Chapter Two

The Rebel planes had taken off, some of them to resupply Rebel units, most of them to take freed prisoners to Base Camp One for medical treatment. The Rebels loosely surrounding the small area of the city still in hands of the street punks took a break to bathe, eat hot food, change into clean uniforms, and rest. Rest the body and the ears, now that the artillery had fallen silent.

“You know that a lot of them will bust out of the city tonight,”

Buddy said to his father.

“It can’t be helped, son. We’re down to only a few artillery rounds per gun. We’ve used thousands of rounds during this assault and the factory back at Base One can’t keep up with the demand.

It’ll be at least a week before the supply can be built up.”

“Take a guess, Father. How many of the punks who bust out of the city will settle down and stop their lawless ways?”

“Not many. Percentage-wise? Five to ten percent, maybe. These are hardcore punks.”

“They’re sure to find out about the outlaws gathering in Alaska.”

“We’ll have a fight up there, for sure. But we’ll have all winter to gear up for it. When we pull out for Northstar, we’ll be fully prepared. Even better prepared than we were for this assault.”

Darkness had settled softly over the land, and the Rebels camped between Yuma and Mexicali rested.

Ben sat outside his tent, waiting for Corrie to tell him the punks were bugging out of the city … and in which direction they were heading. He’d made a mental bet with himself that some would head south, and some would head north. How far south they would go was something he could not know. But if he were in their shoes, he would take the bait and wait until they were in a very isolated area, then cut hard to the east and try to find a hidey-hole.

Using a flashlight, he studied a map. They would break east between Oceanside and Del Mar, splitting up into small groups and taking that maze of county roads that led over to 78 and I-15.

“Punks are bugging out, General,” Corrie called. “Heading south.”

Ben did not ask for numbers; there was no way to tell. “Corrie, have Seven and Eight Battalions stay in position and order West to leave immediately. Head straight down I-15.

Tell him we are leaving within the hour and by dawn will be in position just east of Escondido on Highway 78. He is to leave the Interstate at the junction of 76 and spread his people along that route.

I’ll spread my forces on either side of Santa Ysabel. Advise General Payon of our

plans and order all personnel to break camp.”

The Rebels were accustomed to abrupt changes in plans, and in thirty minutes they were ready to go.

“Take the Interstate to El Centro, Coop,”

Ben told him. “Then north to Brawley and west on 78. Are the Scouts out, Corrie?”

“Should be five miles ahead of us now. West is on his way, pushing hard.”

“Let’s go, Coop.”

They had just over a hundred miles to travel, on roads they were unfamiliar with, and through territory that was unknown but presumed hostile. They could make no more than thirty-five miles an hour, and in many instances, much less than that. Tanks spearheaded the drive and tanks brought up the rear. Scouts reported a barricade at the junction of I-8 and 98.

“Blow it,” Ben ordered. “Blow any that you find.

We’re coming through.”

The column rumbled on through the night.

“Scouts asking if you want them to check out Calexico, General,” Corrie said.

“Ten-fifty. Get us through to our immediate objective.”

“General Ike is on the horn, sir. He wants to know what the hell you think you’re doing.”

“Tell him to worry about his own sector. If I need a nursemaid I’ll pick my own.”

“Yes, sir.” She relayed the message.

Waited. “There is no way I’m going to tell General Raines that, sir,” she said. “Fine,” she said hotly. “The same to you! Eagle out!”

Ben chuckled. He could just imagine what Ike had said. “Ike get a little profane, Corrie?”

Corrie muttered something under her breath and Jersey burst out laughing.

The column rolled on through the night. “Right along here is where Hollywood used to film a lot of desert scenes for movies,” Ben told his team.

“Hollywood,” he murmured. “Gone forever.”

“Hold it up,” Corrie said. “Scouts

reporting an overpass is blown just west of El Centro. They advise take a county road to Brawley. It’s not numbered but they’ll mark it for us.”

Cooper nodded his head.

The county road slowed them down to an infuriating crawl.

“Brawley is occupied by thugs, General,”

Corrie told him.

“Tell the Scouts to hold up and wait for us. We have no choice in the matter. We’ll have to blow our way through. All tanks up front.”

The convoy pulled over to the side of the road, allowing those tanks in the rear to join the spearheading armor.

“Close it up, Coop,” Ben said. “Stay with them.”

Brawley had been a town of about fifteen thousand when the Great War enveloped the earth more than a decade past. Since it was full dark, and the age of street lamps had come and gone except in towns controlled by the Rebels, there was no telling what condition the town was in now, but Ben knew what condition it was going to be in when the Rebels left it behind: in ruins.

Ben got out of the wagon and walked to a group of Scouts, helping position the tanks. “Any guesses as to the number of crud in the town?”

