AMBUSH!

The colonel leading the advancing regiment sent recon in first. The
recon moved carefully and cautiously. But they seldom investigated more
than twenty yards on either side of the old highway. It was a mistake.

As soon as the recon teams passed, the Rebels slipped out of their holes
and reset the Claymore and placed C-4 at selected sites . . .

The first tanks of the long column appeared and the Rebels let them
rumble past, allowing them to roll deeper and deeper into the trap . . .

"Now!" Ben Raines said, and Cooper fired the Armbrust. The rocket
slammed into the side of a tank and turned the inside into a fiery death
for the crew. Up and down the mile-long stretch of highway, explosions
shattered the quiet. A rattled regimental commander screamed orders to
retreat.

But it was too late. In their haste to retreat, the tanks and trucks
were twisted up in a death lock. Now it was a turkey shoot for the Rebel
troops . . .

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4 TREASON IN THE ASHES

William W. Johnstone
Pinnacle Books Kensington Publishing Corp

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5 This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and
incidents, are either the product of the author's imagination or are
used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or
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PINNACLE BOOKS are published by

Kensington Publishing Corp. 850 Third Avenue New York, NY 10022

Copyright © 1994 by William W. Johnstone

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First Zebra Printing: April, 1994 First Pinnacle Printing: February,
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Printed in the United States of America

6 "The first requisite of a good citizen in this Republic of ours is
that he shall be able and willing to pull his weight."

-Theodore Roosevelt

"Behold, I show you a mystery; We shall not all sleep, but we shall all
be changed."

-The Bible

7 Mexico

So this is how it ends, Ben thought, as the sun began gradually casting
its light over the land. He stared at the Nazi firing squad, staring
back at him. Then that old familiar recklessness filled him and he
grinned at the line of men.

"I believe I will have that last cigarette you offered me, Volmer," Ben
called. "If the offer still holds."

Peter Volmer, leader of the Nazi Party in what used to be known as
America, looked at Jesus Hoffman, self-proclaimed Fuhrer, and the man
nodded his head. "Give him a cigarette."

"His hands?"

"Untie them," Hoffman said. "What can he do now? He is a mere shell of
what he used to be. The interrogations have weakened him and his knees
tremble with fear. Go on. This could be amusing."

"Stand the men at ease," Volmer ordered the thirteen men who made up the
firing squad. He walked across the courtyard and up to Ben. Volmer
untied Ben's hands and handed him a cigarette.

8 Ben flexed his hands several times before taking the cigarette.
"They're really bad for your health, you know?" he said with a smile.

"You won't have to worry about that for very much longer, General Raines."

"I guess not." Ben bent his head to take the offered flame from a
cigarette lighter. He got the tip glowing red hot and then suddenly
jammed the lighted end into Volmer's right eye, grabbed the Nazi's
pistol from his holster, and scrambled over the low part of the
crumbling adobe wall.

Volmer was rolling on the ground, screaming in terrible pain, both hands
to his blinded eye. From the balcony of the hacienda, Fuhrer Jesus
Diguez Mendoza Hoffman screamed, "Shoot the son of a bitch!"

But Ben had vanished from sight.

The next thing he knew, he was face to face with a very startled Nazi SS
man. He wasn't startled long. Ben shot him twice in the chest. He ripped
the submachine gun from the dead hands and tore off the full ammo pouch,
then he took off at a dead run for the main house. Ben didn't think he
had a snowball's chance in hell of getting out of this pickle alive, so
he had made up his mind to take some Nazis with him.

Ben was not nearly so mentally and physically worn out as Hoffman and
Volmer thought. He had resisted the drugs and the brainwashing, and for
some reason, the few physical beatings had been half-hearted.

Ben heard running feet behind him, and he scrambled out of sight. The
footsteps stopped, the door to the room flung open and a tall, rangy SS
officer

9 stepped inside. Ben drove the butt of his submachine gun into the
man's belly, bringing him to his knees. One more blow broke the SS man's
neck. Ben opened a canvas pouch and smiled. Grenades. He took those and
the dead man's clips, all fully loaded.

Dragging the body to the other side of the room, Ben stood for a moment,
staring at the corpse. "Well. . . why not?" he muttered. He and the dead
man were about the same size. He stripped the body and put on the hated
black of the SS, wondering why there was so little pursuit of him and
virtually no gunfire since he'd jumped over the low wall of the
execution site.

After dressing the dead man in his own uniform, he squatted down beside
the body for a moment. "Might work," he muttered, and slung both
submachine guns and the ammo pouches over his shoulder, and took out two
grenades, pulling the pins and holding down the spoons. "Achtung!
Achtung!" Ben yelled, then added in German: "Here he is."

Ben quickly put one grenade under the man's belly and the other one
beside his head and got the hell away from that area.

Ben entered a storeroom and closed the door just as the grenades blew.
He sat down wearily behind some crates and boxes and thought: How in the
hell did I ever get into this mess?

Ben remembered the ambush by the Nazi kids, some of them as young as
eight or ten, somewhere in New Mexico, he thought. The damn drugs he'd

10 been force-fed during his captivity had really screwed up his
thinking and memory. That and his time on what he'd heard called a
"sensory-deprivation" machine-whatever the hell that was. The important
thing was, Ben had fought it and won. He knew he was in Mexico, but how
deep into Mexico he had no idea.

Now everything began coming back to him. The year-long war with Jesus
Hoffman and his Nazis. They'd come out of South America with grand plans
to take control of what remained of the United States. Ben Raines and
his Rebels had kicked that nightmare right in the head.

Ben wondered how long he'd been in captivity? Weeks, surely. Maybe
months. He wondered how the war was going? Who was winning? Was it over?
He shook his head. No, not as long as just one Rebel lived, the fight
for freedom would never be over. And he knew for a fact that one Rebel
was damn sure alive.

Ben Raines.

A voice shouted out in German: "Here he is. The man is dead. Ben Raines
is dead!"

So far, so good, Ben thought.

"Get the Fuhrer out of here!" a voice filled with panic screamed, just
as hard gunfire slammed the early hours of the day. "Paratroopers. Look!"

Interesting, Ben thought, sitting amid the mops and buckets and crates
and boxes.

Ben heard cars and trucks crank up, the sounds of what seemed to be
hundreds of running feet. Just to be on the safe side, Ben removed the SS

11 officer's shirt. If those were his people parachuting in, he sure
didn't want to be mistaken for a Nazi and catch a Rebel bullet.

Ben smiled as he heard his son, Buddy Raines, yell, "Where is my father,
you goose-stepping son of a bitch?"

The reply was given in German. Ben winced at the sound of a blow. His
son was built like a tank and possessed enormous strength. If he'd
struck the man, the man was now seriously hurt.

"Where's the General?" he heard Jersey yell.

"I'm in here!" Ben yelled, standing up.

Silence in the hallway. But outside, the battle was raging. Angry Rebels
were apparently taking few, if any prisoners. The sounds of screaming
and moaning was loud even through the thick walls of the old hacienda.

"Did you hear that?" Beth's voice drifted to him.

"Where's here?" Corrie demanded.
Ben tapped on the door. "Right here, gang. I'm coming out, so ease up on
those triggers." Ben opened the door and stepped out into the hall. He
looked at his team, at his son, and smiled. "Took you long enough to get
here. Where the hell have you been?"

14 One

15 One

It had long been said that when the United States stumbles, the world
staggers. Whoever said that knew what they were talking about. The
beginning of the end came not suddenly, but in a quiet, insidious
manner. As silently, slowly, and carefully as a leech crawling across
the edge of a straight razor to get to a drop of blood. The seeds of
collapse, which would eventually lead to the end of what was once the
greatest nation on the face of the earth, came with a lessening of
morals, a country misplacing its values. A few people did see what was
happening but their voices were ignored, and in some cases, stilled
permanently by Big Brother Government. Our political leaders had moved
us too far to the left, trying to be all things to all people, all the
time. Our Great Nannies in Washington bankrupted the citizens trying to
do that which they should have known was impossible.

There was no one thing or happening that led to the collapse of America.
No historian will ever be able to point the finger of guilt at any
single person or government program or world event.

16 But the signs were there. Evidence was all around that many citizens
were worried. Americans were buying guns in record numbers, in the face
of liberals frantically launching programs to disarm Americans. Many
Americans were stockpiling emergency food and water and ammunition. But
instead of our elected and appointed officials trying to determine why
these thousands and thousands of people seemed to be preparing for some
sort of Armageddon, the government sent armed federal agents in to seize
the weapons and prosecute and jail (and sometimes kill) those who felt
they had a constitutional right to own weapons. The national press
belittled the men and women called "surviv-alists," mocking them and
downplaying their warnings and actions. Liberals were prancing about,
waving their hankies and shrieking that more money must be gouged from
already overburdened taxpayers to pay for more social programs.

The warning signs were in place, and there were people who read them
with alarming clarity. Writers wrote books about the end of
civilization. Those men and women were immediately branded as nuts and
kooks (some were), racists (some were), right-wing lunatics (some were),
and enemies of America (most were not). Federal agents followed them,
bugged their phones, and read their mail.

Most members of the press, liberal to the core and completely out of
touch with the true feelings of millions of Americans, could predictably
be counted on to lean to the left, weeping and blubbering and sobbing
about those terrible guns and how the government should forcibly disarm
the law-abiding, tax-paying citizens. Finding a true conser-

17 vative among the national press, print and broadcast, would have been
a real test of sleuthing.

So now, at the beginning of the last decade of the millennium, those men
and women who felt the nation was teetering on the edge of collapse went
about their business of preparing for the end quietly, staying away from
groups who sought the limelight. These people had sensed, accurately,
that it was too late. Nothing could be done to save America. The nation
had sunk into an undrainable cesspool, and the politicians, both liberal
and so-called conservative, and the press (always liberal) were skipping
merrily along, hopping from turd to turd, blissfully unaware that
beneath their feet lay collapse, chaos, and anarchy.

To many Americans who did not walk around with their heads up their
asses, it was inconceivable that those in power could not see the end
fast approaching.

In his last published book before the world exploded, Ben Raines wrote,
"As a nation, we lost our way. We lost sight of one very important item:
America must come first. We must first solve our many problems here at
home, then, and only then, turn our attention and resources to other
countries. That sounds hard and cruel, but if we are to survive as a
nation, we must keep jobs at home and see to the needs of Americans
first. We cannot be the world's problem solver and we must not become
the world's policeman. We can't afford to be either."

But of course, the politicians ignored that and critics branded Ben and
others like him as racist, right-wing lunatics.

Religious fanatics in the Middle East (and other

18 places) declared America the "Great Satan" and openly called for
terrorist attacks against the U.S. And what did our great leaders do
about these madmen? Why, nothing, of course. Finally terrorism struck
the U.S. (as Ben Raines and others predicted it would) and the press was
outraged. Never once did the know-it-all network commentators suggest we
go over and bomb the shit out of the host country. That might involve
some collateral damage (that means civilian dead). Of course between
1939 and '45, we had civilian dead in Berlin, Dresden, Cologne, in
Holland and France and Belgium, England, the Philippines, Japan (to name
only a few of the countries involved), but the press seems to have
forgotten all about that. We still won the damn war. And it just never
dawned on our Great Nannies in Washington, D.C. that to fight terrorism,
you must think like a terrorist and act like a terrorist. And we had
military units trained to do just that. But the sobbing sisters and
hanky-twisters set up such a squall at just the thought of it that it
was never really considered seriously.

Race relations in America began to deteriorate, finally reaching their
lowest point in several decades. Riots became commonplace. The police,
never enough of them, and now unable to enforce the law because of
recent court decisions, could not hold back the violent tide. Los
Angeles blew up. New York turned into a battleground, as did St. Louis,
Detroit, Miami, and Atlanta. Much to the disgrace of this nation, our
capital, Washington, D.C, became the most dangerous city in America.

A few people in prominent positions, like Ben

19 Raines, said, "Why don't you just shoot the goddamn punks and put an
end to this crap?"

"You racist, right-wing, NRA, gun-loving, un-compassionate person!" came
the collective shout from thousands of liberal throats.

"Naw," the law-abiding, tax-paying, so-called "silent majority" said
wearily. "He's just voicing aloud the thoughts of millions."

There were many injustices inflicted upon minorities by whites in
positions of power. There were also injustices inflicted upon whites by
people of color. Minorities were justifiably angry about the lack of
jobs. Whites were angry about quotas and promotions based on race and
gender and not seniority and/or ability. Minorities demanded
respect-loudly. Whites responded by saying that respect is not handed
out on demand-it must be earned. Blacks (by now the name had been
changed to African American) appeared on TV talk shows dressed like
something out of the Congo and wondered why many whites smiled.

One white author appeared on a national talk show dressed in a Viking
helmet and kilt, and carrying bagpipes. He said he was of
Scandinavian/Scotch/Irish heritage and was just dressing like his
ancestors. The black host was not amused.

But she should have been. She should have known that it has to work both
ways. If it won't work both ways, it won't ever work.

We all should have had a sense of humor. And we all should have believed
that we were Americans first, last, and always. And we should have known
if we didn't pull together, it just wasn't going to work.

And in the end, it didn't.

20 The Rebel assault force that came in by land and air routed Hoffman's
troops and quickly moved Ben out of there and into a secured area. Two
hours later Ben was back in Texas. Doctor Lamar Chase, a man who had
been with Ben since the formation of the old Tri-States, ordered his
doctors to check Ben out, head to toe. He got a clean bill of health.

Ben was not a man who wasted time. By late that afternoon he had flown
in all his batt corns ... at least those that had responded to the call.

"We're all over the country, Ben," General Georgi Striganov told him.
The Russian and Ben had once been mortal enemies-until Ben kicked the
Russian's ass and forced him to lay down his arms. Now the Russian Bear
was one of Ben's closest friends and allies in the drive for freedom and
the quest for. democracy.

"Anybody heard from Tina?" Ben asked.

"Last word we got was that she and her 9 Battalion were up near the
Canadian border," Buddy told his father.

Tina Raines was Ben's adopted daughter.

21 "Colonel West?"

"At last report, West and his 4 Battalion were pushing hard to her last
reported site," his son told him.

Ben had learned, much to his shock, that he had been in the hands of
Hoffman's Nazis much longer than he originally thought. He was
completely out of touch with what was going on.

But it wouldn't take Ben Raines long to get back into the saddle of command.

"The foreign troops?"
"All the European troops were called back home to help put down
rebellion in their respective countries," Ike told him.

Ike McGowan, the stocky ex-Navy SEAL, was another who had been with Ben
since the outset.

Ike continued, "The troops from Iceland got chewed up pretty bad. They
requested to be assigned to various of our battalions and Cecil granted
them permission."

General Cecil Jefferys, a black man, was second in command of all
Rebels, and another of Ben's closest friends. Since suffering a heart
attack during the Alaskan campaign, and undergoing bypass surgery, Cecil
was in charge of Base Camp One, a huge section of what had once been
known as Louisiana, now spilling over into much of what had been called
Mississippi. Base Camp One was the only area in the battered nation that
was totally, one hundred percent crime-free. Rebels did not tolerate
crime ... of any sort. And since they did not tolerate it, they had
none. The Rebel philosophy toward crime was very simple, and very deadly.

Ben sat down on the edge of a battered old desk.

22 Everything in the nation was old and battered and scarred; the only
area in the entire country that had been producing anything for years
was Base Camp One. "Let me see if I have all this straight," Ben said.
"While we were chasing Hoffman's goose-steppers all over the damn
country, the thugs, punks, outlaws, war lords, and trash in the nation
got together?"

His batt corns nodded their heads in agreement.

"Everything we accomplished over the years is right down the toilet?"

"That's it, Ben," Ike said. "We're back to square one. And we've taken a
hell of a beating in running off Hoffman. Some battalions are down to
quarter-strength. We're tired, Ben. Just flat worn out."

"I know," Ben said. "Believe me, I do. Equipment?"

"More than we can use in a lifetime," Colonel Rebet told him. "We've
captured hundreds of thousands of tons of supplies and equipment from
Hoffman and his allies. Everything from boots to tanks."

Ben nodded his understanding and turned to Corrie, his long-time radio
operator and member of Ben's personal team. "Get this out to all batt
corns: Hold your positions and get some rest. Find out if they need air
drops and what they need in the way of supplies."

"They need everything from SAMs to sanitary napkins," Corrie quickly
informed the General.

Ike rolled his eyes and looked toward the ceiling. Georgi looked
embarrassed. Buddy quickly began studying his big hands. Pat O'Shea, the
carrot-topped, freckle-faced, wild Irishman who com-

23 manded 10 Battalion ducked his head and took a sip of whiskey from a
small flask.

"See that they're supplied," Ben ordered. "Promptly."
Ben had blown the theory right out the window that women could not
perform well in combat. Two of his batt corns were women, and many of
his most feared Scouts, Night-fighters, Pathfinders, and Rat Pack
members were women. The female motorcycle Rebels, called the Sisters,
were under the command of Wanda. And they were savage fighters.

"Yes, sir," Corrie said with a smile.

"You find something amusing about all this?" Ben demanded.

She laughed at his expression. "Good to have you back with us, General."

Ben smiled. "It's good to be back." To the room of batt corns: "Are we
going to have to regroup and redefine battalions, people?"

Ike shook his graying head. "I don't think so, Ben. Beth has prepared a
list of all battalions and their strength. But General Payon has taken
his Mexican troops back across the border to deal with what is left of
Hoffman's people. So you can see that we're really cut down in size."

"Casualties?" Ben asked softly.

"Thirty to thirty-five percent of Rebels dead or unaccounted for," Ike
said without hesitation.

"Damn!" Ben let the word explode from his mouth.

For a man pushing middle age hard, Ben was in excellent physical shape,
still possessing enormous upper body strength and maintaining a trim
waistline. His thick hair was cut short, and now salt-and-

24 pepper. He was not handsome in the pretty-boy way, but more a man's
man with rugged good looks. He was also very much a woman's man. He had
known for a long time that his personal bodyguard, the beautiful,
dark-eyed, part-Apache, Little Jersey, was in love with him. But Ben had
let that remain strictly platonic, and always would. Jersey knew that
too, and contented herself with just being close to the man.

Ben had suffered through several May/September romances, and knew they
seldom worked. He had buried the only woman he had ever truly loved,
Jerre, on a lonely windswept hill in the Northwest, after a particularly
brutal campaign. The entire Rebel camp knew of their years-long stormy
and rocky relationship. They also knew it was a closed book.

"Get some rest," Ben abruptly ended the meeting. "In the morning, all
you batt corns list your needed supplies and start them moving toward
your location. I don't want anybody to do anything except rest and relax
for a week. It's going to take me that long to assess the situation and
make plans." He paused and grinned. "And for me to get myself squared
away. I'll see you all at breakfast. Dismissed."

As was his custom, Ben was up long before dawn, walking the silent camp.
Jersey had alerted the sentries that Ben would be taking his walk
shortly-so easy with the trigger fingers. He had slept soundly for seven
hours- about two hours more than what he usually got-and awakened
refreshed. He showered and shaved and dressed in clean BDUs. Ben

25 wandered to the mess area and got a mug of coffee. He knew Jersey,
Beth, Corrie, and Cooper were all around him, but leaving him alone
until he signaled he wanted company.

Ben sat down on the tailgate of a pickup truck, rolled a cigarette, and
smoked, drank his coffee, and let his thoughts wander.

After his meeting with the batt corns, he had gone over field reports.
The Rebels were in bad shape. The worst they'd been in a long time. They
were not demoralized, not since his return, anyway. They were just
tired. Battle weary.

Ben wandered back to the mess and got a coffee refill and returned to
the truck tailgate. He was lost in memory, thinking back over the years.
Remembering the final year before the collapse.

The end came during the last few years of the millennium. History
clearly points out that the last decade of any millennium is always the
most violent, the most volatile, the most unpredictable, the most
subject to tumultuous change.

History sure was right.

America had become embroiled in other countries' civil wars around the
globe. And Americans were very weary of being the world's policeman.
America had troops in Haiti, several countries in Africa, Central
America, and we had thousands of troops in Eastern Europe. And, Ben
thought, we shouldn't have been in any of those countries.

Americans were being taxed to the point of open rebellion. Crime had
soared to an unprecedented level. Gangs roamed the cities and had spread
out into the smaller rural communities. And still the petunia-plucking
liberals in congress refused to al-

26 low the law-abiding, tax-paying citizens to protect themselves
adequately. God forbid a person should take a life just to protect his
own, or the lives of his or her family, and under no circumstances
should lethal force ever, ever, ever, be used just to protect property.
How awful! Dreadful.

Like so many others, Ben had sealed up his guns in weatherproof
containers and buried them. He recalled looking toward Washington and
the Democratic president who had signed the bill and said, "Fuck you all!"

Jails and prisons were filled beyond capacity. Unemployment was high.
Discontent among the hardworking, over-taxed Americans was running at a
fever pitch. And there appeared to be no end in sight to how far the
liberals would go to disarm law-abiding Americans and kiss the ass of
the criminals.

"We must give the oppressed and the poor and those whose propensity it
is to break the law more money," cooed the liberals.

Taxes went up again.

The president grinned and ate another Big Mac.

