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Lieutenant Juan Villareal, called Juanito because of his height of barely over five feet tall, walked around the perimeter of the fortifications surrounding the town of Cardenas, just fifty miles north of Villahermosa.

He’d received a call from General Jose Guerra himself, warning him to be on the lookout for movement from the rebel forces stationed at the Navy base at Pariso. The general had told him he and his outpost were very important, as they would be the first to see the rebels if they decided to attack northward.

Juanito took pains to explain this to the soldiers manning the gun placements, that they should be very alert and that El Jefe himself had his eyes on them.

Cardenas was a rather small village, typical of southern Mexico, with no real importance other than its location just north of the rebels’ encampment. The citizens were for the most part poor dirt farmers who barely grew enough food to feed themselves, with none left over to send to market. A few of the men made the one-hundred-mile round-trip to hire on as fishermen on the coast, but that pay was low and it meant spending weeks away from their families doing extremely hard work on deep-sea shrimpers and long-line fishing boats.

The Pan American Highway ran smack through the middle of the town. Hence its importance as an early warning device for the generals in Mexico City, for there was no other way

 

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the rebels could travel northward if they decided to press their war against Mexico.

Juanito clapped a young soldier on the back as he stood next to the fifty-caliber machine gun in his sandbagged outpost on the edge of town. The soldier put down the field glasses he’d been staring through and smiled at Juanito, who was a very popular commanding officer.

“Hola, Juanito,” the boy said.

Juanito took a pack of American cigarettes out of his breast pocket and offered one to the boy.

“Hola, Carlos,” he said. “Cigarette?”

“Ah, americano, eh?” Carlos said, reaching for the pack. It was a real treat when anyone had American cigarettes, as they were much better than the Mexican ones, which tasted like so much bullshit when they burned, if you could keep them going at all.

“Si,” Juanito answered, pulling one out for himself and lighting both with a kitchen match. “The generalissimo knows how important we are to the safety of Mexico, so he arranges for these to be flown in on the weekly supply plane.”

Carlos glanced around at the adobe huts that made up most of the village. “Why is this flyspeck of a town so important?” he asked.

“We are the closest to the rebels,” Juanito answered, though trying to explain this to a young boy with no education and a very limited intellect would be impossible, he thought.

“But I thought the war was over,” Carlos said, a puzzled look on his face. “Didn’t the rebel leader himself, Perro Loco, promise El Presidente he would not move farther north?”

“And since when did you begin to believe the promises of politicians, or military leaders for that matter?” Juanito said with a laugh as he took a deep drag of his cigarette and blew smoke from his nostrils.

As Carlos started to answer, Juanito noticed a large dust cloud on the horizon to the south.

“Carlos, give me those glasses,” he said, taking the binocu-

 

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lars from around the soldier’s neck and putting them to his eyes.

He choked on the smoke curling up into his face from the cigarette in the corner of his mouth when he saw a line of tanks and halftracks coming up the Pan American Highway, with hundreds of soldiers walking along the side of the road next to the vehicles.

“Holy Mary, Mother of Christ!” Juanito whispered. “They’re coming!”

Carlos took a last drag of his cigarette and threw it in the dirt, grinding it out with his boot heel. He turned and crouched behind his fifty-caliber machine gun, jacking the loading lever back to pull a shell into the firing chamber.

“Don’t fire too soon,” Juanito ordered. “Wait until they are within range. I’ve got to go radio Mexico City and tell them Loco’s on the move.”

Carlos nodded, sweat breaking out on his brow under his helmet. He knew he was going to die in the upcoming battle, and he hoped he would remain brave and not bring disgrace on his family.

Juanito didn’t stop running until he reached the small room above a cantina he used as his office. He slapped his radio operator’s feet off his desk and yelled, “The rebels are coming! Get me Mexico City on the radio.”

After a moment of fiddling with dials and frequencies, the man handed the handset to Juanito.

“This is Lieutenant Juan Villareal. I must speak with General Guerra immediately!”

A tinny voice came out of the speaker. “The general is having his breakfast and cannot be disturbed,” the voice said.

Juanito rolled his eyes heavenward and gritted his teeth. Here he was about to die to protect a man who couldn’t be called from his table.

He took several deep breaths to calm himself, and spoke in a reasonable tone. “Then, when the general is finished with

 

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his eggs and bacon, would you inform him the rebels are on the move and are about to attack Cardenas?”

“And just where is Cardenas?” the voice asked, as if discussing the weather.

“The general will know, if you ever give him my goddamned message!” Juanito shouted before he slammed the handset back onto the radio.

He ran to a corner closet, put on his helmet and side arm, and picked up an ancient M-l carbine dating from World War II. He walked rapidly toward the door. Just before exiting, he turned to the radio operator. “Try and notify as many of the neighboring outposts as you have time for. They must do everything they can to get ready for the onslaught.”

The radio operator’s eyes widened. “Can we hold them off, Juanito?”

Juanito grinned sourly. “Can a pig fly?”

Juanito made the rounds of his men, pulling some from the sandbagged outposts and putting them on roofs around the village. There was no way they could stop the rebels, but he damn sure intended to make it expensive for them to take the town.

Carlos waited until the rebel tanks and halftracks came within five hundred yards before he opened up with the fifty-caliber.

He gritted his teeth and pulled the trigger. The big gun exploded and began to chatter and buck in his hands as it spewed forth hundreds of bullets per minute at the rebels.

Several of the soldiers walking alongside the tanks fell in their tracks, and the others scrambled to the sides of the road and fell facedown in the small ditches that ran there.

Hundreds of nine-millimeter bullets ripped into the sandbags around Carlos’s emplacement, but he kept his head down and continued to fire until the barrel of the fifty-caliber was so hot it was smoking.

 

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Carlos shifted the barrel to the tank and peppered it with fire, but the bullets ricocheted harmlessly off the armor plate of the tank.

The turret slowly swiveled until Carlos was looking down the black hole of the long barrel of the tank’s cannon.

He paused in his firing long enough to cross himself and whisper a prayer to the Virgin Mary. Then he squatted and pulled again on the trigger, sending a steady stream of bullets into the tank.

He saw a puff of smoke and flame shoot out of the tank’s barrel, and had time only to blink before the shell hit his outpost, exploding on impact and blowing sandbags, machine gun, and Carlos into a million pieces.

The other outposts opened fire, and men around the tanks and halftracks burrowed even deeper into the caliche and sand around the Pan American Highway, waiting for the tanks and halftracks to soften the village up for them.

Henry Gomez jerked on the tube of the TOW rocket in his hands, extending and arming the handheld antitank rocket. It was one of the few modern weapons that had been sent to Cardenas, and he intended to make it count in the battle raging around him. TOW stood for Target On Wire, and the shell, when fired, was guided by a fine wire attached to the launcher. All the man firing it had to do was keep the sights on the target and it would hit it up to fifteen hundred yards.

Henry leaned over the parapet of the roof he was on in time to see the tank blow Carlos into dust. His lips pressed into a fine line-Carlos was from the same village as Henry and they’d played together as children before joining the Army together to see the country.

He put the TOW rocket launcher to his shoulder and sighted on the tank. Taking a deep breath and holding it, he depressed the trigger.

A giant whoosh and the rocket was on its way, the wire attached to it visible as a gleaming line in the sun.

When a bullet tore into Henry’s left side, just above his

 

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waist, he jerked to the side, sending the rocket off course momentarily.

With almost superhuman effort, he straightened back up and resighted the tank. The rocket curved back and struck the tank just below the turret.

For a second, nothing happened, and Henry thought perhaps the rocket was a dud. Then the tank exploded in a giant fireball, sending a plume of black smoke and flames two hundred yards into the air. Seconds later, the fifty-caliber machine-gun bullets and several of the tank shells inside exploded. It was like the finest fireworks Henry had ever seen. Dozens of the soldiers walking behind the tank were mowed down like a harvester going through a wheat field.

Just as Henry’s lips curled in a smile and he whispered, “Gotcha,” an M-16 bullet entered his forehead, exploding his brain into mush and killing him instantly.

Juanito, observing this from the upper room of a nearby building, made a fist and said, “Way to go, Henry.”

The burning tank was blocking the roadway, and had halted the rebels’ advance for a short time.

Carlos stuck his M-l out the window and began to fire down upon the troops pinned down at the road’s edge. He managed to kill two and wound another three before he heard a strange whoop-whoop sound in the hot, dry air.

He glanced up in time to see a machine out of hell. It was a coal-black HueyCobra helicopter coming down at the town out of the sun. Juanito recognized it from the classes he’d taken in Officers’ Candidate School. For some reason, the fact that it carried eight TOW antitank missiles and two rockets, and sported a 20mm cannon, popped unbidden into his mind.

He jerked his M-l up at a forty-five-degree angle and began firing at the Cobra as fast as he could pull the trigger. He had little hope of doing any damage. It was like trying to hit a hawk flying overhead with a .22 rifle.

He must have done something, however, for the gunship

 

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changed course slightly, pointed its ugly-looking snout at him, and dived.

He could see the three barrels of the 20mm cannon belching fire and flame as the helicopter roared at him out of the sky at ninety miles an hour.

The windowsill and the walls on either side of Juanito dissolved in a maelstrom of debris and splinters as three hundred 20mm slugs tore across the building. Juanito was thrown backward against a far wall, a row of red flowers blooming on his chest where the slugs had stitched a line across his body.

He groaned, blood bubbling from his lips. His last thought was to wonder if the general had finished his breakfast yet.

Lieutenant Colonel Pedro Vega had his driver pull closer to the outskirts of Cardenas. He’d learned from the previous commander of Perro Loco’s troops, who’d been killed in his staff command car by a land mine while riding point, not to stray too close to the front until most of the action was over with. Vega kept his HumVee well to the back of the forward line of his troops.

The action had slowed to an occasional pop as another sniper or hidden defender of Cardenas was found and dispatched by Vega’s men. All of the sandbagged outposts and gun emplacements had been destroyed. In fact, most of the inhabitants of Cardenas had been killed along with the soldiers defending the town. The streets were littered with bodies of women, children, old folks, and even cats and dogs. No one had been spared by the invading army.

Vega stepped out of his HumVee and stood next to the scorched sandbags and melted, destroyed fifty-caliber machine gun, still red with Carlos’s coagulated blood on it.

Vega walked over and leaned his arm on the bent and twisted metal. “Miguel,” he said to his driver. “I am ready.”

Miguel Hernandez took the colonel’s digital camera from a

 

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bag hanging by a strap around his neck and quickly snapped off a couple of shots.

“Be sure to get the bodies on the street in the background,” Vega ordered, adjusting his stance a bit.

Miguel shifted to the side, sighted through the viewfinder, and snapped two more times.

Vega nodded. “Good. Now get on the radio and have the tanks level the town.”

“But, Colonel Vega,” Miguel protested mildly, “all of the soldiers have been killed or already have run away to the fields to hide.”

Vega fixed his driver with a steely stare. “Miguel, do you enjoy the privilege of driving for me?”

“Si, mi comandante!” Miguel snapped smartly.

“Then please do not argue with my orders. I want this town leveled to the ground as a lesson to the other towns that stand between us and Mexico City. Tonight, after we bivouac for the evening, I will print up hundreds of copies of the pictures and have one of the helicopters fly ahead and drop them on the towns to the north of us.”

Miguel nodded, as if he understood what his commanding officer was saying and the advanced reasoning behind it. He did know that every night the colonel downloaded the pictures that had been taken of him in various leadership roles to a laptop computer and printed them out for his scrapbook.

Miguel thought this quite silly, but then he knew little of the thought processes of officers and their need for constant aggrandizement.

 

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Herman Bundt, who, unlike Colonel Vega, flew in the lead helicopter, leaned forward and stared through the Plexiglas of the front windshield of the big Chinook chopper.

They were only a few miles from the neighboring towns of Luchitan and Salina Cruz that lay on the shores of the Gulf of Tehuantepec.

His eyes, experienced in the art of warfare, noted that though the region was mountainous and jungled inland, it leveled out into a relatively flat area near the shores of the gulf. It was a perfect staging point to test his mercenary troops in their first under-fire battle under his command.

He leaned over and pointed downward to the pilot. “Drop us off right there, where the jungle thins out and becomes a sandy plain on the outskirts of Luchitan.”

“Roger,” the pilot said, nodding his understanding. He spoke briefly on the ship-to-ship radio to let the other pilots know the plan.

“Have the Kiowas fly low over the town to draw any fire while we unload the troops. That’s our most vulnerable time,” Bundt ordered.