“I’d guess a couple of hundred, General.

They’ve got some big .50’s in there too. They opened up on us too soon, though, and we were able to hit the ditch banks. We told them who we were and they told us to kiss their ass.”

“Commence shelling whenever you people are ready” Ben told a tank commander. “HE and incendiary. We don’t have time for politeness. Punch us through.”

The armor opened up with cannon fire and the Gatlings and Vulcans began howling. Mortar crews had set up and began dropping rounds in. Very soon, the entire eastern end of the town was burning.

“Advance,” Ben ordered just as Buddy called out.

“They’re bugging out, Father.”

“Take some people, son. Find us a way through.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ben returned to his vehicle and rummaged around until he found a candy bar. He was munching on that when he noticed Smoot’s ears perk up and the puppy’s eyes shift to the darkness to Ben’s right.

“Stay, Smoot,” Ben said softly, closing the door and dropping to the dewy grass beside the road.

His M-14 was propped up against the wagon and Ben didn’t want to risk exposing an arm reaching for it.

Belly down on the grass, he pulled his .45, carried cocked and locked, from leather and eased the autoloader off safety.

Ben slowly wormed his way deeper into the dry ditch. He had one hostile spotted, and figured there was at least one more, possibly two.

He heard the very faint snick of a pin being pulled from a grenade, and put three .45-caliber hollow-nosed rounds in the direction of the sound.

A scream reached his ears just a couple of seconds before the grenade blew. Ben saw two human shapes lift off the ground and a third shape come charging toward the muzzle blasts.

Still on his belly, Ben triggered off two fast shots, both rounds catching the man in the chest. He stopped abruptly and sat down hard in the grass.

He cussed once and then toppled over and was still.

Ben ejected the nearly empty clip and slipped in a full one, jacking in a round.

His team was running toward him. “Get down!” Ben yelled. “Flood this field with light.”

Trucks and Jeeps and Hummers backed up and illuminated the old field just in time to see fifty or sixty men running toward them.

It was a slaughter. The Rebels cut them down to a man, then swept the bodies with more fire to insure there would be no more surprises from that bunch of outlaws.

Buddy pulled up in a Jeep. “The town is clear, Father.”

“Fine. Good work, son.”

“What do we do with these people?” Ben was asked, the Rebel pointing toward the body-littered field.

“All living things have to eat,” Ben said, and got into his vehicle. “Let’s go, people.”

If there were any more towns along the route occupied by outlaws, their radio network telling each other of the Rebel’s brutal treatment, soon cleared them out.

The Rebels encountered no more hostiles on their push westward.

“West took some demolition teams with him when he pulled out,” Corrie told Ben. “He’s blowing and burning everything behind him.”

“What’s his twenty?”

“Just south of Riverside.”

“We’ll have time for a couple of hours’ sleep before the punks reach us. If the punks do what I suspect they’ll do.”

The old highway was in surprisingly good shape for having gone over a decade with no maintenance, and the Rebels made good time. They rolled into their sector just after two in the morning, and Ben ordered Scouts forward into the edge of Santa Ysabel, sentries out, and the rest of them to get some sleep.

“Tired, Ben?” Linda asked.

“No. Too keyed up, I guess. I’ll

probably grab a catnap just before dawn. You?”

“Not a bit. I dozed off and on in the wagon.

Ben?”

“Umm?”

“Estimates of dead now stand at just over twenty thousand, right?”

“That’s right.”

“And you estimated approximately fifty thousand in the city initially.”

“That’s correct.”

“If just twenty-five percent of those left alive manage to escape and head for Alaska, that will still be quite a formidable force we’ll be facing.”

“Alaska might well prove to be the toughest fight we’ve ever had. Much of the terrain is rugged.

No telling what kind of shape the roads will be in, or how many hostiles we’ll be facing.”

“General Ike just radioed in,” Corrie called. “The street punks finally figured out we were

spread real thin all around them in the city. A lot of them are trying bug-outs and Ike estimates about half of them are breaking free.”

Ben nodded his understanding, then realized that Corrie could not see the minute shake of his head in the darkness. “Thank you, Corrie. Hell of a time to run out of artillery rounds, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, sir,” she replied. “Any reply, sir?”

“Just tell the commanders we did the best we could with what we had.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Damnit!” Ben muttered. “I thought we had enough equipment all the way around. I’ll not make that mistake again.”

“You can’t predict the future, Ben,” Linda said. “You did the best you could.”

“It wasn’t good enough. And that will be of small consolation to the Rebels who die in Alaska at the hands of punks whose bones, by that time, should have been picked clean in Los Angeles.”

“It’ll be ten times worse in Europe.”

“If I let it be. And I have no intention of doing that. Corrie?”

“Sir?”

