Standoff in the Ashes William W Johnstone

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Winston Churchill

7 Prologue

If a war had not engulfed the entire world, plunging every nation into bloody chaos, the government of the United States would probably have collapsed, anyway. Personal income taxes had been going up for years, and the hardworking, law-abiding citizens were paying well over half their incomes to the government. The left wing of the Democratic party had taken over and passed massive gun-grab legislation, effectively disarming American citizens-except for die criminals, of course, and about three quarters of a million tough-minded Americans who didn’t give a rat’s ass what liberals said, thought, or did. Those Americans carefully sealed up their guns and buried diem, along with cases of ammunition. When the collapse came, those Americans were able to defend themselves against the hundreds of roaming gangs of punks and thugs that popped up all over what had once been called the United States of America. The great nation would never again be accurately referred to by that name.

Slowly, a growing group of people began calling for a man named Ben Raines to lead them, but Ben didn’t want any part of leadership. For months he disregarded the ever-increasing calls from people all over the nation. Finally, he could no longer ignore the pleas.

Months later, thousands of people made the journey to the northwest part of the country and formed their own nation of three states. It was called the Tri-States, and those who chose to live there based many of their laws on the Constitution of the United States, on die original interpretation of that most revered document. Basically, it was a commonsense approach to government, something that had been sadly lacking during the years when the liberals were in control of the old United States of America. After only a few months in their new nation, Ben knew that only about two out of every ten Americans could (or would, more to the point), live under a commonsense form of government. Under diis form of government, everyone, to a great degree, controlled his own destiny. The Rebels, as residents of the Tri-States were named by the press, took wonderful care of die very old, the young, and diose unable to care for diemselves. If a person was able to work, he worked … like it or not. There were no free handouts for able-bodied people. If they didn’t want to work, diey got the hell out of the Tri-States-very quickly.

The first attempt at building a nation within a nation failed when the federal government grew powerful enough to launch a major campaign against the Tri-States. The original Tri-States was destroyed, and the Rebel army was decimated and scattered.

The federal government made one major mistake: they didn’t kill Ben Raines.

Ben and the few Rebels left alive began rebuilding their army and then launched a very nasty guerrilla war against

the federal government that lasted for months: hit hard, destroy, and run. It worked.

Before any type of settlement could be reached, a deadly plague struck the earth-a rat-borne outbreak, black death revisited.

When the deadly disease finally ran its course, anarchy reigned over what had once been America. Gangs of punks and warlords ruled from border to border, coast to coast. Ben and his Rebels began the long, slow job of clearing the nation of human slime and setting up a new Tri-States. This time they settled in the south-first in Louisiana, in an area they called Base Camp One-then spreading out in all directions as more and more people wanted to become citizens of the new nation called the Southern United States of America: SUSA.

Ben and the Rebels fought for several years, clearing the cities of the vicious gangs and growing larger and stronger while the SUSA spread out.

In only a few years, the Rebel army became the largest and most powerful army on the face of the earth … with the possible exception of China. No one knew much about what was going on in China, for that nation had sealed its borders and cut off nearly all communication with the outside world.

A few more years drifted by while the Rebels roamed the world at the request of the newly formed United Nations, kicking ass and stabilizing nations as best they could in the time allotted them.

Back home, the situation was worsening: outside the SUSA, the nation was turning socialistic with sickening speed. The old FBI was gone, and in its place was the FPPS, the Federal Prevention and Protective Service. Its’ fancy title fooled no one. The FPPS was the nation’s secret police, and they were everywhere, bully boys and thugs. Day-today activities of those living in the USA were highly restricted.

William W. Johnstone

The new Liberal/Socialist government of President-for-life Claire Osterman and her second in command, Harlan Millard, was now firmly in control.

There were border guards stationed all along major crossings in every state, and now many of them had been moved south, to patrol the several thousand mile border of the SUSA.

A bloody civil war was shaping up between die USA and the SUSA. A bounty had been placed on the head of Ben Raines: a million dollars for his capture, dead or alive. Ben was accustomed to that. He’d had bounties-of one kind or another, from one group or another-on his head for years.

Anna, Ben’s adopted daughter, had been kidnapped by the FPPS. She was to be tried as a traitor to the liberal/ socialist government and executed. A highly irritated Ben knew the taking of Anna was to draw him out, for the FPPS was certain Ben would come after her… which he did, with blood in his eyes. That abortive move cost the FPPS several dozen agents, and accomplished nothing else for Ostermann and her henchman. It also further heightened the already monumental legend of Ben Raines … and made Claire Osterman and her government look like a pack of incompetent screwups.

It also brought the USA and the SUSA closer to an all-out bloody civil war.

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” Ben radioed the commanding general of the federal forces facing the Rebels across the wide expanse of land separating the two armies. No-man’s-land was silent and deadly.

“I guess it does, General,” the CG replied. “You don’t give us any other choice.”

“What is your name, General?”

“Does it matter?”

“I suppose not. But it won’t take me ninety seconds to find out.”

The Federal chuckled. “Berman, General Raines. Walter Berman.”

“You regular army, Walt?”

“You know I’m not.”

A very large percentage of Federals were mercenaries, drawn from all over the world. Many of the officers and enlisted personnel in the newly formed United States Army, Navy, and Marine Corps had bluntly told President

William W. Johnstone

Osterman they would not fire on American citizens. The men and women in the regular armed forces of the USA who did elect to wage war against the SUSA had been shifted to other units, and were green and had never been combat-tested. All that was about to change … in a hurry.

“In it strictly for the money, hey, General?”

“It’s a living. As a matter of fact, it’s quite a good living.”

Ben smiled grimly. True mercenaries never changed. “I suppose so, Walt. But aren’t there enough wars around the world for you and your people to fight? Why come here and get involved in a conflict you can’t win?”

Most of the world was involved in civil war, to one degree or another. Eyes in the Sky reported especially large troop buildups in Russia and China. Those two nations were about to have a go at one another.

“Oh, I think we can win, Ben. As a matter of fact, I don’t have any doubts about the outcome.”

“Neither do I,” Ben responded softly. “And I think you’re well aware of that.”

There was no immediate response from Berman. Actually, Ben had not expected any.

“We’ll see,” Berman finally said.

“Don’t waste your men,” Ben warned him. “If you send them at us across this strip, they’re going to die. And that is the only warning you’re going to get from me.”

“It’s a long strip, Ben, and I’m not the only commander.”

“I’m telling you. Personally. Like right now. The strip is the same any way you look at it. And that is something you already know.”

“How can you be sure of that?”

“You’d be a piss-poor commander if you didn’t know, that’s why. And you didn’t get to your status by being piss-poor at your job.”

“Thank you, Ben. Yes, I know all about you Rebels and

your infamous strip of no-man’s-land. But every barrier has its weak spots.”

“Not this one. A couple of months back, yes. But not now.”

There was a long pause from the Federal commander. “You’re being very honest with the enemy, General,” he finally said. “I don’t know what to make of that.”

“I don’t consider you my enemy, Walt Berman. Not yet. When the first shot is fired or the first attempt is made to cross our boundaries, then you become my enemy. And from that moment on, there will be no quarter shown or mercy given. I want you to understand that.”

“I am aware of your tactics. I’ve been studying you for years,” Berman said.

“You must have been fighting in some very obscure wars, Walt. Or else working under a variety of names.”

The mercenary general laughed. “One of the two. Look toward the east. It’s becoming light.”

“I know what time it is. Still time for you to take your people and find another war.”

“Can’t do that, Ben Raines. I’ve signed an agreement. And I always keep my word.”

“I’ll be certain that is chiseled on your headstone. Providing your body is found, that is.”

“You are a cocky son of a bitch, aren’t you?”

“No. Just very sure of myself.”

“We’ll see, won’t we? Well, time for talking is over, General Raines. Too bad I can’t wish you luck.”

“Same here, General Berman.”

Ben waited in silence for half a minute. Corrie said, “He’s finished, Boss. I guess it’s show time.”

“I suppose so. Do they have anything in the sky anywhere, Corrie?”

“Nothing reported anywhere up and down the line.”

“Hell, we know they have gunships. Where are they? Why don’t they use them?”

“Don’t diey have airborne troops?” Cooper asked, standing off to Ben’s left.

“They have remnants of one division,” Ben told him. “Over half of the newly reorganized Eighty-second stood down. The rest have very limited access to air transport.”

“Ground all the way, then,” Anna remarked.

“For the most part,” Ben said. “But they do have a lot of artillery. This is not going to be any cakewalk.”

“It sure won’t be for them,” Corrie said. “Everything on this side is ready. We’re sitting on go from the West Texas border all the way over to the Atlantic Ocean.”

“But we’re thin,” Cooper said.

“So are they,” Beth reminded him. “A lot thinner than we are. We’ve got civilian militias and home guards. Those are two very valuable assets we have that they don’t.”

“We’re picking up movement on the other side,” Corrie said. She paused for half a minute while the others waited. “The push is about to start. Ordering artillery to stand by.”

“Fools,” Ben said. “Stupid fools to pull a mass advance all at once, one several thousand miles long. They really must not know our strength. What kind of idiot is running the show over there?”

“Maybe it’s your friend, Sugar Babe Osterman,” Anna suggested. She looked at Ben, questions in her eyes.

Ben glanced at her, a frown on his face. “Kiddo, you just may have hit it right. She’d certainly be arrogant enough to attempt to do just that.”

Artillery rounds began landing in the no-man’s-zone as the Federals began attempting to cut a path through the minefield. Corrie cut her eyes to Ben.

Ben nodded his head. “Answer that, Corrie. Let’s get this show on the road.”

Then there was no more time for conversation as both sides began hurling artillery rounds. What talk there was had to be shouted over the crashing and roaring.

When the Federals stopped shelling in Ben’s immediate sector, the Rebels knew the human push was only seconds away. The Rebels came out of their bunkers and holes and made ready their mortars, heavy machine guns, and Big Thumpers.

The zone fell silent, the Rebels holding their fire, allowing the first wave of Federals to begin slowly and carefully picking their way across the wide and deadly no-man’s-strip.

Ben and his team waited on a ridge, in a carefully dug and fortified and camouflaged bunker just a few hundred meters south of the strip, and watched and waited.

“It’s going to be a slaughter,” Ben muttered. “They should have sent airborne troops in behind us last night.” He shook his head.’ ‘They’re doing everything wrong. Who the hell is giving the orders for this lash-up?”

“Federals advancing on Ike’s sector, in half a dozen locations,” Corrie reported.

“Thisjust might turn out to be the shortest major assault in modern warfare,” Ben muttered.

“Somebody who doesn’t know what the hell they’re doing has to be giving the orders,” Cooper said.

“It must be Osterman and her dipshit advisors,” Ben replied. “But those mercenary commanders won’t put up with this for any length of time. They’ll start acting on their own before very long.”

“FO’s all up and down the line reporting those are regular Federal troops leading this assault,” Corrie said. “But they’re spread very thin.”

“I figured as much,” Ben said softly. “Using them for cannon fodder.” He sighed audibly. “Americans. Damn! What a waste of young men and women this is going to

be. The mere commanders are saving their experienced troops for last. Then the real battles will start.”

“Any change in orders?” Corrie asked. “Ike wants to know, Boss.”

Ben did not hesitate with his response. “No, Corrie. No change at all. I can’t do that. We can’t afford to be charitable-we’re not The Salvation Army. When they come into range, cut them down.”

The sounds of dozens of mines being tripped filled the smoky air up and down Ben’s sector. The faint cries of wounded quickly followed.

Ben’s mortar crews began their work, sending some of the most lethal mortar rounds ever devised down the tubes. They ‘thonked’ out and up, and came down seconds later with devastating results. The mortars were a new version of the old 81mm mortar, and they packed a terrible punch with HE and WP rounds. In addition, Ben’s scientists had perfected a new round that exploded in the air, about twenty-five feet off the ground, and carried dozens of hardened steel fletchettes. The killing and maiming power of that round was awesome.

The only possible problem was that an opposing force might have mortar-locating radar which could home in on the heavy base-plates. In this case, the Federals either did not have that technology or were not using it-probably the former, Ben thought.

Osterman had been spending very little money on military hardware. Her administration’s latest war effort was on cans of hair spray, which were in the process of being totally banned because kids were inhaling the spray to get high. Very important project on which to spend taxpayer money-hair spray.

“First wave is retreating,” Corrie reported, adding, “It’s more like a rout.”

“Maintain the fire,” Ben ordered. “Adjust for range. Keep pouring it on.”

Ten more minutes passed before Ben finally ordered his people to cease fire. “Get reports from all batt corns,” he told Corrie.

“Receiving now, Boss. We kicked the shit out of them.”

Ben lowered his binoculars and slowly nodded his head. For as far as he could see, left and right and in front of him, the strip called no-man’s-land was littered with broken bodies. “We certainly did, Corrie. Radio General Berman. Tell him if he wants to risk his medics in a minefield we will hold our fire while he gathers his wounded.”

“Right, Boss. New reports coming in fast. Let me get them down.”

Ben rolled a cigarette and waited while Corrie took down all the information. He glanced around the bunker. His personal team was certainly relaxed enough. Anna was chomping on a fresh wad of bubble gum. Beth was munching on a candy bar. Cooper was sitting down reading a magazine. Jersey was staring out the slit in front of the bunker, watching the no-man’s-land. They had all been through this more times than Ben cared to recall. Long, bloody, gut-wrenching years of combat, fighting for the right to be free in the SUSA.