"Sit down," said his wife, the unelected czarina of the nation. "You
look stupid."

For once she was right.
The American people (those who never did believe in Camelot) soon
learned that the President of the United States, nearing the end of his
first term, and elected because of his promises to reduce government,
lower taxes, provide all things to everybody whenever they wanted it
(all without raising taxes) had lied every time he'd opened his mouth on
the campaign trail.

So what else is new?

27 It had long been said that if five million taxpayers stopped paying
taxes, the government would soon cease to function. A grass-roots
movement was started to do just that. Thousands signed up and thousands
soon became about ten million with the majority of them refusing to pay
taxes according to the current tax structure, which by now was not just
the highest in the nation's history, it was obscene.

The government threatened to put them all in jail. But that was a hollow
threat and those in the tax revolt knew it. There was no place to put
hundreds of thousands of men and women.

"We'll pay fifteen percent of our gross income," the leaders of the Fair
Taxation movement said. "No deductions. But we won't pay over fifteen
percent."

The Federal government sent in agents to crush the movement. But this
time the American people were determined to stand their ground and fight
for what they believed was right and just and fair. Several thousand
heretofore tax-paying and law-abiding citizens were shot to death and
many, many more were wounded during the nationwide raids. Men, women,
and children.

The men and women who had joined the fair taxation movement had not done
so without expert study of what it would take to run the government and
fund what they believed were needed programs. Some programs were going
to be cut down in size, only a few would be cut out altogether. Pork
barrel programs and general government waste would have been hard hit.
Government programs would not be run by government employees, but by
retired members of the business community and

28 volunteers. Economists had proven time and time again that more
revenue would be collected for the government's coffers by a flat income
tax for everyone, with no exceptions and no deductions. That's all the
members of the Fair Taxation movement wanted: for everyone to pay their
fair share.

And they were, by God, not going to pay any more income tax until that
happened.

Then the president ordered federal agents to move in and seize the
members' property and possessions for back taxes, and to try to
physically arrest the members.

It was by far the worst decision any sitting president had ever made.

The Fair Taxation members chose to defend their property and themselves.
And why not? It was their property. They worked for it. The federal
government had no right to attempt to take it from them by force.

After hundreds of bloody shoot-outs all across the nation, dozens of
them in every state, many of the FBI, ATF, Secret Service, IRS, Justice
Department agents, and Federal Marshals threw down their badges and
said, "No more." They were sickened by the sight of dead children,
sprawled in pools of blood, lying by their parents' side. Dead parents,
shot to death by federal agents. Dead parents who had broken . . . what
laws?

The President of the United States then went on TV and said that he was
just, "Terribly, terribly sorry about all this violence. But if the men
and women who were killed had obeyed the law, none of this would have
happened. And," he added, holding up a finger, "if the American people had

29 turned in their guns as had been ordered by new federal legislation,
those poor children would still be alive."

That is liberal logic at work, folks. Go figure.

Then one of the president's aides, who was just barely old enough to
shave, took his Walkman earplug out of his ear (where he had been
listening to a rap song titled "Kill the Pigs and Rape the Bitches"),
handed the president a Twinkie and the press conference was over.

But this time it backfired. The nation's press finally got around to
doing some unbiased public opinion polls and found the majority of
Americans shocked and sickened by the sight of dead children and the
cold, savage callousness of federal agents. The American people were
aroused to a point unequalled in American history.

Many Americans began calling for the president to be impeached. Many
more began arming themselves, openly defying the new federal anti-gun
laws. Others openly signed on with the Fair Taxation movement. Still
others called for calm and for a total overhaul of the machinery of
government in general and for revamping the tax system in particular-go
with a flat tax for a couple of years. See if it will work.

It would have worked. But it was too late. It was just too late.
Americans began choosing sides, and this time bullets would replace words.

Revolution was in the air. Not just in America, but all around the world.

Ben Raines sat in his house, in his easy chair, and watched the news on
TV. He lifted a martini glass toward the set. "It really isn't your
fault, Mister Pres,

30 but you're going to get the blame for it. Not that it's going to make
any difference in the long run. It's all over."

Ben went outside and dug up his cached guns.

Some say that the President of the United States broke under the strain.
No one will ever know for sure because the whole goddamn world blew up
twenty-four hours later. The only thing that history recorded about that
last day is that the President of the United States had a meeting with
the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The meeting was tape-recorded
and for a time was preserved and removed to the new Capital of Richmond,
Virginia after Washington, D.C. took a direct hit during the limited
nuclear strikes exchanged between various countries around the world.
The tape was lost the year after the move.

"I want troops sent in to put down those pockets of resistance around
the country," he told the General.
"No," the Chairman of the JCs said. "You won't use my people to kill any
more American civilians."

"I gave you an order."

"And I said no."

"You're fired!" the Commander in Chief shouted.

"All right," the general said with a smile. "Throw me out of your office."

The president wasn't about to tangle with the general, even though the
general was a good ten years older than the president. The pres did not
want to get the shit beat out of him.

The president buzzed for security. None came. He stalked to the door of
the Oval Office and looked up and down the hall, expecting to see his

31 Secret Service guards. Instead, he saw armed Marines, Army Rangers,
and Navy SEALs.

The Secret Service was not going to take part in the killing of more
American citizens. They had met with the Joint Chiefs and bowed out.

For the first time in the nation's history, a coup d'etat was taking
place in America.

The president returned to his desk and sat down. He stared at the
general for a moment, then sighed. "I only wanted what was best for all."

"I know that, Mister President. But you should have known that the
nation cannot afford to be all things to everyone."

"We are our brothers' keepers," the pres went biblical.

"Horseshit!" the military man, totally worldly and one hundred percent
realist, replied.

"You can't hope to get away with this."

"I wish to God I didn't have to."

"The American people elected me."

"Not the majority of them," the general reminded him. "And those who
voted for you certainly didn't think you would order children butchered."

"I didn't want that to happen. My God, what kind of a man do you think I
am?"

"One who is out of a job," General Harold Coyle replied.

32 Corrie walked over to Ben and broke into his thoughts. "General Payon
just radioed in, sir. Jesus Hoffman is dead. Positively identified.
Ecuadoran troops shot down the plane he was in. Hoffman and nearly all
of his top people dead."

"That's the good news." Ben laughed. "Now tell me the bad news."
She smiled in the murky light of pre-dawn. "Heavily armed gangs all over
the nation. Hundreds of thousands of men and women. Not like the ones we
kicked ass before. These are para-military types. Most of them, anyway.
Disciplined, organized, and well-trained."

"Where the hell did they come from?" "Doctor Chase has a theory about
that." "Doctor Chase has a theory about everything. He once told me that
rice has no nutritional value." "Doctor Chase hates rice." "I know.
That's why he said it. Go on." "He thinks that many of these people are
thugs and the like who have managed to escape from foreign countries and
make their way over here. Once

33 here, they organized, stayed low, and began training their people.
Now they're surfacing."

"I don't doubt that's part of it. Have you learned anything about what
is happening in Africa?"

"Everything bad you can possibly imagine."

"That bad, huh?"

"That bad."

"I predicted that, too," Ben muttered.

"Yes, sir. I know. In a book of yours called Out of the Darkness."

"You read it?"

"Yes, sir. Enjoyed it immensely."

"I haven't seen a copy of that book in years."

"All your books have been reprinted and have been required high school
reading for the past two years," Corrie said, stepping back.

"They what?" Ben shouted, spilling coffee down the front of his shirt.

Rebels began running out of tents, scrambling from under six-bys and
other heavy vehicles, all armed and racing toward the general.

"Relax," Ben shouted. "Stand easy. Everything is all right. Go get
breakfast." He turned to Corrie. "Some of those books are damned sexy,
Corrie. Whose bright idea was this?"

"General Jefferys. He had people edit out the rough spots, though." She
grinned. "But not in the copy I have."

"Why wasn't I told about this?"

"Because Cecil is in charge of public education and didn't feel it
necessary," Doctor Lamar Chase said, walking up. "You should be
flattered, Ben. It's not every day that a writer of such dubious pulp

34 that you managed to get published is immortalized."

"You're too kind to me, Lamar."

"I feel charitable this morning. I'll revert to my normal self by
mid-morning, I assure you."

"With any kind of luck, I'll be fifty miles away by then."

Chase grinned. "Sorry. But the only place you're going is to the hospital."

"I had a check up yesterday!" Ben protested. "I checked out just fine."

"A very perfunctory examination. No, Ben. This time you're going to be
in my capable hands."

"God help me," Ben muttered. But he knew better than to argue. In almost
any army in the world, a doctor can order the captain of a ship off the
bridge and to his quarters or sick-bay, ground a pilot, and put a
general to bed.

For the next two days, Ben was in the MASH hospital tent, and Doctor
Chase put him through a grueling examination. Grudgingly, the doctor
admitted that Ben was in excellent health (for a man his age) and
released him back to duty.

In his makeshift office, Ben began once more poring over reports. None
of them looked good. True, Jesus Hoffman and his goose-stepping, Nazi
army had been anti-climactically smashed and ground under the boot-heels
of the Rebels and their allies, but in the year it had taken the Rebels
to do that, a dozen or more threats to peace and rebuilding and some
semblance to order had sprang up.

"It never ends," Ben muttered. "It just never ends."

He picked up a wad of reports, dealing with war-

35 lords and cults: Al Rogers, who had settled in the midwest part of
the nation and boasted an army of five thousand. Dangerous and
well-equipped. Bandar Ali Shazam Baroshi, a self-proclaimed black
messiah with a following estimated at four to six thousand, also in the
midwest part of the nation. Carl Nations, an extremist far to the right,
hates people of color, and has a following of several thousand, located
in West Virginia. Jeb Moody, located in Central Illinois-following of
about five thousand. Political leanings unknown. Carlos Medina,
Arizona/New Mexico, militant hispanic. Hates all anglos. Jake Starr,
located in what was once called Florida. Drove off or killed all people
of color. Strength: about five thousand.

Ben sighed and laid the reports to one side. There were at least two
dozen more files on groups still waiting to be read. They could wait for
a little while.

Ben stood up and stretched. He was restless, eager to get on the road.
But he had promised his people a full week of rest and would hold to
that promise. He walked to the huge wall map and studied it for a time.
There were several dangerous groups that had sprung up here in Texas.
Ned Hawkins and his New Texas Rangers were roaming the state, dealing
with them. For all the trouble that had taken place inside what used to
be called Texas, this state would probably be the first to re-establish
law and order, thanks to people like Ned and those who served with him.

The rest of the country was in chaos-the best word Ben could think of to
describe the condition of what used to be the United States of America.
36 Almost all of the carefully set up Rebel outposts had been overrun by
the gangs of thugs and punks and trash that had surfaced while the
Rebels were fighting Hoffman and his Nazis.

"Bastards," Ben muttered.

"Who are you cursing now, Raines?" Doctor Chase asked, stepping into the
office. "Oh, don't let me stop you from venting your spleen. It's good
for you."

Ben turned and smiled at his long-time friend. Chase was too old for the
field-he had to be in his seventies-but he refused to leave the field,
and Ben had stopped asking him to do so.

"Fresh pot of coffee over there," Ben said, pointing.

Chase poured a cup of black coffee. He sat down in front of the desk and
watched Ben fidget for a moment. "Getting restless, are we?"

"Yes," Ben admitted, cutting his eyes to his personal team as they
entered the office and spread out. Jersey was always close, her CAR ready.

"Well, calm yourself. The people need their promised week of rest." He
looked at Jersey, looking at him. "Girl, don't you ever relax your guard?"

"No," she told him, and sat down, her back to a wall.

Chase harrumphed and looked back at Ben. "I saw you working while I had
you in the hospital. Have you reorganized?"

"I'm almost through. Very few changes. I'm pretty much going to leave
things as they are." He looked at Corrie. "You have news, Corrie?"

"I just spoke with Thermopolis. "He's all set up

37 back in Arkansas. Fully operational. They had to do a little
ass-kicking but nothing serious."

Ben nodded.

Beth, Ben's organizer, said, "I'll have situation reports ready for you
in a few minutes. We're spread pretty thin, General."

"The Hummer is sittin' on ready, General," Coop, Ben's driver said.
"It's been completely reworked, inside and out."

"My Thompson?"

"Ready," Jersey said. "Is there an original part left in that thing,
General?"

Ben laughed. "I doubt it. It won't qualify as an antique."

"You would," Chase muttered, and left the room.

"Crusty old bastard," Jersey said.

"I heard that, you damn Apache heathen!" Chase roared from the outside.

"Go sit on a candlestick," Jersey retorted.
Ben sat down, laughing so hard he had to wipe his eyes. Conditions were
back to normal.

Rebel planes were kept busy that week of rest for the ground troops.
They flew in supplies to a dozen different locations around the country,
working around the clock. Those men and women who had chosen a life of
crime and had staked out parts of the nation as their own little
kingdoms heard the roaring of engines overhead and knew something was up
. . . and that something was not going to be good for them.

"That honky, racist, pig bastard Raines is coming

38 after us, " Bandar told his people. "We've got to be ready for them."

"That damn nigger-lovin' Ben Raines is gettin' ready to move against
us," Carl Nations told his people. "It's root hog or die time."

No one could really fathom Ben. One just could not fit Ben Raines or his
Rebels into any particular political slot. The Rebels were of all
colors, all races, all religions. But first, last, and always, they were
Americans, even though the nation of America, per se, no longer existed.
Many Rebels did not agree with Ben's philosophy one hundred percent, but
they all agreed with it in general.

It was a hard time, and it took hard people to wage the long fight to
bring the nation back into some sort of structured order. All Rebels
shared many philosophical points; but all shared one thing in common:
they were not so much interested in the fine points of law as they were
in order and justice. Nearly all could clearly remember when criminals
had more rights than the law abiding. That was never going to happen again.

On the fifth day of the Rebels' stand-down, in every encampment around
the country, Rebels were getting restless, itching to get back into the
fight. Those that had family and friends back in Base Camp One had
written their letters. They had cleaned their weapons and washed their
clothing and taken care of equipment. The tanks and trucks and APCs and
Bradley Fighting Vehicles and Hum-Vees were ready to roll.

On the sixth day, a Saturday, Ben told Corrie, "Radio all the batt corns
to have religious services

39 early tomorrow and make sure all the Rebels know when and where. We
roll at 0900."

"Yes, sir. What's our objective, General?"

"That nut up in Oklahoma. Jesse what's-his-name."

"Jesse Boston."

"Yeah, Boston." Ben picked up the file on Jesse Boston and studied it.
Most of the information the Rebels had gathered on the various warlords
and self-proclaimed rulers had come from victims of their brutality or
from members who had been captured . . . usually the latter. Jesse
Boston. Alias. Real name unknown. Age, approximately thirty-five. Boasts
of having spent more time in prison than out. Convicted murderer and
thief. Was in prison when Great War broke out. Escaped in the confusion
and since that time has bragged of all the evil deeds he's done. He and
his bunch overran and took over a small town southwest of Oklahoma City."
Ben closed the folder. "Well, now, Mister Boston," he said softly.
"We'll just see about bringing your little empire down around your
ears." He raised his voice and said, "Corrie? I want Buddy's 8 Battalion
and Jim Peters's 14 Battalion with my 1 Battalion on this run."

"They're both short, sir."

"I know it. Our usual complement of artillery will roll with us."

"Right, sir."

"Beth, plot us a course."

"I already have, sir."

Ben looked over at her. "Now, just how did you

40 know where we were going? I didn't know myself until this morning."

"I guessed." She smiled. "I know the type of person you dislike the
most. I have compiled a listing over the years, ranking the types from
one to ten, one being the highest. Jesse Boston tops the list."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?"

Beth smiled coyly and returned to writing in her ledger.

Ben stood up and walked to the door. Jersey stepped in front of him,
blocking his way. "Aren't you forgetting something, General?"

"What?"

Cooper tossed Jersey Ben's Thompson, then web belt with ammo pouch. She
handed die articles to him and he dutifully hooked the belt and took his
Thompson. "I'm surrounded by a thousand Rebels, Jersey," Ben said with a
smile. "And then, I do have you shadowing me."

"I don't have eyes in the back of my head, General," she replied without
cracking a smile.

"Right," Ben said drily. "Shall we proceed with our walk?"

"Certainly." She stepped aside.

Father Riley, the Catholic priest assigned to Ben's 1 Battalion, fell in
step with him.

"Padre," Ben said. "Have you written your sermon for Sunday's mass yet?"

"Oh, yes. We're moving out to smite the Philistines hip and thigh?"

"No. But we're going to kick their asses from here to eternity."

The priest laughed. "It's amazing how many more confessions I hear just
before a campaign."

41 "A person is dead a long time, Padre. I guess," Ben added. "Maybe the
soul goes to Heaven or Hell or someplace in between at the moment of
death. I don't know and neither does anyone else. Including you." Ben
said the last with a smile.

Father Riley smiled. He wasn't about to get into an argument with Ben,
and he knew that's what Ben wanted. Ben would argue with a stump . . .
and usually win.

Riley looked at Jersey. "I want to hear your confession this evening,
young lady."

"If I have the time," Jersey hedged.

"She'll be there," Ben said. "Cooper will escort her."

"I'm not Catholic, General!"

"That doesn't make any difference, does it, Padre?"

"Not a bit." He looked at Cooper. "I'll be glad to hear your confession,
son."

"Can I listen?" Jersey asked.

"She can't listen in, can she, Father?" Cooper asked.

"No," the priest said, laughing. "I won't even know it's you, Cooper."

"What do I say?" Cooper asked.

"You tell him all your sins, dummy!" Jersey said. "If you've been mean
to someone, thought bad thoughts about someone, lusted in your heart,
you confess it."

"Then what does the priest do with that information?" Cooper asked.

Jersey, a wicked glint in her dark eyes, whispered in Cooper's ear: "The
priest tells God!"

"I'm in real trouble," Cooper muttered.

42 The religious services were over, the Rebels mounted up and ready to
roll out of the staging area. As was his custom, Ben walked up beside
the long lines of trucks and Jeeps and Hummers and tanks. At one time he
knew the name of every Rebel in his command. Not so anymore. There were
many new faces. Many of those who had survived the assault on the old
Tri-States years back were gone. Dead, permanently disabled, retired
back to Base Camp One. There were few in the ranks now who had survived
the long years of war.

By all rights, Ben should not have been one of those who survived. He
was known for taking incredible chances. He'd been shot several times,
stabbed more than once, survived assassination attempts, kidnapped,
tortured. But he always came through and returned to lead his people. He
was back now, leaner and meaner than ever before.

Ben realized he was a living legend, and not just among his troops. The
name of Ben Raines was known all over the world. He was equally loved
and feared and hated. At the end of the brief but deadly

43 Great War that exploded worldwide, hundreds of thousands of thugs and
punks and human slime had roamed the ruins of the nation, preying on the
very old, the very young, the sick, the helpless. Ben Raines and his
Rebels had tracked them down and killed them.

Now it appeared they had it to do all over again.

Ben walked the line, his Thompson slung, Jersey one step behind him to
the left, her M-16 at the ready. Corrie walked beside Jersey, to her
right, wearing the backpack radio, headset in place. Beth and Cooper
behind them.

As Ben neared the head of the long column, Buddy and Jim Peters joined
him. "Scouts out, son?" Ben asked, knowing full well they had been gone
for several hours.

"Left two hours ago," his son acknowledged.

Ben's 1 Battalion would spearhead, as always, with tanks ranging out
ahead of him, between Ben and the scouts, Jim's battalion in the center
of the long column, Buddy's battalion in the drag. Tanker trucks,
carrying fuel, were spaced among the three battalions.

Ben glanced at Cooper and he and Beth ran on ahead, to ready the Hummer.
"We should make about a hundred miles today, considering the condition
of the roads," Ben said. "And providing we don't get our asses
ambushed," he added drily. He looked at Buddy and Jim. "Let's roll."

It was slow going. During the year-long battle with Hoffman's Nazis,
many of the bridges and overpasses had been blown by the Rebels to slow

44 the enemy advance. The Rebels made seventy-five miles the first day,
fifty miles the second day, and slightly over eighty miles the third
day. They encountered no hostile forces.

"We're going to pass through a small town in the morning that is filled
with people who are not going to be thrilled to see us," Corrie informed
Ben that evening.

"Oh?"

"Scouts report that these people don't even want us to enter their town."

"Is there a bypass?"

"No, sir."

"Then we'll go through the town. Tell the leaders of this group we are
not looking for any trouble."

"They've been told that, sir."

"And?"

"They said to keep out or fight them."

"Oh, shit! What's their problem?"

Corrie could not hide her grin.

Ben sighed. "Come on, Corrie. Give."
"They're hippies, sir."

"You're kidding? Like Thermopolis and his bunch?"

"Sort of. But totally non-violent. They don't believe in guns or eating
meat or wearing leather and things like that."

"That's admirable of them. I applaud them for it. But you said they were
going to fight us-how?"

"With a protest march."

"Oh, shit!"

"Yes, sir. At least that."

45 BEN RAINES SUCKS read the white banner with large black words that
stretched from one side of the road to the other.

Buddy walked back to his father. "Father, what is that horrible sound
coming from the town?"