“Bump Base Camp One. Tell the munitions people they’re going to have to keep on working around the clock, seven days a week. Start stockpiling rounds.

We’ll not be caught short again.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How long can they keep that up, Ben?”

“For as long as it takes, Linda. They won’t complain. Most of those people in the factories are ex-combat people who suffered wounds that disabled them, kept them from returning to the field. They understand what it’s like out here.”

“You’d better get some rest, Ben.”

“Later.”

She left his side and Ben catnapped, sitting on the ground, his back to a tree. He opened his eyes and came fully awake a few minutes before dawn.

Moving only his eyes, Ben took in his surroundings.

The Rebels had dug in and were carefully camouflaged, stretched out a thousand meters north and south of the intersection. The tanks and other armor had pulled back into the timber and brush; Ben could not see them. But he knew the machines of war were ready to start growling and biting at a second’s notice.

“West is in position,” Corrie said, slipping out of the darkness and squatting by his side. “No signs of the street punks yet.”

“Everybody catch a few minutes’ sleep?”

“Yes, sir.” She handed him a mug of

coffee. “They’re ready for the dance to start.”

Ben stood up and stretched the cold kinks from his muscles and joints. “Where are we set up?”

“Right over here.”

Ben followed her across the road and into the timber.

To his immediate right, Buddy sat behind a .50-caliber machine gun. To his left, Cooper lay behind a bi-podded M-60. Ben nodded his approval of the site; it offered an excellent field of fire.

Ben watched as Corrie slipped into a headset.

He did not have to issue orders about noise discipline and no smoking or unnecessary movement. These people were solid professional fighting men and women.

He listened as Corrie spoke softly into the headset, then turned to him.

“West reports the first few punks are straggling through his sector, General. They’re following the road that will lead right past us.”

“Has West shifted a team over to that road leading to Warner Springs?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell him to hold his fire. Let’s get as many in this box as we can. We’ll wait all day if we have to.”

“Right, sir.”

An hour ticked by. The Rebels took turns catnapping and watching and waiting. Corrie sat with her headset on, waiting for some word as to the progress of the street punks.

“General!” she called in a stage whisper.

“Forward recon reports punks are on 78 and heading right for us. They have them in visual. Forward speed is about thirty miles an hour.”

Ben smiled. “Bingo! That means they’ve passed the only road that would take them north or south.

They’re committed now. They have to pass right by us.

Tell the recon teams to get the hell back here.”

“Yes, sir.”

When she had done that, Ben said, “Fifteen minutes max, Corrie. Everybody heads up.”

The word was passed up and down the line. Rebels clicked weapons off safety and laid out rows of clips and grenades. The tanks lowered the elevation of the cannon and waited. The forward recon people came racing back into camp, hid their vehicles, and threw themselves into position. One of them close to Ben.

“How many?” Ben asked.

“Four or five hundred in the first bunch. About the same in a bunch about a mile behind them.”

“Buddy. Take a team and cut through the timber. Get behind that second bunch. Take all the ammo you can stagger with. Get going.”

“Right.” The young man was gone.

“Get behind that .50,” Ben told the recon.

“Things are about to get interesting around here.”

Grinning, the recon slipped behind the big .50 and waited.

Stan of the Flat Rocks and Carmine of the Women stopped their vehicles and got out to stand on the winding, hilly road.

“What are you thinkin?”’ was Stan asked.

“That’s it’s awful quiet. The city ain’t never quiet. But this is scary. Maybe it’s always like this.

I don’t know. I ain’t never been out of the city.”

“You gonna go straight, Carmine?”

She sneered at him. “Straight? Me? Hell, no! There ain’t no percentages in goin”

straight. Scratchin’ out a garden and cannin’ shit.

Not me, Stan. Me and my girls’ll hit the first town we come to, grab us some long-dicked ol’

boys to keep around when we need them, some broads for cookin’ and cleanin’ and such, and set up somewheres. You goin’ straight?”

“Naw. Stealin’ is too easy a life for me to give up. I’ll get clear of Ben

Raines and his Rebels, and find me a little settlement and take it over. Kill all the old fuckers that can’t work, use the fat ugly women for cleanin’ and such, and the younger one for fuckin’. Then it’ll be business as usual, Carmine.”

“Now you’re talkin.” was She looked at him.

“You an” me, Stan, we always got along pretty good. You wanna link up?”

“Why not? Let’s do it.”

She reached down and squeezed his crotch, grinning at him. “We’ll seal the bargain tonight.”

They got back in their vehicles and headed out.

A few miles ahead, the Rebels silently waited.

A few miles back, Ruth of the Macys and Hal of the Fifth Street Lords were making a similar pact, as were several other gang leaders. Their confidence was growing with each passing mile. The countryside was not as bad as they had thought it would be comno huge grizzly bears or mountain lions had attacked them comand they had not seen a sign of the Rebels. However, they all felt, to a person, that they would much rather see a grizzly than come in contact with Ben Raines and his Rebels.