“The Federals hit us in strength in half a dozen locations,” Corrie reported. “They didn’t gain an inch of SUSA ground. We were hit in much lesser force in about a dozen other locations. Same results. Prelims indicate the Federals lost, dead or wounded, approximately ten thousand personnel.”

“Half a division,” Ben said. “Young men and women wiped out just to satisfy that bitch Osterman. Jesus!”

“And it’s just started,” Cooper remarked.

Ben looked at his driver. “Yes. It’s just begun.” He looked briefly back at the no-man’s strip of land. “Some-

body get some coffee in here. It’s going to be a long morning.”

Claire Osterman stared in disbelief as the reports began landing on her desk in the New White House in Indiana. Thousands of troops dead or wounded. Not one inch of SUSA ground taken.

“Incredible,” she muttered.

“Not really,” said one of the senior advisors seated around her desk.

“What do you mean?” Claire ‘Sugar Babe’ Osterman demanded. She waved the sheaf of papers. ‘ ‘A bunch of ragtag, gun-happy, right-wingers just defeated thousands of professional soldiers.”

“Claire,” the longtime friend and advisor said patiently. He was one of only a few men and women who did not refer to her as Madam President when in semi-private or private conversation. “Ben Raines does not command a ragtag army. The Rebels are unquestionably the finest fighting force on earth. And you made a very big mistake by tangling with them.”

Claire waved that away. “We’ve been over this before, Otis. I know your opinion. Enough, already.”

Otis Warner stared at Claire for a moment. In all his years he had never known a person with such hatred as that which Claire Osterman held for Ben Raines. Not that some of it wasn’t justified, Otis thought, for in his mind it certainly was. Ben Raines was a most unreasonable man when it came to the SUSA … among other matters. But Claire had a very bad habit of sometimes underestimating her foes.

Otis ignored her request to drop the subject. “Claire, let’s try negotiating with President Jefferys. He is a very reasonable man. I think we could work something out.”

Claire Osterman glared at her friend for several seconds. The others in the room suddenly had a very strong urge to be somewhere else. Claire was becoming angry, and when she lost her temper she sometimes flew into a towering rage. It was not a pretty sight.

Before Madam President could explode, Otis held up a hand. “Control yourself, Claire. Take a deep breath, have a sip of water. Just calm down and think about this. We’re going to waste a lot of money fighting Ben Raines and the Rebels. If this war continues for one more day, we’re going to be committed to seeing it through, no matter the cost or outcome. And it will be a protracted campaign, you can be assured of that. Are you certain that’s what you want?”

Claire drummed her fingertips on the polished desktop for a moment. Then she sighed and shook her head. “We could bankrupt the nation … no, I certainly don’t want that.” She picked up some of the papers she had just been handed and muttered an obscenity under her breath. The defeat just handed the Federals was humiliating.

Then Claire’s face hardened as the image and thought of a laughing Ben Raines entered her mind. “No,” she said firmly, “I will not negotiate with the SUSA.” She looked at Otis. “And that is final, old friend.”

Otis Warner shrugged his shoulders. “So be it, Claire. Just don’t ever think or say that I didn’t try.”

“Oh, I’m positive we shall be victorious in this war,” another of Claire’s ‘advisors’ piped up. Andy Shumburger had absolutely no business being a part of the national security team-he had difficulty walking and chewing gum at the same time-but he was a good party member who had led the fight to save the endangered blue-nosed, triple-titted, wiggle-wobble fish in his state. The facts that the fish was only approximately 1/16 of an inch long and no one had seen one in two hundred years didn’t matter. A hundred and fifty families were thrown out of their homes

and moved to another location, and two thousand jobs were lost when a building permit was refused a company who wanted to set up a factory in that particular location. The drive to save the mysterious wiggle-wobble fish cost the taxpayers about five million dollars, but the fish were saved. That made it all worthwhile-The Save the Wobble Fish Committee thought so, at least. If they could just see one, they would be sure. But if they didn’t spot one in a few months the committee was already working on plans to erect a statue in memory of the wiggle-wobble fish … at taxpayer expense, of course.

Otis sighed and rolled his eyes at Andy’s comment, but kept his silence.

The other advisors agreed with Andy. The USA under the direction of Madam President Claire Osterman and her party of Socialist Democrats would be victorious in the battle with Ben Raines and his terrible band of right-wing, gun-happy, redneck Rebels.

“Horseshit!” Otis muttered.

“I beg your pardon, Otis?” the advisor seated closest to him asked. “What did you say?”

“Nothing, Sam. Nothing at all.” But I am terribly afraid we are going to get our collective asses kicked very hard, Otis thought. Ben Raines and his Rebels have lost a few battles, but they have never lost a war, and they sure as hell arm’t going to lose this one.

“Otis, old friend,” Claire said, leaning forward. “We are going to win in this fight with Raines. Remember this-we have the well-being of the nation and the good wishes of the people on our side. How can we lose?”

Very easily, Otis thought, but he smiled at Madam President and nodded in agreement.

“Let’s go into the war room,” Osterman said, standing up and moving around her massive desk. “We have to plan the next move for our military. I have an idea.”

Otis sat for a few seconds longer before standing up and joining the group. Even if we did allow the military to run this war, we’d still stand a good chance of losing it, he thought, but with a group of civilians calling every move losing is a certainty. This is madness.

“Coming, Otis?” Claire called.

“Oh, yes,” Otis said. He thought: I wouldn’t miss this for the world. A planning session guaranteed to lose a war.

Ben spoke with every batt corn up and down the long front. The Rebels had suffered only a few casualties. The Federals had been thrown back and had taken heavy losses.

“They won’t make this mistake again,” Ben warned his people. “This move wasn’t planned by any experienced military commander, you can bet on that. This lunacy was the brainchild of full-time civilians who never served any time in the military or spent a day in combat.”

“Who the hell is running the Federals’ operation, Ben?” asked Ike, Ben’s longtime friend and second in command. “This frontal assault was totally dumb.”

“Claire Osterman. I’d bet on that.”

“I hope she keeps running it.”

“She won’t. The military won’t put up with it.”

“Ben, my intel people are telling me what we’re facing is a mixed bag of regular USA troops and hired guns from all over the world.”

“Yes. With more mercenary troops than American boys and girls.”

“That makes me feel better about the heavy toll we just took on them.”

“I know the feeling, Ike, but I can’t help thinking about the Americans all tangled up in this.” Ben sighed in frustration. “However… everybody has a choice, and they made theirs. We have to look at it in that light.”

“That’s the only way to look at it, Ben. When do we start sending our spec ops teams into federal territory and letting them raise some hell?”

“As soon as they start sending their teams into the SUSA, Ike. That’s the way I’m going to play it.”

“I kinda figured that would be your reply, partner. Suits me.”

“All right. You take care, ole’ buddy, and keep your powder dry.”

“Same to you, Ben. Watch your ass. It’s you the Feds want. Keep that in mind all the time.”

“Will do.”

Ben walked outside the bunker and stood in the late afternoon air, drinking coffee and smoking. After the Federal push early that morning there had not been another shot fired from either side, at least not in Ben’s immediate sector. The Federals were dug in and keeping their heads down.

“Wonder what they’ll throw at us next?” Jersey asked as the team walked out of the bunker to stand by Ben.

“That’s a damn good question. They don’t have much of an air force. We’ve got them out-gunned there probably ten to one. Our navy is small, but still much larger than what the Federals have. With Sugar Babe and her silly-assed, so-called advisors running the show out of the capital, a thousand miles away, there is no telling what might happen next.”

“Hasn’t been a mine go off in over an hour,” Cooper said. “They must have picked up all the wounded they could get to.”

‘ ‘All the nations in the world that need some help getting stabilized,” Anna remarked, “and the Federals pick a fight with us. Doesn’t make any sense to me.”

“It goes back years before the Great War, Anna. Long before you were born, long before any of you were born. America began a slow turn toward socialism. For whatever reasons, and they’re many and complicated, it couldn’t be stopped-or wouldn’t be stopped, might be a better way to say it. Both of the two major political parties were to blame. I’ll get some arguments on that point, but it’s the truth. Those of us who wanted a return to small government and individual rights frightened big government, and weren’t allowed to organize. You all know the story. You’ve heard me expound on it often enough.”

“Yes, but you were there, Pops,” Anna said. “You witnessed it firsthand. It’s different than us reading about it in history books.”

Before Ben could reply, a burst of gunfire erupted off to the west and spun them around.

“Infiltrators!” someone shouted, the call faint. “Coming up behind us.”

Ben didn’t have to order his team into cover. They were moving before the echo of the shouted alarm had faded away. Corrie was back in the bunker where the most sophisticated of her radio equipment was set up, the others spread out on the ground, behind cover.

A few seconds passed in silence. Then Corrie called, “At least platoon-sized, Boss. Maybe larger than that. They’re good, too. Professional.”

“How many locations are reporting this type of action?” Ben called.

“Several dozen, all up and down the line.”

“Berman sacrificed green boys and girls as a diversion to HALO this bunch in,” Ben said grimly. “Just before dawn today. Good move, Walt. Smart. But I’m going to kill you for that. Personally.”

Something thudded on the ground in front of die rise of ground Ben was lying behind. “Grenade!” he shouted, dien rolled backward a few yards down the slight mound of eardi.

The grenade blew, and hot shrapnel hummed and whizzed over Ben’s head.

Several CAR’s yammered at once, and someone dirashed about in die bushes for a few seconds and then was still. Ben crawled back up to the crest of the rise and looked over die terrain in die light of late afternoon. The area was shrouded in shadows from the timber.

Ben caught a glimpse of somediing diatjust didn’t quite fit in widi die terrain and triggered off a burst of .223’s from his CAR. Someone grunted in pain and then was still. Ben backed up just in time: die crest of die rise was lashed widi gunfire, die lead kicking up dirt that showered him.

The team opened up widi automatic fire and grenades. They kept it up for half a minute, tossing a dozen fire-frags, doing some fast magazine changes, and burning several hundred rounds of ammo. By diat time a hundred more Rebels had moved in and surrounded die area.

“Give it up, people,” Ben called from the ridge. “There is no percentage in dying. You will not be harmed in any way, and you will be treated with every courtesy accorded prisoners of war. You have my word on diat.”

“Who are you to be giving your word?” The question was dirown out of die brush.

“Ben Raines.”

After a very short pause, die Federal said, “That’s good enough for me. Coming out.”

A dozen or so men stepped slowly out of the brush, hands in the air. They were immediately surrounded by two dozen Rebels. Another dozen fanned out and carefully searched the timber and brush around Ben’s CP.

“All clear,” a Rebel called after a few moments. “Ten dead. Four wounded.”

“Get the medics in there,” Ben ordered. “And ready some transportation to take them to the field hospital.” Ben walked down the short incline and faced the Federals. “Who is in charge here?”

A burly man spoke up. “I am. Captain Broadhurst. Thank you for being so considerate to my wounded.” He then gave his serial number and closed his mouth.

“That’s good enough for me, Captain,” Ben said. “You’ll be escorted south to a POW camp. I assure you, neither you nor your men will be harmed.”

“Thankyou, sir.” The captain saluted and Ben returned it. A moment later the Federals were being marched off, under heavy guard.

“We lost some people,” Corrie said, walking up. “All up and down the line. But the Federal assault failed. They lost a lot of people, and we’ve collected several hundred prisoners. The assault didn’t accomplish a thing.”

“It showed us something about the caliber of men we’re up against,” Ben said. “And they’re capable of doing just about anything to win.”

“Almost like us,” Anna said softly.

“Almost,” Ben replied, after a few seconds pause. “But not quite. We still have some honor left. But can we maintain it if a civil war drags on?”

Ben paused and the others waited, looking at him. He did not reply, just turned and walked away.

“I don’t think I have ever seen him this sad,” Jersey said. “I don’t like it.”

“It’s tearin’ him up, that’s for sure,” Cooper said. “Worst I’ve ever seen.”

“Not since Jerre’s death, anyway,” Beth said softly.

“Yeah,” Cooper said. “You’re right. God, I forgot about her.”

“You can bet he hasn’t,” Jersey said. “And you can also bet he never will.”

Before anyone could say anything else on the subject, Ben came out of the CP. “Get your gear together and let’s roll, gang. We’re changing sectors just to be on the safe side. This site may have been compromised.”

In the big nine passenger SUV, Cooper asked, “Which way, Boss?”

“East, Coop. Toward the Bootheel of Missouri.”

“Where do you want to stop for the night?” Corrie asked. “Which it will be in about an hour,” she added.

Ben smiled at the not-too-subtle hint in Corrie’s voice. “I don’t know, Corrie. It isn’t that far, and we’ll be on Rebel roads. They’re in good shape. We’ll see.”

They drove straight through to the end of the line, which surprised no one in Ben’s team or his security people, who were always close by.

The officer in charge of the Rebels at the last outpost east in this sector, on the Arkansas/Missouri line, was not surprised to see Ben and his team unass themselves from the big wagon. He had been warned by other Rebels along the way that the War Eagle himself was on the prowl and might show up.

“How are things here, Captain?” Ben asked the commander of the small detachment of Rebels.