"Acid rock, son."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Music of the 1960s. Or maybe the 70s. I wasn't in the country so I'm
not sure."

"That's music?"

"They think so. Listen to that chanting."

"ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR. WE DON'T WANT YOUR FUCKING WAR!"

Buddy could not understand why his father was smiling. "That takes me
back," Ben said.

"Father, this is ridiculous. We're not asking them to fight with us. We
just want to drive through the town."

"Brace yourself, son. I assure you, you have never seen anything like
this. Let's roll on through."

BEN RAINES IS A BABY-KILLER, proclaimed another banner, stretched across
the old highway.

NIXON EATS SHIT, said another banner.

"Nixon?" Cooper muttered. "Oh, President Nixon. But that was more than
thirty years ago!"

"That's where they're living, Coop," Ben told him. "In the past."

"My God!" Corrie blurted. "Look at that crowd."

"Thermopolis would love this," Beth said.

"In a way, he would," Ben said. "But Therm knows that having freedom
sometimes means fighting for it. How did these people escape the Nazis?"
"They ran," Corrie told him.

"Well, that's one way to do it."

46 MAKE LOVE, NOT WAR, another banner read.

The column inched forward. "Don't run over anybody," Ben urged.

Many of the Rebels had their cameras out, taking pictures of the crowd.
Most of the hippies were mid-dleaged and beyond.

"This is pathetic," Beth said.

"Oh, in a way, I suppose it is," Ben said, taking a flower offered him
by a gray-haired man. "Thank you," Ben told him. "But they're happy with
their way of life and I'll bet you they have no crime, they're all
healthy and they all work together. I wish the whole world could adopt
their ways."

"That would be neat," Cooper said. "I wonder if they believe in free love."

"Boy, it's back to confession for you," Jersey told him.

"I'm sorry I brought it up," Cooper muttered.

"Don't kill our babies, Ben Raines!" a gray-haired woman shouted,
standing close to the Hummer.

"How old is your baby, lady?" Ben asked.

"Forty-one."

"Incredible," Ben muttered. "Get us the hell out of here, Cooper."

"I'm tryin'," General!"

The town must have held about five hundred aging hippies. Ben had yet to
spot one who wasn't at least sixty years old. And they had blocked the
road, standing ten deep.

After a few moments of listening to protest songs that Ben hadn't heard
(thank God) in more than twenty years, he lost his patience. "I've had
all I can tolerate," he said. Ben stepped out of the Hum-

47 mer and let a full clip of .45 caliber slugs cut the air over the
heads of the protesters. The line of colorfully dressed men and women
broke ranks in one hell of a hurry and cleared the street. Ben got back
into the Hummer. "Now drive on through," he said.

The roads were so bad that the Rebels only made about fifty miles that
day before having to pull over for the night. They always stopped early,
to give them time to scout the country and set up perimeters, for the
land called America was once more enemy territory for the Rebels.

"You think those old hippies will come out here and make trouble?"
Cooper asked Ben.

"Oh, no. They made their point, albeit a couple of decades late, and
they'll leave us alone. I'm ninety-nine percent sure of that. I don't
want to hurt any of those people."

"We going through Dallas or cut around it?" Cor-rie asked.

"I'm going to let the Scouts answer that," Ben said. "There shouldn't be
a whole lot left of the city."

"Negative on Dallas," the scouts radioed back the next morning. "I get
the distinct smell of Creepies."

"10-9," Corrie asked for a repeat.

"Creepies. Night People. The smell is strong."

"I heard it," Ben said. "Damn!" he whispered the word. "I thought we
were through with those cannibalistic bastards. Pull the convoy over,
Corrie. Set up for long-range traffic."

When she was set up, Ben said, "Burst transmis-

48 sion, Corrie. To all batt corns. Inspect the larger towns and cities
for Creepies. I think they have returned."

"Creepies?" General Georgi Striganov said, up in Tennessee.

"Creepies?" Colonel West said, from his location in Iowa.

"Creepies?" Ike said. "Again?"

"I thought we wiped them out?" Thermopolis said, from his HQ Company
location in Arkansas.

"Let's go to Dallas," Ben told his people. He looked at his son.
"Spearhead, Buddy."

Dallas was a ruined city, having been bombed and burned twice by the
Rebels, but still, life survived there. In a manner of speaking.

Some Rebel doctors had opined that the constant and prolonged eating of
human flesh caused the unusual smell associated with the Night People,
or Creepies and Creeps as the Rebels called them. Whatever caused the
stench, it was unmistakable, and it hung over the ruins of Dallas.

"I hate these bastards," Jersey said, standing beside Ben.

"No more than I do," Ben replied, his eyes watching as a human form
flitted from ruin to ruin a few hundred yards away. "But that isn't a
Creep."

"So they've managed to coexist with, ah, more normal people?" Jim Peters
asked.

"Probably as procurement agents," Ben replied.

Cooper spat on the ground at that.

"Back off and make camp," Ben ordered his bat-

49 talions. "Double the guards and stay alert. The Creeps hate us as
much as we hate them."
Ben and his Rebels first encountered the Night People years back, about
the same time the Libyan terrorist, Khamsin, and his army invaded North
America. Khamsin and his terrorist hordes were eventually destroyed, but
the Creeps clung to life and the Rebels fought them for years, only
recently having decided they had finally rid the land of the cannibals.
The Rebels were wrong. The Night People were back ... or more precisely,
had never gone away, just buried themselves and waited and recruited.

And what other old enemy has returned? Ben silently questioned that
evening, sitting in the darkened den of a once fine home just outside of
Dallas. The Creeps can't be the only ones. My God, are we going to have
to repeat everything we've done?

Ben sighed and shook his head. Probably, he concluded. At least a part
of it.

"Creeps outside the camp," Jersey broke into his thoughts, speaking from
the archway leading into the den. "Looks like they're massing for an
attack."

Ben stood up smoothly, Thompson in hand. "Here we go again, Jersey.

"Let's do it right this time," Beth, the quiet one, said. "Let's take
first things first and hunt them down like the dangerous rabid animals
they are, and destroy them once and for all. Make damn sure the job is
finished. Then we tackle the warlords and punks."

Beth had lost a very close personal friend to the Night People, and she
hated them with an intensity that bordered fanaticism.

50 "All right, Beth," Ben said. "That's a good idea."

The old and very familiar chanting from the throats of the Creeps began
drifting to the Rebels. "Die, die, die!" they chanted.

Even though the Rebels had faced the Night People many times, it was
still a chilling sound coming out of the darkness of dead of night.

"Ready flares," Ben spoke softly and Corrie spoke quietly into her head
set mic.

Ben did not have to ask if the Rebels were in place. He knew they were.

"In sight now," Corrie relayed the message.

"Hold fire," Ben said. The rancid smell of the Creeps assaulted his
nostrils and he grimaced. "No doubt about who it is."

"Bastards," Beth whispered the word.

Cooper sat behind an M-60 machine-gun. For all his clowning, he was as
fine a combat soldier as Ben had ever seen. Jersey was fearless in
combat, a savage, merciless fighter who gave absolutely no quarter. Beth
and Corrie were solid soldiers with no backup in them.

"Flares up," Ben ordered, and the night was suddenly bright under the
artificial light.

"Jesus!" Cooper broke the momentary silence as Ben and the others were
stunned into silence.

The ground on all sides was filled with hundreds of robed and hooded
Night People, all well-armed.

The Rebels were going to be outnumbered about five to one.

So what else was new?

"Fire!" Ben shouted.

51 The Rebels laid down a withering rain of lead, the slugs ripping into
flesh and slamming those Creeps leading the assault back against their
friends, dead and dying. The Creeps climbed over the bodies of their
dead and continued running toward the encampment, screaming out their
fury at the hated Rebels.

The second wave met the same fate as the first wave. Within seconds, the
area around the Rebel camp was littered with bodies, three and four and
five deep. The Night People fell back to regroup and plan a new strategy.

"They do the same damn thing every time," Ben said, changing clips.
"Eating human flesh not only causes them to stink like rotting meat, it
must also affect their minds. When this little altercation is over, I
want these twin cities burned to the ground. We'll use the captured
napalm from Hoffman to bring this place down."

"Do all the cities this way?" Corrie asked.

"Every one of them. We'll take them one at a time, throw up a loose line
of Rebels around them,

52 and then destroy the ruins. And we start first thing in the morning.
Corrie, bump Base Camp One and have planes readied. I want them here early."

"We're going to surround Dallas/Fort Worth with three short battalions?"
Beth asked.

"As best we can. Have gun ships come in right after the planes drop
their payloads, Corrie. Eyes in the sky."

Corrie went to work and Ben waited for Cecil's objections. They were
quick in coming.

"General Jefferys at Base Camp One," Corrie said, handing Ben the headset.

"Go ahead, Cec."

"Are you out of your mind, Ben?" Cecil's voice boomed in Ben's ears.
"You can't surround Dallas/Fort Worth with three short battalions."

"We will be spread rather thin," Ben admitted.

"Rather thin!" Cecil yelled. "That's, by God, the understatement of the
decade. Three short battalions covering an area fourteen miles west to
east, on both sides, and six miles deep on both ends. It can't be done,
Ben."

Ben smiled at Corrie. "Cec has been busy with his little ruler, hasn't he?"
Ben keyed the mic. "Your transmission is garbled, Cec. I'll talk to you
later. Just get those birds up."

"The birds are up, Ben. And you're lying about garbled transmissions. I
won't even ask you to be careful, because I'd be wasting my breath. Base
Camp One out."

"General Jefferys is slightly pissed, General," Jersey ventured an opinion.

"I would say so," Ben said with a smile.

53

The prop-job planes arrived just after dawn and began circling while Ben
and his Rebels were getting into place as quickly as humanly possible,
and that took a good hour working at break-neck speed. No more attacks
had come out of the night, as the Creeps melted back into the ruins of
the twin cities. It had always been a mystery to Ben and the others why
the Night People insisted on living in the burned-out, bombed-out ruins
of cities. Over the years, those places had consistently proven to be
death-traps for the Creeps.

The planes would strike the outer limits first, along 1-20, 1-635,
1-820, along the Northwest Parkway and 1-35, creating a wall of flames,
then work inward toward the ruined hearts of the twin cities.

"Spread thin is sort of an understatement," Ben said with a mocking smile.

"No kidding," Cooper said.

Ben and his personal team were all that stood between life and death for
the Creeps who might try to bust through their location at a junction
along Highway 77, just south of Dallas.

The next team was half a klick away on Hampton Road.

"Bump the planes," Ben said. "Tell them to go to work."

A runway had been hurriedly cleared southeast of the twin cities and
trucks containing aviation fuel had been rolling all night to reach the
siege site.

The crumping sounds of bombs exploding on contact with the ground
reached the Rebels; those closest in felt the ground tremble under their
boots.

54 Flames seared every living thing and then leaped hundreds of feet
into the air.

"Don't you just love the smell of napalm in the morning?" Cooper said
with a smile, knowing Jersey would have something smart-ass to say about
it. "It's so invigorating."

"I worry about you, Cooper," Jersey called from the other side of the
highway. "I think you're losing it."

"Nothing is going to come through that," Beth said, her voice soft in
the gasoline-scented air.

"There will be holes between the flames," Ben said. "Just like that one
right ahead of us. See it."

"Here they come," Cooper yelled, over the crackle of flames eating
everything in their path. He pulled back the bolt on his .50 caliber
machine gun.

Corrie, Beth, and Jersey lay behind M-60 machine guns. Ben squatted
behind a Big Thumper. "Fire!" he shouted, and let the Big Thumper start
banging out 40mm anti-personnel grenades.

Within seconds it was carnage in front and slightly below their position
on the overpass. The machine gun slugs ripped bodies and the 40mm
grenades shredded flesh from the bone.

The Creeps had no place to run that wasn't lethal for them. The raging
flames lay hot behind them, and the guns of Ben and his team stood in
front of them. They chose the guns, and died.

The rattle and slam of machine guns and the roar of the grenades lasted
only a moment, then fell silent. The ground before Ben and his team was
littered with the bodies of the dead. Ben sat down and pulled the plugs
from his ears.

55 "This is one hole that won't be used again," he said, rolling a
cigarette. "One person eyes front, the others relax for a moment."

As the team began to settle down from the brief fire-fight, the sounds
of heavy firing and the booming of mortars and rockets striking their
targets faintly reached them over the crackle of the flames, all mingled
with an occasional, very faint scream of burning pain.

No Rebel could work up even the slightest amount of sympathy for the
Night People-not even the religious leaders of the Rebels-Protestant,
Catholic, or Jew. They all supported Ben's plan to purge the earth of
the Night People.

The twin cities were pounded with napalm from the planes and with Willie
Peter from Rebel artillery all that morning and into the afternoon. At
four o'clock that day, Ben called a halt to the shelling and the
bombardment. Even from where the Rebels had backed up to, they were
still covered with grime and soot from the monstrous blaze that
stretched for miles.

Back-fires had been set to help contain the blaze and as wide an area
cleared as best they could-behind the controlled burn-by careful burning
and blasting.

The collapsing of burned-out hulks of buildings would continue far into
the night and the next day, and it would be several days before the twin
cities cooled down enough for any Rebel to enter, if Ben wanted them to
go in-which he did not.

"No," he told Buddy, lowering his binoculars and casing them. "Maybe we
didn't get them all-I'm sure they had quite an elaborate underground sys-

56 tem-but we cut them down to   a manageable level. We'll let the combat
engineers enter in a few weeks   and locate and seal off any entrances and
exits the bastards might still   have working. We're through. Let's go
shower and get this stench off   of us."
The fires continued to burn out of control all that night, and they were
still burning when the Rebels pulled out the next morning, giving the
cities a wide skirt.

The Rebels crossed over into what had once been the state of Oklahoma
early that afternoon and pulled over to bivouac just across the line,
the Red River behind them.

They made camp in the ruins of a small town about nine miles inside the
line. Their objective was about a day and a half straight north, and Ben
felt sure that Jesse Boston knew they were coming.

Buddy sat down on a stool beside his father, who was eating his dinner
while sitting on the floor of the old home. "Scouts are within a few
miles of Boston's location," he said. "They report a heavy concentration
of well-armed and seemingly well-disciplined men and women."

"So our information was correct."

"It appears that way."

"Estimates on size of force?"

"Hard to say. They guessed at four to five thousand, not counting kids
and slaves."

Ben fixed his son with a hard look. "Slaves?"

"Yes. Several hundred of them at least. And they are not treated well."

Ben nodded his head. Light was fading and the

57 camp was secure. Few people, with the exception of the Creeps, would
dare attack a Rebel encampment. Before making camp, the Rebels secured
everything within a mile of the camp site, oftentimes ranging out two or
three miles, or more. Sentries were dug in hard before dark and anything
that moved was suspect. Approaching a Rebel camp at night was not only
foolish, it was oftentimes lethal if one did not know the right words.

Ben was not in a real peachy mood that early evening along the Oklahoma
line. Everything the Rebels had managed to accomplish over the bloody
years was unraveling. During the year-long war with Hoffman's Nazis, the
thugs and punks and slime had emerged, knowing the Rebels were tied-up
fighting the goose-steppers and could do nothing to stop them.

Buddy Raines had walked past his father and saw the storm-clouds on his
father's face and had passed the word: Leave the general alone.

Ben drank his coffee and brooded, his thoughts mixed and often dark. One
part of him said to pull back and enlarge the area of Base Camp One;
take in three or four states and just let the rest of the country go to
hell.

But he knew he couldn't do that. He couldn't have a single oasis of
freedom surrounded by anarchy. It might work for a time, but not for
long. He had discussed this very matter with military leaders from those
foreign countries who had sent personnel in to help fight the Nazi
hordes. They were all doing what Ben and his Rebels had originally set
out to do: purge the land of criminal types. Forever.
58 But was that nothing more than a wonderful, impossible dream?
Sometimes Ben thought so. Like right now.

Ben was no dreamy-eyed idealist. He had seen that peace and stability
and reason and order could prevail. The living, working proof was Base
Camp One. Thousands and thousands of people living and working side by
side and getting along like clockwork.

So why in the hell wouldn't it, couldn't it, work nationwide? What was
he doing wrong? Everything or nothing?

What was he supposed to do? Kill everyone who didn't subscribe to the
Rebel philosophy?

People had seen, witnessed firsthand, how harsh the Rebels could be;
still certain types persisted in flaunting lawlessness in the face of
terrible penalties . . . and those penalties more often than not meant
death.

What in the hell did he have to do to prove to people that obeying the
few laws the Rebels had on the books was better than breaking them? That
if one obeyed the law, their overall lives would be far better. What did
he have to do to get that through their heads?

Ben smiled for the first time that evening as he realized he was asking
himself questions that humankind had been asking for thousands of years.
And no one had ever come up with a workable answer or solution.

Ben rolled a cigarette and freshened his coffee. "All right," he
muttered, only the few members of his personal team close enough to hear
the words. "Maybe what we're doing is not the best way, but

59 it's the most effective way I can think of. I don't have time to hold
hands with the lawless and spout fancy words about their
poverty-stricken childhood and how it was society's fault that they
turned bad. To hell with that crap. It was bullshit when the country was
more or less whole, and it's still bullshit."

Jersey smiled and cut her eyes to Beth. Beth was smiling. The women
looked at Cooper. He was smiling as he looked at Corrie. She had a grin
on her face, too. Ben Raines had made up his mind and his team knew they
were only a few hours away from kicking ass.

Ben Raines could be as compassionate as any human being could be toward
those he felt deserved it. To those standing under the umbrella of
lawlessness, he was a dark avenging angel, cold, ruthless, and savage.

Ben lifted his eyes to touch the gaze of Corrie. "I want gunships up in
this area by noon day after tomorrow, Corrie. I want artillery in place
to shell Mister Boston's little kingdom. Get Pat O'Shea on the horn and
tell him to move his 10 Battalion out now. He's right on the Kansas line
and that should give him time to get in place north of Boston's
territory. Buddy's battalion will flank to the west and Jim Peters's
battalion will flank east. We'll be in position to the south. I want a
show of force that will scare the shit out of Boston and his people. I
will not have this nation divided. I will bring this country back
together. I will, by God, do that if I have to kill every lawless son of
a bitch in the land. Before I die I will see this nation put back
together and working."
60 "Yes, sir!" Corrie said, and turned to her radio. "All right!" Cooper
said. Beth smiled and reached for her journal. Ben picked up his
Thompson and looked at Jersey.

She smiled. "Kick ass time!"

61 Six

"Holy shit!" one of Jesse Boston's lieutenants said, looking at the
activity in the sky.

Jesse's eyes were scanning the skies, far in the distance-too far away
for his limited range ground-to-air rockets-helicopter gunships hovered.
Higher up, but still out of range, the old slow PUFFs lazily circled.

A member of Jesse's inner circle panted up. "We just received a bump
from our patrols. We got artillery all around us, Jesse. Big stuff.
Everything from 105s to 155s. We got tanks on all borders. Main battle
tanks with 105s. And fuckin' Rebels everywhere."

Jesse sighed. He had managed to convince himself and his followers that
once they grew as strong as they had, Ben Raines would leave them alone.
Now he knew he'd been lying to himself all along.

"Jesse!" the shout turned him around. "Over to the radio shack. Ben
Raines wants to talk to you."

Jesse sighed and started the walk toward the communications building.

The town where Jesse had settled had once held

62 about twenty thousand decent, law-abiding people, and was some
thirty-five miles southwest of the ruins of Oklahoma City. It once had a
fine university, but Jesse and his followers had little use for anything
like that.

"This is Jesse Boston. Go ahead."

"Pack it up, Jesse. You're finished," Ben's voice was calm out of the
speaker.

Jesse stood for a moment, staring at the speaker in disbelief. He lifted
the mic. "What did you say, Raines?"

"I said, you simple-minded shit, to pack it up. You're finished."

"Just who in the hell do you think you are, Raines?"

"The biggest kid on the block, Jesse. You want to fight?"

"I might just do that, Raines."

"Then that makes you a fool. I have four battalions of Rebels with me. I
have gunships and PUFFs. I have artillery that can lay back twenty-five
miles and drop rounds down any chimney you care to point out to my
forward observers, and I assure you, they are watching your little
kingdom as we speak. You still want to fight, Jesse?"

"Shit!" Jesse muttered. He keyed the mic. "Damnit, Raines. You don't
have the right to do this. This ain't . . . well, it ain't constitutional."
"Yeah, that's a word you punks got to use quite a bit back in the good
ol' liberal days, isn't it, Jesse?"

Jesse wisely said nothing.

"The Constitution no longer applies, Jesse. The only law in the land is
what the Rebels enforce."

"Your goddamn law, you mean."

63 "You could say that, Jesse."

Again, Jesse was silent.

"Turn your slaves loose, Jesse. Right now."

"And if I don't, Raines?"

"My people start coming in at night and cutting throats. And my people
are the best in the world at doing that."

Those in the room looked at Jesse, some with open fear in their eyes,
others with cold defiance.

"He's bluffin', Jesse," one said. "I say we stand our ground and fight."

But Jesse shook his head. "No, Nick. He's not bluffing. Ben Raines
doesn't bluff." He keyed the mic. "And if I turn the slaves loose, what
then?"

