countries that we know are free of the plague and have stabilized their
governments. We know of several."

"Yes, sir. What are we asking those governments for?"

"Help," Ben said simply.

Hoffman's forces began inching forward, sometimes no more than a mile or
two a day. Ben's people harassed them every inch of the way. But
harassment was

142

not enough to stop them. The Rebels fought hard, but constantly lost
ground, as they were now fighting Hoffman's massive divisional thrusts,
and also guerrilla actions on all sides. General Jahn's tough
paratroopers were popping up and striking all over the place.

The GSG 9 people had landed and were on the way. Poland had responded to
Ben's plea for help and was sending a battalion. The governments of
Denmark, Finland, and Norway were hurriedly putting together a force of
men and equipment. Australia had answered the call and they were sending
a small force of volunteers. Iceland was sending 250 men. Korea was
sending men and equipment. England was sending over a short battalion.
Holland was putting together a small volunteer force of their Royal.
Netherlands Marines Corps.

For the moment, at least, no one else could send anything except
prayers. France had been virtually wiped out by the plague, as had Spain
and several other European countries. But Ben knew that many other
countries around the world were functioning and could send help. For
whatever reasons, they remained silent, not responding at all to the
pleas for help.

"They better get their act together," Ben said grimly. "For if we don't
stop Hoffman here, right here, that Nazi son of a bitch will conquer the
world."

"General," Corrie said, turning from her radio. "Israel has come on
board. They're up to their eyeballs fighting the Arabs, but they're
going to send a small force of paratroopers."

Ben nodded his head. "God knows of all countries they can least afford
to send help. But I felt they would. Anyone else?"

143

"Not yet."

"Tell Thermopolis to keep sending out the call for help."

"Yes, sir."

The next day, Spain came through. They were sending a special force of
their GEO, the Spanish antiterrorist unit.

Ecuador, Peru and Venezuela asked if they could not be of more help by
combining their forces, to try to block Hoffman's supply line from the
south.

"Tell them it would be much appreciated," Ben said.

Beth added it all up. 'Just under five thousand personnel, General."

"There may be more coming," Ben said, rubbing his face. "But don't count
on it."

None of the older Rebels said anything, but Ben knew they were, to a
person, thinking about all the countries America had helped over the
years, countries who now were remaining silent. Some of those countries
were, Ben knew, just simply unable to send any help.. But more than a
few just chose to ignore America's plight.

"You will be remembered," Ben said, a very ugly note to his voice.
"Tattoo that on your arms, assholes."

"Ike on the horn, General."

Ben took the mic.

"You'd better split, Eagle," Ike warned him. "Hoffman's first division
is exactly twenty miles from your location."

Ben sighed in frustration and anger. The Rebels were not accustomed to
retreating. "All right, Shark. We're bugging out now. We'll set up north
of I-20."

Ben turned to Corrie, His team could easily read the

144

anger and despair on his face. "Corrie, order all units to retreat north
of I-20 and regroup there. The rest of you, start packing up."

"Yes, sir," she said softly.

Hoffman was euphoric when the news of the Rebel retreat reached him. He
actually felt like singing and dancing around his office. He had not
conquered all of Texas in a week, as he had boasted he would, but his
people now controlled a large chunk of it. His bubble of euphoria burst
when he was given the rest of the news.

He was stunned silent for a moment. "German troops are coming over to
aid Ben Raines?" Hoffman gulped for air and screamed at the aide.
"German troops will fight against me? I do not believe that. That is
impossible. We are fighting for the Fatherland. They must know that."

"Yes, sir. I'm sure they do," the aide said diplomatically. "But units
of GSG 9 are rapidly approaching what we think is General Raines'
current position."

"There must be some mistake. Surely they are coming to aid us?"

"No, sir. We intercepted messages from the German chancellor. He said we
must be stopped at all costs. Nazism must not be allowed to flourish again."

Hoffman fell back into his chair, his mouth hanging open. He stared at
the young aide for a moment. "That cannot be! It's a lie someone made up!"

"No, Field Marshal. It's true."

"How many German troops?"

"Approximately five hundred, sir."

Hoffman started laughing. "Five hundred? That's ridiculous. Five hundred
troops. That's funny, my friend.

145

Five hundred troops. Oh, thank you. I needed a good rousing laugh."

The aide waited until he had stopped his laughing and was wiping his
eyes with a clean handkerchief. "Also troops are on the way from Poland,
Denmark, Finland, Norway, Australia, Iceland, Korea, England, Holland,
Israel, and Spain."

Hoffman's butt left the chair in a hurry and the aide backed up quickly,
thinking the field marshal was going to jump clear over the desk. "What
the hell did you say?" Hoffman yelled.

"I said troops are on the way from Poland, Den ..."

Hoffman waved him silent. "I heard all that! I'm not deaf. How goddamn
many troops?"

"Our intelligence says that to send less than five divisions would be
useless."

"Five divisions!" Hoffman yelled, his face paling. "Five fucking divisions?"

, "Yes, sir."

Hoffman cleared his throat, composed himself and sat down, smoothing his
hair with his hands. "We are talking of full combat divisions."

"Yes, sir. That is what intelligence thinks."

"That would be approximately one hundred thousand men. Why then, is
Germany sending such a token force?"

"Intelligence thinks they are only an advance team, sir."

"Yes. Yes. That makes sense. Now I want you to leave me. I must think."

The aide left. Happy to do so.

Hoffman leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. So,
he thought. We are once

146

more fighting the world, as Hitler-God rest his glorious soul-did so
many years ago. They are fools to fight us. Fools! This plan that I am
now carrying out was fully planned years before I was born. Victory was
assured me by the very blood that runs through my veins. I cannot fail.
That is not only unthinkable, it is impossible.

He thought for a long time, wrote out a message, then rose and walked to
his communications building. "Order all commanders to halt their advance
immediately. We must prepare for a major assault against us." He handed
the message to the radioman. "This will explain everything. Send this in
code to all commanders. Immediately."

"Yes, sir."

Corrie sat for a moment, trying to make some sense out of the
communiquéjust radioed to her from communications central. It just
didn't make any sense. Finally, she handed her headset to another Rebel
and walked into Ben's office, a room just off what had once been a den
in the old home.

"Makes no sense, General," she said.

Ben rubbed eyes weary from hours of staring at maps. "What doesn't, Corrie?"

"We just decoded this. Hoffman has ordered an immediate halt to all
advances. He has instructed his troops to prepare for a major
counteroffensive by the Rebels."

Ben looked at her for a few seconds, then shook his head in confusion
and disbelief. "Would you repeat that, Corrie."

" 'Rebels being re-enforced by five divisions of troops

147

unfriendly to our goals. Preparing to launch major counteroffensive
against us on all fronts. Stand or die. Heil Hitler.' It's from the
headquarters of Field Marshal Jesus Hoffman."

"Do they know something we don't, Corrie?"

She shrugged her shoulders as the rest of Ben's team gathered around.
"Do you suppose Ike or some of the other commanders sent out false
information?"

"Not without first clearing it with me. I do not understand this at all."

"All our batt comms are requesting orders," Corrie said. "What do I tell
them?"

Ben leaned back in his chair and smiled. "Tell them to mount up. We attack!"

148

Chapter Thirteen

The Rebels punched at Hoffman's lines from all directions, using
mortars, rockets, and light arms. Every Rebel who could carry a rifle
took part. It was hit hard and run like hell. They didn't really inflict
a lot of physical damage, since the majority of Rebels had moved north
of I-20, but the psychological effects on the Black-shirts was significant.

"We have repulsed the first wave!" Generals Schleyer, Maihofer, and
Schmidt proudly radioed to Hoffman. "Our casualties are very light."

But General von Hanstein wasn't buying any of it. He didn't believe Ben
had five divisions coming to his aid. He didn't believe there were five
solid divisions of troops anywhere in the world except for the troops
they were already fighting.

He sent a patrol north of his position to check it out. They reported
seeing only very small bands of Rebels. They guessed they were
Rebels-they couldn't be sure since those they spotted were in no regular
uniform. None of those they saw showed any inclination to stand and
fight. They requested permission to pursue and engage.

149

"Negative," General von Hanstein quickly nixed that. "Return to base."
He got Field Marshall Hoffman's HQ. "This is a ruse, sir," he informed
Hoffman. "I don't know what Raines is doing, but he does not have five
divisions of additional troops. It's some sort of trick."

"Nonsense!" Hoffman snapped. "I shouldn't have to remind you that our
intelligence is the finest in the world. They have been on top of this
situation since the first transmission. You are wrong, General von
Hanstein."

Von Hanstein held his temper and his tongue. He had always been of the
opinion that Field Marshal Hoffman's intelligence people would have
difficulty finding their own asses with both hands and a seeing eye dog.
But he knew better than to argue with Hoffman.

"Yes, sir," von Hanstein said. "As you say, sir." Von Hanstein walked
outside and stood for a moment. "Ben Raines is up to something," he
muttered. "I know you're up to something, Ben Raines. But what?"

Ben didn't know himself until he stood facing a map. Then he started
smiling.

"We're in trouble," Cooper whispered to Jersey. "The general's grinning."

Ben turned around. He smiled at his team. "I have a plan," he said, then
started laughing.

"GSG 9 people are in camp," Corrie said. "And Ike's on the horn and he's
hot."

"Go, Shark," Ben keyed the mic.

"Goddamnit, Eagle!" Ike roared. "You're supposed to be north of I-20 by
now."

"GSG 9 people rolling up, sir," Jersey called, looking out the window.
"They look pretty damn tough to me."

150

"They are," Ben said. "Shark, we're been delayed some. We'll be packed
and on the road within the hour. That's a promise." Ben was careful not
to tell him in what direction they'd be heading, however.

"That's good, Eagle," Ike said. "General von Hanstein is not fifteen
miles from your location."

Ben grinned. "That is a fact, Ike. Yes, indeed. That is a fact. Eagle
out." He stepped outside and shook hands with a smiling Colonel Lenz of
the German GSG 9.

The two men spoke for a moment and Colonel Lenz laughed. "Everyone said
you had more than your share of courage, General Raines," he said. "This
proves them correct. It's a fine plan. Let's do it."

"You've got some memorizing to do, Colonel," Ben said. "We'd best get to
it."

A half hour later, Ben gathered his team around him and laid it all out.
There was just about one minute of silence after Ben had told them what
they were going to do. Jersey finally found her voice and summed up the
feelings of everyone present. "Holy shit!"

Von Hanstein finally but reluctantly followed orders and prepared for an
offensive from the Rebels, spreading his people out along a line east to
west. The easternmost units were side by side with men of the Fifth
Division, the westernmost units talking with personnel from Hoffman's
First Division. Ben and his Rebels, and Colonel Lenz and his GSG 9 men,
all of them now dressed in seized Blackshirt uniforms, with Lenz
spearheading, headed south and just drove right up to the first
checkpoint on Highway 67 and stopped.

"You there!" Colonel Lenz barked at a guard. "We're

151

from General Schleyer's Eighth. We're trying to get to Field Marshal
Hoffman's HQ, with a personal message from General Schleyer and this
idiot driver of mine took the wrong road. Can you help us?"

"Certainly, sir," the guard said. "Just stay on this road for about
twenty more miles. You'll come to Highway 87. Turn west and you'll run
right into the field marshal's HQ. Have you seen any Rebels, sir?"

"We've seen nothing. I think it's a ruse and so does General Schleyer.
But ..." He smiled and shrugged his shoulders. "We are only soldiers,
hey. What can we do?"

"Yes, sir," the sentry said with a grin. "I imagine General von Hanstein
would be glad to talk to you. He shares your views about this so-called
assault. His CP is only a mile past the intersection. He's pretty thin
down there. All our troops have been deployed along this line."

"Certainly, we shall speak with him," Lenz said. "Do call the General
and advise him we are on the way."

The sentry waved them on through. "Heil Hitler!" he stiff-armed.

Lenz forced a smile, returned the stiff-armed salute, and mouthed the
hated words. Then he spat out the window. "Up yours, asshole," he
muttered, when they were past the checkpoint. He grinned at his driver.
"He'd probably shit on himself if he knew he'd been standing this close
to a Jew, Zuckerman."

Zuckerman then proceeded to heap some highly uncomplimentary remarks on
the heads of the Blackshirts and Lenz laughed aloud. Down the road, the
convoy pulled over and he ran back to Ben's vehicle, an armored car
seized from one of many Rebel ambushes

152

of Blackshirts. "That's the hard part," he told Ben. "Von Hanstein will
have fresh coffee and cake waiting for us."

"I can't believe that sentry didn't smell a rat," Ben said. "We're not
exactly a small force."

"I must admit, I was a bit apprehensive. You ready?"

"Let's do it."

Lenz chuckled. "If we pull this off, it'll send this Hoffman bastard
spinning right through the ceiling."

Von Hanstein stood for a moment after receiving the message from the
checkpoint. Something bothered him about this. Why did this officer take
the northern route instead of the much safer southern route? "Oh, well,"
he finally muttered. "Make fresh coffee, Carlos," he told a Blackshirt.
"Company is on the way from Schleyer's Eighth."

The sergeant paused and narrowed his eyes. "From a hundred and twenty
five miles east of us, sir?" he questioned. "At this time of high alert?"

"Odd, isn't it, Carlos?" von Hanstein said softly. "Ah! I have it. The
party must have set out long before the alert. That's it."

"Yes, sir. I'm sure that's it." But the sergeant was far from convinced
as he set about making fresh coffee and laying out cookies and small
pastries. Something about this just didn't feel right to him. His duties
done, he checked his sidearm and made certain his rifle was close at hand.

Carlos looked outside. Not enough men, he thought. The camp is nearly
deserted. General Raines is crazy enough to do something this daring ...
Bah! He shook his head and pushed those thoughts from him. The guards at
the checkpoint would not have allowed the convoy through if anything had
seemed out of the ordinary.

153

You're letting your imagination run away with you, he silently
admonished himself.

"Sergeant Rogillo!" the voice broke into his thoughts.

Carlos looked up. "Sir?" he said to a lieutenant.

"Daydreaming, Sergeant?" the lieutenant asked, a smile on his lips.

"I ... ah, guess so, Lieutenant," Carlos admitted, red-faced.

"That's not like you. What's the matter?"

"Nothing, sir. Nothing at all."

"Be alert then. We don't want a bad report going back to General
Schleyer, now, do we?"

"No, sir." On this last day of his life, Carlos busied himself setting
out cups and saucers.

General von Hanstein sat in his office, behind his field desk and
drummed his fingertips on the wood. He again read the message. Odd that
the officer did not give his name. Perhaps he should give General
Schleyer a call? He opened his mouth to call for an aide, then sighed
and shut his mouth. What was he thinking of? Schleyer would think him a
fool!

He rose and walked into his communications room. "Have there been any
further attacks from the Rebels? Anywhere along the front?"

"Just a few skirmishes, sir. Nothing of any significance."

Something is wrong, von Hanstein thought, returning to his office.
Something is very, very wrong.

Sergeant Carlos Rogillo had gone to communications and spoken with the
guard at the checkpoint. The guard had been very indignant. Of course,
he was certain the men were from the Eighth. He'd recognized Sergeants
Zimmerman and Rozas. And the colonel was SS.

154

SS, Carlos mulled that around. SS? No way. Why would an SS colonel be
acting as a messenger boy? Those turds thought themselves to be above
such mundane tasks. Especially a colonel. Carlos felt eyes on him and
turned, looking at Major Schlosser, looking at him.

"What's the matter with you, Sergeant?" the major asked. "Your behavior
is quite odd."

"I ..." The sounds of approaching vehicles cut off his reply.

Major Schlosser waved him silent.

General von Hanstein stepped out of his office, straightening his tunic.

"SS troops, sir," Lieutenant Bachman said. "A lot of SS troops."

"SS?" von Hanstein said. "That explains a few things. Those arrogant
bastards think they're invincible. That's why they took the northern
route. Showboating. Do you recognize any of them, Hans?"

Hans Bachman peered out the freshly cleaned window of the old farmhouse.
He shook his head. "I ... I'm not sure. I think I know this colonel,
sir. I mean, I've seen him around."

"Show them in," von Hanstein said, then walked back into his office.
"Bring them to me." He'd be damned if he'd grovel to a colonel, even if
he was one of those goddamned SS people.

Boots sounded on the porch.

Sergeant Carlos Rogillo opened the front door for Major Schlosser to
greet the visiting troops. The major stepped out, smiling. Carlos
stepped to one side and looked around the Major. There were women in
this group. That's odd, he thought. The SS did have women in its ranks,
but they were usually office personnel. The

155

colonel and his senior officers were probably making a lark of this
trip, carrying their personal cunts along with them. That's usually what
those perverted SS females were used for. All of them were twisted in
some deviant manner. Carlos looked for a familiar face. He knew Sergeant
Zimmerman. He couldn't find him in the milling crowd. Odd, the SS troops
seemed to be taking up a loose defensive position. Paranoid bunch of
bastards.

Carlos turned around and walked to his desk, automatically straightening
his uniform. Like most regular troops, he was slightly afraid of the SS.
They just were not normal people.

"Good afternoon, Colonel," Major Schlosser said. "Please come in. You
must be tired. After you've freshened up, we have coffee and cake."

"Danke, Colonel," Lenz said with a smile.

Schlosser stepped to one side. The man behind the colonel seemed somehow
familiar to him. Tall, with a lot of gray in his hair. Hard mean eyes,
too. Old for a major. Probably fifty. The man stared directly at him and
Schlosser was suddenly very uncomfortable under the hard gaze.

He was only seconds away from becoming a whole lot more uncomfortable.
For a very brief period of time.

Colonel Lenz and Ben Raines stepped past Schlosser and entered the
command post.

General von Hanstein looked up from his desk, stared at the tall major,
and felt the blood drain from his face. "That's Ben Raines!" he screamed.

Jersey gave Major Schlosser a burst in the belly from her H&K and the
slugs knocked the major backward. Sergeant Carlos Rogillo grabbed for
his pistol and Major Dietl shot him through the heart. Carlos fell across

156

the pastry table and died with his face on a cookie platter.

General von Hanstein felt the muzzle of a .45 not too gently touch the
side of his face. He cut his eyes and stared into the face of Ben Raines.

"Welcome to Texas," Ben said. "You asshole!"

157

Chapter Fourteen

The battle for the headquarters of General von Hanstein was very short
and very brutal. The Rebels and the GSG 9 men took only a few prisoners,
General von Hanstein among them. The (Rebels and the GSG 9 personnel
gathered up all the weapons, ammo, and food, loaded up the beds of
trucks, and took off, heading south. The radio operator had been killed
in the first burst of gunfire, so it was doubtful he managed to get off
any messages ... but Ben wasn't going to take any chances.

"We'd never make it by heading north," he told Colonel Lenz. "So we head
south and cut east once past Austin, then cut north once we're clear of
Schleyer's Eighth Division lines. I've marked maps in case we get
separated."

"And if we meet enemy long the way?" Colonel Lenz inquired, a hard glint
in his eyes. The commander of the German troops liked the way Ben Raines
fought a war.

Ben smiled. "Why ... I guess we'll just have to engage them, won't we?"

158

The two men laughed, shook hands, and ran to their vehicles.

General von Hanstein, trussed up like a pig, lay in the bed of a deuce
and a half. He glowered at everyone who came near him, and refused to
speak a word.

"They've discovered the camp," Corrie told Ben, monitoring on a
Blackshirt radio. "Hoffman's ordered a full-scale search underway
immediately. He's ordered planes up."

"Head straight for the ruins of San Antonio," Ben said. "They'll never
expect us to do that. We can't make it tonight, but we can make this
state park a few miles down the road and camouflage the vehicles. The
roads are in too bad a shape to try running at night without lights.
Step on it, Coop."

The convoy made the old overgrown state park, hurriedly camouflaged
their trucks and armored cars, and settled in for a very tense night.

"Do we bump Therm and tell him where we are?" Corrie asked.

"Negative. No transmissions of any kind. No fires, no smoking. Cold
camp. We just sit tight and silent."

"Ike is going to be screaming and climbing the walls," Corrie reminded Ben.

"Good," Ben said, opening a field ration packet and smelling it before
tasting it. "Maybe he'll lose some weight." '

Ike McGowan wasn't the only one screaming and climbing the walls. Field
Marshal Hoffman was having a temper tantrum. Hitler would have been
proud. Between violent fits of temper, which included breaking

159

glasses, cups, and one very old bottle of brandy, Hoffman ordered a
replacement commanding general in to take over von Hanstein's division,
a massive air and land search underway, the sentry who let the Rebels
and the GSG 9 men through put up against a wall and shot, and then a
bottle of aspirin and two tranquilizers. When he finally managed to calm
down, he called a meeting of his staff officers. None of whom were
looking forward to the meeting.

"The few wounded the Rebels missed during their coup de grace said many
of the attackers spoke German," Hoffman told his people in a
surprisingly calm voice. "That means the GSG 9 people have linked up
with Raines. The goddamn filthy traitors. The wounded also heard General
von Hanstein scream out Ben Raines's name from his office. They also
confirm that General von Hanstein was taken prisoner. Thrown into the
back of a truck. The nerve of that bastard Raines. Taking a small force
deep into our territory and carrying out a successful raid."

Before he could continue, an aide rushed into the room and handed him a
slip of paper, then quickly departed before Hoffman could read the radio
message and once more fly into a fit of rage.

Hoffman read the message and barely managed to contain his anger. He
took several deep breaths and composed himself. He said, "At least a
full division of Ecuadorian, Peruvian, and Venezuelan troops have closed
our highway supply routes. Those supplies that we were expecting will
not arrive. The convoy was ambushed and all supplies seized. There were
no survivors. All supplies will have to be flown in from this point on."
He was silent for a time. "The world seems to be

160

massing against us," he said finally, his words softly spoken. "But we
expected that. All right. I anticipated something of this nature. I will
shift Eighth Division down to guard the airport and roads around what is
left of San Antonio. Supplies will be flown into there and trucked out
into the field. Eighth Division will also have the responsibility of
providing guards for the supply convoys. From this moment on, we are in
no rush. We advance daily, but we do so slowly and carefully."

"Then we are standing down from our defensive positions?" a staff
officer asked cautiously, knowing the question had to be posed.

"Yes," Hoffman said, no anger in his reply. "I overreacted and will
admit it."

"What about the message we received from the commander of Base Camp
One?" Hoffman was asked.

Cecil had sent word that Hoffman could, under the terms agreed to
earlier, freely and safely staff hospitals within the boundaries of what
used to be Louisiana- and was now a neutral zone-but under no
circumstances would he allow any SS troops to be treated in that area.
He had issued orders that any and all SS troops were to be shot on
sight, no matter what their physical condition might be.

Hoffman merely shrugged at that. "We will provide care for our elite
troops. We do not need the protection of a neutral zone for them. The
Rebels in the field will not attack a hospital. General Cecil Jefferys's
orders came as no surprise. Considering what he is. All combat troops
will stay out of the neutral zone."

Hoffman met the eyes of his staff officers. "Let's return to the matter
of Ben Raines. That son of a bitch!"

161

Ben and his command, deep in enemy territory, hit the small patrol of
Blackshirts very swiftly and very hard. The five vehicle patrol had made
the mistake of entering the old state park. It was their last mistake.
Five rockets from Armbrust launchers turned the trucks into blazing
death traps. Within seconds the Rebels and the GSG 9 personnel had put
out the flames so the smoke would not be seen and had dragged away the
searingly hot rubble, the bodies entombed forever in the twisted and
melted metal.

"For years I have heard of Ben Raines and the Rebels," Major Streicher
said to Ben, as they sat in the darkness of the cold camp. "At first we
thought it was just a rumor. Then rumor became fact as more and more
countries-splintered and torn as they may be- began adopting the Rebel
philosophy. Those countries who are sending troops here are now
virtually free of crime and are rapidly rebuilding their societies.
Those who have not adopted the Rebel way are nothing but raging battle
zones. They will have to be dealt with at some future point. By us."

"I'm afraid you're right," Ben agreed, grimacing as the night breeze
picked up and brought with it the odor of freshly charred human flesh.
"That is, providing we manage to knock the blocks from under Hoffman and
his Nazis."

The major smiled in the night. "Oh, we will, General. All of us sensed
that the moment we met you and your people. Your movement is
unstoppable. We might die, but the movement will live on."

162

"Ike's raising hell, General," Corrie said, walking up. "He's getting
everybody else all worked up, too."

"Let him holler," Ben said, wishing he had a hot cup of coffee and a
smoke to go with it. "We'll bump him as soon as we're clear of this box
we're in. I don't even want to risk a burst. The damn Blackshirts are
all around us. They could get lucky."

"This General Ike McGowan," Colonel Lenz said. "Will he send out rescue
patrols?"

"No," Ben said quickly. "He'll bluster and beller but that's just for my
benefit. He's letting me know how he feels about my taking chances."

"He's right, you know?" Colonel Lenz said softly.

Ben chuckled good-naturedly. "My God! You and Ike are going to hit it
off famously."

At first light, Hoffman's troops began their slow northern advance along
seven fronts. There was little the Rebels could do to stop them. Ben had
ordered his heavy artillery moved north and hidden. For every big gun
and battle tank the Rebels had, Hoffman had thirty. The Rebels just
could not stand toe to toe with the Blackshirts and slug it out. Not
yet. They had to wear them down, little by little.

Ben and his command pulled out, heading east and staying on little used
county roads, getting lost more than once, for many of the roads were
not on any map. Dusk found them camped along the banks of a large creek
or a small river-none of them were sure about that.

"I think it's the Blanco," Cooper said, looking at a

163

map. "This road is not marked. If it is, we've got to cross Interstate
35 tomorrow."

"And we know from radio intercepts that Hoffman is shifting his Eighth
Division over to San Antonio," Jersey added. "We might run into them."

"I think we'd better stay right where we are," Ben ended that
discussion. "We've got good cover and water. In a couple of days we'll
be in the clear. Stand down, gang." i

Forward people both saw and heard Hoffman's Eighth Division on their way
southwest to San Antonio. And it was a massive movement. At noon of the
third day's hiding, the recon teams reported no more movement of troops
and equipment. The highways were silent and empty.

"Let's go, people," Ben ordered. "We'll be in the clear in two hours."

Luck was with them and two hours later, they were rolling up 77, big and
bold as brass, heading for Waco ... or what was left of it.

"According to these reports," Major Dietl said. "Hoffman's Seventh
Division is only a few miles to our west."