“Quiet, sir.” He pointed east. “But the Federals are dug in tight just across the river.”

Ben turned toward the St. Francis river. “How many?”

“Several companies, at least. This is the only bridge over

that river left intact in this area. They’d like to take it in one piece.”

“I bet they would. Is it wired to blow?”

“Yes, sir. The Combat Engineers did that some time back. I’m sure the Federals know it’s wired. General? Do you think something is about to pop in this area?”

Ben shook his head. “I don’t know what’s going to happen, Captain. Or where.”

“We know they’ve been moving in boats over there,” the captain said, jerking a thumb toward the river.

“You ready for an assault?”

The young captain smiled. “Oh, yes, sir.”

“Then let them come.”

“You going to stay with us tonight, sir?”

“Thought I might. We’ll stay out of your way. If the Federals attack, it’s your show. Where do you want my people?”

‘ ‘We’re pretty thin, General. Anywhere will do, and we’re glad to have you.”

“We’ll hold our own, Captain. We’ll spread out to the south and dig in.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Carry on, Captain.”

After the young officer had left, Jersey said, “You ‘bout scared the shit out of him, Boss. Showin’ up like we did.”

“I used to know every officer in the Rebel army by their first name. Now I don’t know but a handful. What is that young man’s name?”

“Evans, Boss,” Beth said. “He was a sergeant when we first hit Africa. By the time we pulled out of there, he was commanding a platoon.”

“Thank you, Beth. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“I know what I’d like to do with her,” Cooper said after Beth had walked out of earshot.

Ben smiled. “Get your mind off pussy, Coop.”

“How does one do that, Boss? ‘Specially when you’re surrounded by good-lookin’ women?”

Ben laughed. “I don’t know, Coop. But do your best. I think the Federals are going to try to cross that little river tonight.”

“They’re fools if they do.”

“Just more cannon fodder. Probing for weak spots. Let’s get dug in. It just might get real interesting around here in a few hours.”

“They’re really going to try it,” Jersey whispered as the very faint sounds of boats sliding into the water reached the Rebels on the other side.

“More young American boys and girls being used as cannon fodder by their commanders,” Ben said, disgust and sadness all mixed up in his voice.

“Federals probing at half a dozen other locations,” Cor-rie said quietly.

A moment later the pop of flares was loud in the quiet night. The night became bright with artificial light. Then the carnage began as Rebels opened up with machine guns, Big Thumpers, and automatic rifle fire. Many of the Rebels had tears in their eyes as they opened fire on fellow Americans, but they had no choice in the matter. It all boiled down to kill-or-be-killed-time, and the Rebels were experts in staying alive.

The assault fell apart in only a few minutes, and the river turned red with blood. Bodies bobbed in the dark

waters, and wounded Federals cried out in the night. The Rebels ceased their fire and waited.

“I don’t think they’ll try that again,” Ben said.

“I really hope not,” Jersey said, considerable emotion in her voice.

Ben worked his way down the bank and walked back to where Captain Evans was dug in. The captain greeted him somberly.

“Hard night, Captain,” Ben said. “This isn’t something that any of us wanted.”

“No, sir. But we didn’t start this war. All we wanted was to be left alone.”

“Anyone in your command hit?”

“No, sir. Not a scratch. You would think they’d have softened us up some with mortars.”

“I don’t know what’s in the minds of those commanders over there. But they do know they’ve got a hard row to hoe. Right now, I think people in the capital are calling the shots. But that won’t last long.”

“I figured a bunch of civilians were running things,” Captain Evans replied. “The Federals have sure pulled some dumb stunts so far.”

“How many Federals you think bought it this night?”

“At least three, four hundred dead, that many wounded.”

“Hell of a price to pay for nothing.”

“Yes, sir. It damn sure is.”

Ben walked the camp, speaking to each Rebel he met. Some of them were badly shaken from having to fire on fellow Americans. The Federals were not punks and thugs. They were soldiers under orders to do a job. Ben wondered if the men of the North and South had felt the same way a hundred and fifty years back? Some of them, perhaps most of them, he concluded.

There were no more attempts to cross the little river that night. Ben and his team alternately slept and drank

coffee and waited through the long darkness. When dawn finally cut the night with a silver and gold blade, the scene that greeted the Rebels was gruesome: dozens of swollen, bloated, and mangled bodies were caught in the brush on both sides of the river.

“Good God!” Cooper breathed.

“I’ll damn sure second that,” Jersey said. “We can’t leave those Americans like that. It wouldn’t be right.”

Ben looked at her and nodded his head in agreement. “Captain,” he said, “will you notify the Federal commander that we are requesting a cease-fire? We will assist them in retrieving the bodies of their comrades for proper burial.”

“Yes, sir. Right away.”

“Have someone rig a white flag just to be on the safe side.”

“Yes, sir.”

Rebels and Federals worked for an hour gathering up the dead. At first they worked in silence. Then some engaged in small conversation.

“Where you from, Reb?”

“Originally from Ohio, Fed.”

“Then why are you fighting for the SUSA?”

“Because I want to live free, that’s why. Why the hell are you fighting for a socialistic government that has its nose stuck in everything you do?”

“Your government doesn’t do the same?”

“Hell, no!”

“That’s not what I heard.”

“You heard wrong.”

“You got a cigarette?”

“Sure.” The Rebel smiled. “But I thought smoking was illegal under your form of government?”

The young Federal grinned. “Yeah. I see what you mean.”

“Take the pack. Just be careful. You might get caught and be court-martialed.”

“Don’t worry, Reb. I’ll be careful.”

On the bank, Ben and the Federal commander stood and talked quietly.

“Lousy way to make a living, isn’t it, General Raines?”

“Sometimes, Colonel.” Ben offered the Federal a bag of tobacco and rolling papers.

The colonel waved them off. “Thanks. I’d like to, but I can’t let my men see me smoking.”

Ben found that amusing, but carefully hid his smile. “Smoking isn’t good for a person. We all know that. But as adults we have a right to choose.”

“I suppose so, General,” the colonel said noncommittally.

“How about just pulling your people back and we all live in peace, Colonel?”

“Can’t do it, and you know it. A house divided won’t stand.”

“I see,” Ben said slowly. “So we just go on killing each other?”

“Unless you want to surrender.”

“You know that will never happen. So we continue to kill each other until there is no one left to kill on either side?”

“Looks like that’s the only option left us.”

“That’s bullshit. There is no reason the USA and the SUSA can’t peacefully coexist. Your nitwit President-for-Life, Claire Osterman, hates me. That’s the bottom line. She’s a goddamn socialist, and you know it.”

“And you know perfectly well I can’t say anything derogatory about my commander in chief.”

“Good God, Colonel. You’ve got a brain. Why don’t you use it?”

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“I think this conversation is over. Thanks for your assistance in helping recover the bodies.”

Ben sighed. “All right. Have it your way.”

The colonel looked squarely at Ben. “I don’t have a choice, General Raines. I swore an oath to uphold the union.”

“So did thousands of others in uniform. But they elected to stay out of this fight.”

“Traitors. Every goddamned one of them.”

“You’d like to see them court-martialed?”

“You’re damn right I would.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way. Because I’d like to quit this mess before it really gets started.”

The colonel looked at Ben and shook his head. “It won’t happen. This nation must be made whole once again.”

“Not as long as there is one Rebel left alive who can pick up a gun and fight. Not as long as the USA is governed by democrats/socialist.”

“Very well. Good day, General Raines. Once again, thanks for the cease-fire and the help in recovering the bodies.”

Ben watched the Federal colonel make his way down the bank and step into a boat. He turned to his team. “Well, I tried. Not much point in continuing to beat my head against a stone wall. But I probably will… for a while longer.”

“They want a fight, Pops,” Anna told him. “From President Osterman on down. We might as well make up our minds to give them one and get it over with.”

“Problem is, Kiddo, once it starts for real it’ll never be over.”

“Get down, General!” a Rebel shouted. “The Feds just jerked down the white flag.”

Ben and his team ducked for cover just in time. Gunfire raked the top of the bank where they’d been standing.

“Bastards!” Ben said, spitting out a mouth of dirt and grass he’d eaten as he hit the ground hard and bellied down. “Pour it on!” he shouted to the Rebels. “Give them a taste of everything we’ve got.”

For ten minutes the Rebels hammered the Federal positions across the river with mortars, 40mm grenades, and machine gun fire. Then Ben called on the few artillery pieces this Rebel contingent had backing them up, and they began dropping in everything but the kitchen sink. That did it for what was left of the Federals on the east side of the river.

“They’re pulling back, General,” Captain Evans said. “The fools are retreating under heavy artillery fire.”

“They won’t be fools for long. In a few weeks, those left will be seasoned combat veterans.”

“You really think this fight will last that long?”

“It’ll probably last for years, Captain, in one form or another.”

“And we’ll win it?”

“Oh, we’ll win the battles. I have no doubts about that. But the hatred will last for years and years. This civil war won’t be like the first one, a hundred and fifty years ago. Many of those veterans shook hands and forgave one another. They posed together for pictures and paintings. Had parades. This is a brand new war, Anna-the USA’s godless totalitarian government against the SUSA’s small government offering maximum freedom for its citizens. We’ll win the war, but to do it we’re going to have to virtually destroy the states aligned with the USA. And that, my dear, is going to rip this country apart, so far apart it will leave a wound that might never heal.”

Ben and team pulled out that afternoon, heading first south, then cutting back east, running along the Tennessee/ Kentucky border.

“This has to be the longest front in history,” Cooper remarked.

“Several thousand miles, Coop,” Ben said. “And much of it undefended, except for spotter outposts every few miles, manned by volunteers from the home guard. All in all, it’s a hell of a way to run a war.”

Ben turned in the captain’s chair to look at Corrie. “Anything coming over the air?”

“Nothing of any importance, Boss. Just Rebel chatter.”

Ben smiled. “Warning the boys and girls I’m on the way, hey?”

Corrie laughed. “Something like that.”

Ben glanced at his watch. “I’m getting hungry, gang. Coop, find us a spot to chow down.”

That was often easier said than done. In addition to Ben’s security detail-a full platoon, which was always with him-a full company from Ben’s old original battalion, including tanks, traveled with him.

“Spotter plane looking at us, Boss,” Corrie said.

“Ours?”

“Negative. It’s Federal.”

“Let them look.” Ben dug out a map. “We’re only a few miles from the Kentucky line. Probably making the Feds nervous, wondering what we’re up to.”

“The ruins of Clarksville just up ahead, Boss,” Cooper said. “We can pull over there and eat.”

“Sounds good. Where is the nearest Rebel contingent of any size, Corrie?”

“Thirty miles to the east. Part of our 501. Want me to bump them?”

“They know we’re here. Find us a place to eat, Coop. Let’s give those in that spotter plane a thrill.”

The convoy pulled over at Coop’s signal, and guards were posted. Field rats were opened and the Rebels ate and relaxed for a time.

“These new field rations aren’t half bad, Boss,” Beth remarked after swallowing a mouthful of hash. “You must have read the scientists the riot act.”

Ben chuckled. “You might say I told them if the new rats weren’t eatable, I would stick them up their ass.”

“That would certainly get my attention,” Coop said.

Ben looked up, studying the sky. The spotter plane was heading back north. “We just might get some sky visitors in a few minutes. Let’s be sure we’re ready for them.”

Corrie spoke briefly into her headset, then returned her attention to her lunch.

The Rebels used several types of SAMs, but the two most widely used were the much newer and greatly modified versions of the Stinger and the Armburst. Ben’s scientists had improved on each weapon, including range and warhead. The Stinger had more range, but the Armburst could be fired inside a closed space with no danger from back-blast. The Armburst was used quite often in Rebel ambushes.

The Rebels finished their lunch and disposed of the wrappers and containers, then waited for the action to start… and they all felt it was coming.

“Choppers!” a Rebel yelled. “Coming straight in from the north.”

Ben lifted his binoculars and counted a dozen gunships, coming in low and fast. “Get to cover, gang. The shit’s about to hit the fan-big time!”

The gunships came in with everything they had, hammering and yowling. The Rebels lifted their shoulder-fired launchers and cut loose. Five gunships exploded in midair, showering the ground with hundreds of pieces of hot

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metal and various body parts. One huge propeller went cartwheeling end over end across the ground and out into a field, digging up dirt until it finally came to rest.

One gunship made the mistake of coming straight in, readying its rockets to destroy a Rebel Main Battle Tank. The gunner in the MBT had been tracking the chopper. He got off one lucky round from her main gun, and the 155 HE round literally blew the gunship into a million pieces. Nothing bigger than a matchbox was left. The tiny pieces began dropping to the ground, clinking as they bounced off Rebel vehicles.

“Damn!” Ben breathed in awe after witnessing the horrific explosion. “That doesn’t happen very often.”

With half their force destroyed, the gunships began quickly backing off just as a Rebel Scout radioed frantically back to Corrie.

“Ground troops coming at us hard!” she yelled to Ben. “About six thousand meters away.”

“How many?” Ben yelled over the sounds of battle.

“A whole shitpot full was what he said.”

Ben had to smile at the report. “Tell him to get out of there.”

“His feet were working as he radioed in.”

“I bet they were. OK. It’s too late to make a run for it. You’ve radioed for air support?”

“Affirmative. But there is none anywhere in this area.”

“Then we’ll handle it ourselves.”