"We sit down and I explain to you and your lieutenants the very simple
rules of living under Rebel law."

"There ain't no goddamn way I live under your rules, Raines."

"Is that your final say, Boston?" Ben's voice was very hard out of the
speaker.

"You got it." Jesse waited for a reply that did not come. Ben had broken
off.

Jesse and his several thousand followers braced themselves and waited
for the attack that did not come. By the end of the third day of the
standoff, they were nervous and extremely tense, even though not a
single shot had been fired from the Rebel side. Jesse and his people had
labored long repairing the town's utility plant and had enjoyed electric
lights-until Rebels slipped in and sabotaged the power plant, then
melted back into the darkness

64 like ghosts after plunging the town into darkness. To make matters
worse, Rebels had then doctored the town's water supply. Now everybody
had the shits. Then the Rebels sabotaged the sewer system which Jesse
and followers had worked so long to get back in order. All the commodes
were backed up and everybody was forced to dig latrines and throw up
some sort of covering to serve as an outhouse.

Jesse Boston sat on the hurriedly carved-out wooden plank in his tent
bathroom and cursed Ben Raines as the splinters dug into his ass. "I
hate you, Ben Raines. Goddamn you, I hate you so bad I can't even think
of enough cuss words to describe how I feel."

He reached for the rack where the squares of old newspapers were kept.
It was empty. Jesse put his elbows on his bare knees, his face in his
hands and said, "I hate you, Ben Raines."

"Men and women coming out under a flag of truce," Corrie said to Ben.

"All right. Let's see what we have."

Jesse had released the prisoners. "Is this all of those being held
captive?" Ben asked a man.

"Yes. Those of us that are left," he added bitterly.

"Say it all," Ben said.

"We were a striving little community until Jesse came along. We couldn't
fight him."

"Why not?"

"We don't believe in guns, General Raines."

Ben shook his head. He started to say some pretty hard things to the
man, then thought better of it. "Get them over to the medics," he
ordered. "Patch

65 them up until somebody else comes along and enslaves them. Just get
them out of my sight." Ben turned to leave.

But the man wouldn't let it go. "We aren't all like the Rebels, General.
We're not all brave and know how to fight."

Ben whirled around, his eyes blazing. "And you think all of us were born
that way? Well, do you?"

The man, who obviously had not been treated all that badly-he bore no
marking of abuse and looked to be in reasonably good health-backed up
under the hawk-like gaze of Ben. "We have our beliefs, General."

"So did they," Ben responded, pointing all around him at the Rebels.
"They were just average people when the Great War came. Nurses, bankers,
clerks, secretaries, farmers, mechanics, salespeople, teachers. They
worked in insurance, stocks, you name it. Just average people. But when
they looked around them and discovered brute force and violence staring
them in the face, they realized that all the liberal bullshit they'd
been force-fed by the news media and the talk show hosts and the network
commentators and the government and the hanky-stompers . . . fed them
since birth was just that: bullshit. So they met violence with violence.
Nobody enslaved them. You can't be enslaved standing there with a gun in
your hands and the willingness to use it." Ben stuck a blunt finger in
the man's now pale face. "My people are fighting and dying to reclaim
this nation. So don't you get all up in my face and talk peace and love
and non-violence. It isn't even a noble thought anymore. Someday, maybe.
But not now. So mister, you and your people

66 go get checked out by the medics. And then you scatter. Don't you
ever let me see any of you again. Move!"
"We are all followers of the great guru Bagwumg Marsheeree," a woman
said. "We believe that . . ."

Jersey poked her in the butt with the muzzle of her M-16. "Carry your
ass, lady," she told her.

"Do you have any rice cakes?" a man asked Cooper.

"Any what?"

"Move!" Jersey told the man.

"What the hell is a rice cake?" Cooper asked.

Ben got on the horn to Jesse. "You ready to talk now, Boston?"

"Yeah," Jesse said wearily. "I'm ready to talk. How do we set this up?"

"You walk out of there heading south on Highway 81. Unarmed. I'll be
waiting."

"Can I bring anyone with me?"

"Your co-leaders."

"You got any diarrhea medicine?"

Ben chuckled, then keyed the mic. "Yeah, Boston. We'll fix you up. Come on."

Within moments, Jesse Boston and a dozen other men were walking down the
cracked old highway toward Ben's location. They were a sorry looking
bunch. And they were awed by the mighty machines of war in Rebel hands.
They looked at the cleanshaven and disciplined troops and were very
happy they had chosen not to tangle with these very competent looking
people. Rebel medics dosed them with anti-diarrhea medicine and escorted
them to an old home that had been cleaned out and was serving as Ben's CP.

67 Ben pointed to chairs and the outlaws sat. Ben said, "I'm probably
making a terrible mistake, but I've decided not to have you shot."

Relief was immediately evident on all faces.

"But," Ben continued, "now I have another problem: what to do with you."

"How about just letting us go?" a man asked hopefully.

Ben smiled.

"We got kids in yonder who need doctors real bad," another man said.

"We're not at war with children. Have them brought out," Ben told him,
pointing to a radio. "That is set on the CB frequency you've been using
to communicate with your roaming patrols. Which, by the way, are now all
dead. They chose to mix it up with my people. Bad mistake. Get the kids
out of there."

Jesse Boston slowly shook his head. "We didn't know what had happened to
those patrols. We thought you people might have taken them prisoner."

"We don't take many prisoners, Boston," Ben informed the man. "Rebel
policy."

One of Boston's co-leaders shuddered. "I can't speak for    no one but
myself, General Raines. But as for me, whatever you want    me to do, I'll
do," he stated quietly. He had looked Rebel might square    in the face and
it had scared the crap out of him . . . with the help of    the doctored
water supply.

"You going to try us in your court of law?" another asked.

Ben shook his head. "No. I'm just going to disarm you except for bolt
action rifles and shotguns

68 to use for hunting. Not that you really have to hunt. There are
thousands of cattle roaming around here. Free for the taking. You can
ranch, farm, raise gardens, and become decent citizens for once in your
life. We'll help you open up schools and a hospital. We'll bring you up
to date on vaccinations and medical checkups. All we ask in return is
that you become useful, law-abiding citizens."

"Our past?" a man asked.

"Forgotten."

Jesse Boston leaned forward. "Raines, I killed a man just before the
Great War. I was serving time for it."

"Where?"

Jesse blinked. "Where?"

"Yes. Where did you kill the man?"

"In a honky tonk just outside of Oklahoma City."

"So it was trash killing trash?"

Jesse smiled and shook his head. "Boy, you bring it all down to the
basics, don't you, Raines?"

Ben returned the smile. Sort of like a mongoose looking at a cobra. "I
do try."

"In your eyes, we're all white trash here, aren't we?"

"Until you prove otherwise, yes."

"Long as we kill each other, that's all right, isn't it?"

"That's one way of putting it, yes."

Boston leaned back in the chair. "You're the hardest son of a bitch I
ever saw in my life, Raines, and I have known some bad ol' boys. They
don't hold a candle to you."

"Thank you."

69 "Goddamn, Raines! It wasn't meant as a compliment."

"I know it. But that's the way I choose to take it."
"What's the chances of joinin' up with you people," a man asked.

"Not very good until I test your loyalty and you prove to me you can
keep your word."

"That's fair," another man spoke.

"Raines," Jesse said. "Are you telling me that if we're good little
fellows for a time, say a year, and play by your rules, you'll rearm us
and make this a Rebel outpost?"

"Probably."

"And what is to prevent us from returning to our, ah, outlaw ways?"

"The sure and certain fact that should you do that, I will hunt you down
and either shoot you or hang you. Probably the latter. And I think you
all know I will do exactly what I say I'll do."

"Well," one of Jesse's men stood up. "I was raised on a farm. I kinda
miss it. I'll turn in my M-16 and ammo and keep my .22 and shotgun. You
boys can find me and my woman over on Highway 19, along the Washita.
Thank you, General Raines."

"You're welcome.

One by one the men left Ben's makeshift office, until only Jesse Boston
remained. Ben waited on him to open the ball.

Boston sighed deeply. "You'd really hunt me down and shoot me, wouldn't
you, Ben Raines?"

"No," Ben said softly, as his eyes burned with a predatory glow. "I'd
hang you."

70 Sevea

The children had been inoculated, the men and women given physicals, and
the Rebels pulled out. Just before they left, Jesse walked up to Ben.

"You know, Ben, this isn't going to be half bad. For the first time in
my life, I'm on the side of law and order, and I won't have to be
looking over my shoulder twenty-five hours a day."

Ben smiled. "That's what you think, Jesse."

"Huh?"

"Within seventy-two hours, every punk and thug and worthless piece of
human crap in a two hundred mile radius will know that you and your
bunch have thrown in with the Rebels. They'll know that you now have
medicines and proper food and up-to-date radio equipment and everything
else that goes with joining up with us. And they'll be coming in to take
it from you. Just like you people took it from that pathetic bunch that
was here before."

Jesse paled as the truth in that hit him hard. "But we don't have
anything to fight with, Ben. We can't fight off renegades with .22
caliber rifles and shotguns!"
71 Ben laughed and patted the man on the shoulder. "Relax, Jesse. Your
weapons are stored in that warehouse out on 39, just at the edge of
town. I was only testing you."

Jesse stared at Ben for a moment, then burst out laughing. He wiped his
eyes and stuck out his hand. Ben shook it.

"We'll do our best to keep our end of the bargain, Ben."

"I know you will."

"How?"

"When I discovered that Boston really was your name, I sent people to
the old Oklahoma State Prison to see if they could find your real
records. They got lucky and found them. You only killed that one man,
Jesse. And you claimed it to be self-defense."

"It was! I'll swear on the Bible it was."

"I believe you. I talked with some of those dip-shits you turned loose.
They admitted you were the one who stopped the beatings and the rapes
and punished the men who were responsible. That told me volumes about
you, Jesse."

Jesse rolled a cigarette and said nothing.

"Then some of your own people told me about you setting up a zoo for the
children in your camp. Taking care of the animals yourself. How many
dogs and cats do you have, Jesse?"

He mumbled something.

"Beg pardon?"

"About a dozen!" he admitted.

Ben laughed. "Jesse, I won't deny that you're probably a mean bastard to
tangle with in a fight, but you're not a bad bastard."

72 "Just don't let that get out, Ben. It would ruin my reputation."

Ben grinned. "Hell, Jesse. Those with you who are worth saving already
know it!"

Ben and his Rebels moved northeast, toward the ruins of Oklahoma City.
Scouts had reported back that the smell of Night People was very strong
amid the tangle of twisted girders, burned-out buildings, and piles of
brick and stone. They saw no signs of human life during the short run
from Jesse Boston's location to the city. Not one single sign.

"Creepies ate them," Jersey said, disgust in her voice.

"General," Beth said, "was there any evidence of the Night People before
the Great War?"

"Not to my knowledge, Beth. Cannibalism was a very rare thing. But I
have a suspicion the Creeps were around, although not in the numbers
we've had to fight. I think they probably preyed on hitchhikers and
runaways. Back when civilization was more or less functioning, about two
hundred thousand people a year just dropped out of sight. Vanished. And
that was in the United States alone."

"Why?" Corrie asked.

"Oh, marital problems, loss of jobs, unable to pay their bills. All
sorts of reasons. Kids ran away because they couldn't, or wouldn't, get
along with their parents, or peer pressure became too great. Again,
there were a number of reasons. When I was just a kid, back in the '60s,
that's when things really began to unravel. We got involved in a war
that no one wanted and the politicians wouldn't let the

73 fighting men win. After Vietnam, everything seemed to go downhill.
About twenty-five years after Vietnam, the whole goddamn world fell apart."

"Ben Raines?" the man asked, standing on Ben's front porch.

"That's right."

The man held up a badge. "I'm Bond, FBI. This is Reno, Secret Service."
Reno showed Ben his badge.

Ben took out his wallet and found his social security card. He held that
up. The government agents were not amused.

"May we come in?" Reno asked.

"No," Ben told him. "But it's a nice day. We can sit out here on the porch."

Ben sat down and pointed to chairs on the enclosed porch. "I'm not going
to offer you coffee or iced tea or soft drinks. State your business and
then get the hell off my property."

"You're not very friendly, Mister Raines," Agent Bond said.

"Should I be? This is not the first time federal agents have been
around, questioning me and making a nuisance of themselves. I used to
have a dog. She was a very nice dog. The last time people like you came
around, they blatantly and arrogantly ignored my "no trespassing" signs
and let her out of the fenced-in yard and she was run over. I had to
have her put to sleep. I don't like you people and I don't give a damn
who knows it. By the way, have you shot any tax resisters today?"

Both Bond and Reno flushed.

74 Ben wouldn't let up. "You people have a quota? What is it, a point
system? Five points for an adult and two points for a kid?"

"Your writing has become very inflammatory, Mister Raines," Reno said.
"You're calling for open and armed rebellion against the United States
government."

"You're damn right I am. We've got to stop this insanity before it's too
late. And if the only way to do it is by overthrowing the government,
let's get it on."

"Your publishing company has agreed to cooperate with us, Mister
Raines," Bond said. "They will no longer be publishing your works."
Ben laughed in the man's face. "I wondered when the government would get
around to pressuring them. So now freedom of speech is restricted. I
knew it would happen. Hell, boys, that won't stop me. I'll just
self-publish and peddle my books out of the trunk of my car."

"No major chain will be carrying your Doomsday series, Mister Raines,"
Reno informed him. "They have voluntarily agreed to cooperate with us."

"I just bet they have," Ben said sarcastically.

Bond hastened to add, "Of course, your western books are not affected by
this order. Your government does not in any way wish to restrict your
making a living." He said all that without cracking a smile.

Ben laughed in his face. "Close the gate on your way out," he told the
agents.

Oklahoma City loomed before the Rebels. Ben came out of his bitter
remembrances and pointed

75 to a huge shopping mall coming up off to the right. "Over there. I
want to prowl around some."

Ben stepped out of the Hummer and stretched. Teams of Rebels were
quickly converging on what was left of the shopping center. Ben walked
toward the mall entrance, not missing a step at his son's shout.

"Come on, Dad! Wait up. The damn place is not secure."

"So let's secure it," Ben called over his shoulder and kept walking.

Buddy ran up to him and did what very few Rebels would dare do to Ben
Raines: he grabbed Ben by the arm and spun him around. "Goddamn-it, Dad.
What's the matter with you? What turned you so angry all of a sudden?"

"Well, boy," Ben said, his eyes blazing, "on the way up here, among
other things, I was recalling how, a few years before the Great War,
good, decent, tax-paying citizens became afraid to leave their homes at
night to go shopping, because the malls were not secure. The streets
were not secure. And just before it all blew up in our faces, even the
homes of good, decent, tax-paying men and women were not secure. Now,
son of mine, I am going to go into that old mall and do some window
shopping amid the ruins. And if there is anybody in there who might like
to attempt to mug me, or molest me, or fuck with me, I am going to
secure that mall in the manner we should have done years back. If the
goddamn government hadn't taken our guns away from us, that is. Thanks
to the goddamn liberal Democratic Party. Now let go of my arm."

Ben stalked away.

76 "He was telling us about how federal agents used to come to his
house," Cooper said, hurrying along after Ben. "It really, really pissed
him off."

"The recalling of it?"

"Yeah," Jersey said. "I've been with your dad a good many years. I know
all the signs. Nobody better jack around with him."

"Buddy!" Jim Peters, commander of 14 Battalion yelled. "Recon says the
Creeps control the ruins of the city and gangs of punks control all the
suburbs, including this old mall."

"Oh, hell!" Buddy muttered, just as Ben kicked in what remained of the
mall's electric doors and stalked inside.

"Hey you!" a shouted voice stopped Ben just inside the huge old mall.

Ben turned to face half a dozen young men, all wearing the most
outlandish of clothing. "We're the 89th Street Bombers," one told him.
"I'm called Prince. This is our turf. You get the hell out of here,
dude." He was wearing tennis shoes that had battery operated flashing
lights on them.

Ben laughed at the sight.

"You laughin' at me, pops?" the punk said.

"Yeah," Ben told him. "What the hell are you supposed to represent, an
early Christmas?"

"Say what?"

"Forget it. Get out of my way."

"I think you need to be taught a lesson, pops," the same punk said. "And
we's just the ones to do that. I think I'll cut your ears off and make a
necklace out of them."

"Then I would have to say you have extremely lousy tastes when it comes
to jewelry."

77 "You 'bout a smart-assed mother-fucker, ain't you?"

Ben smiled. "Don't press your luck, punk."

"Don't you be callin' me no punk, motherfucker."

"Look at all them soldiers over yonder," another punk said. "And they's
cunts with 'em, too."

"You the Rebels, ain't you?" the first punk asked Ben.

"That's right."

"Well, you just carry your asses on outta here. 'Fore we show you what
bad really is."

Ben chuckled. "Punks never change."

"I warned you 'bout that!" Prince said.

"You punks work with the Night People, don't you?" Ben asked. "You raid
out in the country for humans and in exchange the Night People leave you
alone. Isn't that right?"

"What's it to you?"

"I find that practice quite odious."
"Huh?"

"I think you should stop doing that immediately."

"Or you'll do what, pops?"

"Kill you," Ben said calmly.

Before the Prince of Punks could respond, Buddy called, "Punks coming up
behind you, Dad. And more coming in to back up this punk pack."

"You take care of them, son. I'll handle Prince and those with him."

"Say what?" Prince asked.

"Are you hard of hearing, stupid, or a combination of both?" Ben questioned.

78 "The General's pushing hard," Cooper whispered.

"No kidding?" Jersey returned the whisper.

"You know how he hates punks," Beth said.

"Hey, Prince!" one of his followers said, slowly looking all around him.
"We is surrounded, man."

"Prince!" the shout came from behind Ben. "They's tanks outside. All
over the place. Must be three or four thousand soldiers."

Prince glared at Ben, and Ben smiled. "You still want to cut off my
ears, you punk bastard?"

"Man, why for you pushin' at me so hard?"

"Because I despise worthless punks like you, that's why."

"You honky, racist son of a bitch!"

Ben laughed. "Look around you, punk. Look at the Rebels. All races, all
religions. I don't see anything but blacks in your punk pack. So who is
the racist?"

One of the gang members very slowly squatted down, conscious of a
hundred guns on him, and laid his AK-47 on the floor. "I'm out of this,
Ben Raines. And you is Ben Raines, ain't you?"

"That's right."

"You let me get my shit together, and I'm gone like a cool breeze, General."

"Get gone, then."

"You won't shoot or hang me?"

"Why should I do that?"

"I got family down in Mississippi. My mama's down there. I want to see her."

"That's Rebel-controlled territory now. Stick around. There'll be planes
coming here tomorrow.
79 We'll fly you back and you can start a new life . . . if you want to."

"For real?"

"For real."

Another young man said, "I'm from Natchez. Can I go back with Ernie?"

"If you want to start over and change your ways, yes. But you both
better understand Rebel law and be willing to play by the rules."

"I was going to go to college and be a teacher, then the Great War tore
everything apart. But I'd still like to teach. You got colleges down there?"

"Several of them. You and Ernie get outside."

Prince cussed the two men. They did not look back as they hustled out of
the mall.

"Prince, this is crazy!" a shout came from behind the Prince of Punks.
"They'll kill us all. I don't want to die."

"Then join them other traitors," Prince said, his eyes never leaving Ben
Raines. "I don't need cowards with me."

"Coward ain't got nothin' to do with nothin'," a gang member standing
close to Prince said. "We talkin' good sense here, man."

"Then get away from me!" Prince shouted.

"Naw," another punk standing close said. "I ain't livin' under Rebel rule."

"Good man," Prince said. "Some of us are gonna get hurt, but I think we
can beat these do-gooders."

"Then start the dance," Ben said softly.

"I believe I will," Prince said, and lifted his Uzi.

80 More than half of the gang dropped their weapons and hit the littered
mall floor. The rest died where they stood as the entrance to the huge
old mall hammered with gunfire.

Ben lifted his Thompson and stitched Prince from left to right, fighting
the rise of the powerful old SMG as he held the trigger back.

It was over in two heartbeats. Prince and those who chose to stay with
him unto death got their wish. Some of those who chose to live were
sobbing in fear as they lay amid the litter. Others were so badly
frightened they peed their dirty underwear.

They all realized just how hard Ben Raines was when he said, "Drag the
bodies outside and burn them. Interrogate the others and find out what
they know about the Creeps and their location." He took a few steps to
stand over a gang member who was praying, huddled in a ball on the
floor. "You're calling on God?" Ben said, his voice as sharp as tempered
steel. "You've helped in forcing hundreds of people to a horrible death
by cannibals
81 and you're actually calling on God? Get up, you son of a bitch!" he
shouted.

But the man was shaking so badly his knees would not support his weight.
He lay on the floor and stared in horror at his dead friends sprawled
all around him. He continued to mouth heavenly cast supplications.

Ben looked at those Rebels gathered in the mall. "We became lax over the
past few years. Lax enough to cut too much slack to the criminal
element. All that ended today. From this moment forward, we give outlaw
gangs one chance to surrender. If they refuse, we strike, and we strike
hard. Any questions?"