"Sure," Colonel Lenz said with a smile. "That's why General Raines is
taking this route. Who would think to look for us here?"

Dietl grinned and shook his head. "Working with the general is going to
be interesting."

"To say the least."

The words had just left his mouth when the words of forward Scouts
screamed into Corrie's ears. "Gunships heading south. Following the
highway."

"Over there," Ben said, pointing to the ruins of a

164

small town. "Duck in between those buildings. Order Stingers readied."

As she always did, Beth had slipped on another headset and was
monitoring the frequencies used by Hoffman. "They're calling in our
position now, General," she said.

Cooper pulled into an old service station. The gloom was comforting.

"The choppers are beginning a slow circle, General," Corrie said, after
speaking with forward recon. "Staying out of range of SAMs."

"I wondered when Hoffman's boys and girls would smarten up," Ben said,
getting out of the armored car and stretching. "Well, we can expect some
sort of company pretty damn quick. What kind of gunships are they, Corrie?"

"Scouts don't know. Say they've never seen anything like them. But they
resemble our Apaches. They say the firepower looks awesome. But the
choppers are not making any hostile moves. They are staying well away
from the Scouts position, maintaining a slow circle."

"Dig in for a fight," Ben ordered. "We can't move from here. Those
gunships would cut us to pieces."

Corrie was calmly setting up her radio, Jersey was standing in the open
door of the service part of the old filling station, Cooper was checking
out his M-60 machine gun, and Beth had taken up a position at the rear
of the building. Other Rebels had spread out up and down the ruins of
the small street. Stingers were readied in case the circling gunships of
Hoffman did come into range.

Men of the GSG 9 had quickly appraised the layout of the town and taken
positions without having to be

165

told. In less than three minutes, the town appeared to be deserted.

"Blackshirt units are on the way," Corrie said. "From the north, west,
and south."

Ben nodded his head and checked his Thompson, then checked his
side-arms. "How many of them?"

"Too damn many," Corrie replied. "And coming as fast as road conditions
allow."

Ben smiled at her initial reply.

Cooper unwrapped a candy bar from a ration packet and took a bite.
Jersey popped a fresh stick of gun into her mouth. She glanced at Ben.
He winked at her and Jersey laughed and signaled thumbs-up. Beth was
laying out thirty round clips of .223 ammo for easy reach.

"Colonel Lenz reports his men are in position," Corrie said. "Recon
staying in place and asking if there is a way to get a Stinger to them?"

"Negative," Ben told her. Ben walked around the shop area a couple of
times. He stopped and said, "Corrie? Now you can bump our people and
tell them where we are and that we just might be in a little bit of
trouble."

Jersey rolled her eyes at that, then grinned and said, "And tell them if
they want to get in on the action they'd better hurry. We're about to
kick Nazi ass all over the place."

166

Chapter Fifteen

Hoffman was ecstatic as he studied the huge wall map of Texas. He could
not hide his wide smile. He actually felt like dancing. He controlled
that unseemly urge and rubbed his hands together and chuckled. "We have
that arrogant rogue bastard now," he gloated, for he had correctly
anticipated what route Ben might take back north. "He cannot slip out of
this box. Shift units of the Seventh Division north and south of
Raines's location to prevent Rebels from coming to his aid. I want
gunships up immediately to cover the area east of his position. Nail the
lid down tight. Now, General Ben Raines. Now, I have you." He turned to
face an aide. 'Just as soon as all troops and gunships are in position,
kill that son of a bitch. Blow that damn town to bloody splinters and dust."

The staff officers surrounding Hoffman all applauded at the brilliance
of their field Marshal. He accepted the loud accolade with modesty.

"Corrie, belay the message to our people. Maintain radio silence.
Cooper, pass the word: Take two day's rations,

167

as much ammo as each person can comfortably carry, and leave everything
else. We were using Black-shirt vehicles so let's leave some presents
behind with them."

Cooper grinned and nodded his head in understanding. The vehicles would
be booby-trapped.

"Split up into four or five person teams and head for the river bed and
work east toward the Brazos. But don't try to follow the river north.
They'll be expecting that. Keep working east until we reach our units
along I-45. Do it right now. Move, Coop. And get back here quickly.
Let's get our shit together, gang. We've got to bug out. I have a
feeling Hoffman is going to use heavy artillery on this old town."

Teams began exiting the town within a minute. Ben's team waited, knowing
they would be the last to leave.

"I must insist that you leave now, General," Colonel Lenz told Ben.

"Take off, Colonel," Ben said with a smile. "Godspeed."

Lenz gripped Ben's shoulder for a moment, then saluted. "We'll take
General von Hanstein with us."

Ben nodded. "If he gets to be too much trouble, shoot the son of a bitch."

Lenz laughed. "It will be my pleasure to do so, General." The German GSG
9 commander was gone at a silent run.

"And so once more, it is with regret that we leave a lovely scenic
spot," Beth said straight-faced. "What a delightful time we've had here."

Even though Beth was not prone to wisecracking, ever since she had seen
an old travelogue tape she had

168

mimicked the announcer whenever they got into a tight spot.

"Make a note in your diary to return here someday," Ben said with a smile.

"Hell, there won't be anything left in an hour," Beth replied.

"Or less," Ben added.

"That's it," Corrie announced, taking off her headphones and slipping
into the straps of the back-pack radio. "We're alone. All teams have gone."

"Bug-out time," Ben said, looking at Cooper. He was just finishing his
booby-trapping of the armored car. "Did you leave a nice surprise for
them, Coop?"

"They'll get a bang out of it."

Jersey groaned at the old joke.

"Let's go, gang," Ben said.

They slipped out and headed for the river. Ben's piece of a map did not
give a name for the stream. It was the San something; that part of the
map was creased over and not legible. Ben's team had not gone half a
mile before the artillery barrage started. They paused and looked back
as the old town exploded.

"Another fifteen minutes and we'd have been chopped meat," Jersey said.

"Speaking of meat," Cooper said.

"You're always hungry, Coop," Ben said. "Come on. It's hours before we
can stop for that."

"I'll die of starvation!"

"You'll get shot in the ass by me if you don't move," Jersey warned him.

Cooper took one look at Jersey and moved right out. Smartly, as the
British say.

The four Scouts had left their forward positions and

169

moved out first, under orders from Colonel Lenz. He told them to head
for the river fast, like bunny rabbits, and stay there until they linked
up with their General and stay with him. He didn't have to tell them he
was doing that without Ben's notice. They guessed that.

A mile from town, Beth spotted the Scouts waiting for them. "Don't fuss
at them, General," she said. "I bet you Colonel Lenz ordered them to
link up with us."

"You're probably right." Ben waved at the Scouts to take the lead and
they set a route step that was not uncomfortably fast, but covered a lot
of ground. The small group held to cover as much as possible, avoiding
open fields.

Ben was the first to hear the unmistakable whapping of rotor blades.
"Down!" he called. "Choppers."

Corrie was listening intently to her earphones. "Teams have been
spotted," she said, lying beside Ben. "Hoffman knows we bugged out."

"We're in for it now," Ben replied. "He'll be throwing everything he's
got at us."

"We're spotted!" Beth shouted, listening to the Black-shirt's frequency.

"He'll be coming in for a strafing run," Ben called, watching the
chopper begin a slow turn. "Good God, look at the armament on that damn
thing."

Then the helicopter disintegrated in the air as a Rebel Stinger, fired
from a hidden Rebel team about a half a mile away impacted against it.
Metal parts and body parts were flung in all directions and the ball of
fire fell out of the sky and crashed to earth.

"Let's go!" Ben shouted, jumping to his feet. "Head for that stand of
timber."

Reaching the timber and pausing to catch their

170

breath, the small band of Rebels listened for the sounds of more
choppers. None came.

"Probably a lone wolf," Ben said, after taking a small sip of tepid
water from his canteen. "You picking up any enemy chatter, Beth?"

"Negative."

Corrie didn't mention that Ike and other Rebel commanders were raising
hell about Ben's disappearance and continuing silence. Ben already knew
that.

"Let's cover some ground while we can."

By nightfall, they had put the destroyed town far behind them. They ate
cold rations and Ben told them to get some rest. He had some thinking to do.

Should they move on? That just might be a dandy way to get seriously
dead by the guns of their own people. Before they had bugged out of the
little town, passwords had been chosen: Alamo and Bowie. But with very
nervous trigger fingers, there might not be time for words.

Ben slept for a few hours and then roused the others. "We'll chance it.
Let's move out. Everybody remember the challenge? OK. Heads up."

They had not gone a thousand yards before the point man dropped down,
the others following.

The point Scout silently wriggled back to the main body. "Blackshirts,"
he whispered. "Looks like a big bunch of them."

"Go around them," Ben said. "To the east. Coop, pass the word. Anybody
makes a noise, we're all dead."

It took them nearly half an hour of slow and silent moving, being very
careful where they put a boot down. By the time the Rebels had worked
their way clear of

171

the Blackshirt encampment, the smell of nervous sweat was becoming sharp
in the surprisingly cool night.

A mile away, behind them, hard gunfire splintered and fractured the
night. A few hundred yards in front of them, sudden movement and the
sounds of boots hitting the ground flattened the Rebels out, still and
silent, hearts thudding heavily. Sharp commands came to them and then a
Blackshirt patrol came running past, heading for the gunfire. They were
running so close all the Rebels could feel the impact of boots upon the
earth.

"Move out," Ben whispered. "Straight east. These sons of bitches are all
around us." He didn't have to add "be careful."

A hour later, the Rebels came to a tiny creek, the water no more than a
few inches deep, and took time out to splash cold water on their faces.

"Where in the shit are we?" Cooper whispered.

"Alive," Jersey told him.

They walked on. They were bone tired and nerve-taut, but each careful
step put them that much further away from enemy territory.

Just before dawn, during a much needed rest period, Beth suddenly perked
up, sniffed, and asked, "What's that smell, General?"

"The river. I smelled it a few minutes ago. That's why I called this
break. I want to wait until light to look it over. I think we're clear.
I think I know where we are. If it hasn't been blown, there should be a
bridge about two miles to the east of here."

"I sure could use some hot food, clean socks, and a bath," Cooper said.

"The bath, I certainly agree with," Jersey stuck it to

172

him. "But stay close, you smell so bad you're keeping the mosquitoes away."

"You're just too kind to me, Jersey," Cooper popped back, putting a hand
on her knee. "I always knew that deep down you really cared."

Jersey looked down at the hand on her leg. "I'll break it, Cooper."

He removed his hand. Quickly.

"Sleep," Ben put an end to the harmless bantering that had been going on
between the two for years. "All of you. I'll stand first watch."

The team slept until the warm rays of light filtering through the trees
woke them. They looked around. Ben was gone.

The first team to have bugged out of the town had reached a Rebel patrol
and reported. Ike had flown in to where Ben was supposed to have been, a
few miles north of I-20, and was studying a wall map.

"If they made it through all those patrols and gun-ships," he said, "I
figure they should be at the river by now. We know there are Blackshirts
east of the river, but only in very small patrols. We have more patrols
working there than they do."

"Settle down, Ike," Dr. Chase told him. "If anything had happened to
Ben, one of his team would have radioed in. You know that."

"Unless the whole team was whacked," Ike said grimly. "And we've got to
consider that." He started pacing the floor and cussing.

"I swear to God, Ike," Chase said. "If you don't settle

173

down, I'm going to tranquilize you. And with a butt like yours, I
couldn't miss with the needle."

Ike tried to look hurt. He couldn't pull it off. "I'll have you know
I've lost a few pounds, Doc."

"Well, you found them again. Sit down, Ike!"

Ike stopped his pacing and sat down. Chase poured him half a glass of
bourbon. "This was found buried a couple of days ago. Several cases of
it. I can't think of a better time to get loose. Drink up, Ike. Ben will
make it. He always has."

"Luck has a bad habit of running out on a man, Lamar. And Ben's been
doing this for a long time. Too long, I'm thinking."

"I stopped trying to get him out of the field entirely a long time ago.
He'll die in the field, Ike. You know it, and I know it."

"Yeah," Ike said softly and cut his eyes to the silent field telephone
on the desk.

Hoffman had been in a blue funk since his troops had found no bodies in
the rubble of the old town. That elusive son of a bitch Raines had
slipped out like a silent snake. Hoffman had poured twenty thousand
troops into that area and still Raines had slipped away. It was quite
impossible, of course. But Raines had certainly done it.

Incredible. The man and his Rebels moved like ghosts and fought like
possessed demons. And obviously they took General von Hanstein with
them. They would probably torture him. Poor von Hanstein. He would have
the divisional chaplain hold a service for him. Yes. That would be the
Christian thing to do. And Jesus

174

Hoffman certainly considered himself to be a Christian man. He went to
mass every Sunday. And didn't he have the good of everyone in mind?
Certainly he did. It was just that some people were born to lead and
others were born to serve. Or be exterminated. Hoffman didn't consider
that unchristian at all.

An aide knocked and entered. Hoffman looked up. "What is it, Lieutenant?"

"That fellow up in Mississippi and Alabama, Moi Sambura? He wishes to
speak with you on the radio, sir."

A grimace passed over the fine Christian features of Field Marshal
Hoffman. "I thought the Rebels were jamming all their frequencies?"

"They have stopped. Momentarily, I'm sure."

Hoffman rose to his boots. "Oh, very well. I wonder what that damn
nigger wants now?"

175

BOOK TWO

176

177

Chapter One

The Constitution preserves the advantage of being armed which Americans
possess over the people of almost every other nation ... where the
governments are afraid to trust the people with arms.

-James Madison

"What are you listening to, Corrie?" Ben asked.

"Some interesting exchanges between Hoffman and that nut that General
Jefferys hates so, Moi Samburu. You want to listen?"

"No," Ben said. "You can tell me the gist of it after those two clowns
stop their babbling." Ben paused in the rolling of a cigarette. "I
thought Moi was being jammed?"

"I got a burst from Base Camp One about five minutes ago. General
Jefferys ordered the jamming stopped for a time so he could find out
what Moi is up to."

"Good idea." Ben lit up and watched Corrie take notes of the
conversation between the Nazi and the nut.

Ben and team were about fifteen hundred yards from a bridge that spanned
the Brazos, the Rebels hidden

178

amid the thick vegetation. So far, Scouts had reported no signs of life
on the other side, but Ben was not convinced. If they were caught under
fire while crossing that bridge, it would be over for them. Rainfall had
been heavy and the river was up.

Corrie rolled her eyes and grimaced. Ben smiled. Moi must really be on a
verbal rampage. Back before the war he was an extreme militant who
advocated and preached loudly that blacks should declare war and kill
all whites. Just as Wink Payne hated all blacks and wanted them all
dead. Now they were both aligned with Hoffman against the Rebels.
Neither man had enough sense to understand that if the Rebels were
defeated, Hoffman would turn on them and kill them both. It was, as Ben
had said before, a very unholy alliance. Not to mention very unstable.
Both Moi and Wink possessed unpredictable and volatile personalities.
Ben had hoped for several years now that they would meet and kill each
other. No such luck.

Corrie sighed and removed her headset. "Moi and Wink have had a major
falling-out. Moi wants to attack Wink's position and Wink wants to
declare war on all blacks. Hoffman told both of them to maintain peace
or he'd send troops in to be sure it was done."

Ben was reflective for a moment, then he smiled. "Now that is
interesting. When we get out of this hole we're in, we'll just have to
see if we can agitate them both a little bit."

"Rebels coming in!" a lookout passed the word. "About forty of them."

A half a dozen teams of Rebels and GSG 9 troops, all looking weary and
bedraggled entered the camp. Ben stood up and shook hands with Major Dietl.

179

"It certainly is good to see you alive and well, General," the major
said with a smile. "It's been a rather dicey couple of days."

"It has for a fact," Ben agreed. "Sit down and rest. Eat. We'll cross
over just as soon as I'm sure we're not walking into an ambush."

Major Dietl sank to the ground with a sigh of relief.

A Scout walked into the encampment. "Barry's back, General. He said it
was an easy swim. He says it's clean on the other side."

"Easy swim for him," Ben said with a smile. "He's Ike-trained. He's got
web-feet and gills. All right, Paul. Take your Scouts across and cover
the other side for us. We'll be along presently."

"Right, sir."

The Scouts secured the east end of the bridge while Ben and the others
packed up their meager supplies and began the crossing. They marched for
another ten miles and saw no signs of human life. They passed only a few
deserted farms; most had been destroyed by the retreated Rebels. Ben had
left precious little for Hoffman's army.

Ben called a halt and told Corrie to start sending out very short coded
messages. "Let's see what we get in reply."

They got nearly every team that had bugged out of the old town. The
teams were all within a five mile range of each other.

"Tell them to start heading north," Ben said, pointing to a spot on the
map. "We'll link up there."

Cecil had Rebel personnel on the Texas-Louisiana border and intercepted
the coded messages. He sent word to Ike and planes were waiting on the
small strip

180

when Ben and his group arrived. Two hours later they were back in Ben's
CP just north of I-20.

"Where you worried about me, Ike?" Ben asked with a smile, removing his
filthy shirt and tossing it aside.

"Not a damn bit," Ike said stiffly. "I'm tired of worryin' about you."

Ben laughed at him and Ike exploded. He outlined, for the umpteenth
time, all the reasons why Ben should stay out of the field and start
acting more like a commanding general. Lamar Chase came in and sat down,
after pouring himself a cup of coffee. He listened and chuckled
occasionally at Ike's antics. He knew that Ike's words were bouncing off
Ben like water off a duck.

Finally, Ben, showered and shaved and dressed in clean clothing, looked
at Ike. With a bland expression on his face, Ben said, "I'm sorry. Were
you speaking to me, Ike?"

Ike stood sputtering and stammering and flapping his arms like a fat
bear. He finally stalked out of the room, muttering about associating
with crazy people. He slammed the door behind him.

"You going to lecture me, too, Lamar?"

"Nope," the doctor said. "It wouldn't do any good, would it?"

"Not a bit."

"So our little talk of a few weeks ago is right out the window, huh, Ben?"

"Not entirely, Lamar. But if I see that my taking a chance will
accomplish something, I think it's worth the risk. You want to argue that?"

"No." The doctor was strangely quiet.

"Are you sick?"

Lamar smiled and shook his head. "No. Just glad

181

you're back, Ben." He lifted his coffee mug in a salute in Ben's
direction, then left the room.

"What the hell's wrong with him?" Jersey blurted.

"He's getting mellow in his old age, I suppose. Have our spooks gotten
any information out of von Hanstein?"

"Nothing that we didn't already know," Beth said, her hair still damp
from the shower. "I talked to one of those weirdos from intelligence,
and it's like we thought all along: Hoffman doesn't really have much of
a plan. The spook thought von Hanstein was telling the truth."

"Beth, you make damn sure the general is not physically harmed. Some of
our people are certain to be taken prisoner, and I want to be able to
have something to swap ... unharmed."

"Field Marshal Jesus Hoffman on the horn, General," Corrie said.

"No kidding?"

"No kidding, sir."

"I'11 be damned," Ben said, taking the seat Corrie just vacated for him.
He keyed the mic. "This is Ben Raines."

"General Raines," Hoffman's voice sprang into Ben's ears. "This is Field
Marshal Hoffman. I believe you have one of my generals."

"That I do."

"He is an old and dear friend of mine, General."

"General von Hanstein has not been harmed nor will he be, Field Marshal.
I expect the same treatment to be accorded should any of my personnel be
taken prisoner."

"I assure you that will be the case."

"Thank you."

182

"Now, then, General Raines. Shall we discuss the release of General von
Hanstein?"

"Oh, I think not, Field Marshal. Von Hanstein is really quite
comfortable here and we have many, many things to discuss."

"He will tell you absolutely nothing, General." Hoffman's tone turned a
bit cooler, losing some of its geniality. Ben felt all that buddy-buddy
crap was forced anyway. "Not even under torture."

"Field Marshal, I have no intention whatsoever of torturing von
Hanstein. He is in comfortable, if not lavish quarters. He is eating the
same food we are, and except for some sore feet from all that walking we
did bugging out of that little town before you starting shelling it,
your general is in fine shape." Ben chuckled and that seemed to
infuriate Hoffman. Ben heard his sharp intake of breath.

Hoffman's tone turned to ice. "You cannot win, General. Your position is
quite unenviable. I assure you of that."

"Oh? That's news to me, Field Marshal." Ben smiled and winked at his
team. In order for them all to hear, he had turned on the speaker and
cut the volume low to prevent feedback. "Seems to me like my people have
been kicking your goose-stepping ass all over the place."

Hoffman almost lost it at that. Ben could practically feel the hate
coming over the airwaves. Hoffman took several deep breaths and said,
"You will live to regret that remark, General Raines."

"I doubt it, Hoffman." Ben dropped all pretense of formality, since
neither of them meant any of it. "But I will tell you something I really
believe: this just might be the end for both of us."

183

Hoffman was silent for a time. Then he sighed. "All right. I will admit
that has crossed my mind. But it does not have to be, General."

"I don't much care for any of the options you're about to present me,
Field Marshal."

"Surely you recognize I represent the master race?"

Ben laughed. "The master race. You've got to be kidding. You're just
like the rest of us, Hoffman. All mixed up. You've got German, Spanish,
Indian, and no telling what else coursing through your veins. Where do
you come off with this master race crap?"

"I think, General, that you are trying to bait me," Hoffman replied,
avoiding the question. "You know exactly what I mean."

"This conversation is beginning to bore me, Field Marshal. It's just
about time for dinner, and I'm hungry. Is there anything else on your mind?"

"Your arrogance will defeat you, General Raines." Hoffman could scarcely
keep his anger in check. He was so angry his voice trembled, for he had
radioed on an open frequency and knew that thousands of people-
including many of his own-were listening to the exchange. And he was not
making a very good showing. "I will bury you all!"

"A Russian leader said pretty much the same thing, decades ago," Ben
reminded the Nazi leader. "He was wrong, and so are you. You might kill
me, Hoffman, but the Rebel movement will go on, and eventually, be
victorious. You don't have much sense, but I think you have enough to
know that."

Hoffman lost it. He exploded in anger and started cursing Ben, in
German, Spanish, and English, the profanity all jumbled up in languages.

184

Ben laughed at the man and signed off. He turned to his team and said,
"That will blow the lid off, gang. He's got to recoup his verbal losses.
He'll hit us hard and hit us soon. Put everybody on full alert."

"I can't understand why he radioed on an open frequency." Beth said.

"He's so arrogant he felt his troops would get a morale lift by
listening to the conversation," Ben said, moving to a wall map. "It
never occurred to him that he would come off second best." He studied
the map for a moment. "I'm guessing now, but I'll bet that he'll
probably move up artillery and start pounding us. All along this line.
He'll try to punch through. Corrie, send a runner and tell Chase to pack
up and move out. Have him shift all his MASH units back twenty miles.
Right now!"

Ned Hawkins of the New Texas Rangers had entered the room and was
standing quietly, listening. "Have we lost Texas, General?" he asked.

Ben shook his head. "No." He studied the map for a moment longer. Then
he smiled grimly. "But we're going to let Hoffman have some territory.
We'll let him punch through," he jabbed a finger at the map, "along this
line, and commit his troops. While he's doing that, we'll be doing an
end-around and harass the hell out of him on three fronts. From the
south, east, and west. But we won't be able to do much in bumble-bee
size teams. We'll reform in company strength and make him fight us along
a line that conceivably could stretch for a thousand miles. He'll have
to match us unit for unit or we'll be all over and around him by
infiltration."

Ike had walked in with Doctor Chase. "Just as soon as we do the
end-around and counterattack, Hoffman

185

will order General Jahn's paratroopers to surface and hit our northern
people hard," Ike said.

"Yes. So, Ike, you and Rebet take your battalions and all the latest
reinforcements and move north, up to the thirty-sixth parallel. That'll
put nearly seven thousand people under your command. You've got to keep
Jahn's paratroopers contained and off our backs. As soon as Hoffman
makes his push, Jahn might regroup into a major force and strike ..."
His eyes searched the big wall map north of the thirty-sixth parallel,
"... somewhere. And he might decide to stay in small units and wage a
guerrilla war. I don't know."

"Whichever way he goes, we'll hold them, Ben," Ike said. "But where does
this put you, Ben? As if I can't guess."

Ben smiled. "In the field, Ike. I'm reforming my company and heading
south. We can't afford to let even one able-bodied person stay back in
this fight." He winked at Ike. "And I do a pretty fair job out there in
the field."

Ike nodded his head. "I won't try to talk you out of it, Ben. I'm
through with that." He stepped closer and stuck out his hand. "Good
luck, Ben."

Ben shook the hand. "Same to you, Ike." He dropped the hand and smiled.
"Maybe someday we can all sit around and reminisce about this."

Ike returned the smile, but like Ben's smile, it was forced. Both men
knew this was root-hog-or-die time. That they would never see each other
again after this moment was a real possibility.

Chase knew it, and walked to the table and poured three drinks, about
two fingers each. "Drink up, boys. This is no time to be maudlin."

186 The men clinked glasses. Ben said, "To victory." He looked over at
Jersey. "Right, Jersey?" She smiled. "Kick-ass time, General!"

186

187

Chapter Two

At dawn, Hoffman's big guns had been moved into position and opened up.
From the ruins of Forth Worth-Dallas west over to Midland, Hoffman's
gunners lobbed in rounds. But they fell on no Rebel positions. Ben had
guessed accurately and shifted his troops. The incoming rounds created a
lot of sound and fury but the Rebels sustained no casualties. And as Ben
had predicted, when the big guns fell silent, Hoffman's troops massed
for a northern push across I-20. They surged across, and found nothing.

Hoffman stood just north of the smoking ruins of Abilene, a look of
confusion on his face. That was quickly replaced by fury when a runner
handed him a message.

"Rebels are attacking our flanks and hitting hard to the south of us,"
Hoffman said. "Have we had any word from General Jahn?"

"General Jahn has been forced to regroup in order to combat the
multinational force operating to the north of us," Hoffman was informed.

"Five Division is ranging far ahead of the other columns, sir," a young
captain said, excitement in

188

his voice. "The swastika is flying proudly over the cities of Dallas and
Fort Worth. We are victorious!"

Hoffman stared at the young man. "How many Rebels has Five Division killed?"

"Why ... ah ... none, sir. But they have taken prisoner a group of
people believed to be agents of the Rebel government. They deny it, of
course. They claim to be from something called the Church of the Only
Holy Way and they are demanding protection."

Hoffman continued to stare at the young captain. "Protection from what?"

"Us, sir."