Ben did not have to give any orders concerning positioning of troops or equipment for the upcoming fight. His people knew exactly what to do, and did it quickly. Tanks were repositioned, machine gun and mortar pits were quickly dug. Cans of ammunition were handed out from supply trucks. Troops got into position. The Rebels waited.

“Federals have stopped their advance,” Corrie reported. “Approximately three thousand meters away.”

“Give them some mortars. HE and fragmentation.”

“Scouts have stopped on some high ground. They’ll act as FO.”

“Good enough.”

The mortar crews began dropping in the rounds. Corrie called out the corrections in elevation as soon as the FO’s radioed them in.

“That’s it.” She spoke into her headset. “You’re right on target. Pour it on.”

A few heartbeats later Corrie said, “They’re advancing. Two thousand meters. Several hundred in strength.”

Ben looked skyward. The gunships were gone. “Whoever’s running this show doesn’t know shit from Shinola,” he muttered. “This kind of luck can’t hold for us.”

He held up a hand. “Cease firing,” he ordered. “Let them come.”

“Cease firing?” Corrie questioned, not sure she correctly understood.

“Cease firing,” Ben repeated.

“What the hell happens now?” Cooper muttered under his breath.

Ben heard the muttered question and smiled. “We meet them eyeball to eyeball.”

Cooper flushed. The Boss wasn’t supposed to have heard that.

“Ready all Big Thumpers and machine guns,” Ben ordered. “Everybody on full auto. Tell the tank commanders to level all main guns.”

Corrie cut her eyes to Ben for a second. He met her gaze. “Do it,” Ben said.

“Yes, sir,” she said, then radioed the orders.

“Jesus Christ!” Beth whispered. “Those Feds are running into a wall of steel and lead.”

“We’ll be here a friggin’ week pickin’ up all the pieces,” Jersey said.

“One thousand meters,” Come said.

“Can those types of tanks fire their main guns point-blank?” Anna asked, awe in her voice.

“I think they have to do some adjusting,” Cooper answered. “Or something. Hell, what do I know about tanks?”

“Same as you know about anything else,” Jersey said, not about to let the opportunity pass by. “Nothing.”

“Aw, now, my pretty cactus flower,” Cooper replied. “Despite it all, you know your love for me runs as deep as a river.”

Jersey made several gagging sounds. “Excuse me while I puke.”

“Five hundred meters,” Corrie said.

Ben waited, his face expressionless.

A Rebel’s words drifted to Ben and team. “Christ’s sake, there they are, crossing that field.”

“I’ll court-martial the first person who fires without my order,” Ben said, raising his voice.

“Four hundred meters,” Corrie said.

“Must be six or seven hundred of them,” another Rebel said. “Damn near a full battalion.”

“Like ducks all in a row,” the Rebel next to him replied. “This is wild.”

“Three hundred meters.” Corrie called it out. Again she looked at Ben.

“I can’t believe the Federal commanders are this stupid,” Ben muttered. He stood and watched the slow, steady advance of the Federal troops across the green and yellow-speckled meadow.

“The sun is in their eyes,” Anna observed. “Hell, maybe they can’t see us.”

“But they know we’re here,” Beth said. “They just keep on coming. They’re not even trying to hunt any cover. This is crazy!”

“Two hundred meters,” Corrie counted down.

The Federal troops broke into a slow trot and began yelling. The yells were a mixture of bravado and profanity, the profanity directed at the Rebels and the SUSA.

“That is going to make it a lot easier,” Jersey said.

“Damn sure is,” Beth said.

“Goddamn bunch of communists,” Cooper said. He was only slightly wrong in his political applications.

“One hundred and fifty meters,” Corrie said nervously, again cutting her eyes to Ben.

“Almost,” Ben said. “Get ready.”

“We been ready,” Cooper muttered. “Are we gonna invite them in for coffee?” He was careful this time to make sure Ben didn’t hear his remarks.

Ben lifted the old M-14 he had taken from the rear of the big wagon and jacked in a round. The Rebels lying close to where he was standing smiled. The old Thunder Lizard was one hell of a weapon. On full auto it was a son of a bitch to hold.

“One hundred meters,” Corrie said. “Damn, Boss!”

“Fire!” Ben yelled.

The meadow across the road turned into a killing field as the Rebels cut loose with everything at their disposal.

It was carnage. Nothing else would describe the scene in the meadow. The Federals walked right into a hot wall of death. There was no escape.

Ben kept up the nearly point-blank barrage for diree long minutes. When he finally ordered a cease-fire, the silence seemed almost audible.

Out in the meadow, only a few yards from the two-lane road, there was little movement and only a few moans of pain.

“Son of a bitch!” Jersey breathed, standing up and looking out at the bloody meadow.

“Small group of Federals hightailing it to the north,” Beth said, looking over the scene through binoculars. “Some of them have thrown away their weapons. Or lost them.”

“Check the field for survivors,” Ben ordered.

‘ ‘I don’t see how anyone could have survived that,” Anna remarked.

“Corrie, have you found the Federals’ frequency?”

“Negative, Boss. Still looking.”

“Well, get on some band and tell whoever is listening to come get what is left of their battalion. And to come under a flag of truce or they’ll be in deep shit.”

“Medics reporting a lot of badly wounded out there,” a doctor told Ben a few minutes later. “You want to set up a field hospital, General?”

Ben hesitated only a few seconds. “Yes, we might as well. Let’s try to save as many as possible.”

“We shoot them, then patch them up,” Cooper said. “I just wonder if they’d do the same for us.”

No one replied, but all who heard it had their doubts if the Federals would care if any Rebel lived or died.

“I have one of the Federals’ frequencies, Boss,” Corrie told Ben. “I have given them your message.”

“And?”

“They say thanks, and they’re on the way. Dust-offs will be coming in very soon.”

“Advise them I will shoot down any gunship I see.”

“Will do.” A moment later: “Message received, and they will comply.”

“Good enough.”

“Home guard on the horn, Boss. Says they discovered how the Federals got across our no-man’s-strip. They’ve found where the choppers have been landing just inside our territory. Looks as though they’ve been bringing in a platoon at a time.”

“That clears up that little mystery. Corrie, tell the cooks to set up a tent and make a lot of coffee. We’re going to be here for quite a while.”

“OK, Boss.”

In less than fifteen minutes after Corrie touched base with the Federals, the sounds of a dozen big choppers reached the Rebels. They were guided in, and teams of

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doctors and medics jumped out and were escorted across the road and into the meadow, where Rebel medics and several doctors were working.

A three-star general in BDUs strolled up to Ben and saluted smartly. “General Raines? I’m General Maxwell. Call me Max, if you will.”

“OK, Max. I’m Ben.”

“Thank you for your kindness in helping my people.”

“No problem. I can truthfully say I wish to hell they had stayed on their side of the line.”

General Maxwell did not respond to that comment. “Is that coffee I smell?”

“Sure is. Fresh brewed. Care for a cup?”

“Love one.”

Over mugs of steaming coffee, the two generals looked at one another, saying nothing.

Ben finally broke the uncomfortable silence. “Get used to heavy casualties tangling with us, Max. We’ve been doing this all over the world.”

Max smiled. “It’ll change when the White House bows out of trying to run things. Not that I’m telling you anything you haven’t already deduced.”

“Yes. I reached that conclusion early on. But nothing is going to change. We’re fighting for our homeland.”

“We’ll see, Ben. The gods of war are fickle.” He took a sip of coffee. “Good coffee.”

“Smoke if you like. In the SUSA we don’t try to run every aspect of adults’ lives.”

That stung the Federal general. Finally he managed a small smile. “It’s for the people’s good.”

“Horseshit. It’s totalitarianism, pure and simple. In the SUSA, probably ninety-five percent of the drivers wear seat-belts. But there are no laws forcing them to do so. It’s just common sense.”

Max looked out at the meadow. “Those were green

troops commanded by inexperienced officers. We know that you know there are thousands of mercenary troops waiting for the green light to move in.”

“Mercenaries die just like anyone else, Max. And I know you know that I could end this in fifteen minutes if I chose to do so.”

“And I know you know that we have limited nuclear capabilities.”

“Then let’s just blow each other into cinders and let the survivors start all over. They couldn’t possibly fuck it up any worse than the last two generations have.”

General Maxwell smiled. “You’re damn sure right about that last bit. But you won’t use nucs, and neither will we.”

“Nucs aren’t the only tiling I have,” Ben said.

“So you can win more or less humanely? All right. Do it. Turn loose your germ warheads. Kill hundreds or thousands of children and elderly.” He shook his head. “You’d do that only as a very last resort … if you could bring yourself to do it even then. And I have my doubts about that. No, for a while, at least, this is going to be a soldier’s war, on the ground. But we have millions more to draw from, General Raines. Eventually, attrition will take its toll on you.”

“You have it all thought out, don’t you?”

“Maybe. Just … maybe.”

“I’ll ask you the same question I’ve asked other Federal officers-why do you-“

Maxwell held up a hand. “I know what you’re going to ask, Ben. And the answer is, because average Americans are just not smart enough to adequately look after themselves. Somebody has to do it for them. Oh, there’s much more to it, but that’s it in a nutshell.”

Ben stared at Maxwell for a moment. The Federal had a definite twinkle in his eyes. “Bullshit, Max!”

Maxwell laughed. “Of course it is. It’s power. That’s all

any restrictive form of government is-power to a select few. You make the masses more or less content, give them plenty of milk while those at the top enjoy the cream.”

“Well, I’ll be damned! Somebody finally told me the truth.”

“And you don’t enjoy the cream, Ben? Come on! Of course you do. You want a position in government? It can be arranged. You want to command a division of crack troops. OK. It’s yours. Just toss in the towel and come on over to our side.”

Ben carefully placed his mug on the camp table and stood up. “Conversation is over, General Maxwell. I can’t say it was nice talking with you.”

“Don’t be a fool. Sit back down, man, and listen to me. I’m offering you a place at the table. Relax and partake.”

“I see,” Ben said slowly. He sat down. “Osterman thinks she’s running the show, right? She’s a figurehead. You people are the power behind the throne.”

Maxwell smiled and shrugged his shoulders. He refused to speak.

“You people made a deal with a gang of mercenaries. You’re getting rid of a bunch of idealistic green Federal troops who are one hundred percent behind Osterman. As soon as they’re gone, there will be nothing to stop you. But you’re forgetting those commanders who stood their troops down and refused to get mixed up in this fracas. What about them?”

“They will be dealt with. We don’t worry about them.”

“What is to prevent me from going public with this information?”

“Who would believe you Ben? You rank right up there as one of the most hated men on the continent.” Maxwell chuckled. “So go right on with this fight. You’re doing us a favor, really. Kill off our green troops while you suffer casualties as well. You see, there is no way for you to win.

If you’re smart, you’ll join us. Think about it. You don’t have to die needlessly. We have a place for you.”

“Forget it. No way I will join you.”

“It’s up to you, Ben.”

“You people were setting all this up while I was in Africa. That’s why white mercenaries were so scarce over there. You people had most of them under contract… or were working on doing just that.”

“Very good. But I really wish you hadn’t gotten rid of Bruno. He was doing the world a favor by getting rid of millions of niggers. My one regret is I wish he had finished what he started. He would have if you hadn’t been so goddamn persistently successful.”

“Once again, the Rebels are going to be all that stands between freedom and …” -Ben shook his head- “… God only knows what form of government you people have in mind. I don’t even know what to call the government now in power … not really. It’s the worst mess I’ve ever seen.”

Maxwell grinned. “It is screwed up, isn’t it? A liberal with a hard socialist bent can fuck up an anvil. But we’ll fix it once in power.”

“Fix it? Fix it into what?”

“Oh, get rid of all the sexual perverts, run the greasers back to Mexico, do something with the niggers, put the ladies back into the home and the kitchen where they belong, then whip the country back into shape.”

Ben shook his head. “You’re dreaming, Max. None of that is going to happen. You really will have a civil war on your hands if you try that crap.”

“We won’t try it all at once. It’ll be done gradually, over a period of time. If you’re still alive, you’ll see it happen, I promise you. Now, if you wish, go ahead, call a press conference and tell the world all I told you. I don’t care, because no one will believe you.”

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Ben knew that Maxwell was telling the truth about that. No one outside of the SUSA would believe him. “No, I won’t do that. No point in it.”

General Maxwell rose from the bench. “Think about what I told you. Think about my offer. It’s yours if you want it. But if you persist in making war, the offer will be withdrawn.”

“You can withdraw it now. Win, lose, or draw, my answer is no.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. You would have been an asset.” He lifted his mug and drained it. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“Anytime.”

Ben sat and watched the general walk back across the road, rejoining his own troops. “Interesting, but not surprising,” Ben muttered. He sighed and looked down at his own coffee mug. “The second civil war,” hesaid. “Compliments of all you assholes back in the nineteen sixties, seventies, and eighties who just couldn’t keep your goddamn hands off the Constitution and the Bill of Rights. You just had to screw up a good thing. I hope you’re all alive and witnessing this. And I hope you choke on it!”

Ben moved his column eastward, stayingjust inside SUSA territory, along the Tennessee Kentucky border, until he linked up with part of his 501 Brigade, the day after the near total wipe-out of Federals in the once peaceful meadow.

“Somebody on the other side is finally getting smart, General,” a batt com said to Ben. “They’re massing troops instead of having everybody spread out thin as paper.”