There were none.

"Fine. Now I'm going window shopping." Ben turned and began walking
slowly up the long corridor of the mall, his personal team with him.

Buddy waved toward a group of Rebels, pointing a finger. They took off
at a run, racing ahead of Ben.

It was bright outside, and the mall was illuminated by a wide skylight,
much of it still intact after all the bloody years. The floor was, of
course, littered with everything imaginable, empty beer cans and wine
and liquor bottles most prevalent.

"Prince and his punks were very fastidious folks," Ben remarked.

"Yes," Beth said, kicking away a pair of extremely filthy underwear.
"And hygienic, too."

"Those two who wanted to try our ways," Cooper said. "You think they'll
work out, General?"

"No. But we'll give them a chance. They'll last about a month back at
Base Camp One. The first

82 time they step over the line down there they'll get a bullet and that
will be the end of it."

Ben stopped in front of a bookstore and looked in through the glass,
remarkably still intact. The place had been trashed, torn and ripped
books ankle deep on the floor.

"If they won't want to read the books," Corrie said. "Why don't they
just leave them alone?"

"Because they contain knowledge," Ben told her. "And certain types of
people are very much afraid of that. They think if they destroy the
words, everybody else will become as them. Dictators have practiced that
misguided theory for centuries."

Ninety-nine point nine percent of all Rebels were voracious readers.
Reading was stressed in Rebel schools, beginning in most Rebel homes as
soon as the child was able to hear words being read to them. The older
Rebels had watched a nation slide away from reading and they were
determined that would not happen in their new order. Everywhere they
went, Rebels gathered up old newspapers and shipped them back to Base
Camp One, where they were carefully cataloged and put on microfilm, to
save for posterity. Someone had to preserve the history-not just of what
used to be America, but the world-and that job fell to the Rebels.

Rebels were not just very capable warriors. They were historians,
teachers, medics, and just about anything else one could think of.

As they walked the huge mall, the Rebels found others of Prince's gang
in hiding. Very few offered any resistance. Those that did, died. Those
who wisely surrendered were disarmed and rousted outside. At first, a
few of the gang members resisted

83 Rebel attempts to extract information from them. They soon learned
that the Rebels had highly sophisticated ways of interrogation and were
not at all hesitant to use them. Before noon of that day, the Rebels had
learned every location of the Creepies in the ruins of Oklahoma City.
With the aid of a city map, Rebel artillery was quickly brought up and
ranged in.

Ben carefully spread his four battalions out and the thunderous
bombardment began. It would continue throughout the night. Long before
dusk settled around the land, the city was blazing from the hundreds of
rounds of Willie Peter dropping in.

The Creeps tried to escape the towering flames. The Rebels shot them down.

Other gangs had been found on the outskirts of the city and the
survivors brought in. They sat under guard in the parking lot of the old
mall and were awed by the massive firepower in the hands of the
disciplined Rebels.

Under the glare of powerful lights, electricity provided by huge
generators, the gang members were hosed down and deloused before being
given physical examinations by Rebel doctors and medics. With the slam
and boom of artillery in the background, Ben read the preliminary reports.

"Some of these gang members have more diseases than could be found in a
garbage dump," Ben said.

"Many of them too far gone to be effectively treated," the doctors told
him. "You have two choices, General."

"I know what they are," Ben said shortly. "Turn them loose and let them
die. I won't waste our

84 medical supplies on these people. They chose their way of life, so to
hell with them."

To say that Ben Raines was a hard man would be the understatement of the
millennium.

A gang leader who went by the name of Pookie said, "That Ben Raines is
the meanest son of a bitch I ever seen in all my life!"

His brother, Mookie, said, "That man tole me if he ever seen me again he
was gonna shoot me right between the eyes. I axed him what I was 'pposed
to do? He said find me a nice piece of ground, grow a garden, and live
decently and respect the rights of others. Shhittt! I ain't no fuckin'
farmer."

"You is now," his brother told him. "If you ain't, you stay the hell
away from me."
"Hey, brother!" Mookie shouted at a passing Rebel.

The Rebel stopped and stared in disgust at the former gang member. "I am
not your brother."

"You black, man!"

"The similarity ends there, I assure you. What do you want?"

"How long you been with that mean honky bastard?"

"I assume you mean General Raines. And if you call him a mean honky
bastard again, I'm going to shoot you."

"Now wait a minute. Shit, man! I got a right to an opinion, don't I?"

"Only if you would allow a white person to refer to you as a nigger."

"Say what?"

"You heard me."

"Well, that don't make no sense."

85 "No. It probably doesn't to the likes of you," the Rebel said. "That
is the reason I am what I am, and you are what you are."

"You 'bout a goofy talkin' an' a goofy actin' nigger! You know that?"

The Rebel smiled . . . thinly. "If you have nothing else to say, I'll be
on my way."

"That's cool. Go on. You carry your zebra ass, man. Lick the boots of
whitey. When the New Africa rises up, you ain't gonna be part of it."

"How wonderful for me. I can't tell you how relieved I am to hear that."

Buddy was standing in the shadows and heard the conversation. The Rebel
stopped by Buddy's side. "Did you hear that idiocy, Colonel?"

"Yes. It's sad."

"Five or ten years ago it would be sad. Now it's stupid. New Africa!
Jesus Christ. When are people like that going to understand that if we
don't all pull together, we're all going to fail?"

Ben was leaning against a truck fender, standing in the darkness and
listening. It flung him back in memory. Back to a time when he'd
confronted some local black militants just outside his home town- back
when he'd had a home town. Just a few days after the world had exploded
and there wasn't a stable government left in any country around the globe.

"You been riding high and mighty, Ben Raines," one man had told him.
"Big shot writer always criticizing people on welfare."

"I don't always criticize people on welfare, Henry. And color has
nothing to do with it. There are more whites on welfare than blacks. I
criticize those peo-
86 pie who have one baby right after another and expect the taxpayers to
foot the bill. But that's all over now, isn't it?"

"But you meant black people, didn't you?"

"No, Henry, I didn't."

"I say you're a liar, Mister Ben Raines."

Ben had paid a visit to the local sheriff's office the day he'd come out
of his sickness and had taken an old Thompson SMG from the gun rack,
trying his best to ignore the bloated and stinking bodies. He'd also
taken two .45 caliber semiautomatic pistols and all the ammo and clips
for the pistols and SMG that he could find.

Now he'd run up on one of the most militant and white-hating black men
in the parish.

Ben sighed. "Henry, back off and leave me alone. It's a brand new world
now, Henry. So stop hating whites and blaming them for all your troubles."

"I'm out of this, Ben," one of the men with Henry said.

"Fine, Lucas. You and I have always been friends."

"Me, too," the others said. "Come on, Henry," one urged. "You know Ben
Raines hates the Klan as much as we do. Why start trouble now?"

"Ain't nobody around to read your goddamn trashy books now, Raines,"
Henry said.

"That's a fact, Henry."

"And no law, either."

"That, too, is the truth."

Henry pointed a finger at Ben. "So I'll tell you something. I killed
that goddamn deputy Harrison . . . the one who beat me that time. Shot
him dead yesterday."

87 "He caught you selling dope and you resisted arrest, pulled a knife
on him. He hit you twice with a flashlight. He should have caved your
head in and left you for the ants to eat," Ben was very blunt, as was
his custom.

"You goddamn racist honky son of a bitch!" Henry grabbed for the pistol
in his belt and Ben stitched him with the Thompson. Henry was dead
before he hit the asphalt.

"My God, Ben!" Lucas said. "You've killed Henry."

Ben looked at the man. "You think I wanted to, Lucas?"

"I think you were mighty quick to shoot," another man said.

"You maybe wanted him to shoot me before I opened fire?"

The men walked away without answering. They left Henry's body where it
lay on the street.
Ben shook away the memories of years past and forced himself to return
to the smoky air outside of the ruins of Oklahoma City. Buddy spotted
him and walked over. "What are we going to do with these gang members, Dad?"

"I don't know, son. I don't see that we have much choice except turn
them loose and hope for the best. Have any of them professed any desire
to join us?"

"No. For the most part, they are a sullen and uncooperative bunch."

"We'll have to fight them someday. Or someone will."

"What were you thinking about, Father? You appeared to be deep in thought."

88 "Oh, of events long past. Racial hatred. Social injustice-real and
imagined. Problems the Great War should have solved, but didn't."

His son smiled. "Heavy mental ponderings, Father. Did you arrive at any
solutions?"

"Unfortunately, no."

"Father . . ." Buddy hesitated. "Have you ever considered clearing out
perhaps half a dozen states in our southern area and just letting the
rest of the country go to hell?"

Ben laughed. "Oh, yes. Many times. I was thinking about that just the
other day."

"And?"

"It wouldn't work. We would be fighting a never-ending series of hit and
run raids all along our borders. It would be another case of the
so-called have-nots against the so-called haves. And that's one of the
reasons this country went down the toilet in the first place. We elected
a socialist for a president and a bunch of wishy-washy assholes in
Congress. They mandated that big government be all things for all people
all the time."

"A classless society, Father?"

"Something like that."

"That won't work."

"Of course, it won't work. Looks good on paper, but try to put it in
practice and it tears the country apart. In any society there will
always be those who have more than others. Either by luck, inheritance,
or just plain hard work. And there will always be those who will attempt
to take what is not theirs."

"Not down in Base Camp One," Buddy said.

Ben chuckled softly as he rolled a cigarette under the disapproving eyes
of his son. "And do you know

89 why we have so little of that in any Rebel controlled area?"

"Because we won't admit just anybody who comes along."
"That's right. So consequently, we are not a democracy. You know as well
as I of the hundreds of thousands of people scattered throughout this
country who refuse to join with us; who would rather live without
protection, without medical care, without hope, because they refuse to
follow the few laws we have on the books."

"And it never ceases to baffle me," Buddy said.

"You know something, son? It never ceases to baffle me, either."

90 7tt*te

The Rebels pulled out, leaving behind them a confused and very disarmed
bunch of gang members. Some of them would heed Ben's warning and try to
live a life free of crime, but Ben knew that most would not.

The last thing Ben did before leaving the still-blazing ruins of
Oklahoma City was to blow up the old shopping mall.

"Shit, General!" Mookie said. "I ain't got no home."

Ben looked at him in disgust and walked away.

The long Rebel column headed west for a few miles, then turned north on
87. The highways had deteriorated badly and if the Rebels could average
twenty miles per hour they considered themselves lucky. They saw no
signs of human life. The Creeps had been ranging out farther and farther
in their hunt for food, and those people who had not been taken for
brunch had cleared out.

All along the route, towns had been destroyed, much of that having been
done by the Rebels, several years back. Vance A.F.B. had been looted so

91 many times the Rebels did not even stop. Enid was in ruins. The
Rebels were only a few miles south of the Kansas line before they
spotted the first signs of human life.

"Scouts report smoke coming from the houses up ahead," Corrie said. "The
townspeople have a pretty good defensive line thrown up around the town
and the scouts say they are prepared to defend."

"Tell the scouts to back off and make no hostile moves. Wait for me."

Ben reached for a map case and Beth said, "Just about fifteen hundred
population before the war, General. Approximately ten miles south of the
Kansas line."

"Thank you, Beth," he said with a smile.

"You're welcome, sir."

"Scouts report about three hundred men, women, and children in the
town," Corrie said. "Men and women heavily armed."

"Any flags flying?"

"No, sir."

Ben halted the long column about a mile from town and drove on up to the
scouts' position, about three hundred yards from the first barricade. He
took a bull horn.

"This is General Ben Raines of the Rebels. We mean you no harm. We have
doctors with us if you need medical attention. I repeat: we mean you no
harm. We're Rebels."

There was no response from those behind the barricades. The Rebels could
see where a dirt road had been worn in the earth, leaving the main
highway and circling the small town.

92 "They're talking on CB," Corrie said. "Channel sixteen. They don't
believe we're the Rebels."

Ben listened to the people talk back and forth.

"I tell you, I heard General Raines was taken prisoner and shot down in
Mexico," a man said.

"If that's those damn Nazis," another said, "I'd rather die right here
than join them."

Ben cut in. "Listen to me, people. I am Ben Raines. Field Marshal
Hoffman and all his top people are dead. The Nazis have been defeated
and are no longer any threat. But the Night People and the roaming gangs
of thugs are a problem. We just cleared Dallas/Fort Worth and Oklahoma
City of those types. My battalions are working all over this nation
cleaning it up, again. If we were unfriendly, with all the firepower we
have, don't you think I would have already opened fire? Now, I don't
know what else I can do to prove to you that I am Ben Raines."

A man's voice came over the CB. "Back before this nation fell into the
hands of democrats, what was the first book you wrote?"

Ben laughed. "The first book I wrote, or the first book I had published?"

The voice chuckled. "Spoken like a true writer. Come on in, General Raines."

Ben and his team walked the few hundred yards to the now opened gate. A
man stepped out and Ben narrowed his eyes. "Well, I'll just be damned!
Bill Block." He jogged up and stuck out his hand.

The man laughed and took the hand. "Good to see you, Ben. My God, man,
it's been years."

"Ten years, at least. The last writers' convention, I believe. Down in
... San Antonio, I guess."

93 "That's it. Tell your people to come on in." He pointed. "Good place
to set up tents right over there on the flats. Come on, you old hoss
thief. Let's talk western books for a time."

Bill Block had been a very successful writer of men's adventure and was
just hitting his stride when the world blew up. Like Ben and a few other
writers who had the courage to stand up to a fast-growing socialistic
government in America, Bill Block had been hassled more than once by
federal agents.

"I tried to call you after you didn't show up at the last convention
down in Beaumont," Ben said. The men were sitting in the den of a small,
but very neat home. "But your phone had been disconnected."

"Goddamn government fell on me, Ben. After I wrote The Fall of Freedom,
I really started getting hassled. Federal agents came in and seized all
my records, all my manuscripts, all my equipment. Bastards charged me
with sedition and held me in federal custody for weeks. No bail, no
communications with anybody. You remember Nickie, over in Missouri? They
did the same thing to him. And they were coming after you, too, Ben. But
the bastards were afraid of you. They knew you were armed and would
shoot if they got too heavy-handed. Then, too, you had a hell of a
following. The government was afraid of you, Ben." He grinned. "You
stuck it to those bastards, Ben. I'm proud of you."

"What ever happened to Langhorn?"

"The government shut him down, Ben. During

94 the last days before the Great War, the federal bully boys went after
every writer who dared preach rebellion. They always came at night,
kicking in doors, slapping people around. They shut down Bob. They
jailed Mike. Hell, they killed Clet. Then they were coming after you.
But it's the funniest thing, Ben. All the senators and representatives
and appointees who kissed the ass of the last president and went along
with all his gun-grabbing and socialistic programs . . . what's happened
to them?"

"Those that aren't dead are in hiding."

"In hiding?"

"Yeah. From me. I swore I'd nail every son of a bitch that voted for
those programs that crippled this nation."

"Have you found any of them?"

"Eight, so far."

"And?"

Ben's eyes were humor-filled. "I dealt with them."

Rebel intelligence was the best in the world, but due to their
relatively small numbers, they could not be everywhere at once. What the
Rebels did not know was that many of the nation's senators and
representatives had survived the bloody years and were living and
working in upstate New York, in the Adirondacks. Unfortunately, few
conservatives had survived and those men were not included in the
gathering. Senators Hanrahan, Benidict, Arnold, Ferry, Ditto, Goahy, and
others of their left-wing ilk, along with Representatives Fox, Crapums,
Rivers, Hooter, Lightheart, Holey, and a host of

95 others who leaned so far to the left it was unbelievable they could
even stand upright, were just about ready to implement their grand plan
of putting the nation back together.

A mercenary army had been training in very isolated spots in Canada for
several years. Their commanders said they were now ready to take on the
hated Rebel army and their most despised leader, Ben Raines.

"I just hate Ben Raines," Lightheart said, stamping his foot.
"I do too," Harriet Hooter said, stamping her foot.

"Racist, sexist, honky son of a bitch!" Rita Rivers said, stamping her foot.

"I just hope to hell MacDonald's gets back in business soon," the only
surviving ex-president of the now defunct United States bitched.

"I now officially call the first joint session of the new Congress of
the United States to order," I.M. Holey solemnly intoned, banging the
gavel. "First order of business is . . ."

"Kill Ben Raines," an avowed liberal shouted.

"Publicly crucify Ben Raines!" another liberal squalled. "Make him
suffer!" This one was on record as stating that any kind of violence
sickened him.

"Pull out all his fingernails and toenails and then hang him by the neck
and let the vultures eat him!" a former representative from
Massachusetts screamed. He had been the first one to sign the bill
outlawing all violence on American TV.

"Drive a stake through Ben Raines's heart!" one of the former senators
from New Jersey shouted.

96 The speaker let the men and women vent their spleens for a time and
then once more banged the session to order. "The question is this: are
we prepared to declare war against Ben Raines and the Rebels?"

"Yes!" the gathering of men and women shouted.

The speaker adjourned the session and everybody went outside to grill
hamburgers under a replica of the Golden Arches.

Now, just how a group of avowed liberals, who all their lives had
espoused non-violence, could justify putting together a mercenary army
to wage bloody war is anybody's guess. But since most liberals think of
themselves as a reborn combination of Joan of Arc, Jesus Christ, Carrie
Nation, and Aristotle, and firmly believe they sit on the left side of
God, it's not that difficult to figure.

Ben Raines, on the other hand, was more in step with Diogenes the Cynic.

The next few months were going to be very interesting.

General Paul Revere smiled when he received orders to make ready to
march against Ben Raines. He'd been waiting for this moment for several
years. He was ready, and his army was ready. There was no doubt in
Revere's mind that his army could and would crush Ben Raines and his
stupid Rebels. Revere did not share the lofty thoughts of the men and
women down in what used to be called Amer-

97 ica. He was a professional soldier, among other things, and had been
all his life.

This war was to be a very personal affair with Revere. He knew Ben
Raines; had known him for years, although the two men had not seen one
another for nearly twenty-five years. Had soldiered with him in
'Nam-under his real name. Ben Raines had been responsible for him
getting court-martialed and pulling stockade time.

It had never occurred to Revere that Ben Raines would object so
strenuously to his knocking off some Vietnamese tramp. Truth was, Ben
didn't care how many grown Vietnamese women he bedded down, but raping
and sodomizing a nine-year-old girl was more than Ben could take. He had
pistol-whipped Revere and handed him over to the MPs.

Revere had sworn to someday kill Ben Raines. He had busted out of the
stockade before they could ship him back Stateside for hard prison time,
and made it over into Thailand. There he ran a black-market operation
until the war ended and then drifted to Africa, working as a mercenary.
He had fought all over the world: Central America, South America,
Africa, the Middle East, Northern Ireland, and was fighting in Eastern
Europe when the Great War came.

Revere was a sorry excuse for a human being, but he was a damn good
soldier. Those dimwits down in the Adirondacks had promised him he could
be general of all armed forces after he defeated Ben Raines and the
country was restored to order.

Revere had gotten a big kick out of that. He knew America would never be
what it was. Not in two lifetimes. He shared that much with Raines.

98 Those silly ninnies down in the mountains actually thought that if
Ben Raines was defeated, all the people in what used to be called
America would come rushing to them, bowing and scraping and kowtowing
and asking them to "Please lead us out of this terrible mess."

Revere had plans of his own for America. After Raines was dead and
buried, he'd kill those stupid politicians and he would be King of America.

There was only one little hitch to those plans of Paul Revere. One small
obstacle standing in the way.

Ben Raines and fifteen battalions of Rebels.

"It may not be the thugs and punks you should be worried about. Ben,"
Bill Block told him at supper.

"Oh?"

"We had some people come through here last week. Came down from Canada.
They told some pretty wild tales about this huge army being formed up in
the eastern part of the country. Thousands and thousands of men, under
the command of someone called Paul Revere. You heard anything about that?"

"Not a word. Did these people seem stable to you?"

"Oh, yes. Very much so. The only thing that I didn't put any credence to
was the story that a bunch of liberal politicians who escaped the
bombing of Washington and then the fall of Richmond was running the
whole show out of a place in the Adirondacks."

Ben shook his head. "My people scan every

99 known frequency, Bill. Twenty-four hours a day. We'd have heard
something."

"Maybe not, Ben. Everybody knows you people have the most sophisticated
equipment in the world. Anyone smart enough to put together a huge army
would have enough sense to stay off the air, except for short-range CB
talk."

Ben finished the meal in silence. Over coffee, he said, "So that's where
they went."

"Who went where?" Bill asked.

"All those goddamned liberal politicians that I couldn't find to hassle
like they did me, that's who. Everyone knows that after the military
kicked the president out of the White House, he went hard underground
with about fifty of those bastards and bitches who helped destroy this
nation. He, and they, never surfaced in Richmond, either."

"I can't say that I blame them," Bill said drily. "Knowing that you had
a noose for them."

"Oh, hell, Bill. I didn't kill them. Most of them were too old for me to
kick their ass, so I just told them what I thought about them and warned
them if they ever set foot in any Rebel-controlled area, I would hang them."

"Did they believe you?"