The pilot nodded, and relayed his orders to the pilots of the Kiowa gunships accompanying them.

The pilot grabbed Bundt’s arm and pointed toward the west. Three dark shapes rose like huge buzzards from a tiny airstrip north of the town.

“Skids,” the pilot said over the intercom.

 

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“What?” Bundt asked, not familiar with the term.

“Skids. Old Huey helicopters, the kind that flew in Vietnam. They must’ve picked us up on their radar.”

The pilot spoke again into his radio, and Bundt saw the Kiowas that were escorting them peel off into attack formation.

“Those ships must be forty years old,” Bundt said. “Our Kiowas will make short work of those antiques.”

The pilot turned his head to glance up at Bundt. “Don’t be too sure. The skids are big, slow, and clumsy, but they’re tough to bring down. ‘Bout the only way to down one is to hit the prop or to kill the pilot and copilot.”

“How are they armed?” Bundt asked, more out of curiosity than out of any worry about the Kiowas.

“Main weapon is a fifty-caliber machine gun in the side hatchway. The gunner is strapped to the chopper walls so he won’t be thrown out when the chopper dives and banks,” the pilot answered shortly.

As the Chinooks hovered feet above the ground and the assault troops bailed out of them like ants from a disturbed mound, Bundt couldn’t help but stand and watch the air battle taking place in the skies over Luchitan.

The Hueys moved forward in a modified-V formation, with the two lead choppers flying almost sideways so the big fifty-caliber machine guns in their hatches could be brought to bear, while the back chopper at the apex of the V gave them cover on their flanks. Evidently the men flying the big helicopters were experienced in combat, unlike the men Bundt had flying his Kiowas, who were barely out of flight school.

First Lieutenant Gunter Kalb, pilot of the lead Kiowa, saw the lumbering Hueys and almost laughed. “No need to waste one of our missiles on those,” he said on the intercom to his copilot. “I’ll just rake him with our Minigun and blow him out of the sky.”

The copilot, Hans Gruber, laughed into the mike. “Look how slow they are,” he said. “It’s a wonder they don’t fall from the sky like bloated cows.”

 

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Kalb jerked up on the collective in his left hand and advanced the throttle, and the Kiowa put its nose down and screamed through the air at the Hueys, who were going so slow they almost seemed to be hovering, as if waiting to be slaughtered.

When he got within range, Kalb depressed the trigger on the 20mm Minigun in the Kiowa’s nose, and grinned at the vibration from the gun as it spewed forth death at a thousand rounds a minute.

Kalb felt an almost sexual thrill as he saw the tracers in his ammo stitch a line of holes across the body of the Huey, expecting it to burst into flames and fall from the sky.

His thrill turned to panic as he saw the Huey shudder under the impact but remain otherwise unaffected.

As his ship rapidly closed on the Huey, he jerked back on the collective and tried to turn, but it was too late.

He could almost see the gunner’s teeth in the wide-open hatchway of the Huey as he grinned and opened fire with his big fifty.

The gun jumped and shook in the gunner’s hands, flame shooting from the barrel along with hundreds of molten lead bullets that had the Kiowa’s name written on them.

The Plexiglas windshield of the Kiowa shattered, sending hundreds of razor-sharp shards of plastic into Kalb’s and Gruber’s faces and eyes.

Kalb let go of the collective and the throttle to cover his ruined face just as the stream of fifty-caliber bullets tore into the Kiowa’s fuel tanks.

The chopper exploded in a ball of flame and smoke, sending pieces of the ship and its pilots floating toward earth.

“God damn it!” Bundt screamed on the ground when he saw the ship disintegrate above him. “You stupid bastards,” he growled to himself, “use your missiles.”

Almost as if the other pilots heard Bundt’s plea, they peeled off from their attack and climbed out of range of the other

 

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Hueys’s machine guns. They made a wide circle overhead, able to stay out of range due to their crafts’s superior airspeed.

Viktor Lassinov, a Russian pilot who’d hired on with the mercenaries under Bruno Bottger, vowed not to make the same mistake his friend, Gunter, had. He lined the lead Huey up on his mast-mounted sight and flipped the switch arming his missiles. When he pressed it, the ship shuddered as the missile was launched, and he could see the smoke of its trail as it arrowed toward the Huey.

The pilot of the Huey, who must have seen the missile streaking toward him, turned the big, clumsy Huey almost on its back in a desperate attempt to dodge the missile, but his ship was just too slow.

Seconds after the missile launch, the Huey disappeared in a ball of smoke and flame, and its wreckage soon joined that of its previous victim on the ground next to the jungle below.

The other two Hueys, seeing they were outgunned, turned tail and raced to the northwest, toward the neighboring town of Salina Cruz on the coast.

When the Kiowas turned to give chase, Bundt grabbed the mike through the window of the Chinook and ordered them back.

“Leave the bastards alone,” he cried. “We need you to cover our attack of the town.”

The Kiowas dutifully gave up the chase and flew back down over the outskirts of Luchitan, raking the defenders’ emplacements with fire from their Miniguns and blowing a couple of ancient tanks up with their missiles.

Bundt wasted no time. He spread his hundreds of troops out to the right and left and ordered them forward, to attack the town.

All in all, Bundt felt his men acquitted themselves rather well. Though this was their first test under his command, most of the mercenaries had seen action many times before, for many different commanders. They fought not out of patriotism or any conviction for one sort of government over another, but

 

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out of greed. And Bruno Bottger was paying them very well indeed for their loyalty.

Most of the men carried Kalashnikov AK-47’s, or the Chinese equivalents of them, and they poured a murderous fire into the defenders of the town of Luchitan.

A seaside port city, it wasn’t built for defense from a land-based attack, most of its buildings being situated near the wharves and waters of the gulf, from which almost all of its citizens earned their meager livings.

Wisely, perhaps, the Mexican government hadn’t wasted much equipment or manpower on such a small, unimportant village, so the defenders were mostly men and boys of the village who had little or no battlefield experience.

Nevertheless, they never gave up, but fought to the last man with a ferocity only those defending their homes could show. In the final event, the scouts and rangers of Bundt’s force had to go door to door to root out the men who were fighting them. Bundt figured he lost more men to snipers than to the sandbagged outposts at the edge of the village.

By nightfall, all of the male inhabitants of Luchitan were dead or lying severely wounded in the streets. Most of the females were also, but the men had managed to capture quite a few. They shot the old and ugly ones, and saved the young, pretty girls for their nighttime entertainment.

As Bundt sat at a table in the mayor’s office, where he’d set up his radio to contact the base at Villahermosa, he could hear the screams and pleas of the women as they were being beaten and raped repeatedly by the mercenaries.

He shook his head. Sometimes he felt this was what most of the men signed up for, rather than the money they were paid. Where else could you get a license to rape and pillage and be above any law other than God’s?

Bundt was, on the other hand, a professional soldier, and he despised what was happening now in the town he and his troops had conquered. But he was also a realist, and he knew

 

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if he tried to stop what the men were doing, he’d end up with a bullet in the back before the campaign was half over.

No, better to let the animals have their fun as a reward for their fighting. After all, he reasoned to himself, one couldn’t win a war fighting with choirboys.

He keyed the radio on the frequency General Enrique Gonzalez had given him.

“General,” he said when Gonzalez was on the line.

“Yes, Colonel Bundt.”

“Luchitan is ours,” Bundt said simply.

“And your losses?” Gonzalez asked.

“One Kiowa, and thirty troops.”

“And Salina Cruz?”

“We advance on it tomorrow at first light,” Bundt said.

“Good. Our men are having similar success. Perhaps it will not be as difficult as we thought to take Mexico City.”

“Good night, General,” Bundt said. He didn’t bother to tell the man these faraway towns had been practically ceded by the Mexican government, and that the closer they got to the capital, the fiercer the fighting was going to be. The man ought to know, without me telling him, that the leaders of this country are not going to give up their positions of power, prestige, and wealth without a hell of a fight, Bundt thought.

Bundt hung up the radio mike and leaned his head on the table. He was desperately tired, and smelled of cordite and gunpowder and blood and excrement. He wondered if he could find the energy to bathe before he ate supper.

He raised his head and saw a bottle of whiskey on the sideboard in the mayor’s office. He got up, picked up the bottle, and walked slowly back toward his bunk in the next room.

“The hell with eating,” he muttered as he twisted the cap off the bottle and put it to his lips.

Perhaps if he drank enough, it would drown out the sounds of women’s screams and the hoarse shouts of men having their way with them.

 

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“Well,” Mike Post said to Ben Raines, “it looks like the stuff has finally hit the fan.”

Ben looked up from the papers on his desk. “You mean Perro Loco has started his move northward?”

Mike took the pipe out of his mouth. “Yeah. We have reliable reports his forces leveled the town of Cardenas just north of Villahermosa. Word is they left nothing in the town alive, not even the animals.”

“Anything else?”

“Uh-huh. Our German friends have started a similar move on the western coast, taking out Luchitan and beginning an attack on Salinas Cruz on the Gulf of Tehuantepec.”

“Any word yet on who their big man is?”

Mike nodded. “Yeah, and you’re not gonna like it. Seems some of the natives in Brazil speak of a man with a thick German accent. They have a name for him in Portuguese which translates roughly as ‘man with no face.’ “

“No face?”

“Sounds like he’s got some terrible burn scars that have left him without much expression.”

“Burn scars, huh? I guess it could be our old friend Bruno Bottger after all.”

“That certainly ties in with our team down there finding out they’re working on BW. Bottger was always a fan of better killing through chemistry.”

“What’s the word on Jersey and Coop?”

 

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“The SEALs are taking the ship out to sea and are going to steam at full throttle toward us. Meanwhile, Doctor Buck is on the way down there in one of our Ospreys.”

“But there’s no place for an Osprey to land at sea,” Ben said.

Mike grinned. “Buck wouldn’t take no for an answer. He says he’ll parachute into the sea and let the SEALs pick him up. He wants to see the cultures firsthand, and wants to make sure Jersey and Coop are getting the care they need.”

Ben laughed. “Can you imagine Doc Chase doing that?” he asked. “There’s something to be said about having a young hotshot as our medical officer.”

Mike nodded. “And, best of all, Buck’s no fool. He’s having all the information he’s gathered forwarded to Doc Chase at his quarters. He says there’s no one else in the world with as much experience with BW as Lamar.”

“We’re going to need both of them if we’re going to manage to get a vaccine in time for it to do any good.”

“What about our plans for the U.S.?” Mike asked. “I’ve also gotten reports from Pat O’Shea and Dan Gray that Osterman’s troops are starting to move southward toward our borders.”

Ben nodded and glanced at the reports on his desk. “Yeah, but no real battles yet, just some movements suggesting that Osterman plans to try and keep us busy so we won’t have time to help Mexico if they ever ask us to.”

“What’s the Mexican president say?”

“The fool still thinks he can handle Loco by himself. I personally think he’ll hold off asking for our help until they’re knocking on his door … and then it’ll be too late to save Mexico City.”

“So, we just sit and wait?” Mike asked.

“Oh, no. I’ve just sent Jackie Malone and a couple of hundred of our best scouts up to our northern border with the U.S. They’re going to parachute in and start to play some

 

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games with Osterman on her own turf. I imagine she’ll be plenty pissed when Jackie starts raising hell up there.”

“Sounds like things are starting to get interesting. What are your plans personally?”

“I’m going to manage things from here for right now. When my team gets back, we’ll decide where the hottest spot is, and then I’ll go down there and see what we can do.”

“Don’t you think it’s about time to heed Doc Chase’s recommendation and stay out of the field?” Mike asked.

Ben shook his head. “I’m not that old yet, Mike. And I hate being an armchair quarterback. I’ve got to be involved in the action to see how things are going.”

Mike held up his hands. “Okay … okay, don’t get your panties in a bunch.”

Ben laughed. “Believe me, Mike, I’ll know when it’s time to hang it up.”

Jackie Malone stood in the cargo bay of the big C-130 plane and looked behind her. Her second in command on this mission was a small man named Tiger Tanaka. He stood only five feet four and had a slim body that belied the muscles that rippled under his skin. He was an advanced sensei of several martial-arts schools, and was second to none in hand-to-hand combat.

He smiled at her as he put on the helmet that would allow him to breathe during the upcoming HALO drop. HALO stood for High Altitude, Low Opening, and was one of the most dangerous of all parachute drops. They would bail out at twenty thousand feet, encased in a fall body suit similar to the ones worn by scuba divers, with self-contained oxygen masks and altitude gauges strapped to their wrists. They wouldn’t open their specially designed chutes until they were under five thousand feet, at which time they’d be falling at over 120 miles an hour toward the earth.