“We’ve been getting intel all day confirming that. What’s your take on it?”

“I think they’re getting ready for one hell of a push.”

“All along the front?”

The colonel didn’t hesitate. “Yes, sir. I’d bet they’re going to slam into us at a dozen points.”

“I feel the same way.” Ben moved to a wall map in the CP. “The Federals are concentrating at these points.” He pointed to a dozen locations, from South Texas to the Virginia coast. “But according to our Eyes in the Sky only

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five push points have artillery and armor to back them. I’m betting those will be the places where we’d better concentrate our air strikes. I’ve already talked with Ike about this, and he concurs. On these seven other locations, and that includes our immediate area, we’re probably going to lose some ground. That’s all right. We’ll fall back gradually, let the Feds think we’re on the run while we do an end-around and box their asses in. Then we’ll teach them something about Rebel warfare, Sneaky Pete style.”

The colonel grinned. “Now you’re talking, General. Down and dirty and close-in.”

Ben alternately walked and rode the front lines with the colonel, shuffling and repositioning some troops until the lines were as strong as he could make them. He made certain every company commander and exec knew the bug-out plans, and exactly where they were to go and what they were to do when that order came down the line.

Ben decided to take his team and security people on east about fifty miles, to beef up a small detachment of Rebels and home guard stationed there. They made the run and were in camp by late afternoon.

“We’re glad to see you, General,” the captain in command of the Rebel company greeted Ben. “In more ways than one. We’re out-gunned about five to one by the Feds just over that ridge there.” He pointed. “Across the strip. And they’re receiving reinforcements every few hours.”

“Armor?”

“Not much. We’re about even on that score, a little ahead on artillery … for now, that is.”

“The big push is going to be to our west about fifty miles. But that doesn’t mean we’re not going to take some shoving here. If we can’t hold without significant losses, we’ll fall back a few miles and hope they follow.”

The captain grinned. “Down and dirty time, General?”

“You bet. Eyeball to eyeball and junkyard mean. I want

every Claymore you’ve got ready to be picked up when we bug out. If the Feds are stupid enough to follow, we’ll have some nasty surprises waiting for them.”

“Yes, sir!”

Ben unfolded a map. “We’ll all head southeast, toward this crossing of the Cumberland River, then we’ll blow the bridge. That will delay them for several hours and give us time to regroup.”

“I’ll make sure everyone knows.”

“I’ll put my people over to the east. That appears to be your weakest point.”

“Yes, sir. Only one platoon of home guard over there, and some of those ole’ boys are getting a little long in the tooth for this type of work.”

Ben nodded his head as he hid a smile. Those ‘ole’ boys’ the young captain was talking about were rough as a cob, and mean as a rattlesnake when diey got pissed off. The Tennessee ‘boys’ would damn sure hold more than their own when it came down to the nut cuttin’. Many of them had been part of civilian militia units before the Great War and the collapse.

Ben and his people didn’t have long to wait before the Federals launched their offensive. They had just finished eating evening chow, with two hours of daylight left, when a Scout who was stationed on the ridge overlooking the no-man’s-land radioed in.

“Gunships coming in from the north. A lot of them.”

“They’ll be troop carriers all mixed in with those Cobras and Apaches,” Ben warned.

“Choppers coming in from the west and east,” spotters radioed. “They’re doing end-arounds, and coming in fast. Several dozen already on the ground and spilling troops on our side of the strip.”

Artillery began dropping in, and the Federals were dead bang on target. One round landed off to Ben’s right, and

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the concussion put him on the ground and sent him rolling. He was unhurt but knocked flat on his butt.

“Shit!” he hollered, crab-crawling over the ground toward the bunker. Before he reached the bunker, he saw Cooper turn several somersaults in the air from an incoming. Coop crawled to his knees and shook his head. He appeared to be unhurt.

Ben never made the bunker. Shrapnel was whistling and howling all around him. He found a depression in the ground and crawled in. Unless a round landed right on top of him he would be relatively safe, for the depression was about three feet deep.

The Feds were really pouring on the rounds, forcing the Rebels to keep their heads down while they advanced toward Rebel positions.

Ben jerked his small handy-talkie out of the pouch and started giving orders. “All tank commanders, get the hell out of this area. Back it up. Get out of range. We’ll need you later. Move it!”

“The Feds are going to be all over us in a few minutes, Boss!” Corrie radioed.

“General!” the CO of the outpost yelled into his radio. “Airborne troops landing at locations we talked about west and east of us.”

“Any sign of paratroopers dropping in on us here?”

“Negative, Boss. We’re just getting the shit pounded out of us, that’s all.”

“You’re telling me?”

“Feds landing more troops by chopper,” the Scout on the ridge broke in. “Already several hundred on the ground. I’m out of here.”

“OK,” Ben radioed. “Time to bug out, folks. Grab what you can, and get gone. If we stay here we’re dead meat.”

Ben pulled his rucksack to him and slipped the strap over one shoulder. He gripped his CAR and waited until there was a very short lull in the shelling. He left cover in a rush, running for about twenty-five yards before he heard incoming. He hit the ground belly down and stayed put until another lull came, then heaved himself up and ran another few yards. This was repeated half a dozen times until he reached a stand of thick timber. He rested for a couple of minutes, catching his breath, then took off running once again.

He saw a dozen other Rebels, dark shapes in the thick timber running hard out for safety and a dozen more dead and mangled on the ground. He did not stop. Behind him, the shelling had intensified. He had been correct in ordering the bug-out. The outpost was being destroyed by the Federal shelling.

He did not connect with his team. He had no idea where they were. He knew only they had bugged out several minutes before he did.

Ben headed southeast through the timber until he came to a clearing. Deciding not to cross it, he stayed at the edge of the timber and worked his way around the meadow. Then he climbed to the top of one of the rolling hills and scanned the area through binoculars. The outpost had been destroyed, smashed into nothing. One Rebel tank was burning off to the west.

“Shit!” Ben muttered, casing his binoculars. He moved on.

Then he heard the gunships coming in low and fast from the north. Ben ducked into some brush, squatted down, and waited until they had passed.

He counted a dozen gunships, the latest version of the old Apache. The Rebels had hundreds of them, and obviously the Federals had their share, too. The Apache gun-

William W. Johnstone

ship packed more firepower than many World War Two attack bombers.

Ben cautiously slipped from cover and once more headed southeast. The gunships had been heading due south.

He walked for about half a mile, then again scanned the area. “Damn!” he muttered, spotting teams of Federals slowly working their way south. They were stretched out for as far as Ben could see.

Ben looked more closely. The teams were not moving the way green troops would; they moved as though they knew exactly what they were doing and had done it many times before. They held their weapons relaxed, but ready. Their trigger fingers were on trigger guards, not on the triggers. They appeared to be doing everything right.

“The Federals put the first team in,” Ben muttered. “Now it gets interesting.”

Ben heard gunfire off to the west. Some Rebels were mixing it up with the Feds. But Ben’s Rebels were badly outnumbered in this fight, and fighting troops just about as experienced. This particular contingent of Rebels was in for a very bad time of it.

And so am I, Ben thought, if I don’t move my butt and get the hell out of here!

Ben rose from a kneeling position and turned just as a Fed was walking up behind him. The man had been tracking him, and for a few seconds his eyes were on the ground.

Ben jumped him before he could get off a round, and the two of them rolled on the ground for a few seconds. Ben was a good twenty years older, but taller and heavier. He was also the far more experienced gutter fighter.

The Fed got in one good punch to the side of Ben’s head that brightened his world for a few seconds. Ben got a better grip on the mere and jammed his stiffened fingers

into the man’s eyes and put a hard knee into his crotch. As the Fed convulsed in pain, Ben bent the man’s head back and gave him the knife edge of his right hand to the throat. Ben felt it all give way, and the man’s mouth suddenly filled with blood as the mercenary began gasping in vain for breath. Ben rolled off the Fed as he convulsed on the ground. He left the man’s weapons, took his bandoleer filled with .223 magazines, tore his rucksack from him, and left him dying on the ground. Then he hauled his ass away from there.

As he walked, Ben looked inside the rucksack. Several containers of field rats, three grenades, and two pairs of clean socks. He could use the food and the grenades, and the socks looked as though they would fit him.

Ben continued moving southeast at a good pace. He figured his team and the majority of the troops who were stationed at the outpost were a good thirty minutes ahead of him. Maybe more than that, for they were younger and could move a lot faster for a longer time.

Ben was not an old man, wouldn’t be for a while, but he damn sure was no spring chicken. He had to rest often to conserve his legs.

The men of the Tennessee Home Guard had plans of their own as to where to bug out, and Ben had not made any attempt to countermand those plans. They had a better chance of survival than anyone else. This was their country.

Walking up a hill, Ben paused for another look around. It was not at all encouraging. Federals appeared to be all around him. Somehow they had gotten in front of him and cut off his planned escape route.

“All right,” Ben whispered to the wind as dusk began closing in all around him. “So I’ll head straight east. At least for a while.” He knew that not too many miles ahead of him, straight east, he would be blocked by lakes and

the Cumberland River. He had no choice in the matter-it was the only direction left open to him.

Ben checked his compass heading and started walking. With the exception of a few bruises from being knocked down a couple of times by incoming shell concussion, he felt pretty good.

He walked for half an hour, then paused to rest and check his handy-talkie. There was no chatter coming through. He was either out of range, or the damn thing was busted.

Just as he was about to get up and resume his trek Ben heard voices coming from his right, which was south. He perked up and listened.

“We’ve got to take him alive. The bastard’s worth a million bucks.”

“I’m not sure that reward applies to us,” a second man said.

“It does. I got that straight before we left. Military or civilian, whoever brings him in gets a million.”

“Good enough. But how the hell can you be sure he’s heading in this direction?”

“He’s got no choice. He damn sure can’t go north. South and west are blocked off. This is the only way open to him.”

“Not for long,” a third voice spoke. “The river is only a few miles away.”

“That’s what I mean. He’s cut off. All we have to do is be patient.”

“And wait right here?”

“Why not? We’re ahead of him. The last sighting proved that. The bastard is not a young man. He can’t cover a lot of ground in a hurry. North is thick brush and ravines. South is our people. We’ve got him. It’s just a matter of time.”

Ben did not want to fire and risk giving away his position.

Besides, he wasn’t sure all three were close enough together for one burst to take them all out. Hell, he wasn’t even sure of their exact location.

Too many ifs.

Ben waited in the brush. It was almost as thick as the darkness that had fallen.

Finally he heard the sounds of the Federals moving away, toward the east. Ben waited for a few more minutes, then left cover and headed first south for several hundred yards, then gradually cut east. He moved slowly and carefully, stopping every few meters to listen to the night.

And hour later he could smell and sense the river.

Ben stopped and slipped down into a wash and rested. The Cumberland was no small creek; he’d never get across it without a boat. If he stayed put he’d eventually get captured or killed in a shoot-out. If he headed in any direction, the odds were a little bit better, but not all that much.

“Oh, the hell with it,” Ben muttered. He climbed out of the wash and began making his way south.

Several times during the next hour he spotted Federal patrols in time to avoid contact. However, luck has a nasty habit of running out if one starts to depend on it, and Ben knew that only too well.

Before long he would need rest and a few hours sleep, but he knew there was litde chance for either. Any place suitable for rest and sleep would be carefully looked at by the Feds. Ben would just have to keep going and hope for the best.

Something came out of the brush and hit him hard, knocking him sprawling. Ben lost his grip on die CAR and rolled away, just as his attacker took a vicious kick at his head. Ben grabbed the man’s boot and twisted just as hard as his position would allow.

The man grunted in pain and fell backward, landing hard on his butt. That was all die opportunity Ben needed.

He pulled his boot knife and struck hard with it. The blade drove deep into the man’s thigh, and the attacker yelped in pain. Ben jerked the blade out and struck again, this time higher up. The blade sliced deep into the man’s belly and Ben twisted upward, feeling the sharp blade cut into and through vital organs. Ben clamped one big hand on the man’s throat and squeezed, cutting off any scream.

Ben held on as the Fed twisted and thrashed on the ground. Horrible choking sounds made their way out of the tortured throat. Ben squeezed even harder and drove the knife deep into the man’s chest. The Fed convulsed once, and then was still as life swiftly left him.

Ben released his grip and pulled out his knife. Shaky from the sudden expense of energy, he crawled to his knees and rested there, the dead man coojing on the ground.

Ben wiped the blade clean on the dead man’s pants leg and sheathed it. He found his CAR and wiped the dust from it, then took two grenades from the dead man and several full magazines of .223’s. There was nothing else on the man that Ben could use. He rested for a few more minutes and then moved out, heading south.

Ben had heard the very faint sounds of a lot of gunfire since leaving the Rebel outpost. The Feds and the Rebels had locked horns a number of times. He had no way of knowing which side had been victorious, but he had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach that it was not his Rebels.

He continued walking.

Ben caught a few hours sleep from about 3:00 A.M. until six. Then he was on the move once more. It had been a restless sleep, for the sounds of helicopters had awakened him a dozen times. Just as daylight was spreading over the

land, he climbed a low hill and took a look around. What he saw was not at all encouraging.

He was surrounded. There appeared to be no way out for him, and the Federal troops all seemed to be facing in his direction. They had him pinpointed.