"Oh, yes, indeed."

Ben excused himself and returned to his temporary CP, informing Corrie
what Bill had said. "Check it out, Corrie. Drop scouts in at the edges
of the Adirondacks, north, south, east, and west, and have them work
inward. Burst transmission only and only at pre-set times. Get them
moving, Corrie. I have a bad feeling about this."

100 Ben told the batt coins with him to stand their troops down and
rest. Corrie got on the horn and brought in all of Ben's commanders.

"Funny thing," Ike said, as he and Dan Gray rode back with Ben to the
CP. Ben's Rebels had quickly cleared a strip for the planes just outside
of the small town. "All the gangs just seem to have dropped out of sight."

"Uh-huh," Ben replied.

Dan Gray said, "And not a sign of the Creepies. One day we are fighting
gangs and Creeps, the next day-nothing."

"Uh-huh," Ben said. Then he smiled. "Just because a group of people is
slightly out of step with the norm doesn't make them bad people."

"I beg your pardon?" Dan asked.

"Just thinking out loud, Dan."

"Another cargo plane coming in," Corrie said.

"That'd be Georgi and Rebet," Ben said. "Tina and West should be here
within the hour."

"Do you have any idea what is going on, Ben?" Ike asked.

101 "Just a hunch," Ben said, cutting his eyes to the stocky ex-Navy
SEAL. "I swear, Ike, you're looking more like a basketball every time I
see you."

"Hell, I've dropped ten pounds, Ben!"

"Drop ten more," Dan, the ex-English SAS man suggested with a smile.

Ike and Dan exchanged insults all the way back to the CR At the CP, Ben
wandered off, waiting until all the batt corns arrived to start the meeting.

Cecil Jefferys, second in command of all Rebel troops, and administrator
of the huge Base Camp One, flew in just behind Georgi and Rebet. Ben
greeted his old friend warmly.

"What's the skinny on this, Ben?" Cecil asked.

"Big trouble, I'm afraid, Cec. And to make matters worse, it's been
happening right under our noses. I want to brief everyone together. Go
rest up for a time."

Ben had pulled Cecil out of the field after a series of heart attacks
and open-heart surgery. Cecil had objected, but not too strongly. He
knew that Ben was right. The ex-Special Forces man realized his days in
the field were, for the most part, over.

A runner found Ben and handed him a folded piece of paper. Standing
alone, Ben read the message and then crushed the paper in one big hand.
It was another report from the scouts who had parachuted into the
Adirondacks.

Ben delayed the meeting until the next morning. He wanted confirmation
from another patrol in the New York mountains. He was hoping it would
not come, but it did, followed by a third, then a fourth confirmation.

"Son of a bitch!" Ben said.

102

Ben sat on the teacher's desk in a classroom of the old school building
and looked at his batt corns. They were a tired-looking bunch. The
week's stand-down had just not been enough. Most of these people had
been in sustained combat for years, and it was telling on them all-even
Ben, he reluctantly admitted.

But there damn sure was no end in sight.

Ben sighed and said, "The American flag will be hoisted tomorrow morning
in a small town in New York State. The town will be proclaimed as the
new capital of the United States of America."

The men and women in the room looked at him as if he had lost his mind.

Ben continued. "The first item of business will be the formal
declaration of war between the United States and the Rebels."

"What?" Ike blurted.

"The country is once more in the hands of President Blanton."

"Oh, shit!" Ned Hawkins, commander of the New Texas Rangers, said.
"Who is vice president?" Cecil asked.

"Harriet Hooter."

Cecil laid his head down on the desk. He didn't know whether to laugh or
cry.

Thermopolis, the hippie turned warrior, stood up and said, "Now wait a
minute, Ben. Just hold on. This is a paper government, that's all. How
can they declare war on us without an army to back it up?"

"They've got an army," Ben stunned the group

103 into silence. "With most of it in place, all around us."

"I'm confused," Greenwalt, commander of 11 Battalion said.

"It gets worse," Ben assured them. "For the past two or three years,
that pack of hanky-stomping liberals have been recruiting and training
an army up in Canada. Three full divisions of combat-ready troops, under
the command of General Paul Revere."

"Paul Revere?" Dan Gray blurted. "My word!"

"I don't think the original has returned from the grave," Ben said with
a laugh. "But that is not the worst of it."

"Three full combat divisions is not the worst of it?" West, commander of
4 Battalion blurted. "When we're down by thirty-five percent. What the
hell is the worst of it, Ben?"

"I believe they have also recruited many of the roaming gangs of thugs
and punks, and also the Night People."

No one said a word for a full minute. Cecil raised his head from the
desk and said, "Who are the known senators and representatives, Ben?"

Ben named all that he knew.

"Oh, shit!" Cecil said, and once more put his graying head on the arm of
the desk.

Even the Englishman, Dan Gray, the Irishman, Pat O'Shea, the Mexican,
Raul Gomez, and the Russian, Georgi Striganov, knew of those individuals.

When the cussing faded out, Tina Raines, commander of 9 Battalion, said,
"I have a suggestion, Dad."

"What is it?"

104 "Nuke their asses."

"You're not serious, kiddo?"

"The hell I'm not!"

"Let's take a vote," Buddy suggested.

"Now wait just a minute," Ben protested.
"You set the rules up yourself, Ben," Doctor Chase reminded him. "You
can't vote and neither can I. But the rules clearly state that your
decisions can be overridden by voice vote."

"I haven't made any decisions, Lamar," Ben said. "But if a vote is what
my batt corns want, it's fine with me, and I'll adhere to that decision."

It was seven for and nine against nuking the new government of the
United States.

Several of the batt corns exchanged a few heated words, but as always,
in the end, the vote stood with no hard feelings.

"That's why, on the way in yesterday, you made that comment about 'a
group of people slightly out of step with the norm,' isn't it, Ben?" Dan
asked.

"Yes. Blanton and his ilk would eagerly embrace the Night People. They'd
shake hands with the devil to get rid of us. I'm going to open a line of
communications with Blanton. I am going to tell that bastard in no
uncertain terms, that if he sends troops against Base Camp One or
Thermopolis's HQ in Arkansas, I will use either nuclear or germ weapons
against him. Let's have a vote on that."

It was unanimously in favor.

Thermopolis raised his hand. "I'd like for my HQ Company to be pulled
back into Base Camp One, Ben. For safety's sake. And I'd like to give
the order for them to start packing up and pulling out today."

105 "Granted," Ben said. "Good idea. Everything will be consolidated."

Thermopolis left for the radio shack just as Cor-rie entered the room.
"President Blanton on the horn, General. He wants to talk to you."

"Good," Ben said. "We'll get a few things settled right off the mark."

"Raines," President Blanton's voice rolled out of the speaker. "This is
your president speaking. Are you there?"

"You're not my president," Ben told him. "I sure as hell didn't vote for
you."

"Oh, I simply despise that man!" Harriet Hooter said, looking at the
startled expression on Blanton's face.

"He's such a brute," Blush Lightheart said.

"Now you listen to me, Raines," Blanton blustered, as best he could,
which wasn't all that well.

"No, you listen to me," Ben said. "You put Mister, Ben, or General in
front of that name. You got all that?"

"Order the man killed," Senator Benidict burped, looking around him. He
couldn't remember where he'd put that quart jar of moonshine.

"I concur," Senator Tutwilder said, still looking very much like a
drunken TV evangelist about to stick his hand up the dress of a fallen
angel.
"I'll have you shot?" Blanton screamed into the mic. "You, you . . . ol'
pooter!"

"Who pooted?" Senator Benidict asked. "It wasn't me."

Ben cocked his head and looked at the speaker for a moment. He blinked,
shook his head, looked back at Ike. "Did he say what I think he said?"

106 "I think he called you an ol' pooter," Ike said, scarcely able to
contain his laughter.

Jersey got so tickled she had to turn her back and walk away. But not
before her muffled giggling got to about half the batt corns.

"General Pooter!" Tina blurted, then bent over in laughter, holding her
sides.

Ben knew he'd be a long time living this down. He keyed the mic.
"Blanton? Are you still there?"

"I'm here, Raines."

"Well? What the hell do you want? You called me, remember? Get to it. I
don't have the time to waste listening to you blather."

"I demand your unconditional surrender, Raines."

Ben thought about that for a moment. Then he lifted the mic. "Go fuck
yourself, Blanton."

A sort of choking noise came over the speaker. Then a racket that sort
of sounded like bodies hitting a floor. It was an accurate guess. Blush
Light-heart and Harriet Hooter had fainted.

The news had spread like an unchecked forest fire around the Rebel
encampments, all over the nation. General Raines had told the
re-emerging President of the United States to go fuck himself.

But the humor was going to be short-lived, for General Paul Revere and
his divisions were on the move out of Canada.

"We've got time to get ready," Ben told his batt corns. "Scouts report
they're coming in by truck convoy."

"So they have no planes," Dan Gray remarked with a smile.

107 Everybody knew what he was smiling about. Immediately after the
Great War, as soon as the Rebels were organized, they swept the nation,
taking everything that wasn't nailed down. What planes they couldn't fly
to storage in the desert, they crippled. In all of North America,
Raines's Rebels had the only air force . . . such as it was.

After Blanton had gotten over his shock at Ben's remark, he had radioed
back and Ben had laid it all out for the man, in very blunt, no nonsense
terms.

"He's bluffing!" Senator Hanrahan puffed up. "He wouldn't dare use
nuclear or germ weapons."
Despite what the nation came to think of the man, Blanton was far from
being stupid. He just didn't have a hell of a lot of common sense. He
shook his now entirely gray head. "No. Ben Raines is not bluffing. I
despise the man, but I've studied him extensively. He is a brilliant
tactician, a warrior unequalled, and he does not bluff." He looked at
his liaison between he and General Revere. "Stay out of what is called
Base Camp One. Under no circumstances enter Mississippi or Louisiana."

"But he hasn't claimed all of that yet!" Rita Rivers complained.

"He will," Blanton said.

And Ben did. Not only did he claim all of Louisiana and Mississippi as
Rebel controlled territory, he also claimed Alabama and Texas and began
shifting missiles around. He knew he surely had spies among some of his
civilian people, so Ben openly relocated the missiles.

108 Blanton and his hanky-stompers got the message-loud and clear.

"Ol' pooter" just didn't seem strong enough to describe the president's
feelings toward Ben Raines. "That son of a bitch!" he muttered.

The president ordered Paul Revere to halt and hold his position until he
worked out a new plan of battle.

"He's going to work out a battle plan?" one of Revere's aides questioned.

"It appears that way. Relax. There's no rush. We have all the time in
the world."

Revere had considered just killing Blanton and his people and taking
over, but had quickly rejected that. About half of his ranks-including
some top commanders-were filled with Blanton fanatics. Any move against
Blanton would bring on a bloody and self-defeating mutiny within his
divisions.

Those people amused Revere and he felt scorn toward them. And yet in a
strange way-amid all the hate he felt toward the man-he admired Ben
Raines. The Blanton supporters were avowed liberals, totally opposed to
violence and professing a terrible aversion to guns. Yet here they were,
all hot to kill Ben Raines and wipe the Rebels from the face of the earth.

At least Ben Raines knew what he was and didn't change philosophies
every time he changed his underwear.

While Revere's legions were held up several thousand miles away from
Ben's Rebels, those in Base Camp One were working around the clock in the

109 producing of instruments of death and destruction. The Rebels had
literally billions of rounds of small arms ammunition. Teams flew all
over the nation burying hidden caches of ammunition, grenades, mortar
rounds, food, water, and clothing. They stockpiled fuel and hid vehicles
amid the ruins of small towns.

Blanton would soon learn that he had made a terrible mistake in throwing
down the glove to Ben Raines. Blanton's forces outnumbered the Rebels;
but the Rebels were long accustomed to fighting overwhelming odds-and
winning.

Blanton knew little of war. The Rebels were experts at it. Probably the
best fighters in all the world. Blanton was fighting   to resurrect a
dream, an ideal, that recent past history had proven   to be disastrous as
well as totally unworkable. The Rebels were fighting   to preserve a form
of government that worked for them. And they weren't   about to roll over
and give it up.

Not as long as there was just one Rebel left alive.

That was something that the Blanton's of the world had yet to learn. But
they were about to.

The hard way.

110 The Rebels were waiting. They were ready. Spring had turned to
summer and the Rebels were now fully rested and wondering what the
holdup was.

The holdup was simple: President Blanton didn't know jack-crap about
military tactics, and neither did any of his staff or any of the
senators and representatives that made up the new government of the
United States.

After weeks of laboring over writing tablets-the lined kind-President
Blanton finally said to hell with it and radioed General Revere. "Attack!"

General Forrest, commander of Division One, looked at the one word
battle plan and said, "That's it? Attack?"

General Holtz, Commander of Division Two, shook his head. He was speechless.

General Thomas, Commander of Division Three, said, "You have to
remember, he wasn't much of a president either. Although I wouldn't want
many of my people to hear me say that."

111 "Are those people going to stand and fight, Tom?" Revere asked the
career military man.

"Yes. They're fanatics. Dedicated to the ideals of Blanton. Die for the
cause. Take a punk to lunch types."

Revere nodded his head in agreement and moved to the map on the wall.
"There are only a few bridges left over the Mississippi, and Raines has
those wired to blow. Start moving the people out, straight west, staying
in Canada until you reach Thunder Bay and then cross over into the
States. Division One enter there. Division Two will cut south at
Winnipeg, Division Three will cross the border south of Regina. And you
can bet Raines will be waiting."

General Revere eyeballed his three top generals for a long moment.
"Gentlemen, do not underestimate Ben Raines and the Rebels. Don't try to
second guess him, don't try to outmaneuver him, and for God's sake when
the Rebels run, do not chase them. They're masters at guerrilla warfare.
They've perfected ambush to a fine art. We're not going to win this one
in a short time. Be prepared for that. This war is going to last years.
Ben Raines and his Rebels will never surrender. Never! They will fight
to the last person and they'll go down snarling and biting. They have to
be wiped out to the last person."

"That isn't possible," General Holtz said softly.
"I know," Revere acknowledged. "This country will always be at war with
some number of people calling themselves Rebels. But we've got to cut
them down to a manageable size. Right now they're

112 eagles. We've got to reduce them to no more than pesky mosquitoes.
And we can do that."

"What do you estimate our losses will be at the conclusion of this
affair?" General Thomas asked.

"About fifty to sixty percent."

The generals were stunned. Finally, General Forrest managed to say,
"You're saying we are going to lose the equivalent of two divisions,
Paul? Two full divisions of men and women."

"Yes."

"But how can that be?" General Thomas asked.

"The three of you, and your families, have isolated yourselves from the
outside for years. Deep in Canada's north woods. Hell" he grinned, "it
took me a damn year to track you down. You don't know about Ben Raines
the way I do. Look, living where you have you're all familiar with the
wolverine. You know what they can do; how ferocious they are. Just
imagine fifteen battalions of them, their natural skills honed by years
of warfare. Warfare in which they were always outnumbered. Yet, always
won. Raines's Rebels are the finest equipped army in the world. They
lack for nothing." He smiled. "No, my friends. This war will not be a
short one. Months, at least; probably years."

"And they know we are on the move," General Holtz stated.

"Oh, most definitely," Paul said. "We'll be watched every mile of the
way. Expect to be hit the instant we cross over the border." He paused,
his expression thoughtful. "Or before we cross over the border," he
added. "No one has yet been able to predict what the Rebels will do. And
that is something that should be kept in mind."

113

"Speaking as your president, General Raines," Blanton again radioed Ben.
"I command you to lay down your arms and surrender."

"I do not recognize you as President of the United States," Ben told the
man. "How many times do I have to tell you that?"

"I was elected by the people!"

"You were elected by a minority of the voters and that was years ago.
Washington is still hot from a nuke strike. Richmond is a ghost town in
ruins. For years now, Base Camp One is and has been the only stable area
of government in America. However, I will accept your surrender, Homer."

"My surrender? My surrender! To hell with you, Raines. You arrogant son
of a bitch!"

"That beats an ol' pooter, I suppose," Ben replied, then signed off.

"Scouts report massive troop movement westbound along Canadian Highway
11," Corrie told him. "First column, commanded by a General Forrest,
approaching Thunder Bay. About three hundred miles out. They can't cross
at Sault Ste. Marie."

"They committed to Thunder Bay, then. That would be Matt Forrest. He's a
good, decent man. One of the few military men who supported Blanton back
when. Forrest is strictly by-the-book and did not approve of special
operations people such as Rangers, SEALs, LRRPs, and so forth. He
doesn't have much imagination. Who is commanding the second division?"

"A General Holtz."

114 "Walt Holtz. Another good man. I knew him in Vietnam when he was a
shavetail lieutenant. He's also by-the-book. Division three?"

"General Tom Thomas."

Ben sighed. "All good decent men. No bad guys among them, unless it's
this General Paul Revere. And I never heard of the man. Has intelligence
come up with anything on him?"

"Nothing that hasn't been passed along to you, sir."

"Which so far amounts to nothing."

"When are we going to tangle with them, General?" she asked.

"Ike is in that vicinity with West and Striganov. That's up to him. Get
him on the horn while I get a cup of coffee."

"Go, Ben," Ike said a moment later.

"How's it look?"

"Grim. We're not going to be able to stand and slug it out with these
people. Too many of them. My latest intel says a minimum of three
divisions, sixty thousand men, and probably a backup division, or two.
The only crossings open for several hundred miles are Thunder Bay, one
south of Winnipeg, and another south of Regina."

"All right, Ike. You take the Thunder Bay crossing. I'll shift Dan,
Rebet, and Greenwalt south of Winnipeg. I'll take Jim Peters and Jackie
and plug up south of Regina. Good luck."

Ben turned to Corrie. "Let's roll. Break camp." He looked over at Jersey.

She smiled. "Kick ass time, General."

"Yeah," Ben said. "But whose ass is going to get kicked?"

115

While Ben and the others raced to get in position, the remaining nine
battalions were to be spread out along 1-94, from St. Paul west to Miles
City in Montana. Artillery was rolling northward day and night. Special
Operations people were working planting explosives on bridges.

"I want teams sent into Canada to blow every bridge they can," Ben
ordered. "We'll cut Revere's supply lines. We know he has only limited
aircraft. That will hurt him. I want every bridge blown between Medicine
Hat in Canada south down to West Yellowstone and from Duluth down to
Madison. And I mean every bridge. We'll hold until that is done. Then
we'll start slowly falling back until we reach 1-90. Revere will be
unable to go east across the Mississippi, and unable to go west. He's
not going to go north. There is nothing up there Blanton wants. He'll
have but one direction: south. We'll be harassing him all the way. And
that's just over two hundred and fifty miles from the border to 1-90.
He's going to pay in blood for every mile he gains. 1-90 is the line,
people. We're going to hold there for as long as we can. By the time his
divisions reach that line, we'll have cut them down significantly." I
hope, Ben silently added.

"Now then," Ben continued taping the orders for burst transmission.
"We'll have Creeps and punks all around us. So we're going to be
fighting on all sides. We don't know who we can trust, so trust no one.
Don't take any food or water from civilians. Watch yourselves at all
times. As they used to say in the movies, this is it. Good luck."

116 Ben walked to a wall map and stared. He shook his head. "Fifteen
short battalions stretched out along a nine hundred mile front," he
muttered. "I've got to find us an edge. But where?"

"Our spies in the States say that Raines is moving his people up to
1-90," Paul Revere was informed. "He's blowing bridges east and west."
He used a grease pencil to mark the locations on a map.

"He's putting us in a box," Revere said. "But he can't believe he can
contain us there. He's stretched too thin. That's almost a thousand
miles. He's pulling something. It's a ruse. But what kind of a ruse?"

But Paul Revere was getting ahead of himself. He was seeing things that
weren't there; trying to think like Ben. Which is exactly what Ben
wanted him to do. Ben wanted the man off-balance and unsure.

"What the hell is Raines up to?" Revere muttered, staring at the map.

Waiting, in a small town sixteen miles south of the Canadian border. Ben
had spread his three battalions out, stretching them thin and digging
them in deep, then daring them to move. If he could pull the ambush off,
General Tom Thomas was going to learn the hard way about the dirty art
of guerrilla warfare . . . and that was something Ben knew the man was
not schooled in. Actually, none of the division commanders knew much
about ground combat. General Holtz was Army aviation for most of his
career, Matt Forrest was in the Pentagon, tied

117 to a desk, and Tom Thomas was basically an artillery officer, but
like Matt, had been assigned to the Pentagon for years.

Ben didn't like doing this. He found the idea of fighting true Americans
repugnant. But somehow those three fine officers had been persuaded to
join Blanton's team.

Ben sighed in frustration. Blanton himself was more than likely a good
man, believing strongly that what he advocated was the right way for the
battered nation and its equally battered citizens. But Blanton was a
true liberal, right down to the core, believing in more government
control of people's lives, while Ben believed in a minimum of government
interference in the lives of citizens.

Ben had finally realized that the two philosophies could never
peacefully coexist. One side had to dominate. And Ben was determined to
be on the winning side.