"Send them to Colonel Barlach," Hoffman ordered. "He'll get the truth
from them."

That would be the last time anyone would ever hear from the members of
the Church of the Only Holy Way, whose members believed in nonviolence
and who would not pick up a gun and fight for their dubious beliefs.

Hoffman clenched his fists in anger. "Have there been any Rebels
reported killed?"

Hoffman's aides stood in silence. Their muteness gave the Field Marshal
the answer to his question. His thousands of men had not killed a single
Rebel.

"We have conquered nothing and we are victorious over destroyed cities
and miles of desolation," Hoffman said. "We have not spilled one drop of
Rebel blood." And I have led my troops into a box, he admitted silently.

Hoffman walked away from the group, to stand silently in the shade
provided by what remained of one wall of a burned out building.
"Ghosts," he muttered under his breath. "I'm in a battle with shadows
and invisible

189

whirlwinds. I can't win this way. It's impossible. How can we be
victorious over an enemy who will not stand and fight?"

An aide approached him. "Sir? Your quarters are ready and the battle
maps are up and accurate to the hour."

"By all means," Hoffman said, sarcasm thick in his voice. "Let me view
this ravaged land and all its conquered and beaten people."

Hoffman stood in his quarters and looked at the huge map. He shook his
head. "We're in a box," he finally spoke. "I led us right into a box."

"But one that we could break out of anytime we wished," a staff officer
said.

"And go where?" Hoffman asked, touches of desperation in his voice. He
sat down at his desk and rubbed his face with his hands. "Call in my
generals," he said. "We have to have a meeting. We cannot continue like
this. We are accomplishing nothing."

"We could advance, sir," a colonel spoke. "We could move right up to the
thirty-sixth parallel."

Hoffman looked at the older man. They just don't understand, he thought.
But I do. In all our years of war, we have relied on massive troop
strength to conquer the people.

We should have stayed in South America.

He pushed that thought from him. But it wouldn't go far. It stayed in
the back of his mind, nagging at him like an invisible but very vocal
old hag.

We should have stayed in South America.

Shit! Hoffman silently raged.

Our supply lines have been cut, Hoffman thought, swiveling in his chair
to face the map that he hated to

190

look at. We have outdistanced what few trucks are getting through from
the south. My elite shock troops are fighting for their lives against
General McGowan and the multinational forces a hundred miles to the
north and if I try to send troops in to beef up my paratroopers, the
Rebels will ambush them. Most of my terrorist teams have been found and
wiped out. Those two idiots to the east, Moi Sambura and Wink Payne are
no help at all. Luis Carrero and his followers have proved to be less
than worthless. All talk and no action. That's what I get for putting
much faith in a former Los Angeles street gang leader, a black radical,
and a white redneck.

We should have stayed in South America.

"Get my generals in here," Hoffman said wearily. "Order all troops to
halt advances." He slammed a hand on his desk. "Goddamnit!"

Ben and his company had worked their way up close to the southernmost
contingent of General Schmidt's third division. The rolling prairie
country along the North Concho was very deceptive, and the Rebels had
used that to their advantage, leaving their vehicles several miles away
and advancing on foot and crawling on their bellies. Dusk was settling
over the land, and the Rebels smelled fresh blood.

"Scouts report no more than two companies occupying the town," Corrie
said. "Nearest reinforcements are forty-five miles to the northwest,
thirty-five miles to the east, and forty-five miles to the north. The
south is empty."

"Field Marshal Hoffman has called for a meeting of

191

his generals," Beth reported. She was monitoring the Blackshirts'
frequencies. "Hoffman is slightly pissed."

Jersey, lying beside Ben, said, "Hoffman stepped on his dick this time."

Ben softly chuckled. "How close in are the Scouts?"

"Inside the town at five locations," Corrie said. "They'll create a
diversion at your orders. Blackshirts are digging out their field
rations now and getting ready to settle in for the night."

"Five minutes," Ben said. "We'll let them enjoy a few bites of their
last supper. Any word from Ike?"

"Kicking the hell out of Jahn's forces. Ike says the multinational force
is some of the best he's ever seen. The countries really sent the top
people. Fifty of the Israeli IDF captured two hundred and fifty
Blackshirt paratroopers."

"What'd they do with them?" Ben asked.

Corrie just looked at him.

"That's what I figured," Ben muttered. He took a sip of water and
checked his Thompson, pausing as Corrie held up a hand and listened
intently to her earphones. "What is it?"

"The troops in town just surrendered to the Scouts."

"They did what!"

"Packed it in. Gave up. Scouts say come on in. The town is secure."

The company of astonished Rebels stood up and walked into the tiny town
just as dusk was settling over the land. The Blackshirts sat on the
curbs and sidewalks, their hands on top of their heads.

A low murmuring began as the Blackshirts spotted Ben, ambling along,
carrying the old Thompson. Ben caught the phrase being used and it
amused him.

192

"El Lobo! El lobo espectro!"

They were calling him the Ghost Wolf.

Ben stopped in front of one young officer, a lieutenant, and stared down
at him. The young man refused to meet Ben's eyes.

Ben turned to Lieutenant Ballard. "Jackie, what's going on here?"

"We haven't been able to figure that out yet, sir," she replied. "At
first, we thought it might be some sort of trick. But now I believe
these men are really scared to death of you."

A Spanish-speaking Rebel walked up. "They believe you possess
supernatural powers, General. They think you're a shape-changer. And
apparently so do a lot of other Blackshirts. But we can't get a fix on
where it started."

An idea sprang into Ben's mind. "Make sure someone is monitoring the
Blackshirts' radio at all times. Start interrogating these people. Find
out if these men joined Hoffman willingly, or were conscripted. I've got
a hunch it's the latter. I also have a hunch they don't have much in the
way of education. We just might have found the fatal flaw in Hoffman's
armor. He's spent years building a mighty army, but he forgot to educate
his people. Get cracking."

Ben walked the line of Blackshirts. None of them would meet his eyes.
They were terrified of him. More than a few of them crossed themselves
when Ben drew near.

Ben heard mutters of "Silent Death," and "Ghost Walker," when he came
close to the surrendered soldiers. He paced up and down the line, saying
nothing,

193

just staring at the men, who still refused to meet his gaze.

Jackie Ballard walked up and motioned Ben to one side. "You called it,
General," she said. "These are conscripts. About half of Hoffman's army
are draftees. They have no stomach for this fight. Most of them despise
Hoffman and his methods. But the army was the only way to receive food
and shelter and medical care for themselves and their families. It seems
that Hoffman has taken over several South American countries and one
either serves Hoffman, in one way or the other, or gets himself or
herself enslaved or dead. The troops serving in the southern sector are
nearly all conscripts. Only the hard-core are at the front."

"I'm getting the impression Hoffman's army is built on shifting sand,"
Ben replied. "How about education?"

She shook her head. "Very poorly educated. Many can neither read nor
write much beyond a third grade level. They're very superstitious."

Ben nodded his head in understanding. The average age of Hoffman's
troops was about twenty-one or so. That meant that when the Great War
struck the earth, these men were children, and mentally, had not grown
much beyond that.

All right, Hoffman, Ben thought. You still have us outnumbered, but I've
found the chink in your armor.

"What are we going to do with these people, sir?"

"I don't know. Yet. But I'm working on it. Let's get something to eat
and bed down. First thing in the morning, I want to speak with the
officers and senior sergeants."

194

Ben and his team pulled out of the town at dawn, and headed for another
location, taking the two companies of Blackshirts with them. The
captured troops had proved themselves to be friendly and cooperative and
seemed very much relieved to be prisoners of the Rebels.

The Rebels headed south, stopping about twenty-five miles later at the
ruins of a tiny town. They were deep in enemy territory, but the bulk of
the enemy was far to the north of them, and Ben felt they were in little
danger. He was not surprised to find nearly a platoon of Blackshirts in
the ruins of the town. Upon sighting the Rebels, they threw up their
hands and grinned. Captain Garcia, commander of the surrendered
Blackshirts, had told Ben to expect it.

"They do not wish to fight North Americans, General," Garcia said. "What
they wish to do is to join your Rebel army."

"They would fight their friends?" Ben asked.

"No," Garcia said quickly. "But they would fight against the regular
troops of Hoffman. Their friends will all surrender if you give them a
chance to do so. Field Marshal Hoffman made a very bad mistake in
forcing these men to join his army. Perhaps if he had not threatened
their families if they did not join, things would have been different.
Many of these men are from the many Indian tribes of South American
countries. They can be very fierce fighters, for that is their heritage,
but only if they choose to fight. You see, General, Hoffman deliberately
kept these people uneducated. But just because one has little formal
education does not mean that person is estupido. These people have seen
that in your army, there are people of all colors, all faiths, all

195

working together. Hoffman is a smart man, but he is also a very arrogant
one. And he is surrounded by arrogant men."

The lieutenant in charge of the platoon of Blackshirts who had just
surrendered approached Garcia and Ben, a package in his hand. Jersey
leveled her M-16 at him.

"Wait!" Garcia said. "He means your general no harm. He has very little
English, so he is going to show you his intentions." Garcia spoke in
rapid-fire Spanish, too fast for Ben to follow, and the lieutenant
nodded his head and opened the package and smiled.

The package contained civilian clothes.

The lieutenant pulled at a pocket of his black shirt. "Muy malo," he
said. He pointed to the civilian clothes and then to Ben's denim shirt.
"Ver' good!"

Ben understood the simple message. He looked at Garcia. "All your people
have civilian clothing?"

Garcia smiled. "Si. We have been waiting for you. Many more would like
to join you, but they are afraid that El Lobo will shoot them before
they can make their intentions known."

Ben looked at Garcia for a very long moment. If he made the wrong
choice, the situation could well turn into a massacre for the Rebels.
For once the surrendered black-shirts were armed, they would outnumber
the Rebels in Ben's immediate command.

He looked at Lt. Ballard. "Jackie?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "I believe them, General. I think we've just
found ourselves some much-needed allies."

Ben nodded his head slowly. He looked at Jersey. "How about you, Apache?"

"I say we go for it, General," Jersey told him. "If we

196

could come up with two or three additional battalions, and stay to the
south of Hoffman's lines, we could really start kicking the shit out of
him."

Ben opened his map case and spread the map out on a fender. "Captain,
show me where you know there are troops waiting to join us."

Garcia pointed to a half dozen locations, running toward the east. "All
along here, General. Two, maybe three thousand men and women. One to two
companies at each location."

"The ranking officer?"

Garcia shrugged as only a Latin can do. "I guess that would be me,
General. I was to be promoted to Major next month. My papers had already
been approved. I am jump-qualified and jungle-trained. The equivalent to
your old American Army Ranger."

"All right, Jorge," Ben said. "You're now a Colonel in the Rebel army."
Jorge Garcia's mouth dropped open in shock. "Get out of those damn
Blackshirts and into civilian clothes. We've got a war to win."

197

Chapter Three

With the surrender of half a dozen of Hoffman's battalions-and the
Blackshirt battalions were full strength battalions-Ben now not only had
sufficient troops to be a real problem to those loyal to Hoffman, he
also had captured large numbers of weapons and vehicles, and one of
those battalions coming over to the Rebel side was a towed artillery
battalion, with dozens of 155-mm howitzers and the heavy 6x6 trucks
needed to pull them, and the eleven man crews needed to make them fully
operational. The 155s had an enormous range and Ben was smiling as he
inspected the guns and crews, who had burned their hated black shirts
and were now dressed in a variety of colors.

"El Lobo!" one senior sergeant shouted, and soon the call was thundering
all around the encampment. "General El Lobo!"

Ben let them shout until they got it out of their systems. He figured
he'd sure been called a hell of a lot worse. Ben waited until they
quieted down and stood silently, all eyes on him. Ben was not much on
speeches, so through an interpreter, he kept it short.

198

"Welcome to the Rebel Army, and welcome to America and to Texas. When
this war is over, and it will be and we will win ..." He waited until a
new round of cheering had faded, with many of his own people caught up
in the spirit of the moment and joining in. "... You can return to your
own homes, or bring your families up here and stay with us. The USA is a
big empty country, and we need new people."

He paused for a moment. "We won't all make it through. We will have
casualties. We will all lose friends and loved ones. I've helped bury
more than I care to think about over the long and bloody years. Friends
and loved ones," he said, his voice suddenly husky with emotion. For a
moment, he thought of Jerre, buried on a lonely lovely ridge a thousand
miles to the northwest. "It's the price we pay for freedom. Freedom is
never cheaply won. The right to be free, to live and love and raise your
families and attend the church of your choice and defend what is yours
and work the earth or whatever your vocation might be, is always paid
for with the blood of brave men and women. Men and women just like you.

"All of you have decided to reject the hateful and brutal philosophy of
Nazism and join us against that terrible rebirth. Even though your
commanders have made it clear to you that if you are captured, you will
be shot, on the spot, by Hoffman's forces. Field Marshal Jesus Hoffman
issued those orders yesterday morning and they were immediately passed
along to you. I'm proud to say that not one of you elected to leave the
ranks." He paused for a few seconds. "I'm not much on speeches, so I'll
end with this: I welcome you all."

Ben stood alone-Jersey three steps back and to his

199

right, the butt of her M-16 on one hip-in front of several thousand
troops and all the equipment of war, and listened to the wild cheering.
They were certainly an enthusiastic bunch, but in the back of his mind,
Ben was wondering if they could fight.

Well, he thought, that was going to be determined very quickly, for in
his pocket he had the message Corrie had handed him just moments before
he addressed the new troops. Hoffman was sending battalions of his elite
SS troops against them. They were about twenty five miles away, to the
north, and pressing hard.

"Colonel Garcia," Ben called.

"Si, General?"

"Position your troops and get your artillery in place. We are going to
stand and slug it out."

"Si, General!"

Ben walked back to Lieutenant Ballard. "Position your people to the
rear, Jackie. This is the fight of our new people. Let's see how they work."

"Yes, sir."

Ben walked the lines, and was impressed at how quickly and proficiently
the new battalions worked. He concluded that they had been thoroughly
trained by experts. Up to now, the only thing lacking had been
motivation. Now they had it.

Colonel Garcia approached him. "General ..."

"It's your show, Colonel," Ben cut him off. "You call the shots. I'm
just an observer."

The young colonel knew that he and his command were being tested by the
experienced older warrior. And he knew this was one test that none of
them could afford to fail. He had looked into the eyes of all the
Rebels, young and not so young. Jorge Garcia had seen years of

200

combat experience in those eyes. These Rebels were experts at war. Even
now, with hordes of SS troops advancing toward their position, many of
the Rebels were resting on the ground, some reading worn books, some
eating, some even asleep. They were, amazingly, utterly, totally calm.
Jorge had never seen anything like it.

"Si, General Lobo," Jorge said. "We will not fail you."

Ben smiled, not taking offense at being called a wolf. "I'm counting on
that, Colonel. The last thing I want is a Nazi bayonet up my butt."

"That will not happen," Jorge said.

Ben nodded and watched as the colonel trotted off, yelling orders in
rapid-fire Spanish. All of the new people had some English, but Ben had
okayed the use of Spanish until all of Jorge's people could master a new
language.

"Ten miles out, sir," Corrie called. "Coming hard. They have towed
artillery."

Colonel Garcia had his own spotters out with Ben's Scouts, and he was
receiving the word at the same time as Ben. Ben sat down in a camp chair
and rolled a cigarette.

"Preparado," Garcia spoke into his mic, his voice calm. Ben was a
thousand or so meters behind the lines, monitoring Garcia's orders by radio.

The crews manning the 155s locked in HE, WP, and M449 antipersonnel
rounds. The M-449 rounds each contained dozens of grenades and they were
highly effective rounds.

"Good choice of rounds," Ben said, after thanking Cooper for a fresh cup
of coffee.

The SS troops were well in range of the 155s, and still

201

Colonel Garcia held his fire. Ben smiled at that. Jorge knew his
business. At eighteen miles this type of 155 could be accurate within
approximately one hundred yards of its target. But the closer the
target, the more accurate the big guns became.

The Rebels had stopped their reading and sleeping now, and were watching
the crews preparing their howitzers for battle. The infantry battalions
were dug in deep, the positions staggered in the shape of a huge and
very wide U. This country was perfect for concealment and surprise, and
Colonel Garcia was using it to its utmost.

"Six miles out," Corrie said. "And closing." She paused, a thoughtful
expression on her face. "Whoever is commanding those SS troops is an
arrogant fool, General," she added.

"You're right," Ben said. "They should be stopping and getting their
artillery in place to soften us up. Instead, they just keep barreling
on. Right about now they're entering the first perimeters of the U.
Jorge knows what he's doing. He's impressing the hell out of me. Jorge
is going to give those SS troops a real nasty surprise."

Lieutenant Jackie Ballard leisurely strolled by. Cooper noticed with a
very appreciative eye that she filled out her jeans remarkably well.

"Down, boy," Jersey told him, noticing the direction his eyes were
traveling.

"It ain't no crime to look," Cooper replied. "Is it, General?"

"Damn sure isn't," Ben said. Ben always had an eye for the ladies.

"Fuego!" Colonel Garcia shouted, and the ground

202

beneath their boots began to tremble as the 155s roared into action.

Whatever the SS troops expected, it certainly was not this rain of death
that began hailing down on them from the skies. Jorge Garcia had aligned
his guns with graduated elevation. The first mile of the SS convoy was
suddenly turned into an exploding inferno. Bodies were ripped and torn
apart and bloody bits and pieces hurled high into the hot smoky air. As
those toward the rear began leaping from trucks in an attempt to escape
the barrage, Jorge ordered his gunners to fire their antipersonnel
rounds. It got real interesting for the SS troops when those started
landing. The ground around the panicked SS troops, no matter which way
they ran, turned deadly as the grenades began exploding.

Spanish armies have for centuries been big on bugles, and this one was
no different. As the last rounds struck, Colonel Garcia shouted,
"Ataque!" and about twenty-five bugles blew.

Ben nearly left his seat, for he had not noticed the trumpeters
gathering a few yards behind him.

"Jesus H. Christ!" Jersey hollered, jumping up and looking wildly all
around her.

Cooper had just lifted a coffee mug to his lips and when the bugles blew
he spilled the whole cup down the front of his shirt. Beth was writing
in her journal, and when the attack bugles blew, her pen went one way
and the journal went another. Come had just taken off her earphones when
the bugles blew, and she fell off the tailgate of a pickup truck,
landing on her butt.

Ben looked at his team and started laughing, the laughter just audible
over the bugles. Cooper was jumping around hollering, trying to get out
of his steaming

203

shirt, Jersey was wild-eyed, Beth looked numb, and Corrie just looked
disgusted.

And the bugles continued to blow while Ben was cracking up with laughter.

Ben rode with Colonel Garcia up to the smoky field of death. The
colonel's troops were just finishing off the last of the SS troops, and
they were not being gentle in dealing with them. Garcia had ordered no
prisoners taken, and his soldiers were following his orders to the letter.

A few of the SS troops were begging for mercy, for Heaven's sake.
"Compasion, dios!" they cried. What they got was a bullet, for the South
American allies of the Rebels were well aware of Hoffman's orders should
they be taken prisoner, and they knew the SS troops would be happy to
execute them on the spot, and take great joy in doing so.

"Gather up all the weapons and other usable equipment, Colonel," Ben
instructed. "And equipment that even looks like it might be repairable.
That's the Rebel way. We fix it up and store it."

"It is a very good way," Jorge agreed. "And one that we shall adopt,
beginning now."

"Your troops were excellent in battle, Colonel," Ben complimented him.
"Superb."

Colonel Garcia drew himself up to his full height, which was a good half
a foot shorter than Ben. "We are Rebels now, General," he said proudly.
"Anything less than perfection would not please me."

Ben smiled and patted the man on the shoulder. "Lighten up, Jorge. In
battle, striving for absolute

204

perfection is a good way to get killed. We just do the best we can and
then get the hell gone. The Rebels do stand and slug it out from time to
time, but we're at our best doing what Jim Bowie advocated. Cut, slash,
and run."

"I know who that is!" Cooper said. "He was killed at the Alamo, right,
General?"

"That's right, Cooper. He tried to convince Travis to abandon the old
mission and launch a guerrilla type of war against Santa Ana. But in the
end, Travis, Bowie, Crocket, and a hundred and eighty other men-give or
take a few-died defending the mission."

"Was it worth it?" Beth asked.

"That's always been debatable," Ben replied. "I guess that as long as
there is someone around with some knowledge of history, it always will
be. But if you're asking for my opinion, yes, I think it was necessary;
I think the time demanded that sacrifice. It galvanized the feelings of
others and that helped win the war for Texas independence." He looked
around him. "This is no time for a history debate. Let's get cracking,
people, and then put some miles behind us."

Buzzards were circling high above them when the Rebels pulled out,
heading east. Even if they were spotted by Hoffman's scouts, no light
force would dare attack them, for they were now several thousand strong,
and Ben knew that his new Rebels could fight, and fight well.

Far to the north, Hoffman sat behind his desk and silently fumed. The
man was absolutely livid with rage, but he had vented his vocal rage and
now sat silent. He had sent hundreds of elite troops to crush a few
battalions of dissident and ignorant troops, and they had been wiped out
to the last man.

205

"Raines!" he suddenly shouted, leaping to his feet and startling the
room full of staff officers. "Raines joined them. Has to be. He's south
of us. We've got him and I didn't realize it."

"Got him?" a junior officer questioned before he thought.

Hoffman took no umbrage at the blurted insolence. "Of course. Shift two
divisions to the south and engage the bastard and his ignorant new
followers."

A senior officer, far too old for the field, was the first to speak.
"Jesus, no," he said quietly.

"Uncle Frederich," Hoffman said, looking at the man. "You are
questioning me?"

"Yes, Jesus. I am. The rabbit does not pursue the wolf. And Ben Raines
is an old gray lobo. And those with him are not lobeznoes."

Hoffman waved that aside. "I know they are not cubs. They are nothing
more than ignorant savages. Many of them can scarcely read and write."

"But they showed today that they could fight," the old man didn't back
up. "I, along with others, have warned you about conscripts. I have
taken the liberty of purging our ranks of conscripts. It is rare that
they make good soldiers ... for us. Today certainly proved that."

"Uncle Frederich ..."

"Hear me out, Jesus! I am owed that much."

"Si, mio tio," Hoffman said, and sat down. He could not be disrespectful
to a man who had helped raise him.

"I think I know what General Raines is doing. He is making you split
your forces, making you fight on many fronts. And that is nearly always
the kiss of death. Don't fall for this trick, Jesus."

The other staff officers sat quietly, none of them

206

wanting any part of this exchange. The old soldier could get away with
arguing with the field marshal ... and he was about the only one who
could. The exploding rage of Jesus Hoffman toward anyone who questioned
his orders was well known.

"Uncle Frederich," Hoffman said, "even with the addition of these
turncoat troops, we still have Raines vastly outnumbered. I feel now is
a golden opportunity for us."

The old soldier shook his head slowly, a grim expression on his face.
"You heard the desperate radio calls from those dying troops. General
Raines now has a new name: 'El Lobo.' And you know how superstitious
many of our most loyal troops are. There are murmurings even among them.
'Shape-changer,' is what many are calling General Raines. They roll
their eyes and shake their heads just at the mention of his name. My
suggestion is this: dispatch enough troops to block the highways and
keep General Raines and troops occupied. But no more than that. Shift a
division up north to assist General Jahn's paratroopers now fighting
those Rebels commanded by General McGowan. Crush those Rebels closest to
us. Using massive force, crush them, defeat them battalion by battalion.
But don't, don't, spread your forces too thin. Don't fall for this plan
of General Raines'."

The meeting was interrupted by a messenger. "General Raines on the
radio, Field Marshal. He is asking to speak with you."

"Ah!" Hoffman said with a smile, sitting down and turning up the volume
on his speaker. In a moment, the patch was completed. Hoffman's mouth
dropped open and a collective gasp went up from everybody in the

207

room except Frederich when the voice of Ben Raines boomed throughout the
room.

"Hello, Hoffman," Ben said. "You goose-stepping shit-head!"

208

Chapter Four

Hoffman's face drained of color. Nobody-nobody- spoke to him in such a
manner. Hoffman sat, momentarily speechless. A small smile curved the
lips of the old soldier. He knew only too well what Ben Raines was
doing. And he knew without any doubt that his nephew was going to take
the bait. Frederich Rasbach started making plans that moment. Even
before Hoffman found his voice in retort, the old soldier had made up
his mind to take a few troops and leave. North America was about to
become very unhealthy. Frederich rose and moved toward the door. There,
he paused, to confirm his suspicions.

"I'll crush you!" Hoffman screamed into the mic. "Raines, you bastard!
I'll grind you under the heel of my boot."

"Fuck you, Hoffman," came the calm voice of Ben Raines.

Frederich put out his hand toward the door knob and shook his head
slowly and sadly.

"How dare you speak to me in such a manner!" Hoffman hollered, his face
flushed. "You ... you trash!"

209

Frederich heard fast-approaching boots and stepped aside to let a runner
in. The young man rushed to Hoffman's side. "We have his location
pinpointed, Field Marshal."

Hoffman nodded his head in understanding and with an impatient wave of
his hand, silenced the runner.

"How about you and I settling this, Hoffman?" Ben questioned. "Just the
two of us. Man to man. We'll meet and duke it out. Winner take all."

"Duke?" Hoffman questioned the room.

"He means fists, sir," a staff officer said.

"Fist-fighting?" Hoffman said. "How barbaric. But what else should I
expect from a low-life with no breeding? Why, the man must be at least
fifty years old. He wouldn't offer such a challenge unless he planned
some sort of trick."

"General Raines is totally untrustworthy, Field Marshal," another staff
officer spoke. "He is not a gentleman."

Frederich smiled. Gentleman, or not, Ben Raines meant every word he had
just spoken, and the old soldier hoped his nephew would not take up the
offer. Ben Raines would kick the snot out of the younger man.

And enjoy doing it, the old soldier mentally added.

"Two and Three divisions to the south," Hoffman ordered, his face still
beet red and his hands trembling with fury. "Immediately. Full armor and
artillery."

A staff officer rushed from the room.

You young fool! the old soldier thought. Sending troops right into the
wolf's den. And sending them to their deaths.

"How about it, fart-breath?" Ben spoke. "Are you still there or have you
gone to the latrine to shit your fear?"

210

The old soldier by the door had to suppress a chuckle. He despised Ben
Raines, but he admired greatly the man's courage and grasp of tactics.
And also how well he played on human egos.