Ben backed up and looked around, finding some good size rocks and several small logs. He tugged and rolled the rocks and logs into a makeshift barricade, occasionally looking around. The Feds were all moving in his direction.

Ben took his handy-talkie from the pouch and keyed the mic. “This is the Eagle. Anybody listening?”

Corrie’s familiar voice touched his ear. “Right here, Boss.”

“Are you secure, Corrie?”

“Ten-four, Boss. We’re in Rebel territory and holding.”

“Can you tape this?”

“Affirmative, Boss. Taping.”

“Tell Ike he’s in charge of it all. I’ve had it. I’ve got maybe three or four hundred Feds moving in on me, and probably more on the way. I’m not sure exactly where I am. For the Rebels to try any type of rescue would be nothing but a suicide mission. Don’t try it. Understood?”

“Affirmative, Boss.”

“I’m going to give them one hell of a fight, but there is no way I can win. You copy all that?”

After a short pause, Corrie said in a choked voice, “Affirmative, Boss.”

“I’m not going to be taken alive. Not if I can help it. And I don’t have time to get maudlin here. The SUSA forever. Let that be your battle cry. Understood?”

“Ten-four, Boss.”

“Is the team all right?”

“Affirmative.”

“Anna?”

“She’s OK, Boss. None of us were hit.”

William W. Johnstone

“Not much else to say, Gang. The Feds are at the base of the hill and moving in on me. The SUSA forever. Forever!” Corrie was crying. “Affirmative, Boss.” “Good luck to you all. Eagle out.”

Ben chunked a grenade over the edge of the hill and smiled when it exploded.

The Feds opened fire from all sides, the lead howling and ricocheting all around him.

“Come and get me, you miserable socialistic assholes,” Ben muttered. “But, goddamn you all, when you do I’ll take some of you with me.”

Several Feds on the north side of the hill charged Ben’s position. When they reached the crest they were met with half a magazine of .223 rounds. Scratch four Feds.

After half an hour of give and take, the Federal fire abruptly ceased.

“Now what?” Ben said to the cloudy sky and the increasing winds.

A shout reached Ben. “General Raines! This is General Berman. Give this up, Raines. You can’t get off that hill. There is no escape for you.”

“Berman, you mercenary prick!” Ben said. He took a deep breath and shouted, “Come and get me!”

“Don’t be a fool, Ben!” Berman shouted. “Give it up.”

“So Madam President Osterman can hang me? I’d rather go out with a bullet right here on this hill.”

“Well, that’s not going to happen. We’re going to take you alive, I promise you that. You might be banged up some, but I can guarantee you will be alive. Think about that before we begin the assault.”

Tear gas or pepper gas, Ben thought. That’s what they’re going to use.

And a gas mask was something Ben did not have.

Ben wriggled around in his small shelter and took a quick look in all directions. He sighed as he ducked back down. Must be at least three hundred Feds surrounding the small hill.

No thoughts of surrender entered Ben’s mind. The Feds might overpower him, but it would be only after a fight.

Then Ben heard the unmistakable pop of a gas canister launcher. “Here we go,” he muttered.

He quickly wet a handkerchief and placed it over his face just as the canister hit the top of the hill and the gas began spreading. After that there must have been a dozen more pops in a very brief time. The air became choked with fumes, and in a few seconds Ben was unable to see.

“Shit!” he coughed out just as he heard bootsteps running toward him. Something slammed into the front of his head, and Ben’s world turned to darkness.

When he awakened he found himself cuffed and chained, the metal bonds around his wrists and ankles. He did not have to open his eyes to know he was on the floor of a plane, a big prop job-four engine, Ben figured, from the sound of it. C-130, probably.

He did not know how long he’d been out, but it seemed as though it had been hours. He concluded the blow on the head had been followed by some sort of chemical injection to ensure his staying unconscious.

He cracked his eyelids and was not surprised to find boots filling his vision-a long row of them. Berman was taking no chances. Ben was under heavy guard. He felt his left shirtsleeve jerked up, and the lash of a needle. Seconds later, he was once again enveloped in darkness.

When he woke again, it was quiet. Daylight was streaming through a window set high up off the floor. Ben moved his hands and feet. The chains were gone. He tried to sit up, but did not have the strength to make it. He moved his head and blinked his eyes. Well, at least he could do that much.

Then he realized he was in a bed.

He shook his head, and that hurt! He summoned all his strength and managed to sit up, his feet on the floor. His bare feet. No boots, no socks. He looked down at his legs. His BDUs were gone. He was dressed in pajamas. Green ones.

Sitting on the side of the bed, he looked around the room. One window, too far off the floor for him to see out of. A very sturdy looking door-closed, and locked, Ben figured. A metal, three drawer dresser set against one wall. A sink, also metal. A commode, metal.

Sure as hell not a luxury hotel.

He inspected the walls and ceiling. Bare. No mirrors and no camera to monitor his moves.

Ben decided to try to stand. He failed the first try and fell back on the bed, made it on the second try. He stood for a moment, swaying until he got his balance. Then he tried to walk, and fell down hard on die floor.

Ben lay on the cold tile for a moment, silently cussing.

He forced himself to his knees, then managed to get to his feet and stay there. Damn, but he was weak.

He took a couple of hesitant steps and did not fall. “Wonderful,” Ben muttered. “I am certainly making progress.”

He walked back to the bed and sat down, resting for a couple of minutes. During that time he again visually inspected his surroundings, looking for anything he might use as a weapon. There was nothing.

He walked over to the sink and turned on the cold water. Bathing his face several times, he felt better. Then he cupped his hands and drank deeply.

He stared at the window longingly, wishing he could see out, get some idea where he was. He gave that up. Might as well wish for … what? Well, at least he was still alive, and not dangling from the end of a rope. That would come soon enough. Osterman would probably personally tighten the noose herself, smiling all the while. Miserable bitch!

Ben began slowly walking around and around the interior of the small room, feeling his strength slowly return. He still didn’t feel like running any foot races, but he was getting better.

And hungry. Damn, but he was hungry. Then he knew he was getting better, thinking about food. He instinctively glanced down at his watch-or where it used to be. It was gone, of course.

He drank some more water and felt better, glanced upward out the high-set window. The sun didn’t seem as bright, but it was high in the heavens. Not as strong, rather than not as bright. Ben suddenly got the impression he was a long way from Tennessee.

North! The word jumped into his brain. He was far north. Somehow he was sure of that.

Ben heard a key clink in the lock. He turned just as

the door opened. Several men stood there, one of them General Walt Berman.

“You do get around, don’t you?” Ben said.

Berman smiled. “Yes, I do. How do you feel?”

“I’m not a hundred percent yet. But getting there.”

“Hungry?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Well, we brought you a tray of food. It’s nothing fancy, but it is good food. And we eat the same thing, by the way.”

“Thanks.”

“Think nothing of it.”

“Where am I being held?”

Berman stared at him for a few seconds, then shrugged. “I can’t see where that would hurt anything, Ben. You damn sure can’t get out. You’re in upstate New York. This facility used to be a state hospital for the insane. Insane probably isn’t a politically correct term, but I’m not much into that liberal crap.”

“What time is it?”

“About noon. Lunchtime. Here is your food. Enjoy the meal.”

A tray was brought in, placed on the dresser. The guard carefully backed out. Berman gave Ben a mock salute and closed the door.

Ben heard the lock click with a very secure sound.

He carried his tray over to the bunk and looked at the food. Thick portions of ham (already cut up into bite-size pieces), generous helpings of mashed sweet potatoes and corn (in separate compartments), two slices of bread, two pats of butter (probably oleo) a piece of apple pie, a large mug of coffee, two packets of sugar, a packet of instant creamer.

“Not bad,” Ben muttered, picking up the plastic fork and digging in.

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The food was good, and Ben ate every bite and then drank the coffee. He wished he had a cigarette to go with it. “Wonder if I’ll get a smoke before they hang me,” he muttered.

Ben took the tray and walked over to the door. He tapped on it. “I’m finished. You want the tray?”

“Back away from the door,” a man ordered. “I’ll lower the flap in the center of the door.”

Ben backed away. “I’m back. Still holding the tray.”

The flap banged open. “Put the tray on the flap.”

“You got a cigarette?” Ben asked, placing the tray on the metal flap.

“Sure. I’ll have to light it for you.”

“No problem. I appreciate it.”

“Back up, away from the door.”

Ben again backed up, and watched as a lighted cigarette was placed on the flap.

“OK. Pick it up.”

Ben snagged the smoke and backed up. “Thanks, buddy.”

Ben sat on the floor, his back to a wall, and smoked the cigarette. He enjoyed every puff. While he smoked he visually inspected the ceiling and walls. He could detect no sign of hidden cameras or microphones. There was no mirror in the room, so that let out a two-way.

Ben got up and tried to move the bunk. It was securely bolted to the floor, and so was the dresser. The bolts were shiny new.

He tried one with his fingers. “Well, you can forget that,” he muttered, after straining and only succeeding in skinning his fingers.

He wondered when his interrogation would start. He did not have long to wonder.

About a half hour after lunch, the door swung open-outward. Ben made a mental note of that. The hall seemed

to be filled with men. None of them were armed, but they all carried the old style police nightsticks.

“All right, General,” one said. “Time for your meeting with General Berman.”

“I’m all aquiver with anticipation.”

The man laughed. “No need to be. We don’t go in for physical torture. That’s been old hat for years, and you know it.”

“The woman you’re working for would, and enjoy every moment of it.”

“Woman? Oh! President Osterman.” The man frowned. “No, she wouldn’t. She’s a wonderful person. I met her once when I was still in my teens, and she was trying to get this country back on its feet. I read the weekly motivation letters that come from her office.” He pointed his club at Ben. “Don’t you say anything bad about Mrs. Osterman. I won’t stand for that.”

So it’s a mixed bag of mercenaries and Federal troops here, Ben thought. And all those rumors I’ve been hearing for several years about the USA are true. Kids are getting a healthy dose of brainwashing in public schools. Well, hell, we’re doing the same thing in the SUSA. The only difference is we’re telling the kids the truth.

“Let’s go, General,” the young man said.

“Do I get some slippers?” Ben asked. “I wouldn’t want to catch my death of cold.”

The young man-probably twenty-five years old, Ben guessed-hesitated. “Yes, I suppose so. Get him some hospital slippers,” he ordered.

The slippers were floppy on his feet, but they felt good against the cold floor. Ben was taken to an elevator and down one floor to the main floor. The hospital, Ben noted from the elevator control panel, had two floors and a basement. He would certainly keep that information in mind.

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Ben was taken to an office in the center of a long hall. At the far end were double doors. Sunlight streamed through the glass. Ben pretended not to notice the path to freedom.

General Berman waved him to a chair in front of his desk and tossed a package of cigarettes on the desk and a lighter. “Smoke, Ben?”

“Thanks.” Ben got a smoke and lit up. “Got any coffee, General?”

Berman laughed. “Coffee drinking man, hey? Me, too. Sure. I’ll have a pot sent in for us. How was lunch?”

“Very good. Surprisingly so.”

“We all eat the same thing, as I told you. No point in not enjoying some small creature comforts while we’re here, right? Well, Ben, let’s get to it, shall we? Good. You won’t be here for very long. I have to tell you that. Three, four days at the most, I imagine, and then, if you haven’t agreed to some demands, you’ll be sent to the capital for a public trial. Now … you really don’t want that, do you?”

“It doesn’t hold much appeal for me, no.”

“I’m sure it doesn’t. Ah! Here’s the coffee.” A man placed a tray on the desk with a pot of coffee, two cups, sugar and cream in containers. “How do you take yours, Ben?”

“Black with a little sugar will do.”

“Same here. Years in the field sort of makes cream

impossible, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, it does. What demands?”

“Just a few. If you agree to them, your life will be spared. You have President Osterman’s word on that.”

“Her word?”

Berman smiled. “Her word.”

“I wouldn’t trust that bitch if she swore it in the middle of a bible factory.”

“Just hear me out, Ben. What’s the harm in that?”

“The bottom line is, my life is spared and I get to spend the rest of my life in prison, right?”

“That’s about the size of it. But in as much comfort as possible. Not in a cell. A … well, sort of apartment, you might say.”

“Probably on a military base, in solitary confinement for the rest of my life.”

“That’s about the size of it.”

Ben shook his head and smiled. “No deal. I’ll take the rope.”

“Ben-“

“Forget it. Hanging me will mean the civil war will continue forever. My death will be a rallying cry. The war will never stop.” Ben leaned forward. “As long as there is one Rebel alive, the war will go on and on and on. As long as the Tri-States philosophy of government is remembered, passed down from generation to generation, the war will, in some form, continue. Try me and hang me, Walt. I will make no deals in exchange for my life. None.”

The mercenary general stared at Ben for a moment. Then he smiled and shook his head. “I told both Osterman and Millard you would never go for the deal. They were sure you would.”

“Now what?”

“I don’t know. I’ll contact Osterman’s office and tell them it’s no deal. After that?” He shrugged and spread his hands. “It might get rough.”

“At your hands?”

“No.” The general’s answer was quick and firm. “I have never gone in for that sort of thing. But someone else is going to replace me. In a few hours. There is always that to consider.”

Ben entertained thoughts of telling Walt about his conversation with General Maxwell, then thought better of it. He had a hunch the mercenary knew all about it and was

a part of it. ‘ ‘You think roughing me up will change my mind?”