HALO flights were designed to drop combatants behind en-

 

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emy lines, where the hang time in chutes had to be minimized so as to get the men on the ground before the enemy knew they were there.

Tiger gave Jackie a small nod, his grin magnified behind the Plexiglas of his oxygen helmet, indicating the men were ready for the drop.

Two hundred men were crammed into the cargo bay, and on the jump master’s signal, they would all walk out the back of the plane and jump off a specially designed ramp that was to be lowered just before the jump.

Jackie tried to smile back, but her face wouldn’t cooperate. She’d received a crash course in HALO jumps, but she’d never done one before and the truth was, she was scared shitless. The idea of jumping out into the darkness, into air that was several degrees below freezing, and falling like a stone for what was surely going to seem an eternity, just didn’t appeal to her at all.

Jackie was a control freak, and didn’t like any situation in which she wasn’t in complete control of her destiny. It was going to be hard to put her faith in the small altitude gauge on her wrist. If she was off in opening her chute by even twenty seconds, she’d end up splattered all over the countryside below.

The jump master stood beneath a red light at the end of the cargo bay, an intercom to his ear. When he got the word from the pilot, he flipped a switch turning the light from red to green, and the ramp at the rear of the ship lowered.

He gave Jackie a thumbs-up, and she took a deep breath and stepped out into the darkness.

As she fell, she put her hands at her sides and her feet together and shot downward like an arrow toward the ground below. She counted to herself so as to know when to start looking at her altitude gauge, hoping she wouldn’t wait too long.

Finally, she pulled her right arm up against the resistance of the air and glanced at the gauge … time to do it!

 

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Grasping the D-ring on her chest, she gave a yank. At first nothing happened, and she had time to think, “Oh, shit! My chute didn’t open.”

Just as she was reaching for her backup chute cord, she felt as if she’d hit a wall as her chute opened and slowed her from 120 miles an hour down to ten in a couple of seconds. “Damn, it’s a good tiling I double-tied my boots, or they’d have been jerked off,” she thought, her heart hammering with relief as she slowed to what seemed like a crawl after the speed of her initial fall.

After discussion with Otis Warner and General Joe Winter, Ben Raines and Jackie had decided her group should parachute into eastern Iowa, between Cedar Rapids and Davenport. The area was mostly rural, with large expanses of rolling hills, few towns, and no Army bases of any size. Best of all, it was only a few hundred miles from Indianapolis, where Claire Osterman had her headquarters.

Ben and Jackie felt they could sow the seeds of hate and discontent best, as well as be a major embarrassment to Osterman, if they struck close to her main base.

Jackie hit the ground, and immediately curled into a ball and rolled, as the jump instructor had told her to. She ended up in a large field of some sort of maize, with plants growing to four feet in height. She rolled up her chute and kept her eye on the sky above her, as one of the main dangers with this many troops dropping was that one would land on your head if you didn’t keep an eye out.

Slipping out of her jump suit and helmet, she immediately keyed a signal device on her shirt that would lead the others to her, so they could rendezvous in the dark.

As usual, Tiger Tanaka was the first to reach her. He had a Mini-Uzi on a strap around his neck, and held it at port arms as he turned in a small circle, making sure no one was around to give them any trouble.

Within an hour the entire force had congregated in the middle of the field.

 

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“Injury report,” Jackie said to Tiger.

“We lost six men, three whose chutes malfunctioned, two who didn’t open soon enough, and one who landed on a fence post,” Tiger said in a calm voice.

“Damn!” Jackie said with feeling.

“That is a very acceptable ratio for a HALO drop, Miss Jackie,” Tiger said.

She glanced at him. “Try telling that to the poor bastards who hit the ground at over a hundred miles an hour,” she said. Jackie hated nothing more than losing any of her troops.

She knelt in the field and pulled out her map and compass. After studying them for a couple of minutes, she stood up. “All right, men, we head out south by southwest. We’re only a couple of miles from Cedar Rapids. I expect us to be in control of the town by daylight.”

Jackie sent squads out in a circular ring around the town. The first objective was to cut the town off from the outside world.

All telephone lines coming into the city were cut, and transformers were blown off their poles so that merely splicing the wires back together wouldn’t resume service.

Next, the cellular microwave transmitting towers were dynamited, destroying the usefulness of any cell phones that might still be in use in the town.

After all communications, other than shortwave or CB radio, were halted, Jackie led a squad to take over the town’s authority figures. Separate squads were sent to each police station as well as the mayor’s and city council’s offices.

Most of the police, when faced with commandos carrying Uzis and/or M-16’s, gave up quietly. A couple who tried to resist were shot, but only one had to be killed.

By 0800, the town was in Jackie’s hands. Roadblocks were set up on all roads leading into or out of the town, with her troops dressed as local policemen. The story used to turn away

 

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travelers was that there was a plague of unknown origin in the town and it had been placed in quarantine for the time being.

Interrogation squads began their work, ferreting out citizens who were sympathetic to the SUSA’s aim to prevent another war with the U.S. These men and women were issued guns and allowed to resume some of the governmental functions of the city.

Jackie’s plan was to delay face-to-face confrontation with the Army of the U.S. as long as she could. She wanted to take as many small towns and villages as possible before Osterman and her cronies knew they were under siege.

Once Cedar Rapids was secure, she left a token force to hold the town while she and the rest of her troops moved on to Davenport, a hundred miles closer to Indianapolis and Claire Osterman’s home grounds.

The guerrilla war had begun.

 

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After Captain Matt Stryker and his men picked Dr. Larry Buck out of the ocean in a Zodiac, along with a large waterproof bag containing his equipment, they took him to the ship.

Thirty minutes later, dressed in a state-of-the-art Racal suit to prevent contamination, he was examining Jersey and Coop in the cabin used as a medical ward.

He had Jersey sit up in bed, her back propped up against pillows, and raised her gown. He put a stethoscope to her chest, just under her left breast.

“Breathe in and out slowly,” he said, his voice muffled inside the self-contained helmet of the orange Racal suit.

Jersey looked much better after her course of antibiotics, but she was still having fever and chills and still coughing frequently.

After listening for a few moments, Buck nodded and stepped back from the bed. “Your lungs are sounding better, Jersey. Some of the pneumonia is clearing.”

“They don’t feel much better,” she complained. “I still feel like an elephant is sitting on my chest.”

He nodded. “That’s typical of respiratory anthrax, but if Captain Stryker’s medic hadn’t pumped you full of antibiotics, you’d be dead by now.”

From the next bed, Coop, who’d turned his head when Jersey’s chest was bared, spoke up. “I always said Jerse was too damned tough for any bug to kill.”

 

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Coop, who hadn’t been as far along in the sickness when the antibiotics were started, was looking almost well.

Buck examined him by listening to his lungs and poking around on his stomach to see if the swelling in his liver had gone down, and pronounced him cured of the infection.

“Jersey, however, is going to have to stay in quarantine for a few more days.”

Coop bounded out of bed and began to put his clothes on. “Looks like you’re going to lose your roommate, Jerse,” he said with a grin.

She turned her pale face toward him and tried to smile. “I never thought I’d say this, Coop, but I’m gonna miss you.”

He stepped to her bedside and leaned down to plant a gentle kiss on her cheek. “I’m gonna miss you too.” He stood up and smiled. “But I’m sure as hell not going to miss those blasted needles the medic has been sticking in me every hour.”

Buck smiled and shook his head. “No, I don’t believe you are going to miss those, Coop. Now that you’re cured, your blood is full of antibodies to the bacteria. We’re going to need to get lots of it to try and use it to make a vaccine against this new strain of anthrax.”

Jersey gave a short laugh. “Poor Coop. Out of the frying pan and into the fire.”

“You mean I’m gonna have to be stuck some more?” he cried, a look of horror on his face.

“Lots more, I’m afraid,” Buck.

Coop held out his arms, showing the doctor the myriad black and blue spots where needles had penetrated. “I don’t think I have any veins left in my arms to get blood out of, Doc,” he said.

Buck shrugged and winked at Jersey so Coop couldn’t see. “Well, if that’s the case, we can always draw it from your femoral vein.”

“My femoral vein? Where in the hell is that?” Coop asked, a look of disbelief on his face.

 

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Buck pointed at his groin. “Right there, next to your pubic bone.”

Coop covered himself with both hands. “Oh, no, you don’t. I’m sure you can still find a small vein or two in my arms,” he said, nodding his head.

“I hope so,” Buck said, ” ‘cause a femoral stick is very painful.”

“Shit,” Coop said, putting his hand on his forehead. “I think I feel a relapse comin’ on, Doc. Maybe my antibodies aren’t quite ready yet.”

Buck laughed and said, “Get the hell out of here, Coop. I need to talk to Jersey for a while. Tell the cook to fix you a couple of steaks. We need to build your blood up for the upcoming tests.”

“Yeah, I already feel like I’m a quart low,” Coop said dejectedly as he walked out of the room.

Jersey looked at Buck as he sat on the edge of her bed. “Any progress with the cultures so far?” she asked.

He nodded. “It looks like the scientists took a regular strain of anthrax and played with it until they got the mutation they wanted. Normal respiratory anthrax is only caught by inhaling spores, and isn’t capable of being passed person to person. This strain, however, in addition to being much more virulent, can evidently be caught from anyone who is infected.”

“That’s right,” Jersey said. “I was the only one who was in actual contact with the liquid sample I took from the lab. Coop caught the bug from me.”

“That’s what I feared,” Buck said, a serious look on his face.

“But why didn’t our previous vaccine work against this strain?” she asked.

“I think, actually, it did to a small degree,” Buck said. “Otherwise you would never have made it as long as you did without treatment.”

“How long will it take the new vaccine to do its job?”

“In most cases, we need to vaccinate troops at least two

 

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weeks before they’re exposed, or the new vaccine won’t have time to build up the antibodies necessary for full protection.”

“But what if the meres use it before we’re ready?”

“What I plan to do is to give all of our troops shots of gamma globulin now, to kick their immune systems into high gear while we’re making the new vaccine. That may buy us a little time until the vaccine takes effect. And it should cut the response time down to one week instead of two.”

“I’m afraid that’s still gonna be cutting it close,” Jersey said. “The meres were all ready to move out last week.”

Buck nodded. “Yeah. We just heard from Ben on the radio that the attacks have already begun in Mexico.”

Jersey held out her arms. “Then take all the blood you need, Larry. We need to get that vaccine ready as soon as possible.”

“I’m already working on it, Jersey.” He walked toward the door to her cabin. “With any luck, we’ll have the first vials of vaccine coming out in less than a week, thanks to yours and Coop’s blood.”

General Bradley Stevens, Jr., walked into Claire’s office and threw a sheaf of papers onto her desk.

“What are those?” she asked.

“Reports from our radar installations. There was an unidentified plane flying over our airspace last night.”

“How high?”

“It never got below twenty thousand feet.”

“You think it was a bomber?”

He shook his head. “No. If it had planned to drop bombs, it would have dropped to ten thousand feet or less for a night drop.”

She leaned back in her chair, her eyes narrowed. “Parachute troops?”

He shrugged. “I just don’t know. If they were going to parachute troops in, I’d think there would have been many more

 

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planes. And I don’t see how they’d be able to drop troops from that altitude.”

“Where did the flight originate?” she asked, knowing somehow Ben Raines had some dirty trick or another up his sleeve.

“Looks like it came from Louisiana, curved over the panhandle of Texas, then straight up toward Iowa.”

“Iowa? What the hell would they want with Iowa? You think maybe the SUSA’s short of corn or grain?” she asked with a sarcastic smile on her face.

“No, but Iowa’s one of the few places where we don’t have a strong military presence. It also happens to be the state with a populace more sympathetic to Raines and his brand of government than most of our other ones are.”

“Well, General,” she said, leaning forward to put her elbows on her desk, “if Raines wants Iowa, he’s welcome to it. As far as I can see, the state is practically worthless.”

“Except it produces almost a third of our foodstuffs, Madame President. And I don’t know if the people are going to put up with much more rationing.”

She slammed her hand down on the desk. “The people will do what I damn well tell them to do, and don’t you forget that for a moment, General Stevens.”

He clamped his jaw shut. He’d forgotten how resistant Claire was to anything she didn’t agree with. It was her worst failing as an administrator. She continually surrounded herself with yes-men who didn’t dare to tell her the truth, unless it was favorable to her beliefs. She reminded him of Adolf Hitler in a lot of ways, and, he reminded himself, Hitler had managed to lose a war that he should have won.