Hoffman was so outraged he could not speak. He sat holding the
microphone and sputtered.

Say something, you idiot! Frederich thought. Go ahead, step deeper into
the trap General Raines is laying out for you. We had such high hopes
for you, Jesus. But we failed to see your frailties. You were too
coddled, kept too close to the breast. What you are is not your fault,
but ours.

"You are a dead man, Raines," Hoffman finally found his voice and composure.

Someday, for sure, as all of us must face that long sleep, the old
soldier thought. But not by your hands, Jesus. Resist those orders,
Generals, Frederich silently urged.

The officer who had left the room returned, his face flushed with
excitement. "Generals Kroesen and Schmidt will be heading south within
the hour, Field Marshal," the officer said, waiting until after Hoffman
had released the talk key.

"Very good," Hoffman said, then frowned as Ben's voice once more filled
his head.

"Hey, Hoffman!" Ben called rudely. "Stop playing with your dick and talk
to me."

Hoffman clicked off the radio and turned to face his staff officers. "I
will not dignify any remark from that barbarian with a reply."

Several hundred miles south, Ben grinned and handed the mic to Corrie.
"Did I talk long enough for them to pinpoint our location?"

211

"They're probably halfway here by now," Corrie said drily.

Ben laughed and patted her shoulder. "Well, you said you were getting
bored, remember? All right," Ben said, rubbing his hands together and
pacing as he talked. "Hoffman is going to throw quite a number at us.
He's not going to take any chances on us slipping away this time. He'll
throw at least one division and probably two at us. What divisions are
closest to us, Colonel Garcia?"

"Hoffman's First division is the nearest. But I'd guess Two and Three
divisions will be the ones chosen for this. Commanded by Generals
Kroesen and Schmidt. They're professionals."

"Not SS?"

"No. That is Brodermann. And we wiped out nearly half his troops." He
smiled. "And he was running a very short division, as you may recall."

Ben recalled. "Then for all intents and purposes, the SS troops are but
a memory."

"I would guess that he has perhaps four to six battalions left."

"Can he rebuild?"

"Possibly. But not too quickly. He chose his people very well, over a
period of years. And Brodermann was not among the dead. At least not
that we could identify."

"No. We wouldn't be that lucky, Jorge. All right. We'll say he has five
thousand troops left him. That's still a lot of SS crap to have looking
over our shoulders."

"I hate those people," a young captain from Garcia's command said. "I
loathe them." He shuddered. "They're cruel and twisted men and women."

212

"So were the ones who surfaced seventy-odd years ago," Ben replied.
"Nothing changes."

"So what do we do now?" Colonel Garcia asked.

"Why, we wait for the Blackshirts to get here," Ben said calmly. Then he
smiled and confused the colonel when he said, "Sort of."

Ben had forced Hoffman to spread his people all over a front that
extended hundreds of miles, and Hoffman had no choice but to move his
people around in an oftentimes futile attempt to plug holes. He had been
forced to send additional troops north of I-20 to assist General Jahn in
fighting Ike McGowan and his people. Hoffman's supply lines had been
stopped cold in South America and whatever supplies he received had to
be flown into the airport at San Antonio and trucked out into the field.
Hoffman's grandiose plans to conquer all of North America by fall had
been tossed on the scrap heap. Ben Raines and his Rebels had stopped him
cold in Texas with little hope of getting out anytime soon.

Hoffman had marched into Texas with just under 200,000 troops, and Ben
Raines and his rag-tag bands of malcontents had stopped him dead bang.

Now, to make matters worse, many of his troops were walling their eyes
like frightened cattle at the mere mention of Ben Raines's name. There
had been talk of some old man who called himself the Prophet popping up
all over the place and calling down the wrath of God upon the heads of
the invaders.

Nonsense, of course, but many of his troops were getting spooked. And
Hoffman did not know how to combat the wild rumors.

213

And his closer advisor and friend, Hoffman's Uncle Frederich Rosbach,
had flown back to South America. Frederich had urged his nephew to
abandon his dreams of conquering all of North and South America and
return with him. Hoffman, naturally, refused.

One thing Hoffman did know for certain was that when his Second and
Third Divisions reached Ben Raines's position in the south of Texas, he
would be rid of that bastard forever.

Hoffman might have felt certain about that, but somebody forgot to tell Ben.

Dawn.

"The enemy columns are proceeding very cautiously," Corrie said to Ben.

"Placement of vehicles?" Ben asked.

"Strung out wide and using all accessible roads. ETA of advance troops
1300 hours this day."

"Everybody mounted up and ready to roll?"

"Sitting on ready."

"From this moment on, maintain tight radio silence. If something has to
be transmitted, use burst only."

"Yes, sir."

"Let's pack it up and get the hell out of here."

Ben had split his forces, half heading west, the other half east.
Colonel Garcia had stepped aside without a word, knowing this was
General Raines's show.

When the Second and Third Divisions of Blackshirts had moved out,
heading south, Ben ordered four battalions of his Rebels to move east
and at his orders, mix it up with the small garrisons left behind.
Hoffman had not yet realized it, but he had committed one very large

214

fuck-up. He had left his western flank wide open. Ben could not
understand how the man could have made such a terrible error in
judgement, but he had, and Ben was going to take full advantage of it.

It was going to be a race for time and distance, one that if Ben lost
could spell disaster for his command. But if he could pull it off, he
just might be able to knock the boots out from under Hoffman and really
give his own people one hell of a morale booster.

"Brilliant," Colonel Garcia said, when Ben outlined his plan.
"Absolutely brilliant."

Ben didn't know how brilliant his plan was; he just hoped it would work.

Ben had left behind a small force, armed with howitzers taken from the
demolished SS troops. When the two divisions came into range, the small
force of Rebels and South American troops would open fire, engaging the
Second and Third Divisions in an artillery duel for as long as possible.
Ben and his battalions and Colonel Garcia and his battalions would be
driving straight north just as fast as road conditions allowed. When
they reached the southern edge of Hoffman's First Division, the four
battalions of Rebels would attack the small garrisons from the Second
and Third left behind from the west. Ben and Colonel Garcia would then
strike at Hoffman's First Division, catching them, they hoped, by surprise.

Scouts were already in place, waiting for Ben's orders to neutralize
Hoffman's southernmost forward observation posts.

By the time the troops of the Second and Third Divisions overran the
positions of the Rebel gunners left behind, who would, hopefully, have
bugged out before

215

that happened, the Blackshirt generals would realize they had been
suckered. But they would be a good 175 miles south of the surprise
attack on Hoffman's First Division, and unable to do anything except
cuss Ben Raines. Which Ben felt sure they would do, with a great deal of
passion.

Ben was under no illusions concerning the attack. He knew he probably
would not get anywhere near Hoffman's HQ. But just being able to strike
within a few miles of the man would shake the Nazi bastard down to his
toenails.

But General Brodermann worried Ben. His intell people had not been able
to pinpoint the man's location. And the thought of that SS son of a
bitch launching his own sneak attack against Ben, while Ben was hitting
Hoffman with his own surprise attack, was not pleasant.

Then Corrie dropped the news on Ben.

"Brodermann is with the First Division," she said. "Meeting with Field
Marshal Hoffman at his HQ. Apache scouts grabbed a Blackshirt recon team
and got the information out of them. His battalions have been assigned
to Hoffman's division."

"Well, at least we know approximately where he is," Ben said. "Do we
have an exact location of Hoffman's HQ?"

"No, sir. Only that he moves it daily. It seems the man is awfully
paranoid."

"You have any idea what happened to the Blackshirt recon team?" Ben asked.

"I would imagine they probably tried to escape," Corrie said blandly.

"Uh-huh," Ben said.

"Our gunners are now engaged in an artillery duel

216

with batteries of the Second and Third Divisions," Corrie said, after
listening to her headset for a moment.

The convoy rolled past one of Hoffman's southernmost forward observation
posts. Rebel Scouts were sitting by the side of the road, having a late
lunch. They gave Ben's command car the thumbs-up sign as it rolled past.

Ben returned the thumbs-up as the convoy rolled on.

"No one's given any alarm yet," Corrie said. "The luck is still with us."

"May the Force be with you," Ben muttered.

"Beg pardon, sir?" Cooper asked.

Ben smiled. "It's from an old movie, Coop."

"Two minutes to artillery drop off, sir," Beth said, working the other
radio.

They would drop off the artillery, wait until the guns were ready to
fire, and then drive under the overhead arching shells for just under
twelve miles. By the time they struck at First Division, the Blackshirts
would be softened up ... considerably.

Ben's forces would then liven things up a bit for the hopefully
still-stunned Blackshirts.

"Everybody out and stretch for five," Ben said, as Cooper brought the
Hummer to a halt. It would take the eleven man artillery crews just
about five minutes to position the 155s and have them ready for firing.

Ben rolled a cigarette and stretched his legs while the artillery crews
separated, formed up, and set up. He took a drink of water and checked
his Thompson, then checked the bag filled with full drums on the
floorboards of the Hummer.

"Colonel Garcia in place," Corrie said. "We will link

217

up just outside the southernmost edge of First Division's encampment."

"Or what's left of it," Ben said, toeing out the butt of his cigarette.
"Everybody knows what they're to do, so there is nothing left to say.
Mount up."

The now more than regiment size band of Rebels would roar through the
devastation, firing everything they had, including Big Thumpers, until
they reached the approximate center of the sprawling encampment. There,
they would dismount and take the battle hand to hand.

Those Blackshirts left behind by the Second and Third Divisions had
pulled back to the east and joined for greater strength. Four battalions
of Rebels were now striking at that small garrison and the plan was for
them to punch through and link up with Ben and Colonel Garcia.

Buddy and his battalion, along with the Outlaw bikers, were driving hard
for San Antonio. They would stay there and harass the Eighth Division
guarding the airport and the ruins of town. Such a small force had no
hope of defeating a division, but they could keep them hemmed in and
worry the hell out of them.

While Ben was striking from the north, Striganov, West, and Danjou would
be hammering hard from the north end of the First Division's lines. If
all this worked, Ben's hopes were that Hoffman would be forced to
withdraw to the east. Five battalions of Rebels, Dan, Tina, Pat O'Shea,
Greenwalt, and Jackie Malone's battalion, were stretching out north to
south along Highway 281 and setting up many of the batteries of
artillery that Ben had been holding in reserve.

218

Payon, Paul Gomez, Jim Peters, and Ned Hawkins's bunch were pushing hard
to get in position to the south.

If this worked, they would have Hoffman and his men in a box.

If it worked.

219

Chapter Five

When the first artillery rounds hit, Hoffman was just sitting down for
coffee with General Brodermann. His HQ was several miles from the
explosions, but he still heard the booming.

"What the hell?" he said, turning in his chair.

Then rounds started coming in fast and hard.

"We're under attack from the south!" Brodermann said, jumping to his feet.

Hoffman ran for the office and reached it just as an aide opened it from
the other side. The door impacted with Hoffman's nose and knocked him
sprawling to the floor, his beak bloody. The aide stood frozen,
horrified at what he'd done.

"Idiot!" Brodermann yelled at the young man. "Fool! You've injured the
Field Marshal. What the hell do you want?"

"We ... we're being attacked from the west, sir!"

"From the west? What the hell are you blathering about? Are you deaf as
well as stupid? We're being attacked from the south. Goddamn it, can't
you hear?"

"From the west, too, sir," the aide blurted. Field Marshal

220

Hoffman was just getting unceremoniously to his feet, grabbing at a
chair for support, his nose clearly broken and spurting blood. "The
garrison just radioed. They cannot hold and are falling back to our
position."

"My no' is 'oken," Jesus Hoffman said. "Shit!"

A fat colonel came running into the outer office and tried to stop. The
floor of the old home was slick tile, and his leather-soled boots could
find no traction. He slammed into the aide, the aide slammed into
Brodermann, and Brodermann slammed into Field Marshal Hoffman. All of
them went slipping and sliding and tumbling to the floor. For a few
seconds, it looked like the Three Stooges meets Danny Kaye.

"We're under massive attack from the north!" the colonel hollered.

"Get off me, you elephant!" Brodermann yelled.

'"et off of 'e!" Hoffman shouted, spraying everybody with blood.

An SS officer came running in. He stood for a moment in the doorway, his
mouth hanging open and his face registering his shock.

"What the hell do you want?" Brodermann screamed.

"Ah ... why, ah, General Schleyer says he is under attack at the San
Antonio airport. Why are you all on the floor? What has happened to the
Field Marshal?"

Captain Blickle came running in. He blinked at the scene on the office
floor. He shook his head and decided it wasn't any of his business. For
the moment, at least. "Scouts from General Mohnhaupt's Seventh Division
say Rebels are lined up north to south in massive numbers along Highway
281. They have begun shelling his command." He paused. "What are all you
people doing on the floor?"

221

Before anyone could reply-not that anyone was about to-several artillery
rounds landed a few hundred yards from Hoffman's HQ. The explosions blew
out all the windows on that side of the house and tore off part of the
old roof. Captain Blickle joined the others on the floor.

"Oddamnit!" Hoffman yelled. '"Et off me!"

The rattle of automatic weapons could now be clearly heard.

"Rebels!" someone outside screamed. "Thousands of them. El Lobo is
leading the charge."

Brodermann lurched to his feet. "If I hear El Lobo one more time," he
shouted. "I'll shoot the son of a bitch who said it."

Together, they all managed to get Jesus Hoffman to his unsteady feet and
out the door. "Get the Field Marshal to safety," Brodermann ordered.

"Where?" Captain Blickle demanded, looking around him at the panicked
troops, confusion and the exploding artillery rounds.

"How the hell should I know?" Brodermann shouted. "Just get him out of
here. Move, goddamnit!"

Blickle and the still nose-bleeding Hoffman rushed to a waiting car and
jumped in the back seat. The driver sped off. Brodermann looked around
for some of his SS troops, then realized they were miles to the north
and probably helping contain the charge of Rebels up there.

"Damnit!" he swore. "Who would have guessed Raines would do something
like this?"

Brodermann finally and forever, in the span of only a few seconds,
realized that one simply could not second-guess Ben Raines. If you made
ready for the norm, he would throw something at you completely off the wall.

222

Expect something totally unorthodox, and Raines would hand you something
right out of a military textbook.

Then Brodermann looked on in amazement as the Rebels began slowing and
stopping their vehicles, troops dismounting and engaging the Blackshirts
in hand-to-hand combat. "No!" he shouted. "This simply cannot be!"

But it was happening, and Brodermann suddenly got that message and
looked around for any officer. He saw one. He jerked his pistol out of
the holster and tried to rally the panicked troops. One tried to run
past him, all wild-eyed and scared, and Brodermann shot the man. That
got the attention of several people. "Throw up a line!" he shouted.
"Goddamn you, listen to me. Throw up a line and hold it."

He got the attention of several sergeants, and they quickly began to
shout and kick some order back into the troops. A line was thrown up and
slowly some semblance of soldiering began to take place. The fighting
was now going to be house to house and very close up.

Ben jumped over the sandbags around a machine gun emplacement, jerked
the dead body away from an unfamiliar but heavy machine gun, and
stitched a deuce and a half from radiator to midway of the bed. Every
third or fourth round loaded into the belt must have been incendiary,
for the truck exploded and sent body parts flying all over the place.

Jersey and Corrie jumped into the pit with him and Cooper began helping
with the belt while Corrie was trying to raise other battalions for a
battle assessment.

Ben grinned at her. "When you get Ike, tell him we're having fun down
here and wish he could join us!"

Corrie ignored him. She'd been with Ben for years

223

and nothing he ever did surprised her. She finally yelled, "It was a
total surprise, General. All battalions on all fronts reporting we
really caught them with their pants down."

"Casualties?" Ben yelled, after cutting down three running Blackshirts.
He rested his hands from the heavy jarring of the machine gun.

"Very light."

"Give me a status report on conditions right here, Come," Ben requested.

After a moment, she said, "We're stretched out along a line
approximately three miles wide. Artillery wants to know should they
shell the town?"

"Negative," Ben quickly told her. "Hell, we're on the outskirts of the
damn town. Tell the batteries to advance to within a few miles of us and
set up and wait for orders."

That done, Ben said, "Come, give the orders to go over the top, people.
Let's go, let's go, let's go!" And he jumped out of the sandbagged pit
and took off running.

"Jesus!" Cooper said, and took off after him, Jersey and Beth and Corrie
right on his heels.

Brodermann took one look at the advancing Rebels and cursed as he shook
his head. He knew with a soldier's sixth sense that to stand and face
that would be pointless. "Fall back!" he shouted. "Fall back to those
woods north of town. Move. Quickly, now."

"Secure the town and then advance no further," Ben panted the orders,
squatting down behind a brick house.

When he had caught his breath, and Corrie had issued the orders, Ben
said, "Set me up a CP and rig for long range transmission, Corrie. Tell
supply to get our

224

uniforms ready for us. From tiger stripe to desert cammie. We're back in
business!"

When the major five-front offensive was launched by the Rebels in Texas,
those Rebel contingents in California, Arizona, and New Mexico rushed
the Blackshirts on the other side of the border, while General Payon's
guerilleros struck them from the south and the worshipers of Nazism were
caught by surprise. No prisoners were taken.

General Cecil Jefferys sat in his command post at Base Camp One with a
smile on his face. He had felt all along that when everything fell into
place enough to satisfy Ben's mind, he would quit playing cat and mouse
all over the state of Texas and really step in close and slap the crap
out of Hoffman. And he had done just that.

Cecil made a mental note to go see Ben's ,dogs that afternoon and play
with them for a time. He knew they missed Ben terribly and he needed the
exercise anyway.

"Give 'em hell, Ben," Cecil said.

Hoffman and the remnants of his First Division managed to slip through
the thin northern lines, running west to east, and hurriedly thrown up
by Striganov, West, and Danjou. Hoffman's Second and Third divisions
were being held right where they were by Payon, Gomez, Jim Peters, and
Ned Hawkins's Texas Rangers. Hoffman's Sixth and Seventh Divisions were
taking a real pounding from the battalions of Dan Gray, Tina Raines, Pat
O'Shea, Greenwalt, and Malone. Hoffman's Fourth and Fifth Divisions
massed and overran

225

Danjou's position on the eastern edge of the front and pushed into the
clear into northern Texas.

Ben ordered those contingents coming from the west to angle south and
link up with Raul Gomez who was holding east and west of either side of
Highway 277. He also ordered everyone back into uniform and pulled out
all the tanks and artillery he'd been holding in reserve.

To the north, Ike ordered teams out to blow all bridges along the
Canadian River from the New Mexico line over into Oklahoma, and Cecil
sent teams from Base Camp One to blow the bridges along the Canadian
from Oklahoma City to the Arkansas line.

Ben leaned back in a rat-chewed old recliner Cooper had found for him
and smiled. "Now, Hoffman, you goose-stepping dickhead. Now, let's see
you wriggle your way out of this one."

"The Field Marshal does not wish to be disturbed," an aide told the
tough paratroop General.

General Jahn looked at the young man and smiled. "Get out of my way, you
strutting little REM, before I physically remove you."

The aide blustered, but stepped out of the way. "Sir," he said. "What is
a REM?"

Jahn smiled. "It's an American expression. It means Rear Echelon
Mother-fucker." He stepped into the office and closed the door behind him.

Hoffman's nose had been set and a piece of tape placed across it. He
looked at Jahn for a moment. "Well, General Jahn, what is it?"

"Consider surrender terms, Field Marshal," the general said without
hesitation.

226

Hoffman blinked. "Have you lost your damn mind, General?"

"No," Jahn replied shortly. He walked to a sideboard, poured a snifter
of brandy, and drank it down.

Far too much brandy, Hoffman noticed. And without taking the time to
savor the delicate bouquet. The man was utterly without breeding.

"But it's time to consider our position," Jahn said, his back to the
Field Marshal. He poured another brandy, and this time swirled the
liquid about and gave it time to breathe a bit.

Then, Hoffman noticed, he knocked it back like a damn drunken roustabout.

"It's better than it was a few days ago," Hoffman said.

"Hell would have been better for us than then," Jahn said. He spoke his
mind and damn the consequences. He was a professional soldier, not a
diplomat. He turned, facing Hoffman. "Field Marshal, consider this:
Eighth Division is pinned down in the ruins of San Antonio. Raines'
Rebels there have now been beefed up by about a thousand Mexican
guerrillas. Schleyer cannot get out. The Rebels have blown every bridge,
every overpass, in a circle around the city. The Eighth is trapped and
we cannot get supplies in to them. They are doomed. They will fight
until their ammunition is gone, and then they will be forced to surrender."

"We will be victorious up here and then send relief columns to break
them out!" Hoffman shouted.

"You're living in a dream world, Field Marshal."

Hoffman jumped to his feet. "You do not speak to me in such a manner!"

"I offer you the truth while your staff officers shield

227

you and tell you only things they know you want to hear. And you know
that is the truth."

Hoffman sat back down and pouted for a moment. He lifted his eyes and
looked at General Jahn. "Surrender is repugnant. Absolutely unacceptable."

"Raines is a warrior, a first class fighting man and brilliant
tactician, but he is also an honorable man." Jahn sat down in a chair in
front of Hoffman's desk. "Field Marshal, you know I only pay lip service
to the teachings of Hitler. I am not a Nazi and never have been. No
matter what you tell other people or personally think about me, and I
know you think you have converted me, I shall never be a Nazi. What am
I, what I have been all my life is a fighting man. I am a soldier. You
are a student of history, Field Marshal, so think back. Not to the lies
and half-truths you were taught as a boy, but to the real truth that you
later discovered. The entire world rallied together, seventy years ago,
against the man you worship. And now this shattered world is doing the
same thing against us. There will be more countries coming in, Field
Marshal. Trust me. My intelligence people have monitored other nations'
transmissions, and even though they have internal problems of their own,
they are putting forces together to assist the Rebels. Even as we speak.
I personally don't think they will arrive here in time; I think we will
be but a memory before long. But the Gods of war are fickle- they might
choose to smile on us for a change. Who knows?"

Hoffman stared at the general for a long moment. His first thought was
to immediately relieve the man of command. But he quickly put that out
of his mind. Jahn was a fine commander and a brilliant tactician. His men

228

would follow him through the gates of Hell without question. True, the
forces of the NAL had suffered a setback, but not one that was
insurmountable. He must convince Jahn of that. He needed the paratroop
general. Needed him very badly.

"I will not consider surrender, General Jahn," Hoffman reiterated.

Jahn shrugged his shoulders. "In that case, Field Marshal, I am certain
that most of my men will fight to the death. But I will not order them
to do that."

"You do not believe in our cause, General?" Jahn smiled. "You mean the
torture and oppression and slavery of people, Field Marshal?"

"I am doing no more than Ben Raines is doing," Hoffman replied.

Jahn met Hoffman's eyes. The man is crazy, the paratrooper thought. Why
couldn't I see that months ago? He knew the answer to that even before
the thought cleared his mind. He saw it. He just ignored it.

"Anything else, General Jahn?"

The paratrooper was silent for a few heartbeats. He shook his head and
rose to his boots. "No, Field Marshal. There is nothing else."

"Dismissed."

"Yes, sir."

Hoffman threw out his left arm. "Heil Hitler!" Jahn looked at him.
"Shit!" he said, and left the room.

229

Chapter Six

Corrie looked up, surprise on her face. "General!" she called to Ben,
seated across the room, his eyes poring over maps.

Ben removed his reading glasses and looked over at her. "Yes, Corrie?"

"General Jahn on the horn, sir."

Ben quickly walked the distance and took the mic. "Ben Raines here."

"This is General Jahn. I wish to discuss surrender terms, General Raines."

"On the air?"

"On the air, face to face, or sitting on two burros," Jahn's strong
voice came through the speaker. "It makes no difference to me. My only
concern is the treatment of my men."

"A trick, Ben?" Lamar Chase asked, standing close.

"I don't think so." He keyed the mic. "If your men lay down their
weapons and agree to leave the United States, they will not be harmed,
General. I give you my word. But I can't guarantee their safety once out
of this country."

230

"We don't want to leave the country, General. We want to become
residents," Jahn replied. "We are not Nazis, General. We are soldiers.
But do not ask us to fight against men and women who we, in many cases,
have known since childhood. I cannot ask my men to do that."

"I understand, General. I would like to meet with you, General."

"It would be an honor, sir."

"Hold what you have and stay on this frequency," Ben told him. "I'll be
back in touch with you in fifteen minutes."

"I shall be waiting. General Jahn clear."

"Get me Ike, Corrie."

"Shark here. Go, Eagle."

"What do you see up there, Shark?"

"White flags, Eagle. Lots of them. My recon teams tell me that Jahn's
people all over the place are laying down their weapons and standing in
the roads, in the streets, in the fields, hands on their heads."

"I'll be at your location ASAP, Shark. Make a fresh pot of coffee."

"That's a big ten-four, Ben."

Ben put on his beret and picked up his Thompson. "Let's go, people."

Hoffman was clearly suffering from a mild case of shock. That General
Jahn, one of the toughest and most capable soldiers he had ever known
would surrender to Ben Raines had never entered Hoffman's thoughts.

Hoffman lifted dull eyes to his staff people gathered

231

around his desk. "What happened?" was all the man could say.

Ben and General Jahn shook hands, and then both men stepped back and
studied each other for a moment. Jahn slowly removed his pistol from his
holster, all the while keeping one eye on Jersey, who, Jahn quickly and
accurately surmised, would be more than happy to shoot him dead on the
spot, and handed the weapon, butt first, to Ben.

Ben took it, looked at it, and returned it to Jahn. "Tell your men to
keep their side-arms, General. We still have hundreds, perhaps
thousands, of outlaws and assorted scum roaming the country. I won't
leave you defenseless."

Jahn holstered the pistol. "That is kind of you, General Raines. Some of
my men were worried about that very matter. Where would you like us to
relocate?"

"Anywhere you like, General. I must advise you that General Brodermann
has orders from Field Marshal Hoffman to hunt you down and kill you."

Jahn smiled. "I certainly hope that murderous SS bastard tries it. It
will be the last thing he ever does."

Ben laughed. "I believe you, General. Do you know what Hoffman has in mind?"

"No, sir, I do not. And I would tell you if I did. The field marshal and
I did not exactly, ah, part on the friendliest of terms the other evening."

Ben chuckled. "You didn't hit him, did you?"

Jahn again smiled. "No. But I would be lying if I said that thought did
not occur to me."

232

Ben sobered and looked at the man. "I have to ask, General. Why did you
surrender your men?"