“Of course not. If anything, it will only serve to strengthen your resolve. I personally don’t think it will come to that. However… who knows? These damned young and dedicated followers of Osterman are capable of doing anything. I don’t like them, and don’t trust them.”

“You’ve got several here at the hospital.”

“Don’t I know it. Bradford, the shithead that escorted you here a few minutes ago, is one of the worst. Totally brainwashed. That creepy jerk is dangerous.”

Ben laughed at the expression on the general’s face. “I gather he’s not one of your favorite people.”

“You can bet on that. Ben, my people and I are being pulled out of here tonight. Then you’ll be solely in the hands and at the mercy of Osterman’s goons. I won’t be here to help you. Think about that. One soldier to another, flip-flop a little, make them think you’re going to agree to the terms I offered. Buy a little time. How about it?”

“I’ll give that some thought.”

“Good. Do that. Save yourself some grief at least for a while.”

“And after they get tired of waiting?”

“It probably will get rough. I won’t lie to you.”

Ben took a sip of the very good coffee and lit another cigarette. “Why the concern on your part, Walt?”

“I don’t like physical torture. Now, I’ll hunt you and shoot you in open warfare, do my best to beat you, kill you. But that’s war. That’s the risk you run. I might use chemicals on a person. I have used chemicals to get the truth. But not physical torture.”

Ben lifted his coffee cup in a salute and smiled. Walt did the same. The two middle-aged soldiers understood each other very well.

Ben tossed the cigarette pack back on the desk, and

Walt picked it up and tossed it back to him. “Tuck those away.” He fiddled around in a desk drawer and tossed Ben a box of matches. “Hide them. Hell, you might get a chance to sneak a smoke, who knows?”

Ben sensed the meeting was over. “I didn’t like you at first, Walt. Still don’t know if I can really trust you. But I find myself wishing we were both on the same side.”

“I know the feeling all too well.” Walt stuck out a hand and Ben shook it. “Good luck to you, Rebel.”

“Good luck to you, mercenary.” Ben laughed. “But not too much luck in this war.”

Suppertime passed, and no one brought Ben a tray. He sat on his bunk and watched the summer light gradually slip into darkness. He would have liked to smoke, but decided he’d better not. He tucked the pack of smokes and box of matches under the bedding on the bunk.

About an hour after dark, the cell door swung open. Bradford stood there, backed up by six guards. Ben sat on the bunk and stared at the young man.

“General Berman is gone,” Bradford announced. “I’m in charge now.”

“Congratulations,” Ben told him. “When do I get something to eat?”

“After we talk … maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“You might not feel like eating.” Bradford smiled after saying that, and it was not a pleasant smile.

“I don’t feel like talking right now.”

“Perhaps I can change your mind.” Bradford slapped a fist into an open palm.

“Somehow I doubt it, punk.” Ben spat the words at him. “I have absolutely nothing to say to you.”

“Get hi^a out of there!” Bradford ordered.

The next hour or so wasn’t all that pleasant, but Ben had received rougher treatment in his life. Bradford seemed more interested in spouting dogma from Osterman’s philosophy of government than in punching Ben around, but the craphead still managed to get in some good licks.

When Ben was dragged, literally, back to his cell, his mouth was busted, his head ached, his nose was bleeding, and his stomach hurt from being used as a punching bag, but he hadn’t said a word or uttered a sound of protest or pain.

The guards threw him into his cell. Ben landed hard on the floor. He lay there until the door was closed and locked, then crawled to his hands and knees and managed to make it to the sink. Still sitting on the floor, Ben turned on the water and began bathing his busted and bruised face. There was no washcloth, so he had to use his hands. The cold water revived him, and he crawled over to his bunk and stretched out. That helped to relieve the pain in his stomach muscles.

There was no hope for sleep-Ben hurt too much for that. He could and did while away some very interesting moments thinking of ways to kill that damned dickhead Bradford at the earliest opportunity, and those damned guards, too. Ben knew he was in for a very rough time until he could find a way to break loose from the damned nuthouse. He was going to start planning that, right now.

Ben finally drifted off into a pain-filled sleep.

He was jerked awake by a very rude hand and rolled onto the floor. There, he was kicked in the back and the

stomach half a dozen times by men wearing boots. The last kick he received was on the back of the head, and that dropped him into merciful unconsciousness.

Ben awakened on the cold floor of his cell. He hurt all over. One of the men had apparently stomped on his left hand, and it was swollen to about twice its normal size. He could only open one eye; the other was swollen shut. The back of his head was caked with dried blood. He managed, with a great deal of effort, to pull himself over to the sink and, using his right hand, turn on the water. He got more water on the floor than on his face the first try, but the cold wetness felt good on the hot face.

Hot! Ben thought. I’m running a fever. If I don’t get off this floor and into that bunk with some cover on me I’ll be looking at pneumonia. And I sure as hell don’t need that.

He managed to get into the bunk and pull the blanket over him. The pain was like needles sticking into his body. Sleep finally came, and with it, some relief from the pain.

“Get up, you son of a bitch!” Bradford yelled at him. “Here’s your breakfast.”

Ben heard a tray being placed on the floor and the door closing. Suppressing a groan, he threw off the blanket and managed to sit up. He sat on the side of the bunk for a moment until his head stopped spinning and he could make his legs follow the command from his brain. Then he slowly made his way over to the tray on the floor.

Ben managed to squat down without falling over on his face and pick up the tray and get back to the bunk without spilling anything or dropping the whole damn thing. He sat on the bunk and looked at his breakfast.

The contents of the tray did not look at all appetizing. It contained a thick glob of oatmeal, two greasy looking

sausage patties, a slop of some terrible looking scrambled eggs, a couple pieces of bread, and a mug of coffee.

Ben ate every bite, and could have eaten more.

He wanted to smoke a cigarette but decided against it. Now was not the time.

He set the tray on the floor, stretched back out on the bunk, and promptly went back to sleep. He slept for several hours. When he awakened he felt much better, thought he might live, after all-at least for the time being. He sat up and looked around the room. The tray was gone. Someone had picked it up and left without waking him up. He had slept the sleep of the physically exhausted.

As Ben stood up, he thought that much of the pain was gone. He took a couple of steps and discovered he was wrong. His bruised muscles protested every movement. He tried to ignore the pain and began walking around the room, getting some of the kinks out.

One thing he knew for certain: if he had to take many more beatings like the one he’d received hours before, there might be permanent damage. His body just could not take more kicking episodes.

He found his slippers and sat down on the bunk to put them on. He sat for a moment, feeling the material of the slippers. They seemed to be made of some sort of mixture of paper and cloth. He felt under the thin mattress and found the box of matches Berman had given him.

“Might work,” Ben muttered. “I’ve got to give this some more thought.”

But how much time did he have to think about it? That, he didn’t know.

And just how would he pull it off?

He didn’t know that, either, but he did have a tiny germ of an idea.

He put the matches back under the mattress and started thinking about freedom and how he might attain it. He

William W. Johnstone

didn’t quite know exactly how he was going to do that, only that he must. He had to, or he would die.

Ben awakened on the floor of his cell. His captors had come for him before noon, long before any escape plans had been thought of or thought out, and hammered on him again and again. He had lost consciousness several times, each time to be brought back into painful reality by having buckets of water tossed on him … at least Ben thought it was water, he wasn’t sure.

During the beatings, in which a number of the younger guards under Bradford’s command took part, Ben was called a number of things.

“Goddamn fascist!” was the favorite, it seemed.

“Right-wing dictator!” was a close second.

There were other names, but they usually didn’t register through the fog of pain in Ben’s body.

All during the hours of torment, Ben thought that if he survived this he had to get out, had to get free. The guards were going to cripple him, he was sure of that, sure that was their intention, and just as sure that they had been ordered to do that. By whom, he didn’t know, but he hoped that one day-if he succeeded in escaping-he would find out.

Whatever he was going to do, no matter how bad he felt he was going to have to do it soon … immediately. One more beating like the one he had just suffered, and something in his body would give way or break.

Ben dug out the box of matches and made sure they were the strike-anywhere type. He put them in his shirt pocket. Then he began shredding the ends of his slippers to provide a better ignition point. He worked quickly but carefully. His mind was made up: he was going to make his break, or attempt it, the next time the guards came

calling. If they killed him during his try … well, so be it. A quick death would be better than a slow, prolonged one.

Ben began walking stiffly around and around his cell, very slowly at first. Then, gradually, he increased his steps. He forced his mind to accept the pain until at least part of the stiffness left his legs. Then he rested and caught his breath. Before his muscles could cool down, he was up and walking again. He repeated this process several times, until he began to feel better-winded and hurting some, but better.

An hour passed, with Ben occasionally getting up and working his bruised legs just to keep diem from stiffening

up-Then he heard a noise in the hall. He took a couple of

single matches from his pocket and got up from die bunk, holding die shredded slippers in his left hand, the matches in his right. He walked over to the steel door, considering just how he was going to play tiiis.

Something heavy rapped on the door-a billy club, Ben imagined. “Hey, General Tough Boy!” a voice called. “You still alive, old man?”

“Yes,” Ben said with a tiieatrical groan. He hoped the groan sounded authentic.

“That’s good, you old fart. Bradford wants to talk to you again.” That was followed by laughter.

“Yeah, talk,” another man said. “You bet.”

“You feel up to it?” the first man questioned.

“Do I have a choice?”

More laughter. “Nope, none at all.”

“All right.”

“Stand away from the door, General Asshole.”

I’m going to ram that billy club down your throat, you miserable punk, Ben thought. “OK,” he whispered. “I’m standing back.” Ben lit the slippers and they began to burn brightly.

The key slid into the lock and clicked. Ben smiled.

William W. Johnstone

When the door began to slowly open toward the hall, Ben slammed into it with everything he had. The edge of the steel door struck the first guard in the face and knocked him backward, blood pouring from his broken nose and smashed lips.

Ben moved swiftly out the door and into the hall and stuck the burning slippers into the second guard’s face, jamming the flame into the man’s eyes.

The guard dropped his billy club and opened his mouth to scream. Ben jammed the burning slippers into the man’s mouth, reached down and scooped up the billy club and whacked him hard in the center of the forehead.

Ben turned and smashed the first guard on the top of the head with the club, then hit him again for insurance. He turned and hit the second guard on the side of the head just as hard as he could. The odor of burning flesh was strong in the hallway. The slippers were still smoking in the man’s mouth.

Ben dragged the men, one at a time, into the cell. The first guard was about Ben’s size. Ben swiftly undressed the Fed down to his underwear and pulled on his uniform. The shirt was just a tad too small, and the waist of the britches a bit too large.

Ben went through the pockets of both men, taking everything they had: billfolds, keys, pocket knives. He then straightened up and savagely smashed the club down on the heads of the guards one by one. They weren’t dead when he finished, but they would be out of commission for a long time.

Ben quickly tried on a pair of boots that looked as though they might fit him. They were a half size too big, even with the two pairs of socks taken from the feet of both unconscious guards, but they would have to do.

He stepped out into the hall and locked the cell door,

then stood for a moment, silently savoring his freedom. Then he took a deep breath and moved up the hallway. He was looking for the gun room. When he found it, he would show these young socialists that an old dog could still bite.

Ben walked up the hallway, carrying one of the nightsticks he’d taken from the guards. His boots echoed off the tile. He met no one. He paused at the elevator, then decided not to chance it. He took the stairs down to the first floor and cautiously pushed open the door, peeking out.

The hall was deserted, but he could hear rock music coming from somewhere far down the long hall-a song he was not familiar with. Ben made it a point never to listen to rock music, so he was probably unfamiliar with ninety-nine percent of it. He had not paid any attention to rock music since years before the collapse and the Great War.

He stepped out into the hall, looking at the double doors which led to the outside. They were chained shut.

He walked slowly down the hall toward the sounds of

the music. It was coming out of the open door to an office. Ben stood for a moment, pressed up against the wall just outside the open door. He listened for the sounds of voices. Nothing.

Got to do it, Ben thought, can’t stand out here until I’m discovered.

He looked into the office. One man sitting at a desk, his back to Ben. Ben recognized him as one of those who had taken great delight in beating the crap out of him.

Your turn now, Ben thought, silently stepping into the office and easing up behind the guard.

The man sensed movement behind him and turned. His mouth opened in shock as he recognized Ben. Ben popped him on the noggin with the club and the guard went night-night.

Ben tied him up with the man’s belt and a length of electrical cord which he jerked out of a wall socket, then gagged him with his own handkerchief. The guard had been carrying a sidearm in a holster and Ben took that, along with the two full magazines from the guard’s belt pouch.

Ben checked the 9mm. Full up. He jacked a round into the slot and quickly checked the office for anything else he might use. Nothing. He fanned the unconscious man’s pockets and took his keys and wallet, then took a jacket from a wall hook and slipped out of the office.

He wanted to find Bradford. He had a present for that son of a bitch.

He walked the long hall, looking into each darkened room with an open door. Nothing. When he came to a room with a closed door, he tried the doorknob. Locked.

William W. Johnstone

He fumbled with several of the keys he’d taken from the guards until one opened the door. Ben smiled as he looked inside. The armory.

When he again stepped out into the hall, Ben was armed with a CAR and had a rucksack filled with spare magazines and a couple hundred rounds of .223’s. He also had half a dozen grenades hooked onto die web belt he’d found in the room.