“What would you like me to do about these reports?” he asked.

She thought for a moment, then said, “Send a platoon of troops from the nearest base we have over there to check it out. Make sure they carry some radios that can contact us with what they find. If Ben Raines is trying something sneaky, I want to know about it.”

 

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“Yes, ma’am,” Stevens said, saluting and leaving the room before he got himself in further trouble by speaking his mind. That was one of the worst sins you could commit in Claire’s presence, speaking the truth.

When he got to his office, he called his aide and said, “Send a squad of troops to Iowa, the Cedar Rapids area. Check ‘em out a helicopter and tell ‘em to report any suspicious sightings or happenings in the area.”

After he gave the order, he went back to his battle plans. Claire had ordered him to step up the activity on the southern border with the SUSA, and he needed to make sure it was done right.

 

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Lieutenant Tommy Bell sat in the rear compartment of the Huey helicopter with the rest of the eight men that had been sent to check out a radar sighting over Cedar Rapids, Iowa.

He was plenty pissed off. The rest of his battalion was moving south to confront Ben Raines’s Rebel forces, and here he was playing nursemaid to a squad of men doing police duties.

Damn, he thought, I’ll never get promoted unless I get to see some action. Both of his brothers, neither of which had graduated from Officers’ Candidate School with grades as high as his, were a full rank ahead of him. Due mainly to their luck in being in the right place at the right time and seeing heavy action in the last war.

As the Huey circled lower and lower over Cedar Rapids, Bell leaned out the hatchway and took a close look at the town. Nothing seemed amiss. People were moving about on the street; traffic, what little there was of it due to stringent gasoline rationing, seemed to be moving normally; and except for the roadblocks on the highway leading into town, all was as it should be for a sleepy little farming town.

Bell grabbed the intercom mike and said, “Put her down in the town square, there near the police station.”

As the big, ungainly chopper settled to the ground on its skids, Bell jumped from the hatch, his M-16 cradled in his arms, and jogged across the grass-covered square toward the main police station. He intended to ask the officer in charge

 

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if anything strange had been reported the night before and to get him to explain the purpose of the roadblocks.

Jim McAfee and Joey Rodriguez, his corporals, followed him toward the station after telling the rest of the men to stand easy in the chopper.

The three soldiers entered the police station, their rifles at the ready in case of trouble.

The ready room of the station was empty, except for a short Asian man sitting behind the main desk with a sign on it that

said DESK SERGEANT.

“Can I help you gentlemen?” he asked, evidently not taking much notice of their rifles.

“Who’s in charge here?” Bell asked, looking around the room suspiciously. There wasn’t much action, but then it was early in the day and a town this small probably didn’t have a whole lot of crime anyway.

The desk sergeant wrinkled his forehead. “Why, that’d be the chief of police, Jackie Malone,” he answered.

“Would you get him down here?” Bell asked.

“Sure,” the man answered, “only it’s a her, not a him.”

“What?” Bell asked.

“The chief is a lady,” the desk sergeant answered with a smile as he walked to a nearby door that had CHIEF OF POLICE written on it.

He knocked on the door, opened it, and stuck his head inside. “There are a couple of gentlemen to see you, ma’am.”

After a minute or so, a slim, attractive woman wearing a blue uniform walked into the room from the office.

She and the desk sergeant stood in front of Bell and his corporals. “What can I do for you?” she asked.

“We’re here to see if anything out of the ordinary was reported last night. We had a radar sighting over in Indianapolis of an unidentified plane flying over this area.”

Before she could answer, Jim McAfee cocked his M-16 and lowered the barrel to point at the two police officers.

 

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“There’s something fishy here, Tommy,” he said, glaring at the two people in front of him.

Bell glanced at Jim, thinking his corporal had gone crazy. “What’s the matter with you, Jim?”

McAfee pointed with his rifle. “Looky there. Their name badges are all wrong.”

Bell turned around to look. The name badge on the Asian man’s pocket said Myron Appbgate, while that on the female’s chest read John Malcolm.

“Son of a …” Bell started tc say as he began to raise his rifle.

Tiger Tanaka exploded into action, his right leg moving almost faster than the eye could see, swinging up and around, clipping Jim McAfee on the chin and dropping him like a stone. Continuing his spin, Tiger whirled around and with a spinning back-kick, caught John Rodriguez in the stomach, doubling him over and to his knees.

Before Bell’s rifle moved six inches, Jackie Malone stepped in and swung a straight right jab into his chin, putting out his lights and knocking him to the floor.

After handcuffs were applied all around, Jackie motioned with her head toward the chopper outside, still s’tting on the square with its rotors turning.

“Get them in here,” she said. “We can use the Huey.”

Tiger glanced at the name Bell on Tommy’s left breast pocket, then walked nonchalantly out the door toward the chopper.

When he was almost to it, he made a cutting motion across his neck to the pilot and waited until the engine had been shut down.

He walked under the slowing blades without ducking-at his height he had no need to-and called to the men. “Lieutenant Bell says for you men to come into the station and get some donuts and coffee. He’s gonna be a while.”

The men grinned and piled out of the Huey, a couple pausing to light cigarettes.

 

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“Follow me and I’ll take you to your lieutenant,” Tiger said, suppressing a smile at the gullibility of the soldiers, who clearly were expecting no trouble.

He stepped to the side as they entered the station, and picked up Bell’s M-16, which he’d left there.

Jackie Malone was standing behind the desk sergeant’s desk, smiling sweetly at the men as they gathered before her. None had their weapons at the ready.

She pulled an Uzi from behind the desk and casually pointed it at the soldiers. “I’m terribly sorry, gentlemen, but I’m afraid I’m going to need your helicopter.”

Two of the men at the rear made a motion to raise their rifles, until Tiger, who was behind them, cocked his M-16 with a loud metallic click.

“Stand down, soldiers,” he said in a gruff voice, pointing the rifle at them.

They all dropped their weapons and raised their hands.

“If you men would be so kind as to strip down to your skivvies, I’m going to need your uniforms too,” Jackie said with a smile.

After the men were stripped down to undershorts and T-shirts, Tiger put them all in the drunk tank, along with Bell, McAfee, and Rodriguez.

He walked back to the office Jackie was using. “Not a bad morning’s work,” he said.

She agreed. “Now, we can use those uniforms and that chopper to make a little trip to the Air National Guard base down the road. I’ll bet they still have a couple of choppers or airplanes we can use.”

“I can’t wait,” Tiger said with a savage grin.

The Huey, piloted by one of Jackie Malone’s men and containing fifteen men, most of whom were dressed in Tommy Bell’s squad’s uniforms, came in low out of the sun toward the landing field at the George W. Bush Air National Guard

 

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Base in Peoria, Illinois, a little over a hundred miles northwest of Indianapolis.

The radio crackled to life. “Unidentified helicopter, this is the air traffic control tower at Bush Air National Guard Base. Please identify yourself,” the scratchy voice commanded.

George Grant, pilot of the chopper, keyed his microphone. “Search and rescue squad from Indianapolis under the command of Lieutenant Thomas Bell,” he said. “One of our men has been badly injured and we need to land for immediate medical attention.”

“We’re at minimal status currently,” the voice answered. “Most of our troops have been sent south. Can’t you make it to Indianapolis?”

“Negative,” Grant said, putting some urgency in his voice. “Our man is bleeding badly and we need to stabilize him before traveling further.”

“Come in on Landing Field Z-22,” the tower said. “We’ll have our medic standing by.”

Grant grinned over his shoulder at Jackie Malone, who was standing in the doorway behind him. She returned the smile and gave him a thumbs-up sign.

Tanaka, who was lying on a stretcher in the cargo hold with ketchup and bandages on his uniform, laid his head back and assumed an agonized expression.

“Take it easy, Tiger,” Jackie said. “You’re not trying for an Oscar here.”

He nodded as he slipped a .45 automatic under the bandages on his chest, and feigned unconsciousness as the chopper settled to the tarmac near a large hangar.

As Jackie and the other men jumped to the ground, an ambulance screeched to a stop next to the Huey and a young man who looked to be no older than eighteen rushed to the hatchway.

He motioned to two of Jackie’s men, and they picked the stretcher up and put it in the back of the ambulance.

 

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Just before the medic climbed in, Jackie asked, “The tower said you were at minimal staffing. What’s going on?”

The medic glanced at her lieutenant’s bars, then replied, “Most of the troops and aircraft have been sent down to Oklahoma to fight the Rebs. There ain’t but a few of us left here.”

“Exactly how many?” Jackie asked casually.

Sensing something was wrong, the medic jumped into the back of the ambulance, only to be met with Tiger’s .45 pointing at his face.

“The lady asked how many,” Tiger said, a menacing scowl on his face.

The medic hung his head. ” ‘Bout six, I guess.”

“Okay, that’s better,” Jackie said. “Now, where is your commanding officer’s office?”

Lieutenant Colonel Hadley Crow was sitting behind his desk when Jackie and two of her men walked in without knocking.

Crow jumped to his feet. He was unarmed. “What’s the meaning of this?” he barked, as if he were still in command of the situation.

Jackie gave a casual shrug. “You’ve just been invaded, Colonel. We are taking over your base.”

“But … but … that’s impossible!” Crow sputtered, looking around as if he needed someone to explain further.

“No, it’s not,” Jackie said patiently. “Now, if you don’t want your men slaughtered unnecessarily, you’ll get on the phone and have them assemble here in your office.”

“But what reason can I give them?” he asked.

“Tell them it’s a surprise inspection.”

“They’ll never believe that.”

“You’d better make them believe it, Colonel, or you’ll have the deaths of your entire command on your conscience,” Jackie said in a voice that showed she wasn’t kidding.

 

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The colonel slumped back into his chair and reached for the phone.

Within twenty minutes, he had seven airmen standing at attention in the hangar below his office. Jackie accompanied him to stand before them.

“You men are all under house arrest,” she said as her troops stepped out from hiding and surrounded the men. “If you’ll go with the colonel here, I’m sure we can find room for all of you.”

After the colonel and his men were led off, Tiger and Jackie walked around the hangar, inspecting the planes that were there.

“Jesus,” Tiger said, “here’s an A-10 Warthog, one of the best of the old ground-attack/strike fighters.”

“Yeah, and over there’s an F-lll Aardvark,” Jackie said, “one of the first fighter-bombers that could make low-level precision bombing attacks by day or night.”

Tiger glanced at her, grinning. “You know, with these and the Huey, we could give President Osterman a real sleepless night.”

Jackie nodded. “You’ve got a point there, Tiger. Let’s go get on the horn to Ben and see what he thinks of the idea.”

 

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Claire Osterman was furious. She grabbed an ashtray on her desk and flung it against a far wall, narrowly missing General Bradley Stevens, Jr., who ducked and then, realizing how silly it made him look, stood back at attention.

“What the hell do you mean you haven’t heard from the squad you sent out yesterday?” she screamed, making even Herb Knoff, who was more or less used to her tantrums, wince.

“As I said before, Madame President, we haven’t been able to raise Lieutenant Bell or the pilot on any of our frequencies since they flew over Cedar Rapids, Iowa, yesterday.”

“And just why not, General? Do you think they vanished into thin air?”

“No, ma’am. It could be anything from a radio malfunction to a simple plane crash. They were flying in a fifty-year-old Huey helicopter and it may have developed engine trouble … or something.”

“I don’t believe that for a moment, and I have a sneaking suspicion you don’t either, General,” Claire said, calming down somewhat.

Stevens shook his head. “No, ma’am. If they had a radio malfunction, they would have landed and checked in on a land-line, and if the chopper had crashed, we would have had a report of it by now from the civilian authorities.”

“So, like me you think Ben Raines had something to do with this disappearance of one of my helicopters?” she asked, glancing at Herb to make sure he was paying attention.

 

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“Either that, or possibly a group of our own rebels, supporters of Otis Warner or General Winter,” Stevens said, choosing his words very carefully so as not to trigger another outburst from Claire.

“Son of a bitch!” she hollered again, slamming her hand down on her desk so hard the phone jumped in the air. “First those bastards try and kill me and take over the country. Then they set traitors on my soldiers and kill them.” She looked at the ceiling as if speaking directly to God himself. “Will I never be quit of those assholes?” she asked rhetorically.

“What would you like me to do, Madame President? Send another squad to check on the first?” Stevens asked diffidently.

She glared at him. “You’re the fucking general, General, do whatever you think best.”