"Frankly, because you are going to win, General Raines. And I felt that
any further sacrifice of my men would be criminal on my part."

"Any Nazis in your division, General?"

"Plenty of them. And they did not surrender and will still conduct a
guerrilla type action against the Rebels."

"Thank you for your candor, General Jahn. One more thing: If you are
serious about joining the Rebels and settling in this country, you will
be expected to fight for it."

Jahn smiled. "That is something we do very well, General. Count on us."

The men shook hands and Ben left him with Ike. Just as Ben and Georgi
Striganov had once been bitter enemies, and were now friends, Ben felt
that given the time, he and Jahn would also become fast friends and
allies. Also, though Jahn didn't know all about the meeting, while Ben
had been driving up to meet with him, he and his senior officers had
been interviewed separately and every word analyzed by some of the most
sophisticated lie detector equipment anywhere in the world. Had Ike felt
any of them to be lying, he would have shot them on the spot.

Battalions had been reformed and most of the Rebels were back in
uniform. For those fighting in the arid parts of the state, they wore
desert cammo to better blend in. A few wore tiger-stripe and the rest
wore woodland cammo. All were back in black berets when out of combat
zone or on stealth patrol, everyone on the

233

line was in helmets and body armor, Kevlared to the max.

Artillery was all in place, gunships were being readied-on both sides,
Ben was sure-and the two forces were about to start slugging it out.

And still Hoffman had made no major move to bust his Sixth and Seventh
Divisions out of the loose box they were in. Ben had spent several long
days pouring over intelligence reports and dozens of maps.

"I just can't believe it," Ben finally muttered. "Hoffman is going to do
it." This was said after Ben had studied several bundles of intercepted
dispatches between Hoffman and his commanders and then carefully
studying a map. "He's really going to stand and slug it out with my
eastern battalions. The man is a fool." He straightened up from the
table and said, "Corrie, order Dan to launch a full scale artillery
attack immediately. Tell General Payon I'm shifting Jim Peters
Fourteenth Battalion and Ned Hawkins and his Rangers to the south, with
all the artillery they can muster, to prevent the Second and Third from
making an attempt to break the Eighth division out of San Antonio. Tell
Garcia to shift two of his battalions down to help on the eastern front.
The Blackshirts can't run west. There isn't a bridge or overpass intact
for hundreds of miles once past this area." He tapped the map. "No point
in delaying this any longer." He shook his head. "Damn, but we are
spread thin."

Ben turned to Beth. "General Jahn and his bunch cause any trouble up north?"

She shook her head. "Not one incident. While they are being processed by
our people north of the thirty-sixth parallel, Jahn ordered his men to
turn in their side-

234

arms. Not a one objected. One full colonel was overheard to say if he
never heard another shot fired in anger he would be happy."

"But the multinational force have their hands full containing that
regiment of Nazis who refused to surrender with General Jahn and
company," Jersey said. "Maybe we ought to go up there and lend them a hand."

Ben smiled at her. "Sorry, Jersey. I sort of gave my word I'd run the
rest of this show from the safety of a secure position. Relax and enjoy
the tranquility."

"But you miss the action, don't you, General?" Cooper asked.

"No comment," Ben replied.

"Dan says he will commence firing at 1000 hours, General," Corrie called.

Ben looked at his watch and smiled. "Fifteen minutes. Dan isn't going to
waste any time. How are our stockpiles, Beth?"

"Overflowing, General. But Hoffman can't say the same. He simply won't
be able to match us shell for shell and round for round. He's got to
conserve his supplies. We have completely stopped any incoming supplies
from reaching him."

"Remember, sir," Jersey added. "Our people at Base Camp One worked
around the clock for months getting us ready for this. We've got
supplies cached everywhere. And the multinationals brought tons of
supplies with them."

Ben nodded and began a restless pacing of the office. The office was
actually the den of a home located on the Trinity River in East Texas,
far from any battlegrounds and out of danger. His team watched him,

235

knowing he was missing the action. Tell the truth, so did they.

Once Ben stopped his pacing and stood for a moment, hands balled into
fists resting on his hips. He slowly looked around him at the room, a
disgusted expression on his face. Then he walked to the open window and
looked at the green landscape. One of the contingent assigned to guard
Ben smiled and waved at him. Ben returned the wave and turned around to
face his team. "Ike and Chase damn sure couldn't have stuck me in a more
isolated place," he bitched.

"Ike didn't do it," Beth said, looking up from her journal. "Your kids
picked this place out."

"Wonderful. Never have kids," Ben muttered. "They'll turn on you."

"Hang on!" Corrie said, adjusting her headset. "I've got a transmission
coming in. Say again, Recon. Say again. You're breaking up."

She listened for a moment and turned to face Ben. "About a regiment of
Blackshirts from the Sixth and Seventh busted through the lines, sir."

Ben's face brightened. "No kidding? Which way are they heading, Corrie?"

"Straight toward us, sir."

"Is that a fact?" Ben picked up his Thompson.

"Dan is urging us to head for the neutral zone and wait it out," Corrie
said.

"Way too far," Jersey said, checking her M-16. "We'd never make it."

A Rebel lieutenant had been standing outside, listening. He stuck his
head through the window. "What are you talking about, Jersey? It's a
good two hundred and

236

fifty miles to the bust out point. We'd be over into the neutral zone
long before they even reached here."

"I'm with Jersey," Ben said.

"Sir," the lieutenant protested. "We have a very light battalion here.
That's a damn regiment-sized force coming at us."

A sergeant standing beside the lieutenant said, "I can have choppers in
here in one hour, General. We've got to get you to safety."

"I don't like helicopters," Jersey said. "They have this tendency to
fall out of the sky."

"I agree," Ben said. He gave Corrie a few orders and then, with a smile
on his face, said, "Let's see now, what shall we do. Ah! I know. We'll ..."

"Ike on the horn, General," Corrie interrupted.

Ben walked to the communications set-up and took the mic. "Go, Ike?"

"Ben, you get your long tall skinny ass out of there!" Ike yelled from
hundreds of miles away in North Texas. "You hear me, Ben? You head north
for the Oklahoma line."

"I thought I'd head for Louisiana, Ike."

The speaker was silent for a moment. "What are you pulling, Eagle?" Ike
asked. "I don't trust you."

His team was staring at him, disbelief in their eyes. Ben Raines was
going to run from a fight? They didn't believe that for a moment.

"That regiment can't go anywhere, Ike," Ben radioed. "Cecil will have
ten thousand home guard people waiting for them at the line. That is,
providing they even reach the state line before his artillery blows them
off the face of the earth. You're in command here, Ike.

237

I'm heading back to Base Camp One for a little R&R. You have any
objections to that?"

"I don't trust him," Colonel Lenz of the GSG 9 said, standing close to
Ike. It hadn't taken the GSG 9 commander long to learn that Ben Raines
would go to any lengths to get into a scrap. "He's up to something."

"Tell me!" Ike said. "I been puttin' up with his trickery for years."

"Corrie, have the battalion pack up and mount up," Ben ordered. He
winked at Jersey and she smiled, knowing Ben had something wicked up his
sleeve.

In Base Camp One, due to repeaters placed all up and down the line,
Cecil sat in his office and was able to listen to the conversation, a
smile on his face. Ben was sure as hell up to something. But he couldn't
imagine what it could be. If Ben told his commanders he was going to
Base Camp One, he was going to Base Camp One. How long he was going to
stay and what he was going to do when he left was what worried Cecil.
For he knew only too well that Ben was an ol' war hoss and he was not
going to stay out of action for any length of time. But what in the hell
did he have planned?

"He's gonna pull somethin'," Ike fumed. "He's actin' just too damn
innocent. I know him, I tell you. He's got somethin' sneaky up his sleeve."

"However," Colonel Lenz pointed out. "He is the commanding general."

"Yeah," Ike replied. He keyed the mic. "All right, Eagle. Sounds good to
me. With you out of the way, we can stop worryin' about you and
concentrate on kickin' Hoffman's butt."

"I thought it was very considerate of me," Ben said drily.

238

His team was still looking at him thoughtfully, all wondering what Ben
really had in mind.

Hundreds of miles away, Ike looked at Colonel Lenz. "He's pullin'
somethin'," Ike said. "But for the life of me, I can't figure what it is."

With a smile, Ben handed the mic to Corrie. "Let's pack it up and get
gone, gang." Then he picked up his Thompson and left the room, laughing.

Cooper looked at Jersey. "Whatever he's got in mind, you can bet it's
gonna be interesting." He paused. "And sneaky," he added.

239

Chapter Seven

Ben and his light battalion, actually about three companies strong,
pulled out within the hour and headed east. Ben had said nothing about
what he had in mind. But everyone in the headquarters battalion knew
they were not going to Base Camp One for R&R. Quiet bets were made among
the men and women as to their final destination.

When they arrived at Base Camp One late the following morning, Ben told
Corrie, "Pass the word that we'll be here for about thirty-six hours. So
make the best of it." To Cooper, "Have all our vehicles gone over front
to back and top to bottom." To Beth, "Draw supplies for an extended
campaign." To Jersey, "Let's go, Little Bit. We've got things to do and
not much time in which to do them."

"You think that Ike is gonna figure out what you're up to, huh, and
start raising hell about it?"

Ben smiled. "Something like that."

At Cecil's office, Jersey started yakking with old buddies and Ben
closed the door to General Jefferys' office. The two old friends shook
hands and stared at one another for a moment.

240

Cecil finally waved Ben to a chair and said, while pouring them coffee,
"You must be fairly confident about the outcome of the western campaign,
Ben."

"Very. When General Jahn surrendered, that signaled the beginning of the
end."

"You took some chances over there." He smiled and held up a hand. "Not
that I wouldn't have done the same thing. You had to do something very
bold to gain the upper hand."

"I just thank God it didn't backfire on us. And it certainly could have."

Cecil smiled. "But it didn't. You're confident enough to grab at any
opportunity to leave and go off head-hunting on your own, so level with
me. You're up to something, in your usual sneaky way. So let's have it."

Ben managed to look hurt. Cecil laughed at him. Ben grinned. "You're not
going with me, Cec. My first stop was at the hospital to talk to your
doctors."

Cecil shrugged. "I have resigned myself to this desk, Ben."

"I'm going to settle the hash of Moi Sambura and Wink Payne once and for
all and get them finally and forever off our backs," Ben said.

Cecil drummed fingertips on the desk top. "With how many battalions?"

"Just mine."

"You can't be serious, Ben! Jesus God, man. Moi alone has about ten
thousand back-to-Africa followers. Wink has just about the same number
of white trash. They're spread all over the top half of Alabama. One
faction jumps around and beats on tom-toms and the

241

other burns crosses and has the market cornered on bed-sheets. They're
all a bunch of goddamn nuts! But very dangerous ones."

Ben laughed at the expression on his friend's face. Moi Sambura despised
Cecil Jefferys and the feeling was certainly mutual. "Oh, I'm going to
take along a few tanks and so forth. Maybe some gunships. Don't worry
about me. I'm not going in unprepared."

Cecil shook his head and sighed. But he knew that once Ben had made up
his mind, nothing was going to change it. "Does Ike know about this?"

"Oh, hell no. He'd be screaming if he did. I'll let you tell him once
we're on the way."

"Thanks a lot."

Ben smiled. "That's what friends are for."

Jesus Hoffman sat in his headquarters and brooded. He was not angry. He
had vented that and now he was just depressed. Things were not going
well. As a matter of fact, things were just plain shitty for the NAL. He
swiveled in his chair and looked out the window.

Ben Raines had uncorked all his artillery, and the Blackshirts were
getting plastered on every front. Raines had rocket-assisted 155s, both
towed and self-propelled, with a range of over 26,000 yards, and Raines
had placed them well out of range of Hoffman's largest guns. Every
division Hoffman had was tied up, pinned down, or in a box. And they
were taking terrible losses. Both in blood and morale.

I should have stayed in South America, he thought for the hundredth time
that day. I should have been content with what I had. He shook his head.
No, eventually

242

Raines would have come after me, even down there. So if the dream must
end, what difference does it make where it ends?

Hoffman stood up and walked around the room several times, to get the
blood flowing and the kinks out of his joints and muscles. Then he
stepped out of his office and told an aide to gather his staff officers.
He told another to make fresh coffee and see if the mess had some cakes
or cookies. While waiting for his staff to assemble, he drank a cup of
coffee and felt better, refreshed. He sat on the edge of a table he used
for a desk and his thoughts were bitter.

"I was going to conquer Texas in a matter of weeks," he muttered. "The
whole of the United States in a year." Several of his staff people had
gathered silently by the open door and were listening to him mutter.
"Now my troops are scattered and demoralized. I would go home, but the
way is blocked. I would call for planes, but the Rebels have missiles
and would shoot them down. That is, providing they even reached the
southern borders of this goddamn country."

One of his staff officers cleared his throat and if Hoffman heard, he
ignored it.

"Why?" Hoffman said in a whisper. "More importantly, how did it happen?"

"It happened," the voice of a senior staff member broke into his
mutterings, "because we were all too confident, too arrogant, and we
grossly miscalculated the strength and underestimated the resolve of the
Rebels."

Hoffman lifted his eyes and turned his head while the other staff
officers braced themselves for a display of temper. But Hoffman merely
nodded his head in agreement and softly said, "Yes. Yes, you are
absolutely correct.

243

I have to admit it. But do you have any suggestions that would help us
turn the battles around to our favor?"

"No, Field Marshal. Sadly, I do not."

"Nor do I," Hoffman admitted. "Come in and sit down, gentlemen. There
will be coffee and small treats available in a moment. We have to plan.
And do it quickly."

Just before Cecil shut his office down for the day, Ben walked in and
checked on what was happening in Texas. His Rebels were steadily gaining
ground. Buddy and the bikers and Mexican guerrillas had trucked in some
mortars, and had moved in close and were keeping Hoffman's Eighth under
a ruthless and steady barrage. Buddy predicted the Eighth was near total
collapse and would surrender within the week.

Units from above the Thirty-sixth parallel had moved south and now had a
large contingent of Hoffman's troops trapped between Ike's units and
their own.

"Down to days now, Ben," Cecil said. "That's Ike's assessment. We sure
as hell overestimated the staying power of the Blackshirts."

"General Jahn's surrender knocked the blocks out from under them," Ben
replied. "Never in their wildest dreams did they ever envision Jahn
surrendering more than half of his division."

"If the Eighth does surrender, what in the world are we going to do with
them?"

"I'm readying ships for that now. We'll send them right back to South
America."

"The people down there that the Blackshirts enslaved

244

and tortured will surely kill a lot of them once they land," Cecil
pointed out.

"I'm counting on that," Ben replied.

Cecil shrugged. "When are you pulling out?"

"First thing in the morning. I'm taking main battle tanks and Dusters
and some towed artillery. We'll clear the first decent airport we find
close enough in first thing. I want to make peace with Moi and Wink. And
I'm going to try. But I'm not going to jack around with either faction
for very long, Cecil."

"Good," his friend replied.

An aide came in and said, "This just in, sir." He held up a sheet of paper.

"Read it, Frank," Cecil asked.

"Field Marshal Jesus Hoffman has ordered all troops to fight to the
death. Anyone who surrenders will be branded a traitor and shot on sight."

"Thanks, Frank. What do you think about it, Ben?"

Ben shook his head. "It won't work. Hoffman has nothing except
Brodermann and a few other battalions of die-hard SS troops to back up
that threat. They'll be out of supplies in a week or so. And hungry
soldiers don't fight well."

"You're really that confident, Ben?"

"Two weeks ago if someone had said what I just said, I would have
thought them crazy. But now, yes, I'm that confident. We've split
Hoffman's forces hundreds of miles apart. We've cut his supply lines.
We've demoralized his troops. Frankly, I would consider halting all
major actions against them and just sit back and starve them out."

"Are you leaving that up to Ike and me?"

"Yes." Ben eyeballed his friend. "But you keep your

245

ass out of the field, Cec. Do I have to make that an order?"

Cecil shook his head. "No. The only way I'll get back into action is if
Base Camp One is attacked. And I don't think that's going to happen."

"The regiment of Blackshirts who busted through?"

"My home guards have stopped them cold with artillery and gunships. They
broke up into small units and scattered. Some of them have surrendered
to Rebel patrols and some have thrown away their weapons. We have
evidence that many of them have changed out of uniforms and into
civilian clothing and are trying to head south toward home. Latest
reports say the Mexican guerrillas are not treating those who cross the
border with a lot of kindness."

"Certainly can't blame them." Ben sighed. "Well, it's all over west of
us except for the mop-up. The gods of war did not smile upon Hoffman.
Luckily for us. It could have turned out very bad." Ben stood up and
stuck out his hand. "I'll be pulling out before dawn, Cec. I'll see you
all in a few weeks. I'll have mess with the troops this evening. See you."

Cecil sat and watched his friend leave. He could not recall ever meeting
or reading about any man who was more of a soldier's soldier than Ben
Raines. He slept in the mud and the rain and the cold and the heat with
them. He ate the same lousy food and shared every hardship. Which was
just a few of the reasons why there wasn't a Rebel in or out of uniform
who wouldn't willingly and immediately lay down his or her life for Ben.

Cecil had to chuckle when he recalled first meeting Ben. The man was
adamantly resisting becoming any sort of leader. All Ben wanted to do
back then was

246

travel the country and write about the Great War and the aftermath of
it. He was pushed and cajoled into taking the job. But when he finally
made up his mind to do it, he threw himself into it a hundred and ten
percent.

The good ol' days, Cecil thought, leaning back in his chair and
listening to the silence of the office building. The hum of computers
and copying machines was gone. The chatter of men and women at work gone
for the day.

"You be careful out there, Ben," he murmured.

As he had done countless times in the past, Ben walked the long lines of
trucks and tanks and Jeeps and Hummers, stopping in the darkness of
predawn to chat every now and then, Jersey moving like a silent shadow
with him. This was One Battalion. Ben's personal battalion. Known
throughout the entire Rebel army as the toughest and meanest bunch of
men and women in the land. Very few rookies in this battalion. These
were bloodied and hardened and seasoned combat veterans. And their name
was legend.

"Here we go again, General!" a man called out.

"Damn right," Ben said. "Did you pack extra socks, Sonny?"

"Six pair."

"Did you remember to bring your reading glasses, Jeff?" Ben shouted.

"In an unbreakable case this time!" Jeff said with a laugh. "How about
your glasses, General?"

Ben patted a breast pocket. "Right here."

"And I packed an extra pair just in case," Jersey said.

Ben approached the line of big main battle tanks.

247

"You boys and girls ready to go?" he called up to the helmeted head
sticking out of the turret.

"Ready to kick ass and take names, General."

"That's my line," Jersey laughed.

A runner panted up to Ben. "Great news, sir. General Ike just radioed
in. Hoffman's Eighth division has just packed it in. Buddy Raines is
accepting General Schleyer's surrender as we speak."

"Good, good!"

"There's more, sir. General von Hanstein hanged himself last night.
Guards found him just about thirty minutes ago. He left a note saying he
preferred death over dishonor."

"How very noble of him," Ben said drily. "Are you saving the bad news
for last?"

"Yes, sir. Scouts report that numbers of terrorists are still roaming
around, sir," the runner stated. "And many of them have joined with Moi
Sambura. Wink Payne has vowed to fight to the death."

"How many times have we heard that?" Ben muttered. "All right. Thank you
for the news."

Corrie, Beth, and Cooper appeared at his side just as the sky was
beginning to lighten. Beth said, "Scouts ranging out, sir."

"Very good. Any breakdowns or other glitches this morning?"

"Negative, sir."

"Bring the Hummer up, Coop."

"Right, sir!"

"We following I-20 this run?"

"Yes, sir," Corrie said. "And recon reports that Moi and Wink are dug in
for a fight."

248

"Then they'll damn sure get one. Right, Jersey?"

"Fuckin'-A."

"Let's do it."

249

Chapter Eight

Corrie received messages all that morning about the surrendering of
Hoffman's Blackshirts, from squad size to company size, they were laying
down their arms and walking out with their hands up. But no one from
Hoffman's First Division had surrendered, and not one SS trooper had
shown the white flag. So that made Field Marshal Hoffman still a very
dangerous enemy. Ben did some head work and concluded that Hoffman could
still field about twenty thousand men, perhaps more than that, and all
of them hard-core Nazis and dedicated to Hoffman and his dream of a new
Nazi empire rising up all over America.

"Bastard," Ben muttered.

No one in the Hummer had to ask who Ben was referring to. They all could
pretty well guess.

Once the convoy left the area tightly controlled by the Rebels, the
highways were in bad shape and the convoy was slowed down considerably.
Ben ordered the convoy over just west of Meridian, Mississippi with
about three hours of light left, at a small deserted town. Scouts had
checked out the town and found certain

250

areas of it functioning-in a manner of speaking. The town had been one
of the outposts, but those there had not been able to effectively combat
the roaming gangs of thugs and could not bring themselves to adopt the
harsh law of the Rebels. So they had left-no one knew where-and the
town, at least parts of it, had turned into a squatter's camp.

"They're heavily armed," Ben was told. "And not at all friendly."

"Before you tell me," Ben said, "I can guess. They have hordes of
half-naked kids running around, most of them with runny noses and
rashes, and dirty diapers, or no diapers at all. They have no schools,
no proper sanitation facilities, no doctors. The men all consider
themselves to be 'rough, tough, rugged individualists,' who hunt and
fish while their wives work the gardens, keep house, and bear children.
All of whom are illiterate."

The Scout laughed. "It never changes, does it, General?"

"Unfortunately, no. It does not. Damnit!" Ben kicked at a rock and
succeeded only in scuffing the toe of his boot. "We had this place all
set up and fully functioning. We spent a lot of time and effort in this
place. Why in the hell did the good people turn tail and run?"

No one answered him because they knew he didn't expect any reply.

"Maybe," Ben said softly, "it was because they were good people. Maybe
we've been the bad guys all these years."

"Sure we are, to an extent," a company commander said. "You said
yourself that a nice guy could never be President of the United States,
or Prime Minister of England,

251

or the leader of any large country. It takes someone who is part son of
a bitch."

Ben smiled. "Did I say that? Yeah. I guess I did, at that. Well, I was
right. What does Meridian up the road look like, as if I didn't know."

"Burned out, looted, picked over five thousand times," the Scout
replied. "Some pretty sorry outlaw-looking types in there, General."

"Any sorrier than the ones now occupying what used to be our outpost?"

"No, sir. Just about the same."

"Company coming," Corrie said. "Be here in about five minutes. Fifty or
so men, all heavily armed. And all in need of a bath. Badly in need,
according to the patrol."

"That figures," Ben said. "The easiest thing in the world to make is
soap. But will these bastards do it? No. Come on. Let's get this over with."

The men, all bearded and blue-jeaned and booted, carried a wide variety
of weapons, but carried them like men who understood guns. And Ben had
no doubt but what they did.

Ben halted them about twenty-five feet from where he stood in the room.
"That's far enough, boys! I can smell you from here."

"I always knowed we'd meet up someday, Mr. Big Shot General Raines.
Yeah, I knows who you is. I seen your pitcher. You just as ugly as your
pitcher made you out to be. I reckon you come here to tell what to do,
right?"

"Judging from your appearance and body odor, I doubt that even your
mother could tell you what to do ... or if she tried you didn't listen."

252

The man flushed under the grime on his face and cocked his head to one
side. He narrowed his eyes. "You got a rale smart mouth on you, Raines."

"Why thank you. I take that as a compliment."

"I din mean it thataways."

"I'm sure. What do you men want?"

"To tell you to git, that's what. W'un's run this area around here."

"Oh, my!" Ben feigned great consternation. "He's ordering us to leave.
Should we pack up, people?"

"He's just scaring me to death, General," the usually quiet Beth said,
but she hated this type of men they were facing. If Beth could have her
way, she'd line them all up and shoot them on the spot.

"Yeah, me, too," Jersey said, then quite unladylike spat on the broken
asphalt. "Just about that much."

Corrie was leaning against the fender of a six-by, her CAR-15 pointed
straight at the knot of men. There was a strange smile on her lips.

"You cunts got rale smart mouths, ain't you?" the spokesman said.

"If you don't back off and apologize for that remark," Ben told the man.
"You're going to be in serious trouble."

"Oh, yeah? How's that?"

"Because I might be forced to turn these ladies loose. And believe me,
boys, you don't want that."

"Shit!" one of the men said.

A slim but very shapely oriental Rebel stepped forward. Kim filled out
her BDU's very nicely. She was one of the highly motivated and
trained-to-the-edge Scouts, and she was lethal. At her side, in a pouch,
she carried throwing stars, and was extremely accurate with

253

them. She could also kill with her bare hands, and did, often, working
behind enemy lines.

"What's that goddamn gook want?" the spokesman asked.

A whole gaggle of women and malnourished kids had appeared behind the
knot of rednecks. The women were not much better to look upon than their
men. Ben felt sorry for the kids, for he knew they did not have a chance
in life. They would, in all probability, grow up to be just like their
parents. Worthless. There would be the exception among them, of course.
The occasional kid who would defy their parents' self-imposed ignorance
and cruelty and learn to enjoy reading and expanding his or her mind,
who would break away and better themselves. But those break-aways would
be rare.

"Get your kids out of here," Ben told the group of men. "I don't want
them to see this."

"You don't tell me to do nothin' wif my younguns, Raines," the man
responded.

"Back off, Kim," Ben told the young woman, quickly sizing up the
situation. "These kids have had a tough enough time of it without seeing
more violence."

"I knowed all the time that you was yeller, Raines!" the man said with a
grin. His teeth were rotted and blackened.

Ben's eyes turned cold. "You ignorant son of a bitch!" Ben lashed out at
the man. "I see it daily but I still have a hard time believing just how
goddamn stupid some people can be. Look at us, you fool. You're looking
at over a thousand troops. The finest weapons known to exist in the
world today. One of those main battle tanks parked over there could wipe
out your whole little gathering of stupidity. Look at these troops
around me. Look

254

at their weapons. In five seconds you could all be lying on the road,
dead or dying. And you dare to get all up in my face with threats? Turn
around and return to your stinking hovels. Go on, continue your lives of
ignorance and bigotry. Raise a new generation of fools. We'll just come
back here at a later date and wipe them out, just like we should do with
you, right this minute!" Ben pointed a finger at the man. "Don't open
your mouth again to me. Don't say another word. Because if you do, I
will kill you on the spot!"

The man raised a hand to his face. The hand trembled slightly.