“Let’s go,” Ruth yelled to those behind her.

In the city, the bug-out of the street punks had halted at first light. And getting through the Rebel lines had been very easy. Bull had put it all together and guessed accurately that the Rebels were out of artillery rounds. About twenty-five hundred punks had slipped through during the night, making their way north, on foot. But to a street punk, finding a vehicle once clear of L.a. was a very minor problem. They’d all been stealing cars for years before the Great War, and getting a stern lecture and a slap on the wrist from a judge when they were caught.

But the Rebels caught on quickly, and at first light went to work laying out mines and booby-trapping possible escape routes. But they were too late to catch Bull and Rich and Junkyard and Ishmal and their gangs. They had jumped the gun on the other gangs and cleared the city and were rolling toward the rendezvous point in Nevada.

There were still thousands of punks and creepies hiding within the battered city and in the suburbs. And they would be trying to escape come the darkness.

East of the city, Ben pulled out a battered map of the region and looked at it.

“Planning a trip?” Linda whispered.

“Yeah. Just as soon as we finish here. I want to go over to Mount Palomar and see if the telescope is still there; see if anything is left of the museum.”

Linda shook her head and wiped her sweaty palms on her fatigue pants and got a fresh grip on her shotgun.

“Here they are,” Corrie said, after receiving the report from a Scout hidden on high ground above the highway.

“Buddy in place?” Ben asked.

“Just got there, sir.”

“We’ll hold our fire until we see what they’re going to do. Pass it along, Corrie.”

The street punks paused at the intersection, and they all got out of their cars and trucks and off their motorcycles to stand in the middle of the road and argue about what to do next.

Ben settled it for them. “Fire!” he yelled, and held back the trigger on the Thunder Lizard.

“Ambush!” Jimmy of the Indios screamed. It was his last scream. Fire from a Gatling gun cut him to bloody ribbons and flung him in chunks out of the road and into a ditch.

Dee Dee of the Pocos and several dozen of her gang were caught in a cross fire and died in the middle of the road.

The tanks of the Rebels opened up and the high-explosive shells exploded the gas tanks of the punks’ vehicles, setting dozens of punks on fire. They ran screaming in agony, running blindly in circles until Rebel bullets cut them down and silenced them forever.

Josh of the Angels, dressed all in white, very dirty white, charged Ben’s position, cursing insanely. Linda sighted him in and cut him down, doubling him over with a three-inch-magnum round of double-ought buckshot.

Carmine of the Women and Stan of the Flat Rocks made it to cover. It didn’t do them much good. A main battle tank swiveled its turret and blew them both to Hell with one round of high explosive.

What was left of Stan was flung high into the air, in pieces, and fell back to earth with a bloody plopping sound.

Manuel of the Mayas and most of his gang ran for their lives, running back down the road. The Scouts on the high ground chopped them up with M-60 fire.

Several miles back, those punks in the rear heard the gunfire and the booming of cannon and stopped, backing up and heading in the direction they’d come from. They ran right into Buddy and his Rat Team.

The Rat Team blocked the road as two rounds from their rocket launchers turned two cars into burning, smoking piles of junk, cooking those inside.

Ruth and her Macys and Hal and his Fifth Street Lords were about to run out of time. They jumped off the road and into the timber, right into the guns of the Rat Team on the other side of the road. Ruth and Hal and most of their gang members died cursing Ben Raines and his Rebels.

In West’s section, the mercenary and his men were chopping up the street punks like so much liver. They had waited until the long convoy of cars and trucks and motorcycles had stretched out on the highway, and opened up with mortar and heavy machinegun fire.

Since West had a full battalion, unlike Ben’s short section, the fight was just as brutal, but not nearly so time-consuming.

The Dykes were gone, wiped out to the last person. The Discos were still and silent, sprawled in death. The Rappers had been among the first to be cut down. A few of the Santees escaped, wild-eyed and running in fear into the brush and timber of the hills.

The Temple Street Gang was wiped out to the last punk. And so on. The highway was slick with blood, and moaning drifted to the men behind the guns on the ridges.

“Spray them,” West ordered. “No prisoners.

That’s what the man said.”

The gunfire resumed, briefly. The moaning stopped.

“Do we pursue them into the brush?” one of his men asked.

“No,” the mercenary said. “They’re all washed up.

The L.a. street gangs, this bunch of them anyway, are history.”

Ben rose up on one knee and looked out at the carnage.

After a moment, Cooper said, “Prisoners, General?”

Ben looked at him. “No,” he said softly.

“They had their chance. They blew it. Let’s go visit a museum.”