He nodded and turned to leave.

“But,” Claire continued before he could reach the door, “if it were me, I’d be very careful about sending more men and expensive equipment to try and find men who are already undoubtedly dead. Otherwise, you may end up sending yet another squad to check on the checkers.” She paused, a deadly look on her face. “Do you get my drift, General?”

“Yes, ma’am, I understand.”

“After all,” she said with a shrug, “even if rebel forces have captured the helicopter, how much damage can a fifty-year-old machine do to us?”

Stevens was afraid to tell her just how awesome a fighting machine a Huey with a fifty-caliber machine gun mounted in the hatchway could be, even if it was fifty years old. If she hadn’t seen films of the Vietnam War or Desert Storm, who was he to risk his stars by reminding her?

Ben Raines threw back bis head and laughed out loud. “Jesus, Jackie, I sent you up there to do a little guerrilla warfare and maybe recruit some rebels. I didn’t expect you to invade the U.S. and capture their bases one by one.”

 

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“Like they say, General Ben, never send a woman to do a man’s job. She may just surprise you with the results.”

“You can say that again,” Ben said, still laughing. “Now just what do you have in mind to do next? Charge Indianapolis and make Sugar Babe Osterman surrender?”

“Something like that,” Jackie purred.

“What?” Ben asked, sitting up straight in his chair. “Now, Jackie,” he reasoned, “don’t do anything foolish.”

“Too late, Ben, I’ve already joined the Army.”

Ben chuckled. Jackie was one of his best commanding generals. In spite of her good looks and youthful appearance, she was known as Ironsides by her troops. When given an objective, no matter how tough or impossible it seemed, she drove her men, and herself, unmercifully until the goal was accomplished. There was not one of her troops who wouldn’t throw himself on a grenade to save her life.

“Seriously, what are your plans?” Ben asked.

“Well, I thought you might give that bitch Osterman a call and demand she draw her troops back from the border.”

“And just why would she do that?” Ben asked, intrigued at the way Jackie’s mind worked.

“Because you might remind her that if she crosses us again, there is no place on earth safe for her to hide in, and if we coordinate it just right, at that exact moment my troops and I can hit her base with a few bombs and rockets.”

“You’ll never hit her,” Ben said. “From what our intel says, she’s dug in deep underground in fortified bunkers.”

“That’s not the point, Ben, darlin’,” Jackie continued. “I’m not trying to kill her, just to show her she can run but she can’t hide. Can you imagine the paranoia she’s gonna feel when you tell her you can get her and seconds later my attack bombers hit her base? I guarantee it’ll scare the shit out of her to be so vulnerable in her own home base.”

Ben hesitated a moment while he thought it over. “That’s a great idea, Jackie, but do you think you can pull it off with

 

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minimal casualties? I’d love to put a scare into Sugar Babe, but not if it means risking your life to do it.”

“Sure, it’ll be a piece of cake. From takeoff to strike, our time is fifteen minutes. She won’t have time to scramble an egg, much less her defense fighters. I figure we can make two or three quick passes, then get the hell out of there before they know what’s hit them.”

“And then?”

“We sweep around under their radar and land back here at the National Guard base. They’ll think we just disappeared in thin air.”

Ben nodded, though Jackie couldn’t see the gesture. “Good. Let’s do it.”

Claire Osterman’s head was thrown back against the pillow and she had her hands in Herb Knoff’s hair. “Come on, baby, come on,” she urged as she bucked beneath him.

She almost screamed in frustration when the phone on her bedside table rang.

“Oh, goddamnit!” she growled, the mood broken. She pushed him off her, ignoring the sweaty, pleading look on his face.

“This had better be damned important,” she yelled into the phone, breathing heavily and glancing at the clock. It was five minutes until midnight.

Her secretary said, “I hate to interrupt you, Madame President… .”

“Not as much as hate it, Gladys,” she growled. “What is it?”p>

“I have a man on the phone who says he is General Ben Raines.”

“Ben Raines?” Claire asked incredulously.

“Yes, ma’am. Shall I tell him to call back at a more appropriate hour?”

“Of course not, you fool! Put him through.”

 

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“Yes, ma’am.”

There was a series of clicking, buzzing noises, and then the voice of the man Claire hated above all others was on the line, speaking as if he were a long-lost friend.

“Hello, Sugar Babe,” he said.

“Don’t call me that, you bastard! What do you want?” she asked heatedly.

“I thought I might prevail upon you to move your troops back from our borders and prevent you from making another terrible mistake.”

“My troops are just undergoing training exercises on our own territory, Ben,” she said, trying to calm herself.

“Yeah, sure, Sugar Babe. But I would like you to try and remember what happened the last couple of times you tried to cause trouble between our countries. You got your ass kicked but good,” he added.

“Listen, you arrogant son of a bitch,” she yelled into the phone. “It’s you that’s going to get his ass kicked this time, and that’s a promise.”

“Modern warfare is such a bitch, Claire,” he said reasonably, as if he hadn’t heard her. “In the old days, leaders could sit behind their desks thousands of miles from the front and send young men and women into combat with nary a risk to their own life and limb.”

“So what?” she asked, puzzled at what he was trying to tell her.

“Well, those days are gone forever. Now, if a leader decides to cause a war, that leader must be shown that there is no safe place for those who cause the needless death of others.”

“What are you saying, Ben?” she asked, sitting up straight in bed and shoving the covers aside. “Are you trying to threaten me?”

“Not trying, sweetie, I’m promising you that if you continue with this ill-advised course of action, it will be you who pays the ultimate price, not just your troops.”

 

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“Listen, you son of a bitch, I’m not in the least afraid of you or what you think you can do,” she shouted.

“You should be, Claire, you should be very afraid. Look out your window, if you think I’m blowing smoke,” Ben said, and then he hung up, the click loud in Claire’s ear.

She slammed the phone down, shaking from anger. She looked at Herb, lying next to her, a puzzled look on his face, trying to understand what had just been said.

She lay back on her pillows and stretched her hand out to rub the hair on his chest. “Now, where were we, darling?”

As Herb grinned and rolled over to snuggle up against her, the entire room shook from an explosion that must have been directly overhead.

Plaster fell from the ceiling and sprinkled down on the bed as if it were snowing inside the room, while another deep booming vibrated the bed, knocking her phone off the bedside table and breaking the lamp.

“Shit!” she hollered, and scrambled from the bed, grabbing a nightgown from the chair and running to her door.

General Bradley Stevens, whose room was just down the hall of the underground bunker, appeared in the hallway, his hair tousled as if he’d just woken up.

“What the hell …” he said, looking around him in disbelief as pieces of the walls disintegrated and began to tumble to the floor.

“Get on the phone and find out what the hell is happening!” Claire screamed at him, forgetting her nightgown was unfastened and her breasts exposed.

Stevens glanced at her, then quickly turned away as he hurried down the hall to the guard’s desk at the end of the corridor.

He grabbed the phone and dialed a series of numbers, having to yell into the phone to make himself heard over the rat-a-tat of heavy machine-gun fire coming from above.

After a second, he yelled at her, “Get back in your room and lock your door … we’re under attack!”

He threw the phone down and ran up the stairs to the first

 

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floor, and burst out the fortified steel door onto the grass outside the building.

He ducked as what looked like a Warthog dived directly at him, spraying the ground with 30mm cannon fire, which danced a trail of death four feet to his left and shattered the walls next to him. Though the walls were made of three feet of reinforced concrete over stainless steel, the armor-piercing shells tipped with depleted uranium went though them like grain through a goose.

Stevens dove to the ground and covered his head with his hands. He peeked out from under his arms to look at the nearest hangar, where several men were trying to get fighter planes launched.

He was just in time to see an F-lll Aardvark follow the Warthog in a steep dive at over six hundred miles an hour. As the Aardvark pulled up, twin rockets loosed themselves from its wings and arrowed down at the fighter planes, still on the ground.

The missiles exploded, blowing both planes and a dozen men into tiny bits, and sent a fireball three hundred feet into the air.

Stevens rolled to the side and caught sight of an ancient Huey helicopter hovering near a distant hangar, pouring fifty-caliber rounds into the motor pool vehicles. A HumVee, with the general’s flag on its fenders, exploded and jumped into the air as if it’d been kicked. The fireball from the HumVee incinerated six men nearby and set three other vehicles on fire.

Stevens laid his head on his arms, wishing Claire Osterman could witness the damage a fifty-year-old machine could do.

Two minutes later, the attackers were gone, as if they’d never existed, leaving behind them a base in utter ruins. Buildings were shattered and caved in, planes and wreckage were burning, sirens wailing, men screaming and groaning in pain, and all was mass confusion.

Stevens jumped to his feet and began to run across the tar-

 

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mac, yelling at soldiers to get some planes airborne to chase the bastards who’d done this to his base.

It took another fifteen minutes to scramble anything, as burning wreckage had to be moved and fires put out before other planes could be fueled.

By the time they were in the air, Stevens was in the control tower, bending over a radarscope, yelling at the airman there to find out where the attackers had gone.

The young man glanced up, fear in his face. “I don’t know, sir. They came in under the radar and left the same way. Nothing ever showed up on my scope at all.”

“That’s impossible!” Stevens screamed, already wondering how he was ever going to explain this to Osterman.

“What do I tell the pursuit planes, General?” the tower con-trolman asked, holding a mike in his hand.

“Tell ‘em they’d better damned well find something to shoot at or not to bother coming back!” he yelled, making the man cringe back as if he were about to be hit.

He bent over his mike. “Tower to Eagle One, Two, and Three, quarter the skies and search for bogeys. Repeat, search for bogeys until you find something,” he repeated, looking over his shoulder at Stevens.

 

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Bruno Bottger stood on the prow of the first of three large transport ships as they sailed into the harbor at Pariso. In the ships with him were twenty thousand battle-hardened mercenaries along with various and sundry equipment they would need on the campaign to take first Mexico City, then to invade and eventually conquer the SUSA and Ben Raines’s Rebel forces.

Perro Loco, Paco Valdez, and Jim Strunk were on the dock to welcome him.

“Look at him, riding the front of the ship like some conquering hero,” Valdez sneered to Loco. “I think he is one we’re going to have to watch very carefully, comandante,” he said.

“I agree, sir,” Strunk added. “He is used to commanding, and I do not believe he will take kindly to playing second fiddle to anyone.”

Loco dismissed their warnings with a wave of his hand. “Do not worry. I am not underestimating the difficulty of sharing a command with such a person.” He grinned as the gangplank of Bottger’s ship was lowered to the dock. “As the old saying goes, ‘when you grab a tiger by the tail, it is most important not to let go, lest you be eaten.’ “

“So, you plan to ‘share’ command with this German bigot?” Valdez asked.

“I think it would be wise to let him think so,” Loco said. “I will do as General Eisenhower did in the Second World War with the British General Montgomery, who was at least

 

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as big an egomaniac as this Bottger is reputed to be. I will give him command of his troops on the western borders of Mexico, at least until we reach and take Mexico City.” He shrugged. “After that, it may well be time to see if an unfortunate accident cannot be arranged for Herr Bottger.”

Strunk grinned, his fingers caressing the hilt of his commando knife in its scabbard on his belt. “I can hardly wait, comandante.”

Bottger strolled up the dock, looking around as if he owned the world, followed closely by his second in command, Sergei Bergman, who was talking earnestly in his ear.

At the end of the pier, Loco approached him.

Bottger gave a quick nod of his head and stuck out his hand. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you face-to-face, Sefior Loco.”

“Likewise, Herr Bottger,” Loco said, smiling widely and taking the hand.

Loco had to fight the urge to stare at the mass of scar tissue that covered Bottger’s face and head. It was as if the man were wearing a rubber mask that hardly moved as he spoke, the tissue slick and shiny in the Mexican sun.

Bottger, who was used to such a reaction, briefly fingered the scars. “I see you have noticed the gift Ben Raines gave me on our last encounter. As you might well imagine, I have much to repay him for.”

Loco cleared his throat and forced his eyes away from the horror that was Bottger’s face. “Come, Herr Bottger. I have a meal ready for us at my headquarters, and have prepared a suite of rooms that you may use to freshen up from your sea voyage.”

“Thank you. That would be appreciated.”

Later, in the dining room of the officers’ quarters Loco used as his command center, they feasted on the finest Mexican

 

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cuisine. Loco had searched for and found several cases of German wine that he’d heard Bottger preferred.

Bottger kept the talk general and light until the meal was finished and they’d repaired to Loco’s office for brandy and cigars.