"We got a right to live decent lak and you cain't come in here and tell
us what to do," a woman uttered one of the whining statements that most
Rebels had learned to despise over the long warring years.

"Shut up!" Ben roared at her. "I'll tell you your rights. You have the
right to work and to better yourself. You have the right to respect the
land you squat on. You have the right to expect the same treatment you
offer others. And under the present conditions, that is just about it.
What do you want from us, lady? Tell me. Go on, tell me. Because you are
looking at the only government that now exists in this battered nation."

The woman said nothing. But her eyes glared hate at Ben and the healthy
and well-fed Rebels gathered all around him. Ben knew the look only too
well. And the unspoken words that lie behind those eyes: Give me. You
owe me. I demand. I got a right. I can fuck whenever I wants to and you
gots to feed my bastard children. You gots to give me money for doing
nothing. You cain't make me work ifn I don't wants to. You gots

255

something and I ain't got nothin' so you gots to give me half of what
you got. Whenever I wants to.

Words that helped to bring down what was once the most powerful nation
in all the world.

"Hit's been a rale hard winter, General," another woman said. "And we
din have no good crop last season."

"And that is my fault, I suppose," Ben said sarcastically. He knew he
should just turn around and walk away. Knew he would never get through
to these people. No one had been able to get through to them for
decades. The government-when there had been a government-had wasted
trillions of taxpayer dollars on people such as these. And gained
nothing. The Rebels had learned that the only way to combat ignorance
and bigotry was to go into the home and catch the young during their
formative years, and if necessary, take the young from their parents and
put them in caring foster homes. But those homes were now filled to
overflowing. The Rebels were now taking few young as they traveled.
There simply was no more room.

"Well," the woman said, "y'all seem to have a-plenty and we ain't got
nothin'. You could share wif us."

Ben shook his head in disgust. Same old story. "And when what we give
you runs out...?"

She shrugged, as Ben had expected she would. Nothing ever changes.

"I bet you share with niggers all the time, don't you, Raines?" another
man said with a sneer.

This stupid bunch was really beginning to annoy Ben.

"You damn shore got enough of 'em with you," the ignoramus added,
looking at the growing ranks of Rebels.

256

Less than eight percent of his battalion was black.

"What is your name?" Ben asked.

"Carl Ray. Folks call me Jigger. Been called that near'bouts all my
life." He narrowed his eyes. "Why for you want to know 'at?"

"I'm sure I'm not in the least interested in finding out why folks call
you that."

"Is you gonna hep us, or not?" Jigger asked. "We help those whom we know
will try to help themselves," Ben told the man, trying to hold on to his
temper. It was beginning to be a losing proposition. "That does not
include your group. Now why don't you just leave us alone and we'll be
more than happy to do the same for your, ah, group."

"We ain't a-gonna beg y'all for hep, Raines," Jigger said.

"Good. Now why don't you go away?"

"And we ain't takin' no orders from you, neither."

Ben turned around and looked at his troops. They were sitting on
fenders, squatting on the ground, standing around him, all grinning at
him, and all thoroughly enjoying this exchange.

"You think this is funny?" he asked.

They all nodded their heads.

"Except for their kids," Cooper put a damper on it, standing off to one
side. "But what can we do?"

"Nothing," Beth said. "And it'll break your heart if you let it. Maybe
we could take the very youngest...?" She trailed that off, knowing they
could not. The Rebel adoption and foster home placement people were
overloaded and terribly overcrowded. They simply could not do any more.

Cooper snapped his fingers. "Corrie. I got an idea."

257

"Wonderful," Jersey said. "All this time I thought you were brain-dead."

"What is it, Coop?" Ben said, overhearing much of the exchange.

"General Jahn and his people."

"What about them? Oh! Hey," Ben said. "That's right, Coop. Von Hanstein
said that Jahn and his troops were always getting into trouble with the
field marshal for taking in kids and being careful not to harm any ...
if at all possible. Corrie, find out where Jahn and company are located
and give them a shout. Jahn said many of his men were married and they
were going to try to get their wives up here, one way or the other. I ..."

"Hey!" Jigger shouted, interrupting Ben. "Whut's all that damn
whisperin' 'bout over thar?"

Ben glanced at him. "Shut up, Jugger ..."

'Jigger!" Carl Ray hollered.

"Whatever. Just be quiet. Every time you exhale you pollute the air."

Jigger looked at a friend. "Did that son of a bitch insult me, Flapper?"

"I do believe he did, Jigger. But I ain't rat shore, since I can't catch
the jist of all them words he spouts. Whut do you say, Billy Joe?"

Billy Joe ruminated on the question "Ah personal thank he's been
in-sultin' us ever' since we got up here."

Jigger thought about that for a moment. Then he grunted. "Ah thank I'll
just, by gawd, walk up yonder and whup his uppity ass," Jigger said. He
pulled at the waist of his jeans in a futile attempt to get them over
his enormous gut.

"Ah'll be yore second, Jigger," Flapper said. " 'At's the way them folks
in the olden times done 'er."

258

"My second what?" Jigger asked.

"Never mind, I know what to do. Come on."

The three men walked up to Ben, who had his back to them, talking with
his personal team.

"Three locals coming up," Cooper said.

"Ignore them," Ben replied.

"Hey, you!" Flapper said to Ben's back.

Ben continued talking to Beth while Corrie set up a communications patch
to Ike.

"I'm a-talkin' to you, boy!" Flapper raised his voice.

Dozens of Rebels watched the three men carefully as Ben continued to
speak to Beth, ignoring the trashy trio.

That Jersey had taken a few steps away from Ben and had her M-16 leveled
at the three men did not escape the notice of Jigger and Billy Joe. Both
of them got a little nervous. Jersey's dark eyes held a menace that they
both picked up on. Billy Joe and Jigger looked very carefully all around
them. There were something like a hundred guns pointed at them. A little
nervous turned into a whole lot nervous.

"Ah, Flapper?" Jigger said, suddenly breaking out in a very cold sweat.

"Hush up, boy. I'm a-talkin' to the general here."

"You bes' look around you, Flapper," Billy Joe said. " 'Fore you git any
more hoss-tile."

The ignorant lout who had started this conversation, and who had not
opened his mouth since being ordered by Ben to close it, suddenly had a
nearly overwhelming urge to pee. But he was afraid to move for fear of
getting shot.

The kids had been quickly taken away by their mothers. The women were
showing a great deal more sense than the men.

259

"Goddamnit, boy!" Flapper hollered. "Is you deef?" Then Flapper made a
terrible mistake. He shoved Ben. Hard.

"Oh, shit!" Billy Joe whispered.

260

Chapter Nine

Ben recovered his balance and threw a short hard right fist that landed
dead center on Flapper's big red nose. Flapper's big red nose suddenly
got bigger and redder as he stumbled backward and fell hard to the
asphalt, landing on his butt.

Billy Joe and Jigger raised their hands high into the air as a hundred
rifles took steady aim at them.

"We's out of this!" Jigger squealed. "Lord God, folks. Don't shoot us!"

"I'm with him!" Billy Joe hollered. "What he just said, I mean."

Flapper crawled to his feet, his nose streaming blood and his eyes
killing mean. "You gawddamn uppity son of a bitch!" he said. "I'm
a-gonna stomp your guts out."

"Come on, then," Ben told him.

Flapper rushed Ben, swinging both fists, and Ben tripped him, once more
sending the man hollering and flapping his arms for balance, and finally
sprawling on the blacktop. This time Flapper landed on his face, skinned
it up something fierce, and the man

261

commenced bellowing like a mad bull as he fought to once more climb to
his feet.

"I really wish you'd stop all this nonsense," Ben told him, pulling on a
pair of leather gloves that Cooper tossed him. "Before I lose my temper
and hurt you."

"Son of a bitch!" Flapper yelled, blood from half a dozen cuts and
scrapes running down his face. "Stand still and fight lak a man, damn you!"

"How is a man supposed to fight?" Ben questioned.

"Wif his fists!" Flapper hollered. He shook his head and the blood flew.

"Oh!" Ben said, stepping closer. "I guess I can perhaps manage to do
that. Do you mean something like this?" He suddenly hit the surprised
Flapper with a haymaker right that crossed Flapper's eyes and buckled
his knees. "Or like this?" Ben asked, driving in a left that pulped
Flapper's lips and knocked him up against the front of a truck. "Perhaps
this?" Ben questioned, and hit Flapper in the belly so hard his fist was
momentarily lost in the flab.

Flapper's face turned chalk white and he seemed to sigh as he slowly
sank to his knees. He remained that way for a moment, and then toppled
over, once more landing on his face in the center of the cracked old
highway.

Ben looked down at the semiconscious Flapper. "Not bad for a middle-aged
man," he muttered. He turned to Billy Joe and Jigger. "Either of you two
have anything else you'd care to discuss with me?"

"No, sir!" they hollered, their hands still in the air.

"Are you both certain of that?"

"Yes, sir!"

262

"Will you please carry your friend away from here and leave us alone for
the remainder of our stay?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Ike says Jahn's with him and they've started sending planes down to get
their wives. General Jahn says to bring the-kids on," Corrie called.

"Good, Corrie, thank you. I thought that would be Jahn's reaction. But
before we do that, let's inspect the town and see if there is any hope
for these people."

"Any hope?" Jigger hollered. "What do that mean? What is y'all gonna
do-shoot us?"

"That's not a bad idea," Ben told him.

Jigger peed his pants.

"Oh, Lard!" Billy Joe yelled.

Ben sent teams in to inspect the living quarters of the tiny town's
inhabitants. He had seen more than his share over the long years of how
trash chose to live. Why they did so was something that had eluded him
all his life.

Ben soaked his right hand in salted water while the teams were in town.
He concluded that he was getting just too damned old for fist-fighting.

He had just dried off his slightly swollen hand when the teams reported
back in.

"Report," Ben told them, already reading the news in their eyes.

"Kids are filthy, suffering from malnourishment, and of course have
never been vaccinated for anything," a doctor said. "Pisses me off," he
added.

"Take those young enough to be rehabed," Ben ordered. "Corrie, have
Cecil start sending planes in at noon tomorrow to transport them back.
We'll have that old air strip cleaned up by then."

263

No one had to ask what to do if the parents objected. In truth, damn few
of them would object. Most would be happy to get rid of the brats. The
Rebels had seen that very thing happen, time and time again, coast to
coast, border to border. And it never failed to astonish and disgust them.

No groups of people came out to the Rebel encampment from the shacks and
hovels to protest the taking of their kids, although some did stand well
back from the grass landing strip when the planes came in the next
morning and watch the kids being loaded into the cargo planes for the
flight back to Base Camp One. There, the children would be given medical
attention, vaccinations, and first of all, treated for head lice. They
would be housed-properly, for the first time in their lives-with Rebel
families until Jahn and his people were settled and ready to take them.
Ben sat and stared at the rabble, open contempt in his eyes.

A courier handed Ben a pouch and Ben sat on the ground, beneath the
shady branches of a huge old tree, and read the dispatches.

Intelligence felt that most of what was left of Hoffman's army-with the
exception of the SS troops-was nearing total collapse. Their supply
lines severed, they were running out of ammo and food, and those who
surrendered told tales of eating rats to survive.

Hoffman had vanished. Intelligence believed he had slipped through the
lines and headed north. They also believed Brodermann was with him, as
were many of Hoffman's staff officers. Their defenders were hard-core SS
troops. What was happening in most places west of the Mississippi River
now was tedious and dangerous digging out and mopping up.

264

Ben and battalion watched the last plane leave and then mounted up and
headed out, following I-20 northeast. In their command posts in North
Alabama, Moi Sambura and Wink Payne braced for what they knew was going
to be the fight of their lives.

Wink Payne felt Ben Raines to be a nigger-loving, no good son of a
bitch. Moi Sambura felt Ben Raines to be a black-hating, racist son of a
bitch.

"But he's got African Americans in his army," a few of the more moderate
members of Moi's movement pointed out.

"Uncle Toms," Moi would always reply. "Chocolate covered vanilla ice
creams. Black on the surface, white in the middle. They're just as bad,
or worse, than Raines."

What neither side could see was that all Rebels were, first, last, and
always, Americans. People from every state in what used to be called the
Union were represented in the Rebel army. Every creed, every color,
every nationality and religion.

"Fight to the death!" Wink told his people.

"Fight to the death!" Moi told his people.

"I wish to hell I could figure out some way to get those two to turn on
each other," Ben mused aloud over the evening meal. "That sure would
save us a lot of time and bother."

Under the light from a gas lantern, Ben studied maps of the state. "From
Birmingham north to the state line, everything east of I-65 to the
Georgia line is claimed by Wink. Everything west of I-65 over to
Mississippi Highway 45 is claimed by Moi." Ben put aside the maps and
smiled, and with that, his team knew he'd come up with some plan;
probably a very perverse one.

265

"We attack tomorrow?" Corrie asked.

"No," Ben replied. "We'll stay on I-20 over into Georgia. When we reach
Georgia Highway 27, we'll split up into company sized units, with each
company having armor and artillery. Then we'll start shoving Wink and
his nuts and fruitcakes west." He laughed. "Right into Moi's territory.
The results should be quite interesting. Wink's people might decide to
run north or south, and if they do, that's all right. We'll be ready for
that, too. Corrie, bump Base Camp One and have gun-ships standing by
ready to fly. I want gunships flying search and destroy along the
northern, southern and eastern perimeters of our TO. Get the PUFFs ready
to go as well. Might as well do this right."

"It's a hundred and sixty six miles to Georgia Highway 27," Beth told him.

"We'll figure two days total to reach it and spread out south to north,"
Ben said.

"Soften it up with artillery first?" one of the company commanders in
attendance asked.

Ben shook his head. "Not until we give the noncombatants time to get out
of the area. I don't like the idea of a lot of collateral damage if it
can be avoided."

"And if they refuse to come out?" he was asked.

"A lot of people are going to get hurt," was Ben's reply.

It was a confusing and sometimes chaotic time in Texas. The Rebels and
the multinational forces were very nearly overwhelmed by surrendering
and very hungry Blackshirts. General Payon helped the situation
immensely by clearing a way south through Mexico for the

266

prisoners. The Blackshirts were disarmed and using their own captured
vehicles, with the prisoners driving, were sent south, back to their own
countries and to a very uncertain fate once they arrived. If they
arrived. For the citizens of the Blackshirts' home countries, once the
bulk of Hoffman's people had left for the north, had risen up and
overwhelmed the dictatorial government in place.

Cecil appointed Ned Hawkins and his force of New Texas Rangers to be the
law in Texas and to clean it up. Hoffman, Brodermann, their staff
officers, and at least several thousand of their SS followers, had
disappeared without a trace.

"We've won some battles but not the war," Ben said, upon hearing that
news. "They'll stay down and quietly rebuild. For there are still
thousands of people across this country who subscribe to Hoffman's
ideas. We haven't heard the last of Hoffman. Not by a long shot. You've
got to cut the head off before the poisonous snake is dead. And be damn
careful when you handle the dead part, it can still kill you. Corrie,
have Ike assign as many people as he thinks necessary to start scouring
the land, looking for Hoffman. How about the plans of the multinationals?"

"They agreed unanimously that they'll stay until things are secure."

"Good enough. What about those that we learned were coming over?"

"Cecil told them many thanks and to head on back home. And that anytime
they might need help, to give us a shout. They said they would and
wished us good luck."

"Any word from Moi or Wink?"

267

"Yes." She hesitated. "Moi says for you to take your offer and stick it
up your honky racist ass. Wink says to take your offer and stick it up
your nigger-lovin' ass."

"Being misunderstood," Ben said with a smile. "That's the story of my life."

His team all groaned at that.

"And no respect either," Ben added. That got him another series of groans.

"Gunships up?" Ben asked, when the groaning had died down.

"Up," Corrie said. "No signs of anyone trying to bug out."

"Fools," Ben muttered. "The arrogant fools. Well, you can bet one thing,
when the shells start dropping in on them, there will be some quick
rethinking on our offer."

"But it'll be too late then, won't it, General," the GO of Dog Company
asked.

"Yes," Ben said slowly. "It will."

Jesus Hoffman had split up his remaining forces, disseminating them
among the population and countryside. Hoffman could wait. He would
choose his new people very carefully and proceed ever so slowly. And he
now knew just the type of person who would jump at the chance to join
his forces. The rabble of Paris had helped defeat Burgundy-so he had
been taught in school-so too could the rabble of America help bring down
Ben Raines. They all despised him with a burning passion that bordered
on fanaticism. Hoffman knew that. So why not use them? The more he
thought about it, the

268

better he liked it. He had broached the plan to Brodermann, who had
agreed to the genius of it.

"Yes," Hoffman said, leaning back in his chair and smiling. "It will work."

They had all carefully packed away and hidden their uniforms, and were
now dressed in civilian clothing. They spoke only English. Any other
language was forbidden. The men had all grown moustaches and many had
grown full beards. They hunted and fished and scratched out gardens. All
had plans to take American women as wives; those with children preferable.

"One year, Ben Raines," Hoffman spoke to the silent room. "Give me one
year, and I will smash you into the ground. I learned from you, Raines.
I learned much from you. I learned that you are not a gentleman. I
learned that you are no more than a cut above a very cunning savage.
Yes, I learned much. And for that, I will thank you just before I kill you."

Moi Sambura could not understand what was happening. He had sent scouts
out north and south of his seized territory, but they could find no sign
of the Rebels. But lots and lots of attack helicopters. And some
strange-looking old slow prop planes, that fairly bristled with guns.
Moi was the furthest thing from a fool. He knew from the description
what his scouts had seen. PUFFs. One PUFF could effectively clear an
area about the size of two or three football fields ... of all living
things. And do it very quickly.

What the hell was that damnable Ben Raines up to?

269

"We got to get the wimmen and the chil'ren out of here, Wink!" one of
Payne's men said, panic in his voice. "They's thousands and thousands of
Rebels gathered over yonder to the west."

"Sit down, Ed," Wink told him. "Calm yourself. There are not thousands
and thousands of Rebels. There is one, maybe two battalions of Rebels.
That's it. That's a total of no more than two thousand Rebels. And some
of them is women. And we all know the only thing women is good for. So
they're probably along to screw the troops, is all. The crap we been
hearin' about women Rebels bein' tigers in battle is just that, Ed.
Crap. We got machines guns, mortars, and the bes' automatic assault
rifles anywhere in the world. Hell, Ed, we been coon-killin' Moi's
people for years, ain't we? Don't that tell you nothin' 'bout How tough
we is, boy?"

"I reckon you be right, Wink," Ed said, sitting down. "But you better
talk to the men. Some of them is gettin' spooked about the rumors of
thousands of Rebels."

"I'll settle 'em down, Ed. You just leave that to me."

After the calmed down Ed had left, Wink sat in the study of his home and
pondered what faced him. Unlike many, if not most, of his followers,
Wink Payne was not an ignorant man. It was his radical views that drew
the ignorant to him like steel shavings to a magnet. He would have been
highly insulted had anyone suggested that he and Moi Sambura were so
much alike in their thinking they could pass for mental twins. But it
was true. The main difference between them was their color. Wink hated
black people, Moi hated white people.

Both were highly intelligent men, well-read and well-versed, but both
were so blind in their individual hatred they could not see that even if
they could somehow

270

miraculously combine their forces, they would still be unable to defeat
the Rebels.

They didn't know this, but Ben Raines did.

The sadness of it all, Ben thought, as he leaned against the fender of
his Hummer and stared at what used to be the Alabama-Georgia state line,
is that both Wink and Moi are correct to a small degree in their
thinking. Back when we had a central government in Washington, D.C. the
nation's leaders overreacted in an attempt to try to make up for two
hundred years of injustice toward the blacks. Some white toes got
stepped on; in many cases, trod on hard.

Ben didn't believe that standards should have been lowered to help the
blacks, and neither did any intelligent black that he had ever met ...
once confidence was gained and both sides could speak freely.

Cecil Jefferys had once said, "Toss them all into society with the same
standards for everybody, no matter what color. It will be brutal, but
the best and the brightest and the mentally toughest will make it."

But that didn't happen until men like Ben Raines and Cecil Jefferys came
into power. And Cecil's words were proving to be correct.

Ben had often written to and said to government leaders, back when the
government was whole: "This nation cannot be all things to all people,
all the time. To attempt to do that is not only physically impossible,
but economically unreasonable and grossly unfair to the hard working
taxpayers who are being forced, in most cases against their will, to
foot the bill."

But the elected officials would not listen to men like

271

Ben Raines and Cecil Jefferys. The best of friends. A black man and a
white man of like mind. Hard men.

"Wink," Ben muttered, as he stared toward the west. "And Moi, too. You'd
better get your acts together. And you damn well better do it quickly.
'Cause in about five minutes, I'm coming after you."

Ben walked back to where Corrie sat with her radio equipment. "Any word
from either of them, Corrie?"

"Not a peep directed at us, sir. But Beth has been listening to Wink's
people talk back and forth."

Ben cut his eyes. "What are they saying, Beth?"

"That they're going to kick our asses."

Jersey slapped a full clip of .223 ammo into the belly of her M-16. "I
wonder if anyone over there would like to bet on that?" She stood up and
looked at Ben. "Kick-ass time, General?"

Ben nodded. "Kick-ass time, Jersey."

272

Chapter Ten

In slightly less than fifteen minutes, eight towns that once bordered
the Georgia line were reduced to blazing rubble and thick, swirling,
choking smoke from the artillery barrage. Wink had finally used some
common sense and moved women and children back to the center of his
controlled territory, momentarily out of harm's way. But when the
barrage ended, not quite half of those men he had assigned to the
eastern front lines made it out of the savage barrage of HE, WP, and
antipersonnel rounds that rained down on their heads from miles away.

Wink's men had been told the Rebels would be easy to stop. And his
ignorant followers had believed that. They had believed that right up
until the shelling. They fired their mortars toward the east. But the
rounds fell miles short of the Rebel artillery.

Wink ordered his followers to fall back. "Blow the bridges on the
Tennessee," he ordered. He thought that might buy him some time. It
wouldn't. He thought that would show the Rebels how determined Wink
Payne and his followers really were. It didn't. He

273

thought he would be able to rally his men and stop the Rebel advance. He
was wrong.

Ben, at the top of the state near the Tennessee line, simply drove
straight down a secondary road, on the east side of the river and
Guntersville Lake, blocked off the southern escape route, helped Baker
Company put any of Wink's stragglers into a box, and systematically set
about mopping up.

"We have one of Payne's senior officers," a scout reported, just as Ben
was finishing the evening meal.

It was pleasant in this part of the state, with thick forests, the
foliage lush, and flowers at high bloom. The air was softly scented with
dozens of fragrances, and the evening was cool for this time of the year.

"Bring him in," Ben said.

The man was scared, and tried not to show it. But Ben and his team could
smell it. They'd smelled it many times before. The man looked to be in
his mid- to late forties, and was clean-shaven. Ben, knowing the man had
been thoroughly searched, waved him to a chair.

"Coffee?" he asked. "Mr. ... ?"

The prisoner looked startled. "Jeb Brown. Yeah, might as well," he said.
"I haven't had real coffee in years." He smiled thinly. "You give me a
cup of coffee and then you shoot me, is that it, General?"

Ben smiled and tasted his own just-poured cup. "No one is going to shoot
you, Mr. Brown. You're a prisoner. As soon as Wink is put out of
business, you can go back to farming, or whatever it is you do. As for
the coffee, our friends from South America just sent us tons of fresh
beans. And we, ah, liberated more tonnage from General Jesus Hoffman and
his Blackshirt army."

The man took the cup of fresh coffee, sniffed it several

274

times and smiled. "That does smell good. Thank you, General."

"Por nada," Ben said, his eyes hooded.

"I don't speak no greaser language."

"They are not 'greasers,' Mr. Brown. They are Mexicans, South Americans,
Latinos. They might be Peruvian, Chilean, or whatever. But they are not
greasers."

"They ain't as good as no white man." Brown took a gulp of coffee,
holding the mug as if fearful it might be snatched away from him at any
moment.

"You are right about that, Mr. Brown. They are much better than you and
your cohorts."

"Well, it figures you'd say that. You bein' a nigger-lover an' all."

"Wrong again, Mr. Brown. I don't judge people by the color of their
skin, but by their actions and deeds and how they treat other people.
There are a great many black people I cannot abide. Just as there are
people of all colors I personally have no use for. Including whites."

"Like Wink Payne."

"He's one."

"Moi Sambura?"

"He's another."

"Can I have another cup of coffee?"

"Sure."

Jeb gulped at the fresh cup of brew and said, "I'll make a deal with you."

"What kind of deal?"

"Well, I'll tell you everything I know and you turn me a-loose."

"We already know everything you know."

"Huh! The hell you say! How would you know that?"

275

"We infiltrated Wink and Moi's groups years ago, Mr. Brown. We didn't
consider either of you important enough to waste much time on back then.
You could wait. We had other, more pressing battles to fight. We know
what you have in the way of weapons, and the battle plans of both
groups. So you see, Mr. Brown, you have nothing to barter."

"I'll be damned. You ain't got no smokin' tobacco on you, has you?"

Ben tossed him the makin's.

Brown rolled and licked and lit. He tossed the bag and paper onto the desk.

"Keep them, Mr. Brown," Ben told him. "I doubt you'll have the bag
smoked by the time this little exercise in futility is concluded."

"Huh?"

"It's going to be a very short war."

"Can I speak frank with you, General?"

"Go right ahead."

"Where do you come off roarin' in here and stickin' your nose into our
business?"

Ben smiled. "Brown, I could talk for the rest of the night, but I don't
know if you would ever understand. We don't care if you don't subscribe
to our way of life. We really don't care. But when you start killing
innocent people, children in many cases, simply because they wouldn't
get off the sidewalk and let you walk by. When you horsewhip and lynch
black men and boys for daring to speak to a white woman, and all the
other atrocities you people have committed ... well, Mr. Brown, that
offends me. I feel obliged to come to you and read to you from the
scriptures, so to speak. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

276

"You don't think Moi Sambura done the same thing to white folks? Hell's
far, man, that nigger come in over yonder and run off or kilt hun'erds
of good decent white people!"

"We are going to deal with Moi, Mr. Brown. Rest assured of that."

"You gonna kill him?"

"In all likelihood."

"Good."

"And Wink Payne too."

"But Wink's a lay preacher. He's a good Baptist. He's a religious man.
He can show you right in the Bible where it says plain as day that
niggers ain't as good as white folks."