“Now then, you assholes,” Ben muttered. “Let’sjust see how tough you are.”

Ben walked the hall, moving slowly and cautiously. He heard the faint sounds of voices coming from somewhere far down the hall. The CAR was set on full auto. Ben did not realize it, but he was walking along with a smile on his bruised face, curving his swollen lips.

Two guards stepped out of a room. They stood for several seconds, not believing what they were seeing. That was the last diing they saw on this earth. Ben gave them half a mag of .223’s. The guards went down. One flopped for a few seconds, then was still.

“What the hell is happening out there!” The voice came from the room the guards had just exited.

“Retribution,” Ben muttered, waiting in the hall.

The man stuck his head out of the room. “Oh, shit!” he said.

“Right,” Ben said, and squeezed the trigger.

Scratch another of Osterman’s faithful followers.

Ben walked the hall from end to end. There was no one else to be found … at least not on that floor.

Ben searched the bodies of the dead and removed everything in their pockets, stowing it in another rucksack he found in the second office. He stacked all the weapons and ammo he could find in a utility room near the chained entrance. He would go out those doors when the time came.

Ben looked at his left hand. It was still swollen, but much of the swelling was gone. Ben again flexed the fingers on that hand. They worked, albeit stiffly, and there was no sign of anything broken.

He glanced at the nice watch he’d taken from one of the now expired guards. Five o’clock. It would be dark soon. Good. Ben liked the night.

He found the steps leading to the basement and cautiously walked down. He stood for a moment, looking at die heavy steel. Memories of his beatings were returning to him … very unpleasant reminiscences. He recalled that there were other prisoners being held in cells in die basement, and he guessed the basement area was soundproofed.

Wouldn’t do to have screams reverberating throughout the nuthouse.

Ben tried die door. It was not locked, but it was very heavy. He could hear an angry voice shouting something. He could not make out die words, but he was sure it was Bradford doing the shouting. That was one voice Ben was not likely to forget for a long, long time.

“You damned, right-wing whore!” The words came to Ben more clearly as he made his way up the hall. It was Bradford. “Confess.”

The sound of a woman’s voice drifted to Ben, but he could not make out any of the words.

“Whore!” Bradford shouted. “Filthy whore of the militia!”

This time Ben could understand the woman’s reply. “Fuck you, you goofy bastard!”

Ben smiled. He liked this woman already. She damn sure had Bradford pegged accurately.

“Let’s toss her in with the hardcases,” someone suggested. “Let diem gang-bang her. We’ll watch until she confesses.”

William W. Johnstone

“No,” Bradford said firmly. “That wouldn’t be punishment. Hell, she’d enjoy that. She’s a militia whore. She was a survivalist, remember.”

“I bet she wouldn’t enjoy…”

A generator kicked in about that time, and Ben couldn’t understand all the words.

Laughter drifted to Ben as the generator, or whatever it was-air-conditioning unit, perhaps-settled down to a low hum.

“Bet she sure wouldn’t enjoy that, for a fact.”

“I’d like to watch it!”

More laughter.

Ben worked closer. He didn’t have to wonder what the perverted bastards were laughing about. He felt he knew exactly what it was.

He edged closer and peered into a large room. A naked woman was strung up by the wrists, dangling from an eye-hook set in the ceiling. Her bare feet were just touching the floor. She had angry red welts on her belly and thighs and buttocks. Bradford stood beside her, holding a thick leather belt. He looked as though he was enjoying inflicting torture on the woman.

He probably was, Ben thought. The sadistic son of a bitch. Ben’s first thoughts about Bradford were certainly proving correct: he had pegged him as being twisted.

The woman was blonde, with short-cropped hair, and looked to be in her mid to late thirties. Ben could not help but take in her nakedness since she was dangling without a stitch on. Very lovely woman, he concluded.

Ben stepped into the room and cut the legs out from under Bradford with a short burst from his CAR. Then he turned the muzzles toward the other two and forever put an end to their perversion.

Leaving Bradford groaning and twisting on the floor,

Ben cut the woman’s bonds with a knife he’d taken from one of the guards and gently eased her down.

Still holding her so she would not fall, Ben said, “Can you stand alone?”

“I don’t know. Hang onto me a moment longer. Who are you? Are you from the New York Militia?”

“No. Are there still others being held here?”

“Yes, but I don’t know who they are. They’re in the process of being reindoctrinated.”

“This country’s really gone to hell, hasn’t it? Reindoctrination centers. Jesus. Are there more like this one?”

“All over the USA. I think I can walk now. My clothes are over there on the floor in the corner. That damn Bradford made me strip while he and his shitty buddies watched.”

“That doesn’t surprise me one little bit. What’s your name?”

“Lara. L-a-r-a.”

“OK, Lara. Ready to give it a try?”

“Yes.”

Ben turned her loose and the woman walked-with as much dignity as possible, considering her state of undress-over to a corner and began pulling on her clothes.

Ben turned to Bradford. “You are one miserable son of a bitch, Bradford.”

“I’m hurt bad, General. You’ve got to help me.”

“General?” Lara paused in her dressing.

“I’m Ben Raines.”

Lara’s eyes widened, and she leaned against a table for support. “My God!” she breathed. “Yes. Of course you are. I recognize you now. Your face is so bruised and beat up-“

“Ah, Lara, would you mind continuing dressing? Finish slipping on that bra, maybe? It’s a bit disconcerting talking with you while your, ah, you know, are, ah, exposed.”

William W. Johnstone

Lara blushed from her toes to her nose, and quickly slipped on her bra.

“Thank you,” Ben said drily. He turned his attention toward Bradford. “Fuck you, punk.”

“You can’t leave me like this!” Bradford protested. “My legs are broken.”

“Good,” Larasaid. “I hope you die, you rotten bastard.”

“Filthy degenerate militia whore!” Bradford spat the words at her.

“You’re calling her degenerate, you twisted son of a bitch?” Ben asked. “My, my.”

Lara smiled, but it was a smile that held no humor. “Some of die things they’ve done to women in here are unspeakable, General. And to men. They’ve castrated some militia members. Lobotomized others. All in the name of democracy, of course.”

“Sure. Back before the collapse and the Great War, some of us who didn’t have our heads up our asses used to call what Osterman and her ilk advocated cultural Nazism.”

“I’ve read a few of your writings, General, but to be found widi anything you wrote in one’s possession now could mean death. It’s classified as subversive and highly traitorous.”

“I’ve heard.” He smiled. “Well, I’ve never claimed to be a literary threat to the memory of John Steinbeck. Tell you what-call me Ben, please. OK, Lara. Search those bodies and take everything on diem … everything. Then we’ll see about die other prisoners.”

“What about me?” Bradford moaned.

Ben shot him.

He looked at Lara. She shrugged. “I was going to do that if you didn’t, Gen-Ben. That bastard has ruined the lives of several hundred people.”

“At first he seemed like sort of a good guy.”

“He always does … did. He told me before the torture

started that if I’d go down on him he’d see to it that I didn’t get sent to a reindoctrination camp. I told him I’d rather eat a live tarantula.”

Ben laughed at that, but that hurt his bruised and swollen face. “They talked about putting you in with some prisoners.”

“The real hardcases. Criminal types. That would have been … unpleasant.”

“I would imagine. OK. Check die others. I’ll search Bradford.”

“What about the other guards?”

‘ ‘What others? I’ve either killed or put out of commission every guard I found.”

“How many?”

“About half a dozen.”

“Six more, then.”

“We’ll worry about them as soon as we’re finished here.”

Lara got nervous about that. “We could be trapped down here, Ben.”

“No, we won’t. There’s a door at the end of the hall. I saw it. It has to lead out of here. If it’s locked, we can blow it open.”

Bradford had a wad of cash on him-as had all the odiers-and several government credit cards.

“These guys must have just gotten paid,” Lara said, stuffing the money in her jeans pocket-which, Ben had observed, she filled out quite handsomely.

Ben hid a smile, thinking, must be getting better. “We can use the money. It’s a long way to our lines.”p>

“That’s where we’re going?”

“You have a better idea? I’m certainly open to suggestions.”

“The Feds scattered our militia movement.” She grimaced. “Those they didn’t kill or capture. And after this,”-she waved a hand at the bodies of the guards-

William W. Johnstone

“they’ll kill us on sight. The Rebel lines sound good to me.”

Ben nodded his head. ” OK. Get that rucksack over there on the table and put all the sidearms and spare mags in it. And their personal possessions.” He looked around at the dead guards. “The boots on that guy,” Ben said, pointing, “look about my size. The ones I have on are too big. Give me a minute.”

“OK. You get them,” Lara said quickly. “I’ll stand guard. Those half a dozen others still on the loose worry me. Don’t they worry you at all?”

“Not all that much,” Ben said, bending down and quickly unlacing and jerking the boots off the dead man. “The Rebels are always outnumbered. It’s something we’ve all gotten accustomed to.”

“You have no idea how inventive these people can be when it comes to torture. They were just getting started on me.” She shuddered in remembrance. “To be honest, I was hoping for a quick death.”

Ben was trying on the boots. They were a perfect fit with only one pair of socks. He finished lacing them and then stuffed the spare socks in his pocket. “Put that out of your mind. Concentrate on staying alive. Let’s check on those other prisoners… ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.” She picked up the rucksack.

“Let’s do it, then. As the old line reads, We’ve miles to go.”

“Who wrote that?”

“Damned if I can remember.” He grinned at her. “My tastes usually ran to, ‘A bunch of the boys were whooping it up in the Malamute Saloon…’ “

A door slammed somewhere in the lower floor.

“Company,” Ben said. “Now the fun begins.”

“Fun?”

“Killing Osterman’s goons.”

“Tommy?” a voice called. “Tommy Bradford,” Lara whispered. Ben smiled. “Right here!” he called. He lifted the muzzle of his CAR.

The bootsteps drew closer.

The guard stuck his head into the interrogation chamber and Ben shot him in the center of the forehead. The man’s M-16 clattered on the concrete floor. Ben hauled the body into the room, which now was beginning to stink of death.

“Get his rifle and spare mags,” Ben told Lara. “And search him for money and keys.”

Seconds later, Ben and Lara stepped out into the hall. Ben locked the door behind them. “Let’s find those other prisoners,” he said. “And I want to find the records room of this damn place. I’m going to destroy every file here.”

“We’ve still got a few guards to deal with,” Lara reminded him.

“I haven’t forgotten them. I just make a point never to sweat the small shit.”

She smiled at him. Her teeth were very white and even. “Do you ever get excited about anything, Ben?”

“Rarely, with one exception.”

“And that is?”

Ben cut his eyes to her and grinned. “You really want me to tell you?”

She laughed and shook her head. “I think I can accurately guess.”

The first cell they came to, set down a separate wing of the basement, held two men. Ben unlocked the door and said, “I don’t care what you’ve done to get locked in this funny farm. It’s time for a fresh start. When you hear an explosion, that will be your cue to leave. If I see you before then, I’ll shoot you without hesitation. Understood?”

Ben made the same little speech to every man in every cell, some of whom were in bad shape from beatings. They all understood.

“Ben Raines,” one of the men whispered to his cellmate. “That’s Ben Raines! Pass the word down the line.”

Ben and Lara went up the stairs to the ground floor and promptly ran into two of the remaining guards. Lara finished them without changing expression.

“I just don’t like those people,” she said.

“Gee, I would never have guessed,” Ben said. “Come on, let’s finish it and get the hell gone from here. We’ve got to find that records room.”

They ran into no more guards during their search. When they found the records room it was filled with filing cabinets stuffed with hundreds of records on New York State individuals who did not share Madam President Osterman’s views on government. Ben spilled them all on the floor, all over the room, and set them on fire. He smashed the computers, printers, and monitors while Lara stood watch in the hall.

Ben smashed out the windows so oxygen could feed the flames and stepped out of the room, closing the door. “The fire will be contained in that room for quite a while,” he said. “Let’s prowl some more.”

Ben found another room filled with computers. He

destroyed them, except for a couple of laptops which he discovered contained modems. He stowed them in carrying cases along with floppies and electrical hookups. “We might be able to use these,” he explained. “We’ll check them out later.”

“Let’s get the hell gone from this place, Ben,” Lara said nervously.

“You getting a little edgy?” Ben asked with a smile.

“Damn right I am. Those guards might have to check in with somebody every so often.”

“Good point.”

She sighed. “They don’t call in on time, and this place is likely to be crawling with Feds.”

“OK Let’s see about some transportation. We’ll find us a car or a pickup and then we’ll get the gear I stowed by the entrance, blow those chained doors open, and we’ll be gone.”

Ben found an almost new, full-size pickup truck with a full tank of gas and a full reserve tank.

“Won’t they know what vehicle we’re in?” Lara questioned.

“They might be able to figure it out in a day or two. But not immediately.”

“Why?”

“Watch.”

Ben lined up the remaining vehicles and removed the gas caps. Then he tossed a grenade against the chained doors and blew them open so the freed prisoners could get gone. Then he stood back and shot holes in the gas tanks of each vehicle.

“Pull that pickup over here and get ready to get the hell gone when I jump in. We’re not going to have but a couple of seconds, at the most.”

“OK, Ben,” Lara said, eyeballing the two grenades Ben held, one in each hand. The pins had been pulled and he

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