148

Ben waited in the darkness before dawn, sitting on the ground drinking coffee and eating from a breakfast pack. Like most Rebels, he preferred to eat breakfast in the dark so he did not have to see what he was eating. The prepackaged goop was highly nutritious, but looking at it could cause a sudden loss of appetite.

Scouts had moved out hours before. They would create a very loud diversion on the north side of the enemy’s encampment a few moments before the main body of Rebels hit at the south end of the camp. The diversion would, hopefully, cover the sounds of the Hummers’ fast approach.

Beth would be driving the staff car, with Cooper manning the .50 caliber. Once inside the enemy’s perimeter, the battle would turn into a free-for-all. Surprise was the key to survival.

Ben finished his breakfast, buried the wrappers in the ground, and rolled a cigarette, smoking it while he drank the last of his coffee.

He checked his watch. A few more minutes before they moved out. These fast attacks were being conducted all over the southern half of Texas. Ben

149 could not hope to smash all the right-wing groups who had surfaced all over the nation and aligned with Hoffman’s infiltrators, but they could clear many of those in Texas and get them off their backs.

“Let’s start getting in place,” Ben said to his team. He ground out his cigarette and stood up. There was no need to go over anything. Everybody knew what was required of them.

The Hummers were already packed for the run and the Rebels began silently mounting up. In a dozen places all over the southern part of Texas, the same scene was being played out, getting ready for act one in this dangerous and deadly play between forces of decidedly different philosophies.

“Roll,” Ben told Beth, and the teams moved out.

“All teams in place,” Corrie reported from the rear.

The short convoy rolled through the night, headlights taped to permit only a slit of light, just enough for the drivers to see and no more.

After a few silent miles had passed, a tremendous flash of light laced the night sky ahead of them.

“Right on time,” Jersey said.

“Pour the juice to it,” Corrie radioed the lead vehicles. “Two miles from objective.”

On the north end of the encampment, scouts were dropping rockets down mortar tubes as fast as they could, and the exploding 60mm rounds were more than covering the fast-advancing Hummers.

Cooper stood up through the hinged trap in the roof and jacked a round into the big .50. Ben lowered his window and Jersey and Corrie followed suit. The Hummers left the road and assumed a line, much like a cavalry charge. As soon as the Hummers’ lights came into sight, the mortars stopped and the scouts grabbed up M-16s and charged to the edge of the encampment and jumped for cover.

150 Cooper began letting the heavy .50 caliber rock and roll and Big Thumpers began hammering out 40mm high-explosive grenades, the combined weapons dealing out misery and turning the early morning hour into a taste of hell for the enemy troops.

The Hummers slid to a halt and the Rebels bailed out, running for whatever cover they could find, but always forward. Ben threw himself through an open window of a house and rolled, Jersey right behind him. Coming up to his knees, he pulled the trigger of the bloop tube and gave a knot of men a fragmentation grenade. The shrapnel from the M-433 liner made a big sloppy mess in the den. Jersey’s M-16 rattled and spat and two men wearing the death’s-head insignia on their uniforms went down in a bloody heap.

“Bastards,” Jersey said.

“Let’s find the communications room,” Ben said, and kicked in a door. Jersey rolled a grenade into the darkness and the two of them flattened against a wall.

“Grenade!” a man’s voice called out in panic. One second later all that remained was the echo of his word of warning.

Outside, the firing was lessening. The suddenness and viciousness of the attack had worked … this time.

“One dead, two wounded,” Corrie reported to Ben. “We have several prisoners.”

“Make certain the camp is secure and let’s see what we’ve got,” Ben said.

This was the first time any of Hoffman’s people had mixed it up with Rebels, and the surviving black-shirted followers of terrorism and the none-too-bright ultra-right-wingers who had joined with them were clearly shocked at the results. As daylight began streaking the sky, the prisoners sat on the

151 ground in stunned and sullen silence, their hands tied behind their backs.

“Airstrip right over there, General,” a Scout said.

“General!” one black-shirted man said. “Are you General Raines?”

Ben turned to him. “Yes.”

“I am Major Garcia. I demand to be treated with all respect due an officer in the NAL.”

“The what?” Ben asked.

“New Army of Liberation. That is Captain Grumman to my left, and Lieutenant Jammal Mubutu beside him.”

“I know that son of a bitch,” a black Rebel sergeant said, looking closely at Mubutu. “I went to school with him. Until he dropped out. His name is Jesse Williams. He was a member of a street gang in Chicago.”

“My name is Mubutu.” The lieutenant spat out the words. “I rejected the racist white name years ago.”

“Yeah?” the sergeant said with a smile. “Well, I’m King Farouk. Screw you, Jesse.”

The sky was still gray with the dawning. Ben looked at Major Mendoza. “I’ll deal with you people the same way I deal with any damned terrorist, Garcia. You get no special favors from me.”

“You, sir,” the major spat back, “are no gentleman. And the weapons your people use are hideous. One of my officers is lying over there,” he cut his eyes, “with a face full of steel darts from a shotgun blast. That is against all rules of the Geneva Convention.”