As Bottger inhaled deeply of the Cohiba Especiale and sipped the Napoleon brandy, his eyes never left Loco’s.

“Tell me, Loco, how do you envision the separation of duties of our collaboration to proceed?”

Loco smiled and leaned forward in his leather armchair. “I think the most efficient way for us to divide the duties is for you to command your mercenaries and for me to command my troops. That way there is no overlap of responsibilities.”

“And the deployment of the soldiers will be under whose orders?”

Loco leaned back, waving his cigar in the air to dispel some of the smoke that was rapidly filling the air in the room with a blue cloud.

“Since I have some experience with the situation here in Mexico, I would hope that you would not mind some suggestions from me and my staff as to the most efficient way to maximize the troops under your command.” He hesitated. “In other words, we will discuss the situations as they change day to day, and come to an agreement about the disposition of the various men and materiel under our joint command.”

Bottger leaned his head back and gave a hearty laugh. “A very diplomatic way to put it, Loco,” he said, grinning.

Loco returned the smile. “Of course, with both of us being very experienced in conducting warfare, I would hope that we will agree on what needs to be done the majority of the time.”

Bottger nodded. “I can see that this will be an entertaining experience, having someone of your caliber to exchange ideas with.” He glanced at Sergei Bergman. “My aide, Sergei, tells me you’ve already given him the authority to run his campaign along the western border, in the mountainous region along the coast.”

 

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“That’s correct. Since his troops were much more experienced in guerrilla-type warfare, I thought they would do best in the less populated areas, while my more conventional troops could best serve by moving up the center of the country where most of the Mexican Army is concentrated.”

Bottger took another drag of his cigar. “Very wise, Loco. I would have done the same thing in your place.”

Loco raised his brandy snifter. “Then we are in agreement on how to proceed?”

Bottger mimicked his toast. “Certainly, Loco. After all, we both want the same thing, do we not? The complete and utter destruction of Ben Raines and his accursed SUSA.”

The ship carrying Harley Reno’s team pulled into the harbor at New Orleans. The members boarded a waiting Osprey and were flown to Base Camp One, where Ben Raines was waiting to meet them.

Jersey and Coop were taken to the state-of-the-art medical lab facilities by Dr. Buck, while Harley and Hammer and the others met with Ben in his office.

“Then I take it Jersey and Coop are completely out of danger?” Ben asked.

“Yes, sir,” Harley replied. “Dr. Buck says they’re both gonna have to take it easy for a while, especially Jersey, but that they shouldn’t have any permanent disability from the infection.”

“Good,” Ben said. “Dr. Buck informs me this bug is a mutated form of the type used by Bruno Bottger several years ago here and in Africa.”

“That’s what he believes.”

Ben shook his head. “Then I guess there’s little doubt that it’s Bottger who’s behind the meres in South America.”

Harley nodded. “It certainly fits with the evidence.”

“It seems Claire Osterman has made a bargain with not one, but two devils, Perro Loco and Bruno Bottger.”

 

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“They’re gonna be a tough team to beat, especially if they establish a strong foothold in Mexico City,” Hammer said.

“I don’t see any way to prevent that,” Ben said, “short of our precipitating an international incident by invading Mexico ourselves.”

“Then the Mexican president is still refusing to accept our help?” Harley asked.

“Yes. The idiot thinks his troops can hold off both Loco’s army and Bottger’s mercenaries.”

“He’s a fool then,” Hammer said.

“Yeah, it looks like the Americans in the U.S. aren’t the only ones to elect an imbecile for a leader.”

“If you can call Mexican elections the voice of the people, as corrupt as they are,” Anna said.

“Well, that’s neither here nor there. We’ve got problems of our own. Osterman’s troops are pushing us along all of our northern borders, so we’re going to have plenty to do just to keep the wolves from our own doors without worrying too much about saving Mexico’s bacon.”

“What can we do?” Harley asked.

“I’ve divided our battalions up among the various states of the SUSA; Texas, Louisiana, Kentucky, Missouri, Arkansas, Mississippi, Alabama, Georgia, Virginia, and North and South Carolina. In addition, I’ve sent Jackie Malone with a squad of the best of our scouts to parachute in and harass Osterman at every opportunity in her own backyard.”

Harley glanced at Hammer and smiled. They’d both served under Jackie in the past, and had the utmost respect for her abilities to cause problems for those she opposed. “I’ll bet Osterman is shitting bricks,” Harley said.

Ben laughed. “I suppose so. Jackie took over an Air National Guard base in Peoria and attacked Sugar Babe’s home base last night, inflicting fairly severe damage.”

“You go, girl,” Beth whispered, a wide grin on her face.

“I’ve already heard that Osterman had the gall to complain

 

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about an unwarranted attack by our forces to the United Nations this morning.”

“She’s got some balls,” Harley said, reluctant admiration in his voice.

“And then some,” Ben agreed. “Jean-Francois Chapelle, Secretary General of the UN., called Cecil Jeffreys and asked him what was going on.”

“What’d Cec tell him?” Anna asked.

“Cec said he had no idea who had attacked Osterman, but that it might have been dissidents in her own Army, since the planes involved were hers.”

“Did Chapelle buy that cock-and-bull story?” Hammer asked.

“Not for a minute, but he couldn’t do much since Claire had no proof we were involved. And when Cec asked him to look into the provocative troop movements of Osterman’s, he said he’d take it under advisement.”

“So, as usual, the U.N. is useless as teats on a boar hog?” Harley asked.

“Right,” Ben answered. “They won’t get involved unless some Third World country goes crying to them, which isn’t going to happen any time soon. The U.N. looks upon this as just another squabble to stay out of, letting us settle it between ourselves.”

“You know, Ben, they might act differently if we tell them about this plague Bottger is going to try and unleash on the world. If it gets out of hand, it may affect many more nations that just ours,” Anna said.

“That’s a thought,” Ben said. “I’ll pass it along to Cec and let him run with it, though I doubt it’ll do any good. The U.N. is so used to burying its head in the sand, I don’t think anything will convince them to take a stand, until it’s all over.”

“And what about us?” Harley asked.

“I want you to rest up for a few days, get a little R and R, and be ready to ship out next week.”

“Where to?” Hammer asked.

 

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“I thought a little trip down Mexico way might be good for you, since you’re already acclimated to the climate by your stay in South America.”

“Mexico? But I thought the president didn’t want us down there,” Harley said.

“He doesn’t, but what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, will it?” Ben said with a grin.

 

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Comandante Perro Loco was sitting at his breakfast table, remembering the beginnings of the war for Mexico, when Ben Raines had interfered and dashed his hopes for a quick, decisive victory just a few months ago, as he studied old field reports from his spies and commanders north of the Mexican border.

Field Marshal Bruno Bottger walked in, followed by his second in command, Sergei Bergman.

“Good morning, comandante,” Bottger said, evidently in a better mood this morning after a full night’s sleep.

“Buenos dias, Field Marshal,” Loco replied, straightening the papers on the table next to his plate of scrambled eggs covered with hot sauce.

Bottger and Bergman took their seats and gave orders to the Mexican waiter to bring them whatever the comandante was having, along with a pot of coffee.

Then Bottger spied the papers in front of Loco. “What are you reading, Loco? Field reports?” he asked.

Loco shook his head. “No, I am just reviewing what information I have about Ben Raines and his form of government. I believe, like Cicero of the Roman Republic, to win at war, one must first know one’s enemies as well as one’s allies.”

Bottger smiled, nodding. “What have you found out about Raines?”

“I have just been reading from transcripts given to one of my spies by a newspaper reporter from New York.” He passed

 

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the paper across the table to Bottger, who began to read it. The report by Robert Barnes, war correspondent for the United Press, read as follows:

“As North America began to slowly pull itself out of the greatest economic and social collapse in world history, Ben Raines found himself to be the most hated man in all of America. That really didn’t come as any surprise to Ben, for right after the collapse, Ben had gathered together a small group called the Rebels-a mixture of political/militia/survivalist-oriented men and women-and told them, ‘We’re going to rebuild. Against all odds, we’re going to carve out our own nation. And we’re going to be hated for our success.’

“As it turned out, hate was not nearly a strong enough word. Ben and his Rebels first went to the Northwest and settled what would be forever known as the Tri-States, with the Tri-States form of government. The philosophy was based on personal responsibility and common sense. It soon became a hated form of government for those living outside the Tri-States, for liberals and other left-wingers don’t want to be responsible for anything they do and they don’t appear to possess any common sense.

” ‘Of course, that isn’t entirely true,’ Ben once said in one of his rarely granted interviews with the press. ‘But that’s the way it seems to those of us who believe that government should stay out of the lives of its citizens as much as possible.’

“In the Tri-States, if you got careless and stuck yourself in the face with the business end of a screwdriver, you didn’t sue the manufacturer of the screwdriver for damages … you learned to be more careful in handling tools.

“Common sense.

“Ben Raines realized that not everyone could, or would, live under a system of law that leaned heavily on common sense and personal responsibility. From the outset he es-

 

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timated, correctly, as it turned out, that no more than two or three out of every ten Americans could live under a Tri-States form of government. People who came to live in the old Tri-States did not expect something for nothing … and that was wise on their part, for they damn sure weren’t going to get something for nothing.

“In the Tri-States, everybody who was able worked at something. No able-bodied person sat on their ass and expected free handouts from the taxpayers … that just wasn’t going to happen. You might not like the job that would be found for you, and it would be found very quickly, but you worked it, or you got out.

“Criminals discovered almost immediately that in the Tri-States, they had very few rights. All the rights belonged to the law-abiding citizens. If a criminal got hurt during the commission of a crime, he or she could not sue for damages. If they got killed, their family could not sue for damages. And in the Tri-States, a lot of criminals got killed during the first years. The Tri-States was not a friendly place for criminals … and it didn’t take criminals long to discover that. The residents of the Tri-States didn’t have a problem with drugs; the penalty for selling hard drugs was death; when caught, and after a very brief trial, the criminals had a choice, hanging or firing squad. Consequently, very soon drug dealing in the Tri-States dropped off to zero.

“Life was so good in the Tri-States, the central government, once it got back on its feet after only a few years, couldn’t stand it and moved against the Tri-Staters. It was a terrible battle, but in the end the old Tri-States, located in the Northwest, was destroyed.

“But Ben Raines and his dream lived, and Ben gathered together the survivors of the government assault, and declared war on the government … a dirty, nasty, hit-and-destroy-and-run type of guerrilla warfare.

“Eventually, the entire United States collapsed inward

 

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and Ben and his Rebels, now hundreds and hundreds strong, were able to move into the South and set up a new government. This time it was called the SUSA: the Southern United States of America.

“It was a struggle for a few years, and one time the SUSA was overrun by rabble from outside its borders. But the Rebels beat the attackers back and rebuilt their nation, larger and stronger and more self-sufficient than ever before.

“The Rebels are now the largest and most powerful and feared fighting force in the free world, so much so that the Secretary General of the newly reorganized United Nations met with Ben Raines and made a bargain with him: You deal with a few trouble spots around the world, especially with Bruno Bottger and his band of Nazis, and we’ll recognize the SUSA as a free and sovereign nation.

“The two men shook hands, sealing the deal, and Ben took his Rebels and sailed off to Africa.”

As Bottger put the paper down, Loco said, “The report ended just as Raines was heading off to fight you, Field Marshal, in Africa, some years ago.”

Bottger pursed his lips, a wry expression on his face. He glanced at Bergman, who was scowling.

“We remember the time very well, comandante,” Bottger said in a low voice, as if he didn’t appreciate being reminded of his defeat at the hands of Raines.

Loco pushed a journal-type document across the table. “This is a journal, written by one of Raines’s team that accompanied him throughout that campaign,” Loco said. “It too gives fresh insight into the way Raines’s mind works, and speaks directly toward his motivation in trying to save the world from men such as he believes we are.”

Bottger thumbed through the journal, reading as he sipped his coffee.

 

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“Ben poured a fresh hot mug of coffee from the thermos and shook his head and sighed, remembering all too vividly the bad days in America, before the collapse, before the terrible germ war that wiped out every government around the globe, even before the nationwide taxpayer revolt that cost hundreds of Americans their lives as hardworking and hard-pressed-by-the-government citizens protested the amount of money extorted from them every year by the government … and in many cases, at least in the minds of many, the money carelessly pissed away by Congress.

“Ben sat in his tent and sipped his coffee, recalling the smooth and highly effective actions of the insidious gun-grab folks at work, until they finally got their way and all handguns (except those in the hands of selected citizens-the suck-ass types) were seized by federal agents and carefully handpicked and trained members of the military.