Ben reached into his rucksack and tossed a Bible on the desk. "Show me,
Brown."

"Well, now, I can't personal show you. But Wink can."

"And you believe that?"

"Shore." Brown looked at Ben for a few seconds. "You really read the
Bible, General?"

Ben thought of the remark attributed to General George Patton when a
reporter asked him that same question. "I sure do, Brown. Every goddamn
day."

Jeb Brown blinked at that.

"Get him out of here and feed him," Ben said. "Then lock him up."

Wink Payne was a good speaker. He could motivate a crowd to do just
about anything. But as a soldier, he had a lot to learn. The Rebels were
kicking the butts of his people at every report. Wink kept backing up until

277

he found, much to his surprise, he could back no further. I-65 was the
separation line between Wink's little nation and Moi's claimed territory.

"That dirty, no-good, rotten, honky son of a bitch!" Moi cussed Ben.

His aides stood quietly. Moi and his people all wore flowing robes and
cute little Muslim caps. They would soon discover the outfits, while
quite African, were very impractical as combat uniforms.

"Be sure and get me one of those hats," Ben said, after interrogating
one of Moi's scouts. "I want to give it to Cecil."

"And do you have any idea what General Jefferys will tell you to do with
that hat?" Jersey asked.

"Oh, yes. With complete verbal instructions on where to shove it. What
is Wink's position now?"

"Backed up to the north-south Interstate," Beth said. "With Moi's people
taking shots at his men."

Ben chuckled. "Worked out just like I thought it would."

"You goddamn stupid African bastard!" Wink yelled into a microphone.
"What the hell are your apes shootin' at my people for? We're all in
this together now. Ben Raines is after both our asses, you idiot!"

"Give me that microphone!" Moi said, grabbing frantically at the mic.
"And will somebody please get that goddamn goat out of my office!"

"Do you hear me, you burr-head?" Wink shouted.

Ben and his team were gathered in the shade of a lovely old tree, having
lunch, drinking coffee, and monitoring

278

the conversation. And immensely enjoying every word of it.

Moi got his volatile temper under control and keyed the mic. "Are you
suggesting that I actually link up with you and that pack of morons you
command?"

"I damn sure ain't whistlin' Dixie!" He turned to an aide. "That is one
dumb nigger over there."

"Praise Allah for small favors," Moi muttered. "And then what, Wink?"

"Well, hell, you dumb gorilla-we fight Ben Raines and whip the bastard.
Then when it's over you stay on your side of the line and we'll stay on
ours."

Moi then knew he was attempting to converse with a lunatic. Raines'
Rebels had just proven themselves over an army of about one hundred and
fifty thousand, seasoned combat veterans. And now Wink Payne,
self-proclaimed preacher and all around flake, actually thought he could
defeat Ben Raines' personal battalion of Rebels. Moi knew from months of
monitoring open Rebel frequencies, that the First Battalion of the Rebel
Army was comprised of the toughest, hardest, and meanest men and women
who ever wore the black beret of the Rebels.

"Well, are you gonna answer me, or not, you ape?" Wink yelled.

Moi keyed the mic. "Are you listening, Ben Raines?"

Corrie handed Ben the mic. "Oh, yes, Charles," Ben said. "I'm listening."

Wink Payne was sudden rendered speechless, something quite novel for the
man.

"My name is Moi Sambura!" Charles/Moi yelled.

"Your name is Charles Washington," Ben replied. "Your father was a well
known and highly respected scientist

279

and your mother an educator at a very prestigious university in New York
State. You hold a PhD. You founded the Back to Africa movement just
before the great war. The way you, and your people, choose to live,
peacefully, is of no concern to me, Charles. But peacefully is the key
word. I won't tolerate closed borders in this country. Not for me, not
for you, not for any group. How you dress, how you worship, is strictly
your business. None of mine. You open your borders and stop hassling
whites, and we're out of here. That's a stone cold promise."

Moi looked at the speaker for a moment. "Brothers and Sisters in the
Rebel Army. Arise and kill the white devils around you!" Moi screamed
the words.

A black Rebel squad leader, who was resting on the ground, opened his
eyes. "That is sure one loudmouthed mother-fucker."

"Is that your answer?" Ben asked.

Silence greeted his words.

"Moi," Ben said. "Listen to me. Neither you nor Payne has a chance. But
it doesn't have to be this way. The killing can stop right now. Keep
your weapons, you know how I feel about Americans having the right to be
armed. Keep your nation intact. Call it what you wish. Let's just stop
the hostilities."

"I hate that son of a bitch!" Moi said, after Ben's words sank in.

An older man on Moi's staff asked, "Why, Moi? What has Ben Raines ever
done to you? He's certainly never done anything to me."

Moi stood silently, trembling with rage. He didn't just hate Ben Raines.
He hated all white people just as deeply as Wink Payne hated all black
people. Neither

280

Moi nor Wink had ever learned that there are good and bad among all
people, and that color has nothing to do with what is in a person's heart.

"How 'bout me and my people, Raines?" Wink screamed into his mic. "You
goin' to give us the same offer you just give to that nigger?"

Ben sat in his camp chair for a long, silent moment. Then he sighed and
lifted the mic. "Yes, Wink. I am. Can you and your followers live in
peace with people of color?"

"That depends on the people of color, Raines."

"Interesting answer," Ben said to his team. "I wonder if he realizes
just how profound it was?"

"You expect me to live side by side with that ignorant Cracker, Raines?"
Moi shouted the words.

Ben recalled Cecil Jefferys' words: "Only the best and the brightest and
the mentally toughest will survive, Ben. Sooner or later we'll have to
deal with the stragglers and the outcasts and the ones who hate for no
good reason."

Ben slowly lifted the mic and spoke calmly and carefully. "Yeah, Moi, I
do. And the same goes for you, Wink. I'm going to call a cease-fire for
the rest of the day. It'll stay in effect until 0600 tomorrow. You two
get together and talk this over. See if you can find some common ground.
Canvas your people; see what they have to say about it. If the two of
you can't work something out, at one minute past six in the morning,
I'll blow you all right straight to hell."

"How about our women and kids?" Wink asked.

"They can leave anytime they choose. They will not be harmed."

281

Moi tossed the mic to the table and stalked out of the room.

Wink handed the mic to his operator and sat down, his face mirroring the
man's inner fury.

"Too much hate between those two," Jersey said. "It isn't going to work,
General."

"I don't think it will either," Ben replied. "But at least we can say we
tried."

282

Chapter Eleven

By the middle of the afternoon, women and kids began leaving the
contested areas, a few elderly people with them.

"Corrie, tell our medical people to treat the very young and the very
old," Ben said. "The rest of them can go to hell."

"One of Moi's people to see you," Cooper said.

"Show him in."

"Moi will never agree to your terms, General," the white-haired black
man told Ben.

"Then he's got a problem."

"Black and white will never get along, is that it, General?" the elderly
man asked.

"No, that isn't it. That is probably true with Moi and Wink, but the
rest of us can, if we work at it."

"Suppose we just want to live alone?"

"Fine," Ben told him. "Just do so in peace with open borders. But if you
want any help from us, you'll have to abide by Rebel law. And don't tell
me that I owe you anything. I don't owe you a damn thing."

283

The old man chuckled. "I can remember when my people weren't allowed to
vote."

"I guess we've come full circle then. Because none of us are voting now.
And probably won't for a long time."

The man held out a part of his robe. "You should try one of these.
They're really quite comfortable."

"It is your right to wear it, and my right to think they look silly as
hell. But I don't have the right to taunt you for wearing it. Do we
understand each other?"

"Quite," the elderly man said. "I am free to go?"

"Mister, you are probably the most free you have ever been in your
life." Ben paused. "Most free?" he muttered. He shrugged. "It'll do."

The old black man stared hard at him for a moment. "You must realize
that Moi and his hardcore followers will fight to the death."

"It won't be a very long fight," Ben assured him.

"And his death won't bother you?"

"Not in the least."

"You have to be the hardest man I have ever met, General Raines."

"You might be surprised just how much compassion I have in me, Mr.
Whatever Your Name Is. But since I'm the one who can give it or withhold
it, it's up to me to decide who gets it. And Wink Payne and Moi Sambura,
I assure you, are not on the list." Ben pointed to a chair. "Sit down.
You want some coffee?"

"Real coffee?"

"Yes. What is your name?"

"Franklin Sharp. And yes, I would like some coffee. It's been years."

Ben hollered for a fresh pot of coffee and it was there in half a minute.

284

The elderly man sighed contentedly after the first sip. "That is so
good. I had forgotten how good." He smiled at Ben. "Are you surprised I
did not take a Muslim name?"

"Damn little surprises me anymore, Mr. Sharp."

"Mr. Sharp? How odd to hear a white man say that."

"You're my elder and you're polite to me. Why shouldn't I be polite to you?"

Franklin smiled and sipped. "Moi had us believing you were a
Negro-hating devil."

"Moi is as much a racist as is Wink. Negro?" Ben asked. "Not black or
African-American."

"After years of being called boy and nigger, when it got to Negro, that
was quite good enough for me. Not all of us are black, I'm certainly
not, so I don't care to be called black, although it doesn't offend me
in the least. As for African-American, that's rather a mouthful when
faced with a long day of conversation."

Ben laughed. "Next thing you're going to tell me is that you're a Baptist."

"Actually, I'm Episcopalian, and have been for many, many years."

"You look tired, Mr. Sharp. Have you eaten today?"

"Ah ... not since breakfast."

"Well, drink your coffee and I'll have some food sent in. Then we'll let
the doctors check you over."

"That's kind of you. But might I trouble you for one more little item?"

"Sure."

Franklin Sharp smiled and said, "You wouldn't happen to have a couple of
pairs of Levis that would fit me, would you?"

285

"That old man is really something," Cooper said. It was late and the
camp was quiet.

"Which old man, Coop?" Ben asked, turning down the lantern on his desk
and closing a journal.

"Mr. Sharp. He was a college professor when the war came. He's just full
of stories. He asked if the Rebels would accept a Negro as a teacher?"

"Well, of course, we do. You told him that, didn't you?"

"Yes, sir. He was sure surprised. You know, General, we have a really
bad reputation. There are a lot of damn lies being spread about us."

"For sure, Coop. Mr. Sharp wants to come live with us at Base Camp One,
huh?"

"Yes, sir."

"He's sure welcome."

"I like him," Jersey said. And Jersey didn't have many kind words for a
lot of people. "I think he's a nice old man who ought to be able to live
and work in peace. And he probably knows a lot, too."

"He might not be so friendly to us after we start killing Moi's
followers," Ben put a damper on their spirits. "You all had better think
about that."

"He's kind of sad about that," Cooper said. "But he told me Moi was
wrong in doing what he did and should have taken your offer of peace."

Ben looked at his watch. "He's got eight hours to reach a decision.
After that I'll make up his mind for him."

286 Ben gave Moi and Wink the benefit of the doubt and waited until
0605. Then he turned to Corrie, standing to his left. "Drop them in,
Corrie."

From miles away, the big guns of the Rebels boomed. When the first of
the almost one-hundred-pound shells struck, Wink and Moi knew that
enormous blast signaled the beginning of the end of their twin racist
dreams.

Ammunition was no problem for the Rebels. With thousands of rounds
already stockpiled all over the nation, they had, in addition, thousands
of rounds seized from the Blackshirt army. And Ben really walloped the
positions of Moi and Wink. He kept up the barrage for six hours, with no
let-up, turning the land in front of him into a smoking, hellish,
no-man's-land of pockmarked earth and burning buildings.

The gun crews would stagger fire for half an hour, then the crews would
stand down, hook up, and move forward a mile or so, and repeat their
performance. At noon they had advanced to within sight of the eastern
side of I-65. Ben called a halt to the artillery barrage.

When the 105s and 155s ceased their booming, and the area had turned
eerily silent, Ben ordered helicopter gunships and PUFFs to go in and
strafe and rocket any-, thing that moved.

Ben was determined to keep his own casualties down to a bare bones
minimum. The lives of ten thousand Moi Samburas and Wink Paynes were not
worth one Rebel loss.

At two o'clock that afternoon, Ben ordered the choppers and the PUFFs
back to their temporary bases and told his people to mount up and advance.

Not one shot was fired at them as they crossed the interstate into Moi's
claimed land. That land was now a

287

smoking ruin, with a mangled body, or part of a body, littering the
ground every few hundred yards. Wink and his people had scrambled across
the interstate, fleeing from the crashing artillery rounds, and had run
straight into the guns of Moi's front line defenders. While the
explosions boomed all around them, raining down fire and death, the two
groups fought each other in hand to hand combat, with pistols and rifles
and shotguns and knives and hatchets.

"Idiots," Ben said, standing in the midst of the body-strewn carnage.

"They sure hated each other, didn't they?" Coop remarked, looking down
at a dead black hand still gripping a white neck, and a white hand still
closed around a black throat. Both hands were stiff in death.

"Maybe this was the only way it could end," Beth said.

"But if Moi and Wink made it out," Jersey added, "it isn't over."

"All right," Ben said, adjusting the chin strap to his helmet. "Let's
end it."

The Rebels broke into squad-sized units and stretched out from the
deserted towns of Lester in the north to Flat Creek in the south and
slowly began working their way west, in the tedious and dangerous job of
house to house searching and mopping up.

Ben and his team found two black males and two white males huddled
together in the basement of a country home. They were tired, dirty,
hungry, scared, and weaponless.

"For folks who claim they don't like each other," Jersey said, prodding
them to their feet with the muzzle of her M-16, "you're sure sitting
mighty close. Move!"

288

Outside, the quartet squinted and blinked in the light of the sun. "I
think they're suffering from battle fatigue," she told Ben.

"How could they be suffering from that?" Beth asked. "They didn't fight!"

"That one's covered with dried blood," Ben said, pointing to one of
Moi's men. "Have the medics check him out."

"It isn't my blood," the man stated. "The building I was in took a hit
from one of your artillery rounds. I'm the only survivor. I was
literally splattered with the blood of my brothers." He stared defiantly
at Ben. "Now their blood is on your hands."

"I can live with it," Ben told him. He looked at Wink's men. "What's
your story?"

"You had no right," one said.

"I'm trying to put this nation back together, pal," Ben replied. "And if
I have to kill every sorry son of a bitch like you four to do that, I
will. And I'll have no regrets about it. Get them out of here."

It took over a thousand people two weeks of hard searching to cover the
area. There was no sign of Moi or Wink. Of course, that didn't mean
anything. Many of the dead had been ripped apart by the hundreds and
hundreds of artillery rounds, burned to unrecognizable char in blazing
buildings, or buried forever under tons of crushing rubble.

"I'd bet they made it out," Ben said. "Their kind is hard to kill.
They'll pop up somewhere, spewing their venomous hate. We'll see them
again."

The survivors of the attack, black and white, mostly women and kids, had
elected spokespeople. They came to see Ben, asking about their future.

289

"That's up to you," he told them. "If you want to stay here and work
together, rebuilding, we'll help you all we can. If you want to go on
hating each other, well, I can't stop you from doing that, either. But
if you choose that route, I can tell you what you'll get from us.
Nothing. Zero. You will get not one aspirin or antibiotic from my
medical people. You will be totally alone. You will not receive food,
protection, or any other type of assistance from us. And we'll take the
younger kids with us right now. Before any of you have the time to
poison their minds with bigotry. Think about that. Give it a lot of
thought before you reach any decision."

About half of them, nearly an equal number of black and white, agreed to
stay and rebuild. Franklin Sharp and several dozen other men, black and
white, ranging in age from twenty to eighty, had already agreed to stay.
The other men and women, both black and white, sullen and with
hate-filled eyes, told those remaining to go to hell. They left, the
blacks in one group, the whites in another, each looking for their own
peculiar version of Utopia on earth.

"What do you suppose will happen to them, Ben Raines?" Franklin Sharp asked.

"Oh, they'll seek some isolated spot and squat, and there they'll fester
in their own hatred. Others like them will find them and they'll grow.
In numbers, not in mentality. Someday in the future the Rebels, or the
organized law of that time will have to go in and fight them. Some
people change, others don't. Those that don't take their hate to the grave."

"You should teach, Ben Raines," the old man said.

"I'm too much of an arch-conservative to teach, Franklin."

290

"Oh, I don't think so, Ben Raines. You are somewhat of an enigma, to be
sure. But I have doubts that you even know exactly what you are. Except
for being the man who rose out of the ashes of destruction and is
attempting to pull a nation back together. You are most definitely that."

"But am I right or wrong, Franklin?" Ben asked.

"Only the writers of history can be the judge of that, Ben Raines. We
will be no more than dust in a lonely and forgotten grave when that
question shall be answered." He held out his hand. "Good luck to you,
Ben Raines."

White hand shook black hand. "And good luck to you, Franklin Sharp."

The Rebels mounted up and pulled out as engineers and doctors and
road-builders and others from Base Camp One pulled in.

Ike had radioed in. All resistance in Texas had been crushed by the
Rebels and their multinational allies. Hoffman and Brodermann had
slipped out, that had been confirmed.

"We'll have to fight them again," Ben said, as the convoy rolled
westward toward Arkansas and Thermopolis's command, dug in deep in a
mountain.

None of Ben's team had to ask where Hoffman would recruit his army. They
knew. From the hundreds of thousands of malcontents scattered all over
the nation. People of all races who hated Ben Raines and his Rebels and
the authority they represented.

"When we get set up tonight, Corrie," Ben said. "Have Ike send out teams
all over the nation. We've got to start rebuilding outposts, and this
time we'll make them stronger and with more people per post."

"Yes, sir."

291

"We'll use Jahn's people to start new outposts all over the nation,
Beth," Ben added. "And that will keep them widely separated until we can
weed out any Nazi's who have infiltrated his bunch," Ben added, knowing,
as Jahn had confided in him, that there were hard-core SS people in his
group, put there deliberately by Hoffman and Brodermann. Jahn just
didn't know who they were. But he had suspicions.

"Jahn might not like that," Jersey said.

"It was his idea," Ben said with a smile. "Jahn wants to live in a free
society, where he can enjoy the books he wants to read, newspapers that
don't carry the party line, and where he can engage in open, spirited
debate. And the man wants to farm his own piece of ground. Some of his
staff officers told me Jahn had one of the most beautiful flower gardens
they'd ever seen. You just never know about a person."

"Yeah," Cooper said. "Hitler played the harmonica."

"Cooper!" Jersey said.

"It's true! I read it in a book."

"General!" Corrie said, and the urgency in her voice stopped the
bantering. "Thermopolis is under heavy attack. He's holding, but says he
can only hold out for another twenty-four hours at most."

Ben lifted a map. "We roll all night, change drivers every two hours.
Corrie, tell the trucks pulling the artillery to catch up when they can.
Who is attacking Therm?"

"Therm says he doesn't have the faintest idea. But they're throwing
everything but the mop bucket at him."

"Tell him to hang on. We're on the way."

292

Chapter Twelve

The convoy bulled their way through the night until about midnight, when
the skies opened up and began a torrential rain on them; a hard rain
that slowed the convoy down to a careful creep. The roads were in
horrible shape anyway. After years of neglect, they were full of ruts
and holes and places where entire sections had been washed out by
flooding. Scouts had gone racing ahead, bouncing over, around and
through the holes and sometimes leaving the road altogether, driving in
the ditches and in fields, doing their best to stay ahead of the convoy.

Just about the time the rain slacked, the drivers pulled over for a
shift change and Ben took the wheel.

"Oh, shit!" Jersey muttered. "Here we go. Hang on, people."

"I heard that," Ben said, and roared ahead.

"I've lost contact with Therm," Come said.

"We don't have far to go now," Ben spoke over the roar of the engine.

The Hummer Ben was driving soon overtook the Scouts, and Ben pushed the
advance party hard, staying

293

right on the bumper of the last Scout vehicle. Finally, Ben spun the
wheel, raced around the Scouts, and took the lead. Behind him, the
convoy picked up speed, staying with Ben.

After an hour of sliding around hilly curves on the rain-slick old
highway, with Ben's team holding on to anything they could grab, they
sped past the old county line sign and were within a few miles of
Therm's HQ. Ben slowed, then pulled over to the side of the road. Ben
and team got out.

"Try it now, Corrie," Ben said.

"I have them, General."

"Give me the mic. Therm! This is Eagle. What's your status?"

"Grim." The sound of gunfire was sharp. "Where are you?"

"Within spitting distance. What are we looking at?"

"Several thousand. We now believe they're a combination of Hoffman's
Blackshirt troops, right-wing survivalist groups who've kept their heads
down until now, and what's left of Hoffman's terrorist groups. They have
exhausted their mortar rounds and are attacking with small arms only. We
are completely surrounded, Eagle. You ten-four that?"

"I copy, Therm."

Therm was telling Ben that it didn't make any difference which direction
he chose to attack from. Just come on.

The COs had run up to Ben's position. "My company will attack from the
north," he told them. "Baker will take the south. Charlie take the east.
Dog Company swing around and take the west side. When Dog is in
position, we attack. Corrie, any word from the Scouts?"

294

"Coming in now, sir." She listened through her earphones for a moment.
"Everything is clear around the attack zone. No surprises for us."

"Let's go 4-F, people," Ben ordered.

Find 'em, fix 'em, fight 'em, and finish 'em.

The Rebels, running without lights, quickly swung into position. The
sounds of battle were sharp in the damp night. The rain had ceased and a
few stars were beginning to poke through the cloud cover. The storm was
moving rapidly off to the east.

"All units in position, sir," Corrie reported.

"Let's do it," Ben replied, and the Rebels moved out on foot.

The terrain was hilly, thick with brush and timber, and the going was
gradual uphill, and slow and hard.

"Dog attacking from the west," Corrie said. "Enemy is swinging units
around to meet them. They believe our main force is Dog."

"Did Dog encounter any mines, trip-wires, or any other impediments on
the way?"

"Negative."

"Tell our people the password word is Jerry, response is Lee." When that
was done, Ben said, "Put it in gear, people." Then took off at a trot
through the timber.

The Rebels crashed into the Blackshirts, right-wingers, and terrorists
from the north, south, and east at just about the same time, catching
them completely off guard. For a full ten minutes, it was hand to hand
combat in the damp and treacherous footing in the darkness of the timber.

Ben slammed the butt of his Thompson into the pale face of a man and
then shot him in the chest. Jersey jumped onto the back of a dark shape
coming up fast

295

behind Ben and rode the man to his knees. He threw her off and Cooper
shot him in the face. Corrie's CAR-15 spat fire and lead and two dark
shapes went down screaming in pain. Beth had slung her M-16 and had both
hands filled with 9 mm pistols for the close-in work.

Ben saw dark shapes come running through the timber and leveled his old
Thompson. The Chicago Piano roared and bucked in his hands. The heavy
.45-caliber slugs tore into flesh and splintered bone and knocked the
running shapes spinning to the ground.

A man leaped out of the darkness and onto Ben's back. Ben twisted and
slung the man off, then kicked him on the side of the jaw with a boot.
The man screamed as his jaw splintered and he rolled away, coming up
fast to his knees, a pistol in one hand. Ben pulled the trigger on the
Thompson and the slugs turned the man's face into a bloody,
unrecognizable mess. If the man ever had any real thought processes,
they were now spattered on the trunk of a tree.

Ben and team quickly and effectively finished what remained of the
counterattack and knelt down on the damp earth to catch their breath.

"Therm says the situation has eased on his position," Corrie panted the
words. She caught her breath and then smiled in the night, white teeth
flashing against the tan of her face. "Smoot is all right. She crawled
behind a foot locker and is still there."

"Dog's smarter than we are," Ben said, snapping a fresh drum into place.
"Let's go."

It took the Rebels only a few minutes to break through on all sides and
Therm's command poured out of the underground bunkers to join them. The
attacking

296

forces faded into the night, leaving behind their dead and wounded.

Ben did not have to order his medical-people to see to the Rebel wounded
first. They did that automatically, ignoring the pleas from the enemy
wounded.

It took Ben a few moments to find Thermopolis. All of Therm's command
had returned to their usual manner of dress. Jeans, sweatshirts or
T-shirts, headbands, and tennis shoes.

"Are we going to have a love-in?" Cooper asked, casting hopeful eyes
toward Jersey.

"Forget it," she told him.

"You're breaking my heart, Jersey."

"You'll get over it."

"Ben!" the voice of Thermopolis reached him.

The two men found each other, shook hands and smiled at one another.

"Good to see you, Thermopolis," Ben said.

"Bastards seemed to come out of nowhere," Therm said. "Those right-wing
survivalist types must have been very familiar with this part of the
country and linked up with Hoffman's Blackshirts. Then they slipped in
small groups at a time."

"Probably part of those we chased out of southern Missouri a while
back," Ben replied. "We knew we didn't get them all. Let's get a body
count."

If Therm's estimate that he had been under attack by several thousand
men was correct, and Ben had no reason to doubt it, the Rebels had
broken the backs of that particular bunch. By dawn they had counted more
than fifteen hundred dead and wounded. Most of the wounded critically hurt.

One slight confrontation stuck in Ben's mind. Shortly

297

after the sounds of battle had faded, Therm and Ben had been standing
and chatting.

"How about the enemy wounded, Ben?" Therm suddenly asked, after a
civilian had walked up, carrying a medical bag and with unspoken
questions in his eyes.

"Who is this?" Ben asked.

"Dr. Sessions," Therm said. "He and his wife, who is also a doctor,
joined up shortly after we got here. We have the makings of quite a
community here."

"I'm glad to hear it," Ben said.

"The wounded, General?" the doctor pressed him. "They are suffering."

"That's their goddamn problem," Ben told the man. "You make sure that my
people are taken care of, any civilians who might have been in the area,
and then, and only then, do you jack around with the enemy. And if
they're going to die, you give them a shot to kill the pain and leave
them alone. Now, did you hear all that loud and clear, doctor?"

Therm was inspecting the stars. They were quite lovely this night, since
the storm had blown clear.

"Help me, Doc!" a man called out. "I took one in the legs."

Cooper walked over to the cammie-clad man. "How'd you like to take one
in the head?"

"You got to be kidding!" the fallen man blurted.

"Trust me when I say he isn't," Beth told him. "Shut your damn mouth.
You get treated after everyone else."

The doctor's wife had joined the group. Sessions looked first at Ben,
then at Thermopolis. "I thought surely you were kidding when you told me
about Ben Raines. My wife and I had a good laugh about it."

"You're not laughing now," Therm replied.

298

Sessions looked at Ben. "I don't think I like you very much, General."