“Conventions,” Ben automatically corrected. “Those rules do not apply to scum like you.” He turned his back to the major. “Corrie, get some big choppers in here to take back the wounded and the prisoners.”

152 “Scum!” Garcia hollered. “You dare to call me scum?”

Ben slowly turned around and lowered the muzzle of his M-16 until it was pointing directly at the major’s head. “Don’t push your luck with me, Garcia.” He smiled. “Or I’ll turn you over to those two very attractive ladies standing right over there.”

Garcia cut his eyes to where Maria and Victoria were standing, the butt of their weapons resting on their hips. They smiled at the major.

“And they’d like for me to do just that, Garcia,” Ben said. “You and your pack of trash and filth and malcontents like Jesse there killed their parents, their brothers and sisters, and uncles and aunts down in Villahermosa.”

“My name is Jammal Mubutu, you goddamn honky son of a bitch!” Jesse yelled.

The black Rebel sergeant looked at Ben. “With your permission, General?”

“Be my guest,” Ben told him.

The sergeant stepped forward and kicked Jesse/ Jammal in the mouth and Jesse/Jammal didn’t have anything left to say, or any front teeth, either.

“If they picked up arms against the great army of General Hoffman, then they deserved to die,” Garcia said. “Heil Hitler!”

Ben laughed at him. “You dumb bastard. Hitler’s been dead for about sixty years. And he would have shoved you in the ovens or the gas chambers right along with the Jews.”

“That’s a vicious lie,” Garcia said. “We know the truth about Hitler. All that other was written and published by agents of ZOG to defile the great man’s name.”

“ZOG?” Beth said, looking at Ben.

“Zionist Occupation Government of North Amer—

153 ica,” Ben told her. “There’s a phrase from the past. That’s the old Aryan Nations/KKK bullshit. The holocaust never happened, according to them. I am beginning to see what has been happening in certain sections of South America since the end of the Second World War. I couldn’t understand this movement until now. But now, it all fits.”

“Madre Dios! The swine have rewritten the history books and altered, or edited, old films,” Tomas said. “They brainwashed their followers.”

“Exactly, Captain. That is precisely what they did. And two or three generations of people have grown up believing it.”

“Lies, lies, lies!” Garcia shouted. “All lies. Hitler was the savior of the world and the Jews killed him, just like they did our savior, Jesus Christ. The butchers, Roosevelt and Churchill, were the real villains, not the great and noble Adolf Hitler.”

The black sergeant looked at Ben. “This is scary, General. Real scary.”

“Tell me,” Ben replied.

Cooper edged up to Jersey. “Jersey?” he whispered. “Who in hell are Roosevelt and Churchill?”

She cut her dark eyes to him. “Beats the hell out of me, Coop.”

Those taken prisoner back at the Rebel outpost were freed and all immediately volunteered to join the active Rebels. They were welcomed in. Garcia and the other prisoners from the NAL were choppered back to Laredo, under heavy guard.

Ben prowled through the rubble of the devastated camp until he found what he was sure he would find. In Garcia’s quarters he found the flag and took it outside. The Nazi swastika. He held it up for all to

154 see. Several of the older Jewish Rebels wore grim expressions on their faces at the hated sight. They knew the truth about that symbol. The Rebels of German ancestry shook their heads in disgust at the symbol invisibly stained with the blood of millions of Jews.

“This cannot be allowed to happen,” Ben told the teams gathered around. “Not again. Not ever again. For those of you too young to know what this represents, when we return to base, I assure you all that you will know the truth.” He threw the flag on the ground and kicked it away from him. “My older brother fought against that goddamn piece of shit decades back,” Ben raged. “Somebody burn that damn rag!”

Ben stalked away, Jersey falling in step with him. “We got all their weapons, General. Real high tech stuff, too, some of it. Hoffman and his bunch must have been warehousing Heckler and Koch equipment for years. Over a hundred boxes of belted ammo. You know how our people love their light machine guns.”

“The 7.62 HK11A1?”

“Right. And lots of replacement barrels and spare parts to go with them. We also found a lot of light stuff too. 9mm submachine guns.”

“Before this is over, Jersey, we’ve very likely to be fighting with clubs and axes.”

They walked a few more yards. “You think this is going to last a long time, don’t you?”

“Yes. We’re looking at some long and bitter and bloody months ahead of us.”

“Hey, we’ll make it, General. Bet on it.”

He smiled down at the diminutive bodyguard. “It might go on for years, Jersey.”

“We’ll still make it. Can’t nothing stop us,

155 General. And you know why? ‘Cause we’re right, that’s why.”

Ben smiled. “All right, Jersey. So let’s go give ‘em hell!”

The teams pulled out and headed north, pushing hard. Hoffman’s infiltrators along with American collaborators and sympathizers had struck at a small Rebel outpost located about seventy-five miles southeast of Abilene. The defenders had beaten off the attack, but only after suffering hard losses. They had radioed that the attackers had taken off to the north, toward the interstate that ran east and west. Ben had ordered eyes in the skies up and they had located the Nazi-loving bunch.

Now, as Jersey was so fond of saying, it was kick-ass time!