“Ben recalled even before then, when morally the nation was sliding down into the gutter.

” ‘Morally we were bankrupt,’ Ben muttered, after taking another sip of coffee. ‘Many Americans were happy and content to be playing among the turds and the puke in the sewers.’

“And Ben knew the nation was definitely morally bankrupt in the years before the Great War and the collapse. There was filth and perversion every day on the television and in the movies. The same garbage, and in many cases, much worse, could be found in cyberspace, on the information highway called the Internet.

“Liberals and many members of the press screamed that it was freedom of speech and to interfere would be a violation of the Bill of Rights.

“But Ben had grave doubts about that.

“A few years before the entire world fell apart there had been a rash of schoolyard killings: kids killing kids

 

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for no apparent reason. The hysterical gun-grabbers howled that it was the availability of guns that caused the kids to kill. But Ben and millions of others who applied common sense to everyday living know that was pure horseshit: nothing but mealymouthed, out-of-touch-with-reality liberals making excuses for deviant and otherwise totally unacceptable behavior.

“Ben stirred restlessly in his camp chair as old memories came flooding back with startling clarity, vivid images of him, years back, sitting in the den of his home trying to watch television, but instead seething with anger at the TV news commentators and movie and TV personalities (all of them so left-leaning and liberal it pained them to have to give a right-hand turn signal), excusing the behavior of dope dealers, violent criminals, gang members, and degenerates … and especially saying the Bible was passe.

“Ben had listened to those types espouse their views that the Bible didn’t really have to be followed … not down to the letter. If a certain passage of Scriptures didn’t please the reader, well, just ignore it and go on to another passage that better suited the reader’s lifestyle.

“Ben had always wondered, often, as he recalled, what the Almighty thought about that.

“Ben was not an overly religious man, but he certainly believed in God and he did read the Bible: He carried a Bible with him in the wagon and read it often, taking a great deal of comfort in the words.

“He recalled a radio interview he’d done with a talk show host one time, just a few months before the Great War and the collapse. The interviewer was one of those who believed that only the police and the military should own guns, and no civilian should be allowed to carry a concealed weapon … except for certain selected individuals, that is; but he would never say who those selected people might be. But Ben knew: people who gave lots of

 

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money to the whiny, I-want-to-run-your-life and the give-me-something-for-nothing parties. The interviewer placed the blame for many of society’s ills solely on guns … but never, ever on the person holding the gun.

“Ben had finally lost his temper with the left-winger and the interview turned decidedly nasty. The ratings for that show were the highest ever known.

“Ben smiled as he recalled that long-ago TV show. That had been a fun interview! He had succeeded in making the left-wing liberal prick angry and the man had lost his cool. Ben had been good at doing that.

“Ben’s smile faded. Now the city where the station had been located no longer existed, except in the ashes of memory. Those wonderful people the interviewer had so staunchly defended had turned the streets into a battleground, as punk gangs fought for control … until the Rebels came along and killed them.”

Bottger sneered as he put the journal down. “This is bullshit, written by a woman obviously infatuated with General Raines. No one in a position of power is that naive, that altruistic,” Bottger said.

Loco shrugged. “I would not be too sure, Field Marshal. I, for one, believe Ben Raines is just as he’s reported to be, a fanatic about self-reliance and loyalty. Just read what the journal says about his relationship with the president of the SUSA.”

Bottger picked the journal back up and read:

“Cecil Jeffreys was the president of the SUSA, the first black man elected to such a high office in America … and it took the separation of the nation and the men and women of the South to accomplish it.

“Cecil and Ben had been friends for many years. Cecil had left the grueling life in the field to enter politics after a heart attack nearly killed him during a campaign.”

 

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Loco pointed at the transcript of the expedition written by Robert Barnes, war correspondent, Associated Press, and the journal written by an unnamed member of his team. “Ben Raines is part madman,” Loco said, “as you can see by his antiquated beliefs in the importance of the individual, and I believe that makes him a far more formidable adversary than we have believed. I think part of his success against both of us has been that fact, that we’ve underestimated him, thought him to be more like us, when in fact he is just the opposite.”

Bottger put down the lengthy article. “Ben Raines and his men are very tough,” he said, “and they are apparently completely unafraid of us and our armies, a fact we must take into consideration. We can only hope that Raines’s battles with the forces of the USA will weaken him and divide his attention from us long enough for us to prevail here in Mexico.”

“It is a gamble worth taking, Field Marshal,” Loco said, leaning across the table to make his point. “After all, for a chance to control all of the American continent, what difference would it make if we lose a few thousand men? Fighting men and equipment are expendable and easily replaceable. Central and South America are full of men who are willing to risk their lives for the promise of money.”

Bottger grinned and raised his cup of coffee. “For which we both should be eternally grateful.”

 

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Captain Dimitri Zubov was deeply concerned. Worried was a better word for the way he felt. In all his years as a hired mercenary since leaving the former Soviet Union, he’d never encountered anything quite like this. His men were spread out across muggy, jungle-thick hills in a Mexican state known as Oxaca.

They’d been dropped off at the port town of Salina Cruz by freighter and told to move northward and kill everyone and destroy any villages they came upon. They’d been promised that the Mexican Army was weak and poorly represented in this state and that they’d face little opposition except from poorly armed Indians and half-breeds.

However, a seek-and-destroy mission in this terrain was about as tough as it could get. Captain Zubov lead a force of ex-Blackshirts, the special assassination troops trained in guerrilla warfare by the elite USA Subversive Corps. Blackshirts, as they were called, were only sent into a war zone for highly specialized assignments. Most of these men had left the U.S. when Claire Osterman had been forced from power last year, and had joined up with mercenary forces. Zubov commanded one of these units, made up of mercenaries from around the world.

General Herman Bundt had directed him to search for a Mexican Army unit made up of special troops reported to be in these hills. And yet no sign of them had turned up anywhere … not so much as a single footprint. A bombing run

 

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by the helicopters assigned to his unit had used their antitank missiles to wipe out most of the citizenry of this region, leaving only a few farm animals and wild creatures roaming the mountainous jungle region.

He spoke to his sergeant, Sergi Rikov, another highly skilled Soviet guerrilla fighter, whispering to him in the fog of an early spring morning in southern Mexico.

“Nothing. We were given bad information by General Bundt about these Mexican troops. They are not here. Otherwise, we would have found something… .”

“Why would anyone fight to hold this useless territory?” Sergeant Rikov asked. “What strategic value could it possibly have?”

“Who knows? I’m beginning to wonder about the competence of leadership under this man whom we never see. No one seems to know what they are doing.”

Zubov glanced up at cloudy skies. A silence blanketed the valley below them. “No airplanes. No rockets. Not a shot has been fired.”

“It may be too quiet,” Rikov warned. “Remember what Leonid said about silence when we went through our training in Mongolia. Silence can be a deadly thing … a warning. I have never been in a place as quiet as this. It is far too quiet to suit me.”

“Nor have I seen a place so quiet,” Zubov agreed, sweeping the pine-studded valley with field glasses.

“If these Mexican troops intend to challenge us over this place, they would surely send up aircraft in order to have our position,” said Rikov. “Even the quietest surveillance airplane flying at high altitude makes some noise.” He glanced at his superior lying next to him. “Or perhaps the presence of our attack helicopters scared them off.”

“They may not be able to get a fix on us,” Zubov said. “We don’t know how well equipped this General Guerra and his armies are. We have ten rocket launchers, and only thirty men for them to find. If these Mexican soldiers are here, we

 

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will certainly have them overpowered by weaponry … and skilled guerrilla fighters.”

“At the very least, we have good men,” Rikov said with a glance behind him. “Our Soviet and Yugoslav assault teams are the best in the world. I have absolutely no doubt about it. All we have to do is find the enemy.”

Zubov let out a sigh. “What good will it do us, or this cause championed by General Bundt and Field Marshal Bottger, if they have sent us to the wrong place? There are times, like now, when I question the value of their intelligence reports on enemy activities.”

“General Bundt sounded so sure. A unit of the Mexicans’ crack assault troops was coming south by way of this old road, to launch an attack on Salina Cruz to try and take back the port so we couldn’t use it for reinforcements. No one had any doubts, according to the general.”

“I have my doubts now,” Zubov said. “This is nothing but jungle and empty villages, a few wandering cows and some pigs beyond that hilltop. There are no enemy soldiers here. We have wasted our time in difficult terrain based on inaccurate information. No one, not even a civilian, is here now.”

“We were ordered to wait.”

Zubov scowled. “Yes. To wait for the enemy. But as you can see, there is no enemy, unless we intend to wage war against pigs and cows.” ;

“According to General Bundt, we will be paid no matter what we find.”

“I’m beginning to wonder,” Zubov added, turning the focus knob on his field glasses. “I hear rumors that Bottger and Perro Loco are going broke … that they have very little money left after the disastrous defeat last year at the hands of Ben Raines’s Rebels. Most of their attempts to take Africa and Mexico failed miserably, which only makes me wonder more about their leadership. And now I hear they are broke.”

“I have heard the same thing,” Rikov said. “If this is indeed

 

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true, we will be forced to take our money from them at gunpoint.”

“I was told the Central Americans have not been paid in silver or gold. They were given paper currency that is worthless. None of the stores in any of the towns in the USA will take this paper money.”

“Until Field Marshal Bottger breaks a promise to us, we have no choice but to follow his orders. If anything he has told us is not true, including the amount and type of money we will be paid, then I will kill him personally.”

Rikov suddenly looked away. “I heard a noise, Captain.”

Zubov jerked around. “What kind of noise?” he whispered when all seemed quiet at the front, to the north of their present position.

“A cry … like the crying of a small child, but very soft and far away.”

“Who the hell would be crying in this wilderness? There are no children here. We haven’t seen anyone since we crossed that ridge miles behind us.”

“It may be nothing,” Rikov said, although he continued to keep an eye on a hilltop roughly half a mile away. “I could have imagined it, I suppose.”

Zubov went back to his field glasses, sweeping the jungle again. “Nothing,” he hissed, clenching his teeth. “But I have the distinct feeling that something is wrong.”

“Look!” Rikov exclaimed, pointing to a grassy slope to the north. “It is Yarimere! What is he doing out in the open like that?”

Zubov turned his binoculars on the slope. Yarimere Hecht, an old friend from Russia, was staggering down the hill, stumbling and almost falling. And now Zubov heard the crying sounds too, for they were distinct in the silence surrounding them.

“What the hell is wrong with him?” Rikov wanted to know, focusing his field glasses on a man in a black shirt and black

 

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beret stumbling toward them, dark stains on his clothes and an agonized expression on his face.

Zubov sighed, reaching for his AK-47 automatic rifle. “He is badly wounded, comrade. Someone has shot him several times in the chest and belly.”

Rikov tensed, reaching down for his own automatic rifle. “Then they are here,” he whispered.

The sudden staccato of automatic-weapons fire thundered from the jungle hills south of them. Yarimere Hecht went down in a heap as if he’d been struck over the head by a heavy hammer, blood squirting from a number of wounds across his back and sides, his head coming apart in a spray of blood and bone and tufts of his long black hair.

“Son of a bitch!” Zubov hissed, looking for the source of the bullets. “How the hell did they get behind us?”

“It is not possible,” Sergeant Rikov said as more and more gunfire erupted from trees to the south and west of their position.

The endless blasts of large-bore guns echoed across the Ox-acan jungle. Men in black vests and berets tumbled out of pine thickets, shooting at unseen targets to their rear before they were gunned down.

“They have us cornered,” Zubov exclaimed. “We have no choice but to head north, and that is all very thick jungle country.”

“To hell with this,” Rikov shouted as the gunshots came closer, lead slugs whistling through the air above their heads now.

He came to a crouch and took off at a run, keeping low to make as small a target as possible.

Captain Zubov had cupped his hands around his mouth to warn his sergeant against such a retreat, when he felt the earth shudder beneath him.

Sergeant Rikov stepped on a land mine less than thirty yards downslope. He was blown skyward, arms windmilling, his AK-47 flying into the air only fractions of a second before his legs

 

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were severed from his body. Pulpy bits of bone and flesh swirled away from his torso, and as he met his appointment with death, he let out a bloodcurdling scream.

Zubov did not watch his sergeant land in pieces around a deep crater where the land mine had been planted. All he could think of now was making it out of this place with his skin intact.

Men were screaming across vine-choked ridges behind him, and he had proof the land south of his position had been mined … his trusted sergeant’s body decorated the dark green grass running into the valley below him.