Revere's forces were now openly transmitting, and the Rebels' scanners
were monitoring them constantly. Ben now knew exactly where Revere's
forces were going to enter the States, and what they planned to do.
Revere's divisions had tanks and artillery; the Rebels had better
tanks-although not as many-and longer range artillery.

Ben's dug-in and camouflaged troops were equipped with antitank weapons
and mortars. The troops of Revere's third division, under the command of
General Tom Thomas, were only a few hours away from learning some hard
lessons about tangling with Raines's Rebels.

"Crossing the border," Corrie said softly.

Ben nodded his head. He did not have to ask if

118 everyone was in place and ready. He knew they were. This time, no
one bitched about Ben's being in the middle of the action. They all knew
Ben would not have paid the slightest bit of attention to their protests.

As the first tanks approached the presumably deserted little town, the
tank commanders did not button up. The town had been checked out by
Revere's recon the day before when it really was deserted, and reported
that back.

The tanks rumbled through without incident.

Just north of the town flowed a creek, running high now because of the
spring rains. Once that bridge was gone, there would be no crossing for
miles in either direction. Ben smiled as the men and equipment of the
third division took the bait and swallowed the hook.

The members of Ben's personal team looked at him; they knew that smile.
It was the smile of an eagle about to sink its talons into prey.

The minutes ticked past and the rumble of tanks and trucks continued.

"Fire," Ben said.

Corrie spoke into her headset and the two-lane bridge north of town blew
into hundreds of chunks. Two trucks carrying troops were caught on the
bridge and the men and equipment disappeared into the running waters of
the creeks.

Dozens of rockets were fired and impacted against their targets. Mortars
began thudding out rounds. One third of Thomas's division was caught on
the south side of the creek, most on the open road, some in the town.
They didn't have a chance.

Tanks and trucks erupted in an inferno of fire as

119 flame and fuel-air rockets struck their targets. These rounds spewed
highly flammable liquid all over their target upon impact, then the
explosives blew, creating a deadly, hellish nightmare. Snipers, using
.50 caliber Haskins rifles, laying back a mile and more, created more
havoc. Some of the Rebel snipers were using special rounds, with a
hardened tungsten-carbide penetrator inside the projectile, capable of
penetrating four inches of armor and then blowing up.
If there was a dirty trick the Rebels didn't know, it was because it
hadn't yet been thought of.

All General Thomas could do was stand on the north side of the
overflowing creek and watch and listen as his forward units got creamed.

"That dirty, sneaky, ambushing bastard!" Thomas said.

Thomas was learning about Ben Raines. The hard way.

120 As the other forward units of Revere's forces entered U.S.
territory, they got a short, bloody, and very brutal lesson in Rebel
ferocity.

Revere quickly shut them all down and told them to dig in and wait for
orders.

"What the hell is happening out there?" Blanton shouted into the mic,
just moments after receiving the first battlefield reports.

"I tried to warn you about Raines, Mister President," Revere spoke
calmly from his CP, a couple thousand miles away. "But you wouldn't
listen. You just simply cannot fight the Rebels on any type of
conventional basis and expect to win. It isn't possible."

Blanton was silent for a moment, which for him was nothing short of a
miracle. He'd been in love with the sound of his own voice for years.

"Go to scramble, Mister President," Revere said. "The Rebels are listening."

"They're going digital," Ben said.

"I've got it," Corrie said.

121 "Hearts and minds, Mister President," Revere said.

"What do you mean?"

"Bluntly put, sir, it means give me your hearts and minds or I'll burn
your house down and kill your firstborn."

"You mean," the president said, "kill all of Ben Raines supporters?"

"That's it exactly."

"Yes, yes!" Harriet Hooter shouted. "Destroy all those right-wing,
gun-loving jerks."

"Isn't this exciting?" Blush Lightheart cooed.

"But what about the children?" Blanton asked.

"Who cares?" Senator Ditto said. "Little rednecks grow up into big
rednecks."

"That's right," Representative Crapums said. "The only way we'll ever
have peace in this nation is to kill everyone who owns a gun. Except
those on our side, that is," he quickly added.
"Kill all those racist bastards!" Representative Rivers shouted.

Blanton was again silent. Order and stability had to be restored in the
nation. My goodness, me. Just let a little war break out in the country
and look what happened: the people actually started to believe that they
could run the nation without politicians. That just wouldn't do at all.
The American people couldn't govern themselves. That was ridiculous.
They were actually shooting people out there for stealing and other
silly little things like that. He'd heard that rapists were being
castrated. How awful. Made him nauseous for hours. Caused him to spit up
his Twinkie. No, no, no, no! The American people could not govern
themselves. They had

122 to have a firm hand on the reins of government. His hand, naturally.
He was born to lead. Everyone told him so. Even his wife. Occasionally.

And it was all Ben Raines's fault. Every bit of it. Goddamn
rabble-rousing, right-wing, redneck peckerwood.

Blanton opened his mouth to speak and then remembered he first had to
key the mic. He always forgot that. Too many other pressing matters on
his mind. "All right, General Revere. Do it your way."

Revere smiled. "Thank you, Mister President. Thank you very much."

"Hearts and minds," Ben said. "Now it gets rough, folks. If I let it.
Corrie, get me Blanton on the horn. No! Forget that. I don't want him to
know that we have equipment capable of descrambling every transmission
they send."

"Surely he has enough sense to realize that?" Jersey added.

"Don't bet on it," Ben replied with a smile.

All along three fronts, General Revere's forces had been stopped cold by
the Rebels. Those few who managed to escape the initial three-pronged
ambush and return to their lines told tales of absolute horror and terror.

"It just seemed like the Rebels were part of the earth," one said. "They
just rose up out of the ground and turned everything into an inferno."

"I've never seen such accuracy with artillery and mortar," another said.

"I never so much as got a glimpse of the Rebels," a platoon leader wrote
in his report. "They were

123 like ghosts. The fire was not centralized, but came from all around
us. How they managed to do that without hitting their own forces is a
mystery to me."

Paul Revere called for a meeting with his three division commanders.
Revere either did not realize it, or did not care, that this move was
only giving Ben time to strengthen his own lines.

"The president has given us carte blanche in dealing with the Rebels,"
Revere told the men. "Hearts and minds, gentlemen. That's the way to
defeat Ben Raines."

"General Revere, these are Americans we're fighting," General Holtz
pointed out. "Now, while I strongly agree that this nation must be
reunited, killing civilian supporters of Ben Raines is repugnant to me
and could easily backfire."

"President Blanton okayed the killing of civilians?" General Thomas asked.

"He has put the order in writing and that paper is being couriered to me
at this moment." Revere knew the "hearts and minds" program was a
dangerous one to put to these generals. While many of the troops were
solidly loyal to him, many of them loyal to Blanton and his idealistic
concept of government, still others were loyal to Generals Thomas,
Holtz, and Forrest. "But before we implement the program," Revere said
smoothly, "flyers are being printed and will be distributed throughout
the nation, air-dropped by light plane. They will tell the
long-suffering American people that we are not the enemy. Ben Raines is.
Raines offers aid and comfort only to those who support him. We offer
aid and comfort and amnesty to all people.

124 We are not going in willy-nilly, kiDing women and children. I want
that understood."

The three generals relaxed. Those were the words they wanted to hear.

General Holtz said, "The American people should be advised that we did
not start this war. Raines's Rebels ambushed us."

"Exactly!" Revere said. "The American people must understand that we did
not come here as invaders, but as liberators. Raines and his Rebels are
the oppressors, not us. Now, we will have to kill some civilians. And I
don't like that one little bit. No, sir. I'm going to shed some tears
before this campaign is over. I see that. Some of these poor, misguided
fools who support Ben Raines will fight us, and we'll have to fight
them. I hate it. And I'll be giving the orders with tears in my eyes.
But . . ." He held out his hands and shrugged. "America must be
reunited. This great nation cannot be allowed to dissolve into warring
factions. It must be restored, and if spilling civilian blood is the
only way, then so be it."

Hearts and minds. And the first three he hooked were men who should have
known better.

A scout brought Ben a leaflet, a disgusted expression on his face. "You
want to read some shit, sir," he said. "This is it." He handed Ben the
leaflet.

A MESSAGE TO ALL AMERICANS FROM THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES,
HOMER BLANTON (A CHRISTIAN MAN AND A TRUE GOOD OL BOY

125 IF THERE EVER WAS ONE): MY FRIENDS, I WISH I COULD SIT DOWN AND HAVE
A PERSONAL CHAT WITH EACH AND EVERY ONE OF YOU. BUT THAT IS IMPOSSIBLE.
THE FORCES OF EVIL THAT PROWL THIS GREAT NATION UNDER THE COMMAND OF BEN
RAINES PREVENT ME FROM DOING THAT. BEN RAINES, THE GREAT SATAN (AND A
REGISTERED REPUBLICAN, TOO), AND HIS ARMY OF MALCONTENTS CALLED THE
REBELS, HAVE PUT ME UNDER A DEATH SENTENCE. THIS HANDFUL OF REDNECKS AND
BEER-BELCHERS AND GUN-FREAKS HAVE PARALYZED THIS NATION, SPREADING FEAR
AND HATE WHEREVER THEY GO. BEN RAINES AND THE REBELS PREACH WAR WHILE I
SPEAK SOFTLY OF PEACE, BROTHERHOOD, FREEDOM, AND A CHICKEN IN EVERY POT
(ALWAYS REMOVE THE SKIN BEFORE YOU COOK IT; THE SKIN IS NOT GOOD FOR
YOU. MY WIFE TOLD ME THAT).

I HAVE SENT THE UNITED STATES ARMY, UNDER THE COMMAND OF GENERAL PAUL
REVERE (AND YOU KNOW WHO HIS GREAT-GREAT-GREAT-GREAT-GREAT GRANDDADDY
WAS) TO FREE THE GOOD CITIZENS OF AMERICA FROM THE TERRIBLE GRIPS OF
ANARCHY. THEY BRING WITH THEM FOOD AND MEDICINES AND HOPE AND CONDOMS
AND ALL SORTS OF OTHER REAL NEAT STUFF. AND IT'S FREE. YOURS FOR THE

126 ASKING. OF COURSE, YOU'LL PAY FOR IT LATER WHEN I RAISE YOUR TAXES,
BUT WE DON'T HAVE TO TALK ABOUT THAT RIGHT NOW.

WE NEED YOUR HELP, GOOD CITIZENS OF AMERICA. WE NEED YOUR SOLID
MIDDLE-CLASS MINDS AND VALUES TO HELP US DEFEAT BEN RAINES. BEN RAINES
IS A REAL SHIT-HEAD, AMERICANS. HE'S A BABY-KILLER. HIS REBELS RAPE AND
PILLAGE AND PLUNDER AND DO ALL SORTS OF OTHER REAL BAD THINGS. BEN
RAINES DOESN'T EVEN GO TO CHURCH AND HE HATES RAP MUSIC. HE LISTENS TO
THAT OL' CLASSICAL STUFF. YUKK! BEN RAINES IS A HEATHEN AND HIS REBELS
ARE THE HORDES OF EVIL. THEY MUST BE STOPPED. AND WITH YOUR HELP, BEN
RAINES AND THE REBELS WILL BE STOPPED. GOD IS ON OUR SIDE. I REALLY,
REALLY, REALLY BELIEVE THAT. CROSS MY HEART AND HOPE TO DIE.

GENERAL PAUL REVERE AND THE UNITED STATES ARMY WILL BE ADVANCING
THROUGHOUT THIS NATION, STOPPING ALONG THE WAY TO TALK WITH YOU
AMERICANS, TO SEE WHERE YOU STAND IN THIS STRUGGLE FOR FREEDOM AND
EQUALITY FOR ALL, AND TO TAKE YOUR COMPLAINTS AND TO OFFER YOU FOOD AND
MEDICINE AND HOPE FOR THE FUTURE. PLEASE COOPERATE WITH THESE SOLDIERS
OF FREE-

127 DOM. AND DON'T BE ALARMED IF SOME OF YOUR NEIGHBORS AND FRIENDS ARE
TOTED OFF IN HANDCUFFS. I PROMISE YOU THEY WON'T BE HARMED. BUT IT IS
OUR STRONG BELIEF THAT ANYONE WHO AGREES WITH THE PHILOSOPHIES OF BEN
RAINES AND THE REBELS HAS A REAL MENTAL PROBLEM. WE MUST ATTEMPT TO
RE-EDUCATE THESE MISGUIDED SOULS AND BRING THEM BACK TO THEIR SENSES.
THOSE UNFORTUNATE PEOPLE WHO FOLLOW BEN RAINES HAVE BEEN BRAINWASHED.
THEY ARE TO BE PITIED AND THEY ARE TO BE HELPED.

I PLEAD WITH ALL TRUE AMERICANS TO STAND BESIDE YOUR PRESIDENT AND HELP
US DEFEAT THE EVIL GREAT SATAN BEN RAINES AND HIS ARMY OF BUTCHERS AND
BABY-RAPERS AND OTHER STUFF TOO AWFUL TO MENTION HERE.

HOMER BLANTON, PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES.

Ben shook his head and handed the oversized leaflet back to the scout.
"You raped any babies lately, Sergeant?" he asked with a smile.

"Are you kidding, sir!" He held up the paper. "This guy is a nut."

"No, not really. He just has very bad advisors. He always did. He
listens to the wrong people and obviously is still listening to the
wrong people." Ben

128 pointed to the leaflet. "How many of those things were dropped?"

"Millions of them, I guess. All outposts and recon and scout teams
outside our battle zone are reporting the ground covered with them."

Ben fingered the paper and arched an eyebrow.

The scout smiled. "Yes, sir. That's what our people are using them for.
We're saving them for emergencies."

Ben laughed. "Corrie, be sure that Blanton knows how the "Evil Empire"
is using his leaflets. That ought to really make his day."
Those around him thought the president was going to have a stroke when
he received word about how the Rebels were using his leaflets. His face
turned red, his eyes bugged out, and he jumped up and down, flapping his
arms. It was a pretty good imitation of Big Bird.

"The Rebels are doing what with the leaflets?" Harriet Hooter asked. Her
eyes bugged out at the answer and she said, "That's disgusting!"

"The man obviously has no class," Rita Rivers sniffed. Lack of class was
something she should know about, since before being elected to Congress
she'd been arrested for prostitution four times (among other things) and
it was said she could suck a dick with more power than a vacuum cleaner.

She and Blush Lightheart really had more in common than they thought.

"I want that damn Ben Raines killed!" Blanton shouted. "I want him dead,
dead, dead!"

Peace, brotherhood, freedom, and a chicken

129 (skinless) in every pot. Right. Just as long as you agree with me.
Blanton wasn't as far apart from Ben Raines as he thought he was.

129

130 Ben had used the lull in fighting to strengthen his own positions
and also to make certain that the towns and the ruins of small cities
within the battle zone were cleaned out of Creeps and punks aligned with
Blanton. The Rebels were working against time and they were not gentle
with any gangs living amid the ruins of the cities. It was classic
search and destroy.

While the Rebels were busy purging the battle zone, Revere was working
swiftly to rebuild his divisions with replacements gathered from all
over what had once been called the United States of America. It came as
no surprise to Ben to learn that thousands and thousands of men and
women were racing to join Blanton and his Forces of Independence and
Brotherhood. He had to smile at the abbreviation of that-FIB. Ben
wondered if Blanton had caught it. He doubted it.

"The forces of FIB," Jersey said. "How come we always get to fight the
loonies?"

"They think the same about us, Jersey," Ben told her.

131 "I don't understand it, General," the young woman said. "I have
never understood why others hate us so."

It was a quiet time in Ben's CP, everything that could humanly be done
toward the defense of their zone had been done. Now they had to wait.

"You have to try to understand the liberal mind, Jersey," Ben said, as
the others in the room turned and listened.

Jersey, who had known nothing but war since childhood, said, "What's to
understand? They're a bunch of damn nuts and kooks."

Ben laughed and refilled his coffee cup. He rolled a cigarette and said,
"But Jersey, to people like Blanton and his followers, we're the nuts
and kooks."

"That's what I don't understand, General," the small, shapely, dark-eyed
beauty said. "We're the ones out here trying to establish order, bring
stability back to the land, put people to work, do all the things that
make a nation whole. Now up jumps this Homer Blanton-who I just have
vague memories of-and he starts running his damn stupid mouth about us
being baby-killers and possessed by the devil and all kinds of the most
ridiculous crap I have ever heard."

Ben smiled and took his Desert Eagle .50 auto-mag from   leather and laid
it on the table. "Let me see if I can show you how the   liberal mind
works, Jersey." He looked around the room at the young   faces. Every
member of his personal team was in their mid-twenties;   middle teens when
the Great War erupted. He pointed to the pistol. "What   is that, Jersey?"

132 She stared at him for a moment. "Well, hell, General! It's a pistol."

"Nothing else?" Ben asked.

"No."

"It isn't evil?"

"General," the usually quiet Beth said, "how can a piece of metal be
evil? It can't think or reason."

Ben chuckled. "But to a liberal, a gun is an evil thing."

Corrie shook her head and said, "A gun by itself cannot be evil. The
person who picks it up and uses it might be evil. But not the gun itself."

"But to a true hanky-stomper," Ben replied, "it's the gun that is evil."

"Well, that just proves my point," the blunt-talking Jersey said. "All
liberals are as dumb as rat shit."

Ben shook his head and laughed. "Quite the contrary. Most left-leaning
people possess average or above intelligence."

"You'll never convince me of that," Jersey stood her ground. "I read an
old magazine the other day, published back in '94 or '95. This guy had
been arrested something like forty or fifty times for various offenses.
I'm serious, people!" she said, looking at the disbelieving faces
staring at her. "This guy's criminal history started when he was about
thirteen years old. He'd been arrested for drug-dealing, breaking and
entering, rape, assault and battery, child molestation, assault with a
deadly weapon, attempted murder, conspiracy to commit murder-all kinds
of stuff. He had fifteen DWI convictions against him, from various
states, and yet he still had a valid driver's license from some state
and until he

133 got drunk and ran over and killed some lady, he was free to drive
and walk the streets. And this writer was moaning about the harsh
sentence this sorry bastard received. The writer had to be liberal,
right, General?"

"I'm sure he was."

"And you're telling me that liberals are rational people, and have good
sense?"

Ben smiled. "I'm sure the writer of the article blamed the individual's
life of crime on something that happened during childhood."

"Oh, yeah. When he was thirteen, his father grounded him for a week as
punishment for doing something, or not doing something. That night, the
guy beat his father's head in with a fireplace poker while his dad was
asleep. And do you know how much jail time that punk got?"

"Probably none."

"That's right. Now, I don't believe that a thirteen-year-old should be
put to death," Jersey said. "But I do believe that he should have been
institutionalized until he was rehabilitated."

"I agree with you," Ben said. "But the catch is this: most psychiatrists
were liberal, most judges were liberal, many lawyers were liberal, most
social workers were liberal. Ninety-nine percent of TV anchors and
newspaper reporters were liberal. Talk show hosts were liberal. Yet a
full fifty percent of Americans were moderate or conservative in their
views. We had little representation in Washington and practically no
support in the news media."

"How could that be?" Cooper asked. "I thought the American system was
built on full representation for all its citizens."

134 "Theoretically, it was. Looked real good on paper. Didn't work worth
a shit in reality. It would come as a great surprise to Blanton, but I
agree with him on one very important point: many Americans were simply
too goddamn stupid to govern themselves. And behind all of Blanton's
fancy rhetoric, that is the main reason he's coming after us. He knows
the Rebels are the cream of the crop. The hardest working, the most
intelligence, the best, of the best. We've got a good toe-hold in this
nation, and he knows he can't allow us to flourish. He's gathering the
rabble around him. He's pulling together and arming the whiners, the
complainers, the do-nothings, those who want something for nothing. He's
building a second army out of those who want government in every aspect
of their lives. But rabble have helped bring down stronger armies than
ours."

"You think we're really in for a long haul on this one, don't you, sir?"
Cooper asked.

"Yes, I do, Coop." He smiled. "As the leader of one nation put it a few
years back: the mother of all battles."

"Kill the father," Cooper said softly.

Every eye turned to Cooper, including Ben's. "What are you saying, Coop?"

"Kill Blanton. Some of the scouts are still in place."

Ben walked to a boarded-up window and stared out for a time. Then he
slowly shook his head and turned around. "I can't do that, Coop. I can
fight his army. I could depose him in a bloodless coup. But I could
never kill a president of the United States. There is just too much
American in me for

135 that." He frowned. "At least I hope that situation never confronts me."
"Bad idea, Coop," Jersey said. "We're all Americans. Don't ever forget
that."

"It was just a thought," Coop said.

"If it makes you feel better, Coop," Ben said. "I had already thought of
it." He smiled. "But I'm not above sending people in on a snatch and grab."

Revere was ready for a push against the Rebel positions, all along the
line. The Rebels had backed up and dug in along Highway 2, stretching
from Montana to US 51 South in Wisconsin. It was indeed a very thin line
of resistance.

"But no artillery along that line," recon reported back to Revere.

"No. Raines wouldn't have them there. They're some twenty-odd miles
back. And from all reports, their artillery has more range than ours."
Revere moved to the radio. "I want everybody buttoned up for an ambush.
And you can bet one is coming. So be ready. Move out."