"I don't give a damn whether you like me or not. You just treat my
people and do it right the first time. Get to it, Doctor."

Doctor and wife left in a huff. Ben looked at Therm. "He'd better learn
how we operate, Therm. If he stays here, and if he ever leaves a Rebel
unattended to work on an enemy, and that Rebel dies, I'll kill that
bastard. Personally."

"I tried to tell him, Ben. I thought I got through. But I shall pass
along your latest words."

"Good," Ben said with a smile. "Now let's go get some coffee."

Therm had lost ten of the people who had been with him for years, and
eight more had been badly wounded. Fourteen regular Rebels had been
killed, and more than twenty wounded.

"I take the blame for this, Ben," Therm said, after they both had slept
for a few hours and were now sitting, having a late breakfast.

"Don't," Ben told him. "That would be nonsense. It wasn't your fault.
I've read your logs. You had patrols out, Scouts out. You did exactly
what any other commander would have done. These things happen. I know
you feel bad. So do I. I have a thousand times over the years. And you
never get used to it. You just have to learn to live with it." Ben
looked around. "Say! Where is Emil?"

Therm laughed. "Leading a recon patrol up in Iowa. You lucked out."

299

"Regular Rebels are taking orders from Emil?" Ben asked, astonishment in
his words. Emil, the little ex-con artist, was liked by everyone. But a
leader of men?

"Well ..." Therm again laughed. "They pretend they take orders from him.
Sergeant Mack is with him."

Ben relaxed. Mack would see to it that Emil didn't get in much trouble.
"You've got it looking good around here."

"Yeah, I'll have to agree with you. A few of the folks from Mountain
Home and surrounding towns came here to settle with us. We're going to
have a good place to live here ... someday," he added.

"Keep the faith, brother," Ben said. "Power to the people and all that."

That really set Therm off in a burst of laughter. He wiped his eyes and
said, "Way to go, Ben. Dylan and Baez would love you for that."

"Yeah. I'm sure the three of us would get along famously. Did you know I
used to sing a lot of Dylan's songs?"

Therm suddenly stopped smiling. He frowned. "That's not funny."

"I didn't mean it to be funny. I used to be able to cord a guitar pretty
damn well."

"You never told me that!"

"Yes, I did."

"You did not! You sang protest songs?"

"I didn't consider them protest songs. I just liked them."

"That's incredible!"

"No, it isn't. Where is your guitar?"

"You wait right there. Don't move. I'll get it. This I have to hear
personally."

300

"Fine. I'll be right here." He hurried off.

"I'm leaving," Cooper said.

Jersey lifted her M-16. "If I gotta hear this, so do you. Sit down, Coop."

Coop sat.

"You two are hurting my feelings," Ben told them.

"Has anybody got any ear-plugs?" Jersey said.

Therm returned with a Martin guitar and handed it to Ben. Ben flexed the
fingers of his left hand a few times. "You have to realize that I
haven't played in years. The tips of my fingers are going to get very
sore, very quickly."

"Just a few chords and a few lines will convince me that you're not
bullshitting me," Therm replied.

"Oh, ye of little faith," Ben said.

"I'll believe it when I hear it," Therm said.

Ben selected a big triangle pick from the case, hit a few practice
chords, cleared his throat a couple of times, and then launched into
Dylan's "Subterranean Homesick Blues."

Ben's voice was deep and husky, but he could carry a true tune and his
singing wasn't all that bad. He did a few lines and then went into "It's
All Over Now, Baby Blue," and did a respectable job of it.

The look on Therm's face was priceless.

Ben sang a few lines of a dozen songs from the protest days, hitting all
the right chords. Then the tips of his fingers started hurting. Ben
smiled and handed the guitar back to Therm. "Nice axe, Therm."

Thermopolis said, "Well, I'll be goddamned! You really can pick."

Ben smiled. "Yeah. Thanks. That was fun. Took me back years."

301

Therm's eyes narrowed and he was thoughtful. "Yeah. Probably back to
when you worked for the damned CIA and infiltrated student dissident
groups. I'll make a bet that's why you know all those songs."

"You never heard me say that, Therm."

"Oh, well," Therm said with a shrug of his shoulders. "At least you're
continuing your habit of constantly amazing me."

"Ike and Dr. Chase are on the way here," Corrie informed them.

"Why?" Ben asked.

"They didn't say."

"ETA?"

"One hour."

Ben looked at Therm. "Did the good Dr. Sessions get over his huff at me?"

"Not really," Therm leveled with him. "But I told him if he wanted to
practice medicine, and have drugs available to him, that's the way it
had to be."

"And he didn't like that very much, did he?"

"Not at all."

"His wife of like mind?"

"Absolutely."

"You're going to have trouble with them, Therm. I sense it and I'm
pretty good at picking out troublemakers. But that's your worry. I'm
sure they're both good people. But they've got to be made to understand
about the time and place and the hundreds of thousands of people out
there who would like to destroy this movement. If you can't get through
to them, then whether they stay or go is a judgement call you're going
to have to make. And you'll make the right one."

Therm shook his head. "Just think. A few years ago I

302

was a contented hippie, living as one with the land, in my own little
commune, and enjoying life."

"And singing protest songs about me," Ben said with a smile.

Therm's eyes twinkled. "You do get right to the truth, don't you, Ben?"

303

Chapter Thirteen

Dr. Chase took an immediate dislike to both Dr. Sessions and his wife.
He said to Ben: "You would think, after more than a decade of this world
being turned upside down, the idealistic views of those two would have
been knocked out of them."

"Perhaps that is precisely why they still cling to those views, Lamar,"
Ben replied. "Forget about them. They'll make it or they won't." He
looked at Ike. "Why this trip, Ike?"

"We think Hoffman and Brodermann are holed up somewhere in the
northwest. Intell has narrowed it down to that location. They believe
that the troops have spread out over a couple or three states, taken
wives, probably with children, and settled in while their leaders
recruit new members. There has been quite an exodus of sorry-assed
people from all over the nation. All heading west."

"What states?" Beth asked, sitting at the table with her notepad.

"Washington, Oregon, Wyoming, Montana," Ike said, looking over at her.

304

She nodded. "That's almost half a million square miles."

"Did you just add all that up or do you keep those facts in that head of
yours?" Ike asked.

Beth smiled sweetly at him.

"And you have a plan on how we might ferret them out?" Ben asked.

"No," the ex-Navy SEAL admitted. "Intell thinks they speak nothing but
English, have become solid citizen types, helping all others around
them, thereby making themselves a valuable part of a hundred or more
communities. And there is not a way in hell we could prove they aren't
what they claim to be. And here is something else: Some senior general,
a Frederich Rasbach, an uncle or great uncle to Hoffman, apparently
slipped out of Texas weeks ago and returned to South America. There, he
and his people destroyed all records of the NAL. Right down to the last
scrap of paper. Our allies down there report there is nothing left to
link anybody with the NAL."

"This General Rasbach?"

"Vanished. He'll probably live out the remainder of his years in some
remote part of South America."

"Well, you can bet your boots on one thing: If Wink Payne and Moi
Sambura made it clear of Alabama, they're heading that way to join the
new movement. Shit!" Ben added.

"One conflict after another," Therm said softly. "It just never ends. I
swear to God, I don't see how you people have kept your sanity all these
years."

Ben looked at him. "By not just believing that we're in the right,
Therm. But knowing we're right."

305

"I could argue that, Ben, but I don't feel like it right now. So what
are you going to do?"

"Try to stop the flood of crud and crap from joining up with Hoffman."

"And how do you propose to do that, Raines?" Lamar Chase asked.

Ben smiled broadly and winked at Jersey, sitting across the room. She
knew immediately something big was in the works, and muttered under her
breath, "Oh, shit!"

"Why, Lamar," Ben said. "By doing what I do best. Going out and getting
into an argument."

Knowing that Ben would not be dissuaded, Ike offered only a token verbal
resistance, and quickly gave that up. Chase just cussed for a few
minutes, then set about adding to the medical personnel going with Ben.

Then he said he was going with Ben.

"What?" Ben shouted.

"You heard me. And don't shout. There is nothing wrong with my hearing."

"Why, you old fart! You'd get in the way."

Lamar smiled sweetly. Very sweetly. Ben braced himself. "I don't go,"
the chief of medicine said. "You don't go. It's just that simple."

"That's blackmail, Lamar!"

"You damn right it is. Pure and simple. Now what is your answer?"

"Oh, all right. But I don't want to hear a lot of bitching from you
about the field."

"Me? Complain?" Chase attempted to put a very innocent look on his face.
He managed to look like a satyr

306

trying to slip into the back of a church with screwing the organist on
his mind. "I never complain, Raines."

"Everybody make sure your boots are laced up tight," Ben called. "The
shit is getting deep around here."

"I resent that," Chase said.

"Get your duffle packed, Lamar," Ben told him. "We pull out in the
morning. Early."

Lamar started to say that he'd be up before Ben. But he checked that.
Nobody got up before Ben Raines.

"Therm," Ben called. "You're sure Emil is still up in Iowa?"

"Right. The extreme eastern part. I spoke with him last night."

"Good. Keep him up there and out of trouble. We'll head for the
Kansas-Colorado line and start stretching out. Corrie, have our people
in Texas and Oklahoma stop any westward movement. They know the types to
stop and turn around. Have Buddy, Dan, and Jackie start moving their
battalions north. We'll all intersect... here," he pointed to the map.
"And I want full battalion strength. Make sure they double the artillery
that normally travels with each battalion. We don't have any way of
knowing how many of the crud and crap have migrated west to join
Hoffman-probably thousands, the way those bastards network-but we can
damn sure put a stopper in the bottle. We're out of here in the morning.
0500 hours."

"How does he know which types will join with this Hoffman," Dr. Sessions
asked Therm. "Does he think he possesses some magical powers?"

Therm ignored the sarcasm. "He knows. Believe me, he does."

"That's impossible!" the doctor snorted.

307

"I thought so too. Until I spent some time with him. He's a very unusual
man."

"I'm sorry, Thermopolis. But I have to disagree. He's a right-wing
savage. My wife can't stand to be around him and quite frankly, neither
can I. As gentle a man as you are, I find it incredible that you are a
willing part of the Rebel movement."

Therm smiled. "Ben Raines is a walking contradiction, Doctor. That's
what he is. And hard-headed as a goat. But if this nation is ever to be
whole, he's the man who'll do it. Five years ago, you would have had a
most difficult time convincing me of that. But I believe it now."

"If he doesn't kill half the population first."

Therm looked at him and then shocked the doctor and astonished himself
when he said, "Did you ever consider that perhaps half the population
might need killing?"

Therm walked out to the long lines of vehicles grumbling and snorting
and farting in the predawn darkness. He knew he'd find Ben at the head
of the column.

The two men stood shoulder to shoulder for a silent moment. "Dr.
Sessions and wife are considering leaving us," Therm broke the silence.

"His option." Ben didn't give a good goddamn what the doctor and wife did.

Thermopolis smiled in the darkness. He knew how Ben felt and he pretty
much felt the same way. At first, he and Dr. Sessions and wife had
gotten along well. But Thermopolis had been too long with the Rebels. He
had learned that the Rebels did not crave war; they were not

308

bloodthirsty savages, but rather just flesh and blood and caring and
feeling men and women who had a very ugly job to do, knew that there was
no one else around to do it, and so were doing it. Every army throughout
history has drawn its share of homicidal maniacs, and the Rebels were no
exception. But they were always quickly discovered and booted out. Many
of the Rebels were family men and women, whose spouses were the home
guard back at Base Camp One. To a person they longed for the war-days to
be over. But until that day, they would fight.

As for the new doctors, to put it bluntly, they were getting on
Thermopolis' nerves.

Standing by Ben, he said as much.

"Run them off," Ben told him. "It's your command."

"We need them."

"Then put up with them, Therm."

"Goddamn it, Ben! Everything is black and white to you. Life isn't that
way."

"It is if that's the way one chooses to see it," Ben replied, hiding his
smile.

"Shit!" Therm said, and stalked off. He stopped and turned around and
yelled, "You are a very exasperating man, Ben."

"Right," Ben called.

"You be careful out there."

"Will do."

Ben made his slow walking tour of the column. Heavy weapons had been
beefed up, with the battalion carrying nearly twice the artillery they
normally carried. Each squad carried an additional heavy machine gun and
mortar. More M249s had been assigned to each squad, giving each squad
awesome firepower. Any band

309

of outlaws or malcontents who attacked this unit would be in for a very
unpleasant surprise.

"Let's roll," Ben said, climbing into his Hummer. "Head west, Coop."

Ben and battalion left Therm's HQ and headed west, toward the Oklahoma
state line. Long before they reached the Arkansas' western border, they
cut north, up toward Missouri. For the first several hours, their
journey was uneventful. They saw many people; more than most felt they
would. But the people showed no more than a passing interest in the long
Rebel column. Ragged kids watched with more interest than the adults,
looking at the towed artillery and the tanks that rumbled along the old
roads. The kids grinned and waved at the Rebels. Most of the adults did
not. Soon, the Rebels contented themselves matching the civilians'
unfriendly looks stare for stare.

"What the hell's wrong with these people?" Jersey asked. "They act like
... well, I don't know what the hell they're acting like. Stuck up, I
guess."

"They don't need us," Ben replied. "So they think. They've lived
isolated for years and like it that way. Intell said there were a large
number of religious fanatics beginning to surface all over the country.
Many of them accepting what has happened as God's will. Let them think
what they want. I don't give a damn about the adults. It's the kids that
bother me. They're being denied medical care because of the beliefs of
their parents and that's wrong."

Ben stopped it there. He just didn't know what to do about the kids.
General Jahn and his people would take as many as they could. When they
could handle no more ... ? Well, Ben didn't like to think about that. Ben

310

knew there would be thousands more kids, just like these, in the years
to come. The Rebels would try to help the little ones. But the Rebel
homes were already very nearly overwhelmed.

The Rebel column hit a stretch of country where they saw no humans. No
signs of life except for plumes of smoke, coming from homes or camps set
well back off the road.

"They don't want any part of us," Cooper said, gesturing toward the
smoke. "It's gonna be like I read in books written before the Great War.
The haves and the have nots. Many of those people will begin to see what
we have, and then look at what they don't have, and they'll revolt."

"Yeah," Jersey said. "And what makes me mad is they'll blame us for what
they don't have. I read those books too, Coop. They don't want to work
for anything. They want someone-meaning us-to hand everything to them.
Piss on them."

Ben smiled secretly, letting them talk. There were no free rides in the
Rebel society. Everybody who could work, did so. Refuse, and you were
kicked out and nobody gave a damn what happened to you. Those people who
lived in the camps and houses where the smoke was originating could step
forward and join the Rebel movement, and they would be welcomed. But if
they expected a free handout, they were sorely wrong. And if any group
tried to take by force what the Rebels had, they would die. There were
no pseudo-sociological excuses here. The Rebels did not give a damn for
color or how a person was raised. One was either a part of the Rebel
movement, or one was out in the cold. As Therm had pointed out: the
Rebel philosophy was black and

311

white, with no gray in the center. And until conditions returned to some
sort of normalcy, that was the way it had to be.

"Order everybody to button up and make certain all body armor is on,"
Ben told Corrie. "This is sniper country. And we are not the best-loved
group of people in the world."

"Putting it mildly," Beth said drily.

"Scouts report a large number of people, men, women, and children,
moving west on Highway 160," Corrie said. "Estimated six or seven
hundred of them, four or five to a vehicle. Too many for the Scouts to
stop."

Ben lifted a map. "We're almost at an intercept point. Tell the Scouts
to keep them in sight and us informed. As soon as we're in position,
have the Scouts fall back and join us. Step on it, Coop. Corrie, tell
the tankers and supply vehicles to catch up with us."

The column reached the intercept point and set up roadblocks. The Scouts
joined the main body and reported verbally. After the report, Ben stood
in the center of the highway, cradling his Thompson. He waited for the
first forward units of the civilian column. He felt he knew what he
would initially see, and he was not disappointed.

Main battle tanks, Dusters, and APCs were behind him and on both sides
of him, forming a U-shape, vehicles staggered, with all guns pointing
toward the east. Rebel units had taken up defensive positions all around
Ben and his personal team. It was quite an impressive sight. And the
sight was not lost on the rattletrap cars and trucks that soon came
chugging and rattling up the road, many of them belching smoke. Ben
could see that

312

only about one out of every three vehicles was in fairly good shape.

From hidden vantage points, Scouts reported in. "Kids are all at the
rear of the column. Only armed men and women at the front half of the
column."

"Millions and millions of spare parts all over the nation," Jersey said,
disgust in her voice. "New cars and trucks everywhere, and these clowns
show up driving this crap."

"Dr. Sessions and his kind say we should pity these people, Jersey," Ben
said with a smile.

"Sessions and his kind haven't been out here fighting these sorry types
for years," she retorted. "He'll get a bullet up his butt one of these
days and that might change his mind."

"You really believe that?" Cooper called from the other side of the road.

"Hell, no," she said. "It hasn't proved true very often in the past."

The convoy of movers stopped several hundred yards from the roadblock.

"Give me that bullhorn," Ben said.

A man wearing two pistols got out and stood on the cracked old highway.
"What's the trouble here? We're not lookin' for no fight, mister."

"You won't have a fight if you just turn those jalopies around and head
on back where you came from."

"You just ain't got the right to tell us where we can or can't go."

"I've got over twelve hundred heavily armed Rebels that says I can,"
Ben's voice boomed over the yards between them. "You people just turn
around and head on back where you came from and there won't be any trouble.

313

But I can assure you of this: you are not going to go west to join
Hoffman and his Nazis."

The man waited just a couple of heartbeats too long before he replied.
"What's that you say? Hell, I ain't never heard of nobody called Hoffman."

"His face is flushing," Beth said, looking at him through binoculars.

"Mister," Ben said flatly. "You're a liar."

The man opened his mouth to return an angry protest. He bit off the
protest as his eyes swept the hundreds of rifles pointing at him. "We
got a right to choose the type of government we want to live under, Ben
Raines. And yeah, General, I know who you are."

"The Nazi movement will not flourish in this country, mister," Ben told
him. "Not now, not ever."

"We got a right to live decent!" the man shouted, his anger boiling over.

"Who is stopping you from doing that?"

"You are, you son of a bitch!"

"How?"

"By forcin' us to live under rules that we don't want to live under.
That's how."

"And you think Hoffman will be an improvement, right?"

"It'll damn sure be better than the rules you people enforce, that's for
sure."

"Boy, has somebody fed him a line of crap," Jersey said.

"Teams are attempting to flank us," Corrie said. "Left and right."

"This guy's going to open the dance any second now," Ben replied. "Get
ready to roll for the ditches."

314

He lifted the bullhorn. "Nobody is forcing any of you to live under
Rebel law, mister."

"That's shit!" The man started to lift a hand.

"Don't do this, Roy!" a man's voice called out from among the movers'
vehicles. "Hear him out."

"Shut up, Tom!" the spokesman said, turning his head. "How come you and
your people want to argue with me every step of the way?"

"Because you're wrong!"

"Mister," Ben spoke through the bullhorn. "Call back your teams trying
to flank us. They haven't got a chance."

The man's hand shot up into the air. "Now!" he screamed. "Kill the
bastards. All of them."

Ben and his teams dropped to the old road and rolled to the shoulders,
then behind APCs. The Rebels opened fire. They just got out of the line
of fire as the main battle tanks and Dusters opened fire with cannon and
heavy machine guns. For several hundred yards eastward, the lines of
cars and trucks erupted in a seemingly endless wall of flame as the gas
tanks exploded. Parts of vehicles and pieces of humans were sky-rocketed
into the air by the thunderous explosions.

Ben came to his knees, lifting his Thompson to fire, but lowered it when
he saw there was nothing to fire at. The Rebels had kept their fire away
from the last half of the column, in order to spare the women and kids.
Those women had now grabbed up their kids and were running for the
safety of the fields, left and right of the road and the inferno. Bodies
and pieces of bodies were sprawled in death on both sides of the old
highway. Only a few were moving and moaning in pain.

"Cease fire," Ben called. "Shut it down. It's over."

315

The movers had been able to fire only a few rounds before the Rebel wall
of death collapsed on them. Ben lifted the bullhorn to his lips. "Stand
up with your hands empty. Do it, people."

Slowly those movers still alive-most of them to the rear of the
column-began getting to their feet. All were careful to keep their hands
in plain sight, without weapons. Many held their hands over their heads.

Cooper lowered binoculars. "They're complying, General. All up and down
the line."

Ben lifted his own binoculars. He could see plainly the shock on some
faces and the open anger on others.

"How's it feel to be the most hated man in all America, Ben Raines?" a
woman screamed out of the thick smoke.

"Hate me all you like, lady," Ben muttered. "You're at the end of a long
line."

316

Chapter Fourteen

The badly shaken survivors of the attack were gathered up and placed
under guard. A man was brought to see Ben. Ben sat on a camp stool on
the front lawn of an old home, under the shade of a huge tree. The home
had been a nice one, made of native stone. Ben looked at the man with a
bloody bandage around his head.

"What in the hell is the matter with you people?" Ben asked. "Why would
anybody in their right mind want to join the Nazi party?"

"I really didn't. Believe that, or not. It's the truth. Roy and his
bunch convinced us to come along. That was me you heard holler for Roy
to hear you out."

"But you went along with him."

"Yes, I did. We did. I wanted to see this Hoffman. See if he was as bad
as you people made him out to be."

"He is," Ben said. "Believe me. Ask some of the Spanish people I have in
my battalion. Ask them what he did to their people. That is, if you have
no objection to speaking with people of different backgrounds."

"I'm not a racist, General. Never have been. But I'm

317

old enough to remember quotas and giveaway programs for minorities, and
I'm dead set against them."

"So am I. So why are you opposed to joining us?" "I don't like what you
teach in your Rebel schools and your laws are too damn harsh. You have
too many rules and regulations for a man to have to follow." Ben studied
the man. "What is your name?" "Torn Riley. I was born in Kentucky,
thirty years ago. I have never been in trouble with the law in my life.
I was raised to respect the law."

"The law is what we represent, Tom. Yet you refuse to join us. Tell me,
why are you so afraid of your .children being educated?"

Tom Riley looked around him. He saw Rebel doctors and medics taking care
of the wounded. Other medical personnel were seeing to the needs of the
mover children. "Nice of y'all," he said, a wistful note in his voice.
"We had us a doctor once. Outlaws came and took him to care for some
wounded they had. Then they killed him. I found the body. He'd been
tortured. You folks are well-organized," he added, almost as an
afterthought.

"You're welcome to join the movement, Tom." Tom Riley sighed heavily.
"Maybe it's time. I guess it is. We've been on our own for years. Me,
and those seventy odd families who sort of follow my direction. Even
though we don't agree with a lot of what you do, General Raines, you
folks put others in a hard bind." He tried a smile. "Sure, you'll leave
us alone to live the way we choose. But when you say alone, you really
mean alone. No help of any kind. Our kids subject to being taken from
us. That's blackmail, General."

"It sure is," Ben agreed cheerfully. "Tom, let me try

318

to explain something to you: this old planet has taken quite a beating
over the last few centuries. Now, what is left of the population has a
chance to give something back. You can either be a part of that, or you
can sit back and do nothing except complain. The Rebels have set aside
hundreds of thousands of acres for the animals to live free and wild, as
God intended them to do. We will never cut timber or build homes in
those areas. We will allow no hunting in those areas.

"We still don't have a clear idea how much of the population we've lost.
We're constantly having to revise figures. But we believe there is room
for all of God's creatures. There was before the Great War, but
Americans were just too shallow and greedy to give much thought to God's
lesser creatures-and there is still a lot of spirited debate among the
Rebels as to just who is the lesser of the creatures-us or the animals.

"You say you don't like what we teach in our schools. Do you even know
what we teach? Probably not. So I'll tell you. We teach reading,
writing, math, and keeping one's body in good shape. Every child who is
capable of engaging in physical training gets eight to ten hours of that
per week. But we really don't give a damn who can throw a baseball or
football the farthest, or dribble a basketball better than others. What
is put into a child's mind is what we're concerned about. It's senseless
and useless to have a highly motivated teacher put something in a
child's head during the day only to have it removed by stupid parents
when the child gets home. Our children are taught respect for the land,
the animals on it, and the people who are trying to rise out of the
ashes of war. For those who choose not to take part in the re-

319

building, they can, quite frankly, go straight to hell. Do I make myself
clear, Mr. Riley?"

Tom Riley looked back at the twisted carnage on the highway, still
burning and smoking. He looked at the rows of dead laid out in the
fields, ready for mass burial. He looked at the Rebels, tough and
capable and well-fed and in the peak of physical conditioning. He nodded
his head. "Oh, yes, General. You're quite clear on that matter."

"Fine, Tom. You and your people can join us and be a part of that
rebuilding, or you can fight us, and most of you will die. It's all up
to you."

"Can I take your offer up with those who sort of look to me as their
leader?"

"Certainly. I want you to do that."

Tom Riley and his people agreed to return to Kentucky, and after being
resupplied by the Rebels, they pulled out. Teams of Rebels would meet
them back east, to assist in the setting up of an outpost. Most of the
outposts of the Rebels had been destroyed by Hoffman's terrorist teams,
with all of the Rebels having lost good friends to Hoffman's vicious and
twisted philosophy, so it was all back to square one for Ben and the
Rebels. Nearly everything they had physically accomplished over the long
bloody years, Hoffman and his people had destroyed.

But starting over was nothing new for the Rebels. They'd been doing that
for years. The Rebels just resigned themselves to do it and did it.

The Rebels pulled out the following morning and linked up with the
battalions of Buddy, Dan Gray, and Jackie Malone. The Rebels began
stretching out, south to north, and setting up roadblocks on every highway

320

leading west. They were fully aware that they could not possibly stop
all western movement, but they could block a large percentage of it. Ben
ordered helicopter gunships to join them and had light fixed-wing
aircraft up as eyes in the skies.

Recon was reporting a massive movement from the east, many of the groups
well-armed and spoiling for a fight with anybody who stood in their way
of joining the new Nazi movement.

"I guess we now know what all the people we couldn't account for were
doing all these years," Dr. Chase said to Ben at a staff meeting.
"Practicing Nazism."

"And now their great savior is calling on them to rise up and fight,"
Dan Gray added. "Hoffman," he spat out the last.

"Yes," Ben agreed, and then smiled. "But they've got one hell of a
mountain to climb before they can join Field Marshal Hoffman. And that
mountain is us."