“How the hell did they slip up behind us without any of my men knowing about it?” he wondered aloud, inching backward until he was protected from flying bullets by a ledge of rock jutting from the hill.

It was not possible, and yet the shrill cries of wounded and dying men made it all too clear his squad was in deep trouble in the pines.

Zubov saw two of his men break from a stand of trees at a dead run, spraying automatic-weapons fire in their wake as they ran toward safety.

A mortar thudded somewhere on a hillock west of the valley, and then an earsplitting explosion blew his Blackshirt squad men away, leaving nothing but flying dirt and vines and clods of grass where they had been only moments before the blast.

To hell with this, he thought, bending low to make a run to the east where no guns riddled the slopes. He dashed across the low side of the ridge with his AK-47 cocked, ready to unleash its deadly load should any target present itself before he reached the apparent safety of a jungle grove nestled in a swale between two hills.

Too late, he caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure in the trees, and the glint of early morning sunlight off the barrel of a rifle.

 

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Zubov threw himself flat in the grass, bringing his rifle to bear on the shape.

The pounding of rapid fire filled his ears, and he felt a stinging sensation spread across the top of his head and his right shoulder.

The sky above him began to spin, and he lost his bearings for a moment.

“What the hell … is happening?” he stuttered, feeling a wet substance flow out of his mouth when he spoke.

He looked down at the grass below his chin. A crimson stain spread between his elbows, and pain raced through his skull unlike any pain he’d ever known.

am shot, he thought dully as he felt himself spinning in widening circles. Tiny pinpoints of light flashed before his eyes as the world around him darkened.p>

How did they get behind us? he wondered again, until a deep wracking cough filled his mouth with blood.

His eyes batted shut, and the pain was gone.

Captain Raul Perez stepped from cover and stood over the bodies of the mercenaries as his men came out of the jungle to join him. They all wore the red berets of the Mexican Special Forces units that Harley Reno and Hammer Hammerick had trained the year before when Perro Loco first attacked Mexico.

Sergeant Julio Yara stepped to Perez’s side. “I see our training last year was not in vain, Captain,” he said with a grin.

Perez looked around at his men, who’d suffered no loses in their ambush of the mercenaries. “Yes, the tactics the americanos taught us worked extremely well.”

Sergeant Yara turned to the other men. “Pick up all the weapons and ammunition you can and strip the bodies for the buzzards. We shall leave a message the mercenaries will not soon forget.”

 

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Bruno Bottger was furious when Bergman told him of Bundt’s report of the mercenary unit slaughtered in the mountainous region of Oxaca.

“Why are we wasting valuable troops and equipment trying to occupy land that is so remote?” he asked scornfully.

Bergman shrugged. “We did not feel the Mexican Army was such a threat, Field Marshal. Evidently, they have learned some lessons from fighting with the Americans last year.”

“From now on, we will concentrate on taking Mexico City, not worthless mountains and jungles that have no strategic significance,” he ordered. He looked at General Bundt. “Herman, you will use the port cities we’ve already captured as staging points for reinforcements to build up a force that is to be used only in our final attack against Mexico City. Once we have the seat of government in our hands, the Mexican Army will have no choice but to surrender.”

“Yes, sir, Field Marshal,” Bundt said, his face flaming with embarrassment at his failure.

Bottger consulted a detailed topographic map of Mexico. “I want you to leapfrog our troops to take Acapulco and then Las Truchas next. From there we can ship in helicopters and gunships as well as men for the final assault on Mexico City.”

“Yes, sir, it will be done,” Bundt said.

“I do not want any more reports of failure, Herman, or you will soon be fighting as a private, do you understand me?”

 

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“Yes, sir,” he said, saluting smartly and hurrying from the room.

After the general left, Sergei looked at his boss. “Why the haste to take Mexico City, sir?”

Bottger sighed. “My bank accounts are depleted, Sergei. We need to get to the gold stored in the capital city as soon as possible, before our mercenaries find out we have nothing left with which to pay them.”

Bergman nodded. “I understand.”

“And, Sergei, have the scientists get the plague missiles and bombs ready. As soon as we’ve secured Mexico City, I want to launch BW attacks against Ben Raines and his troops. We cannot afford a repeat of Africa.”

“Yes, sir.”

Perro Loco’s men were doing better. The roads toward Mexico City that ran through the middle of the country were well maintained and hadn’t been mined extensively, so his heavy equipment and tanks were making short work of the Mexican Army’s defenses. In fact, his men had progressed almost to the city of Puebla, less than a hundred miles south of Mexico City, well within the range of his helicopter gunships. He was almost ready to give the order for an all-out siege of the capital city.

Ben Raines was going over the intel reports with Mike Post when Dr. Larry Buck knocked on his door and entered, a smile on his face.

“Hello, Doc,” Ben said, looking up from the maps spread on his desk. “You look like the cat that swallowed the canary.”

“Better than that, Ben. We’ve finally managed to get the formula for a vaccine against the bug Bottger is planning to use. I’ve ordered full production, so we should be ready to begin inoculations within twenty-four hours.”

 

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Ben nodded, returning the doc’s smile. “Good, ‘cause it looks like Mexico City will fall within the week. After that, Bottger is sure to begin deployment of his BW as soon as he can.”

“There is something strange going on, though,” Mike Post said.

“What’s that, Mike?” Ben asked.

“My spies in the U.S. say there is no program of inoculation going on there among Osterman’s troops. What do you make of that?”

Ben glanced at Buck. “Is there any way they could already be immune, Larry?”

“No way, Ben. This bug is completely new and different from anything I’ve seen before. If Osterman’s not already immunizing her troops, then they’re going to be as vulnerable as ours would have been.”

Ben scratched at a two-day growth of beard on his face. He’d been too busy lately to shave, and the new growth itched terribly.

After a minute, he looked up. “That must mean Bottger is planning to double-cross Osterman. I’ll bet he figures the plague will devastate both our countries, leaving the entire North American continent ripe for picking.”

“But, that’d mean millions of deaths,” Buck said, a look of horror on his face. “No one can be that callous toward human life.”

“Don’t count on it, Larry,” Ben said. “If there’s a spark of humanity in Bruno Bottger, I haven’t seen any sign of it yet.”

“Ben, I don’t know if I can in good conscience withhold this vaccine from Osterman. Even if we are at war, those are still Americans living there. Can you stand by and see millions of innocent people die just to defeat a crazy woman?”

“No, Larry, of course not. I never regret killing men in battle who are trying to kill me, but I’ve never countenanced killing civilians along with the military, not even to win a war I didn’t start. Of course, we’ll share the formula with Oster-225

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man, but we’ll not give her the actual vaccine until all of our men have had a chance at it first.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Gather up all your papers on the illness Jersey and Coop suffered after exposure to the bug, as well as your culture reports and basic information on both the bug and your vaccine. I’ll contact Sugar Babe tomorrow, after we’ve begun to vaccinate our troops.”

“I’ll have the information on your desk first thing in the morning,” Buck said.

 

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Less than an hour after Ben had faxed the information on the BW of Bruno Bottger to Claire Osterman’s office, his phone rang.

He picked it up and said, “Hello, Claire.”

“What is this shit, Raines? What have you got up your sleeve now?” she asked in a harsh voice.

“I thought the information was pretty self-evident,” he replied in a reasonable tone of voice. “Are you seriously having trouble believing a man like Bruno Bottger would be planning to double-cross you?”

“How did you know-” she began.

Ben interrupted her. “How did I know you are in cahoots with Bruno Bottger?” he finished for her.

“I don’t know where you got the idea Bottger is still alive, or that I’m in cahoots with him, as you say,” she said lamely.

“Oh, come on, Claire. Who else would have the technical know-how to take the same bug Bottger used against the world a couple of years ago and cause a mutation that would make it even more deadly?”

When he was met with silence on the other end of the phone, Ben continued. “And as far as knowing about your deal with the devil, we’ve known about that from the very beginning, Claire,” Ben said, stretching the truth to make her even more unsure of his sources.

“Well, anyway,” she continued in a stronger tone of voice,

 

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“why should I trust any information you give me after you sent your assassins to try and kill me?”

“Claire, if I wanted you dead, you’d already be decomposing.”

“Bullshit, Raines. You know attempted assassination of a country’s leaders is expressly forbidden by the Geneva Convention rules of war.”

Ben threw back his head and laughed. “Claire, I’m surprised you even know the Geneva Convention rules, since you’ve broken every single one of them since you’ve been president of the U.S., especially the ones concerning the use of chemical and biological weapons.”

She paused, then: “Nevertheless, answer my question. Why should I trust you now?”

“Because you know it fits with Bottger’s character, or lack thereof,” Ben said patiently.

“If he’s got this weapon ready, why hasn’t he used it already?” she asked, her tone becoming more businesslike.

“Probably because he needs you to keep me busy until he can gain control of Mexico by taking Mexico City. Once he’s established there and the Mexican Army is out of the picture, I think he’ll launch a full-scale attack on the SUSA with his plague bacteria.”

Another hesitation while she pondered the reasonableness of Ben’s idea.

“And, Claire,” Ben continued, “if you’re thinking that might be good for you, think again. If the plague gets a hold here in the SUSA, even on a minor scale, remember what happened last time he and you played with biological weapons. Plagues know no boundaries. The sickness will surely cross the border like a wildfire out of control, and burn you as badly as us.”

“Not if he shares the vaccine with us,” Claire said, an uncertain note in her voice.

“Has he made any effort to even inform you of his plans, much less share his vaccine with you?” Ben asked.

 

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“There’s still time,” Claire said, “if what you’re saying is the truth.”

“Now who’s bullshitting whom, Claire?” Ben asked. “My medical experts tell me the vaccine will take from one to two weeks to become effective after inoculation. If that’s true, and Bottger is only days away from taking Mexico City, then you haven’t got a lot of time to prepare, have you?”

“Shit!” she said, evidently realizing she’d been set up as surely as night follows day.

“Claire, in spite of our … philosophical differences, our countries share a common history and a common blood bond. We are all, in a sense, Americans. For that reason, and for that reason alone, I don’t wish to see your citizens die by the millions.”

“What do you suggest?” she said slowly, as if thinking over his words.

“I’d like to make a deal.”

“What kind of deal?” she asked, more suspicious now.

“Call it a quid pro quo,” Ben said, “a tit-for-tat sort of deal.”

“Oh, so your humanity has a price?” she said scornfully.

Ben chuckled again. “In the words of the immortal writer Robert A. Heinlein, Claire, there ain’t no such thing as a free lunch.”

“So, what’s this ‘lunch,’ as you call it, going to cost me?”

“Simply pull your troops back from our borders and stand them down.”

“That’s it?” she asked.

“That’s it, Claire,” he answered. “It’s a war you know you can’t win anyway, so you have nothing to lose by doing the deal.”

“And if we do this?”

“I’ll ship you detailed instructions on the manufacture of a vaccine effective against the anthrax plague, as well as a supply to get you started with your vaccinations until you can make your own.”

 

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“And that’s all?” she asked.

“Oh, and one more thing,” Ben said.

“I knew it,” Claire said.

“You’ve got to allow inspectors from the United Nations to monitor your troop withdrawal.”

“What?”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you, Claire, but you’ve got to admit, you’re not known for keeping your word.”

“You’re a son of a bitch, Raines! You know that?”

“Son of a bitch or no, Claire, you know I always keep my word, especially when it means the saving of millions of lives,” Ben said.

After a few seconds, Claire answered, “All right, Raines, I’ll do it.”

“Good. You’ve made the right choice, Claire. I’ll arrange with President Jeffreys to have Jean-Francois Chapelle get some inspectors on their way to your country immediately.”

“What about the vaccine?” Claire asked. “If what you say is true, time is of the essence.”

“I will take you at your word and send it right away,” Ben said. Then, in a harsher voice, he added, “And, Claire, if you double-cross me after I send it, I make you a solemn promise. I will bomb you and your country into the Dark Ages.”

The only answer Ben got was a loud click as Claire slammed her phone down.

He called Mike Post and told him of his deal with Claire.

“Do you think you can trust her?” Mike asked.

“You never know with Claire, so here’s what I want you to do. Have communications get in touch with Jackie Malone and her crew of guerrillas, and have them cease all aggressive tactics, but to stay there undercover, just in case Claire doesn’t come through on her end of the bargain.”

Mike chuckled. “Jackie’s not going to like sitting around with her hands in her pockets,” he said.

Ben smiled. “I know, but tell her it’s the best we can do