This time the divisions moved out cautiously, with everybody buttoned
up, which is exactly what Ben had figured they would do. In tanks,
Bradley Fighting Vehicles, and other types of armored personnel
carriers, including recently armored trucks, all buttoned up against
attack, vision is quite impaired.

Revere's recon was good, and they had scouted the area, of course. But
during the more than week's lull, Rebels from all the nine front-line
battalions had plenty of time to dig in deep and secure.

In a move that Revere was sure Ben would not

136 expect, he had ordered his divisions split up, taking as many roads
as possible on their way south. Bad decision. Ben had anticipated that
and had teams out, ready to blow the bridges on the old county roads,
front and back, and then scatter, leaving many of Revere's people stranded.

Revere had known the hottest action would be in Ben Raines's sector, and
he had moved his CP there. When the first reports began coming in, he
was livid with rage.

"... Cut off from main force," came the broken radio transmissions from
a dozen units. "Under heavy Rebel attack. Can't hold. No place to run.
We . . ." Silence.

"Goddamnit!" Revere fumed. "How did he know? Nobody in my own command
knew except me until the last possible minute. That son of a bitch!"

Ben had been called worse over the years.

Revere had lost several thousand troops, quite a lot of equipment, an
immeasurable amount of morale among his people, and had not taken one
inch of ground. His forces had been thrown back at every attack point.
Those FIB troops who had made it through the artillery barrage found
themselves cut off and looking smack into the faces of extremely
unfriendly Rebels. Knowing that Raines's Rebels would ask for surrender
only one time and demand a response very quickly, the FIB troops threw
down their weapons and put their hands in the air. Those in Ben's sector
were taken to him immediately.
Blanton was shocked by the latest turn of events.

137 His aides expected him to throw a temper tantrum, but he was
surprisingly calm. He walked slowly back to his office in the old resort
hotel and closed the door. His wife mouthed a few choice words, threw a
couple of lamps against the wall, and joined her husband.

Back in Ben's battle zone, a small group of very frightened prisoners,
officers and sergeants, were brought to see him. All fully expected to
be shot.

Ben pointed to chairs. "Sit," he said. They sat. "Are you hungry, thirsty?"

The six men and two women shook their heads, not knowing how to take
this man that they all had been brainwashed into believing was the 21st
century's rendition of Attila the Hun and Adolph Hitler.

"Why are you people fighting me?" Ben asked.

"Because you're the antichrist," a woman blurted.

Ben laughed and the members of his team laughed with him. "I think my
chaplains would be very much surprised to hear that. While I am not an
overly religious man, I do attend services occasionally and I have been
known to pray from time to time. Come on, people. You have to have a
better reason than that. Now, come on, tell me the real reason why the
Rebel form of government is so repugnant to you."

"You want to destroy this nation and burn the Constitution," a man said.

Ben shook his head. "Is that what Blanton has been force-feeding you
people?"

"You have concentration camps," another man said. This one wore a
major's insignia.

Ben smiled. "Where are they?"

138 "In the area you call Base Camp One."

Ben shook his head. "People, the Rebels don't have concentration camps
or anything that even remotely resembles them. We have one very small
prison in Base Camp One, but it is nothing like the prisons this nation
had before the war. We stress rehabilitation and our people work very
hard to restore the prisoner's sense of dignity."

"Is that where you are going to put us?" the second woman asked.

"I'm not going to put you in prison. Any of you. What I am going to do
is offer you a bath, food, civilian clothes, and a chance to start over.
But I would like to ask you just one question: who the hell is Paul Revere?"

"Commanding General of the Army of the Forces of Independence and
Brotherhood," the major said.

"I know that. But where did he come from?"

"We are required only to give you our name, rank, and service number,"
the major said.
"Get them out of here and let them bathe and change clothes and have
some food," Ben said to a Rebel officer.

"Our last meal?" one of the women asked.

"Oh, lady," Ben said wearily. "I'm not going to shoot you. The only way
any of you will get hurt is if you try to grab some Rebel's weapon. I
don't care if you get up and run out of this office and go back to your
own lines. I really don't. Run, if you want to." He looked at Corrie.
"Pass the word that these people are free to return to their own lines."
To the prisoners: "But if I were you, I'd take my offer of a bath and a
change of clothes and some food.

139 Our rations are really not bad and our medical facilities are
top-rate. Wander around, talk to people. I think you'll find that we're
not monsters or raving lunatics like that nut Blanton has so cleverly
painted us." He stood up and walked to the office door and opened it.
"Go on. Leave. You won't be harmed. Talk to the people in camp. I think
you'll find that we are really just plain, ordinary folks. We just have
this little hang-up about living free and safe and everybody pulling
their weight, that's all."

One of the women, a sergeant, was the first to stand up and move toward
the open door. She paused, looking up at Ben. "The mess is in the gym,"
Ben told her. "That's about three hundred yards to your right. The
evening meal should be ready. Fried chicken, mashed potatoes, corn on
the cob, some sort of dessert, and iced tea or coffee." The lady had
incredibly pale blue eyes and was quite lovely. She filled out her BDUs
very nicely.

"Maybe we were wrong," she said softly. "Maybe we have been fed false
information about you and the Rebels."

"Denise!" the major said sharply.

Denise looked at the major. "I want to see for myself, Major. I want to
see if we've been fed lies and half-truths."

"You know these people are experts at brainwashing, Denise. And don't
eat the food. It's probably drugged."

Ben got a good laugh out of that. "Major, it's a mess line. We'll all be
eating the same thing."

The major glowered at Ben.

Ben ignored him and held out his arm to Denise. "May I walk with you, miss?"

140 Cooper and Beth winked at each other.

"Certainly, General," Denise said.

"Here we go again," Jersey muttered, rolling her eyes.

"What about me?" Cooper hollered.

"See to the needs of the prisoners," Ben told him.

"I really would like a bath and a change of clothes," Denise said, as
they strolled along the old road.

"I'll walk you over to the quartermaster and see that you're outfitted
... in civilian clothing."

Denise smiled a very pretty smile. Ben figured her to be in her early to
mid-thirties. Sort of a honey-blonde, the hair cut short.

"Major Nelson is a staunch supporter of President Blanton and his
philosophies, General."

"I never would have guessed," Ben said drily.

"You'd really turn us loose?"

"That's my plan. If you want to go, that is."

Denise looked around her as they walked. Rebels were walking about,
sitting down chatting, catching a few winks of sleep, cleaning weapons.
No one seemed the least bit concerned that enemy troops, which
outnumbered them fifteen or twenty to one, were only twenty-five miles away.

"Why would I not want to return to my unit and my friends, General?"
Denise asked.

"Because what they are doing is wrong, and what I'm doing is right,
that's why."

"You're going to have to convince me of that."

"I plan on giving it my best shot."

141 "This is the best food I've had in months!" Denise said, returning
with a second helping of everything.

The lady had a healthy appetite. Ben said, "Unfortunately, our field
rations aren't nearly this good. We've been eating rations taken from
Herr Jesus Hoffman's goose-steppers for several months. Tell me, if
Blanton is so concerned about liberty and justice and truth and all
that, why didn't he pitch in and help us out fighting the Nazis?"

She looked at him and blinked. "What about Herr Hoffman? What Nazis?"

Ben sugared his coffee and smiled. "Just like I thought. He kept that
news from the troops. I would imagine he hoped that Hoffman would defeat
us and kill me. He better be glad that didn't happen. Hoffman's people
would have shoved a flag pole up his liberal ass and left him to rot."

Ben brought Denise up to date about the yearlong battle with the New
Army of Liberation.

She was appalled at the thought of a massive Nazi army on United States
soil. "And your Rebels whipped them?"

142 "Thoroughly."

"I swear to you, we knew nothing about that, General."

"Oh, I believe you. Does that tell you anything about your leaders?"
"Unfortunately, yes. Why do you hate liberals so?"

"Somehow, I can't believe you are a true liberal, Denise."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"I don't hate liberals, Denise. I just don't want to live under their
form of government. I'd like for you to see Base Camp One. See how we live."

"Blanton says it's a terrible place. There are daily hangings and
shootings."

"Denise, there hasn't been a hanging or a shooting down there in so long
I can't even remember the last one. A black man, General Cecil Jefferys,
a close friend of mine, is administrator of Base Camp One. You're
sitting here amid people of all nationalities, all faiths. Does that
tell you anything about how right-wing we're supposed to be?"

She smiled. "All right, General. So Blanton has exaggerated the
situation somewhat."

"Somewhat! I don't think the man is playing with a full deck."

"Would you believe there are those of us who feel the same way?"

"Of course, if you have any sense you couldn't think otherwise."

"When he was elected to the White House, Homer Blanton was a good,
decent man who only wanted to do the right thing."

"For everybody, which isn't possible. He also was

143 and probably still is a liar and a coward. Did the strain get to
him, Denise?"

"I don't know. I've never seen the man in person. He stays in that huge
resort hotel in New York State and . . ." She bit back the words. "I
guess I've given away his location, right?"

"No. There are lots of resort hotels in that area. Oh, hell, Denise. We
know where he is. I could send a K-team in anytime I want to."

"K-team?"

"Kill-team."

"Are you going to?"

"I have no plans to do so ... at the present time," he added. "Finish
your supper. I want you to hear something."

"Indoctrination speech?" she asked with a smile.

"No. I assure you, we don't give those. A person has to work to join us,
Denise. It's like respect. It can't be handed out like candy. It has to
be earned."

"Your right-wing philosophy is showing, General Raines."

"I do let it boil over occasionally."
Back at the CP, Corrie got General Tom Thomas on the horn.

"Tom? Ben Raines here."

'"Lo, Ben. It's been a long time."

"Quite a few years. Tom, give this up. You're not going to beat me."

"I don't like your politics, Ben. You're too far to the right for my
tastes."

"Like them or not, Tom, you're still not going to beat me. All you're
going to do is spill a lot of blood-most of it on your side-and kill a
lot of men and women-most of them your people. Blanton is

144 a sick man, Tom. The strain got to him. My God, look at the people
he's surrounded himself with: the most liberal people that ever sat in
the house and senate. Is that what you want for the nation?"

"Not necessarily, Ben. All that can be worked out later."

"I hope you don't believe that, Tom. You know from past history that if
you give a liberal an inch, that inch soon turns into a mile. Look what
happened with gun control."

"It's no use, Ben. You've divided this nation and a divided nation
cannot stand. You know that. You've got some good things going on down
there at Base Camp One, but many of your ideas are just too radical.
Even for an old soldier like me."

"All right, Tom. If that's the way you see it. Answer this, if you will:
who in the hell is Paul Revere?"

"I think he's a South African, Ben. I'm just not sure. But he's a top
soldier."

"Thank you. Will you at least think about what I said?"

"You have to be stopped, Ben. This nation must be united."

"With Blanton at the helm? And all those crybabies with him? No way,
Tom. No way."

Static greeted his words. General Thomas had broken off.

Ben looked at Denise. "I tried. At least I can say I tried."

The next day, Major Wilson and three men were allowed to return to their
units. Denise and three others elected to stay with the Rebels.

145 "You should have shot them," Jersey told Ben sourly. Ben laughed and
walked back inside his CP.

Denise cut her eyes to the petite young woman with the hard, dark eyes.
"You believe that strongly in what you're doing?"

"Yeah. I sure do."

"Because of General Raines?"
Jersey thought about that for a moment. "He's part of it. Sure. It used
to be, most people thought, that if something happened to the general,
the movement would fall apart. But that was tested a few months ago, and
the movement just got stronger and more determined to survive, and to
win. The Rebel movement will never be defeated. I've seen Rebels crawl
through their own blood, holding their guts in with one hand and a gun
in the other, just to kill one more of the enemy before they died. Do
Blanton's people have that kind of dedication?"

Denise smiled and shook her head. "No. They don't."

"You know why?"

"No."

Several dozen Rebels had gathered around, including those with Denise
who had chosen to stay. The Rebels smiled, for they knew that when
Jersey elected to voice an opinion, she really let the hammer down.

" 'Cause you were with a bunch of losers, that's why. Blanton put
together a lot of mercenaries to form the core of his army. But ninety
percent of the others are those types of people who, back when the world
was whole, wanted something for nothing. Give me this and give me that
and I got a right

146 to do this, that, and the other thing. I demand this, that, and the
other thing. Without having to work for it. Blanton's shit, he's
surrounded himself with advisors who are full of shit, and he's got shit
for an army. Revere's attacked twice and lost several thousand people
and a lot of equipment. We haven't even had one Rebel wounded. That
ought to tell you something about the quality of men and women who
support Ben Raines. Oh, we'll lose people before it's over. We might
lose half our force, or more. But we will never surrender. And as long
as there is just one man or woman willing to pick up a gun and fight,
the Rebel movement will never die. Never!"

The fight had turned into a stalemate, with Revere reluctant to commit
his forces past the line they had established until the gangs of thugs
and punks and street slime Blanton had recruited could get into place
behind the Rebels. What he and Blanton seemed unable to realize was that
the Rebels had no intention of allowing anything like that to happen.

Helicopter gunships and PUFFs were roaming the skies miles behind the
lines. Whenever groups were spotted, they were challenged by ground
troops or radio. If they turned out to be hostile, they were wiped out
to the last person. It was brutal, ruthless, merciless. It was Rebel
warfare. No gentleman's rules, no Geneva convention. The only rules were
those of Ben Raines, and they were simple: Kill the enemy.

Even Revere was shaken by the coldness of the

147 Rebels in dealing with their enemies. Nine battalions of Rebels had
stopped three full divisions cold.

Blanton and those with him were sickened by the field reports. None of
them had any experience with war. They did not realize the callousness
needed to win battles.

Not even Revere and his top soldiers were as ruthless in war as Ben Raines.
Contrary to what Ben believed, Homer Blanton was not suffering from any
type of mental illness. He was a smart man, and a good man in his own
right. He was just about three bricks shy of a load when it came to
common sense.

While Ben Raines realized fully that the philosophies of the Rebels
would not work for a large percentage of the American people, Homer
Blanton came into office convinced that his philosophies would and
should work for all. And even after a great world war and the collapse
of every government around the globe, he still believed that.

Homer Blanton was about to come face to face with reality, in the form
of Ben Raines.

"General Raines on the radio, sir," a Blanton aide came rushing into the
room. "He wants to speak to you."

"I have nothing to say to that war-mongering bastard," Blanton pouted.
Blanton was a real good pouter. And 'Ol' pooter' had been replaced by
saltier descriptions.

"Is that what you want me to tell him, sir?" the aide was very nervous
about the prospect of having to call General Ben Raines a bastard.

"No," Blanton's better judgment took control. "I'll speak with him." He
walked to his communi-

148 cations room and took the mic. "President Blanton here."

"You want to sit down and talk with me, Blanton?" Ben asked.

"It's a trick!" Vice President Harriet Hooter squalled. "Those savages
will come here and rape and ravage us all."

"Horrors!" Rita Rivers bellowed. "A fate worse than death!" This from a
woman who'd once taken on an entire platoon of Marines from San Diego.
For ten dollars each.

The president glanced at the two women, both of whom looked as though
they'd recently been thoroughly whipped with an ugly stick. "Not
likely," he muttered under his breath. He lifted the mic. "Are you
serious, Raines?"

"As serious as a crutch, Blanton."

"He's losing the war!" Blanton shouted to the room full of people. "He's
losing the war and wants to make a deal. My God, I'll show him how tough
I can be." To Ben: "No deals, Raines. You're finished and you know it. I
will accept your unconditional surrender, however."

Twenty-five hundred miles away, Ben looked at the speaker as if not
believing what he'd just heard. He slowly shook his head and keyed the
mic. "Blanton, what the hell are you talking about?"

"Your surrender, you ninny!"

"Blanton, listen to me, I have no intention whatsoever of surrendering
to you or to anybody else. Now once and for all, is that understood?"
"Then why did you radio me? I'm confused."

Ben had a dandy comeback for that last remark but decided to let it
slide. "Would you like for us,

149 that is you and I, or is it you and me? Never mind. Would you like
to sit down together, like gentlemen, and talk for a couple of hours?"

"About what?"

Ben laid down the mic and rubbed his temples with his fingertips. He was
getting a headache. He sighed and picked up the mic. "About ways to end
this fighting."

"Ah-hah! So you are losing the war!"

"No, Blanton," Ben said wearily, "I am not losing the war. You're losing
the war. You are getting men and women killed needlessly. Listen to me,
Blanton. Twice your troops have assaulted our lines. Twice we have
thrown them back and inflicted heavy losses upon them, both in personnel
and equipment. Your army hasn't gained an inch of ground that we occupy.
Don't you read the reports sent in by your field commanders?"

"Of course, I do!" Blanton snapped. "But I don't think the situation is
as bad as you, or they, profess it to be. The generals may have
exaggerated somewhat. Generals do that, you know?"

"Do you want to talk or not, Blanton?"

"I don't believe I have anything further to discuss with you, Raines."

"You are a goddamn fool," Ben muttered. He keyed the mic. "I gave you
your chance, Blanton." He smiled and tossed the mic to Corrie. "I think
in a few hours the Pres is going to change his mind. Get your field
equipment together. We're going head-hunting."

"When?" she asked.

"Right now!"

150 Ben ordered one company from each of the nine battalions on the line
to be made up of the most experienced men and women and to make ready
for a night excursion into Revere's territory. It was to be one of the
strangest forays yet for the Rebels. Their orders were not to kill
unless absolutely necessary, but to capture as many prisoners as
possible and return with them to Rebel lines. Ben wanted to send Blanton
a message and he felt this was one of the better, and bloodless, ways to
do it.

The Rebels were moving moments after full dark. Moving northward like
ghosts in the night. The editor of the newspaper at Base Camp One, a
former big city editor who had thrown in with the Rebels several years
back, had written extensively about the Rebel army. He had ended his
article with this: "They are nice men and women. Polite and soft-spoken.
After meeting and chatting with them, your first and last impression is
that these are the types of people you would want as your neighbors.
Many are family men and women; many are deeply religious. But under all
of that, this reporter has to

151 conclude that the men and women of the Rebel Army are the best
mountain climbers, the best parachutists, the best at surviving in any
situation, the best trackers, the best dog-sledders, the best skiers,
and in any combat situation, the most murderous ambushers and
cut-throats the world has ever seen. I am proud to call them my friends
and I hold them in the highest regard."

Blanton's troops were about to find out just how accurate that editorial
was.

A young FIB sergeant relaxed in his foxhole. He had just finished
carefully eyeballing his perimeter and was satisfied no enemy was near.
Then a hard hand clamped over his mouth and he felt the coldness of
sharpened steel against his throat. A low voice said, "If you move,
you're dead. Don't try to shake your head. If you do, you won't have a
head."

Another dark shape took his weapons and quickly fashioned a gag over his
mouth. The knife was removed from his throat and the young sergeant
almost cried with relief. He had been sure he was going to piss all over
himself. In the very dim light he watched a silenced .22 caliber
autoloader taken from leather. The Rebel showed him the gun. He nodded
his head in understanding.

"You make the slightest noise, you're dead. You got that?"

The FIB sergeant again nodded his head.

"Move out. South. Stay low and quiet. Go."

The Rebels worked for several hours, then silently gathered and herded
their prisoners south across the designated strip of No Man's Land and
then onto Rebel-held soil.

From Montana to Wisconsin, the Rebels collected

152 over a thousand prisoners that night. The only injury on either side
was when a prisoner twisted his ankle. He was left behind, miles south
of where he'd been taken prisoner.

By midnight, radio messages began pouring in to CPs from one end of the
zone to another. General Paul Revere went into a towering rage. In New
York State, President Blanton was awakened and sat in his PJs and robe
at his desk. He was too stunned to speak for a moment.

When he finally found his voice, he asked, "And not a shot was fired?"

"Not a shot, sir."

"And how many troops were taken?"

"Latest reports say well over a thousand."

Blanton looked at the aide. "Go ahead. I know there is more. Tell me."

"Ah ... at each sentry post and CP where personnel were taken, the
Rebels left behind a, ah ... well, a rubber duckie."

"A what?"

"They left behind a little rubber duckie. You know, the kind you play
with in your bathtub."

"I don't play with goddamn rubber duckies in my bath, goddamnit!"

"Well, I didn't mean you, sir. I meant . . ."

"I know what you meant. I ..."

He was interrupted by a knock on the door. A security guard stepped into
the room, his face pale.

"What the hell do you want?" Blanton demanded.

"One of the sentries is here, sir. With a message from General Raines."

153 "How the hell did he get a message from General Raines?"

"It was handed to him out in the woods."

"Ye Gods!" the president yelled. "You mean the Rebels are here?"

"Apparently they've been here for some time, sir. Shall I show the guard
in?"

"By all means," Blanton said, rubbing his face.

The soldier was nervous. Very nervous as he stood in front of Blanton's
desk.

"Where is your weapon, soldier?" Blanton asked.

"Ah ... she took it."

"She?"

"Yes, sir. It was a woman dressed in cammies, sir. Black beret. She just
. . . well, materialized right out of the woods and put me on the ground."

Blanton sighed. Shook his head. "You are supposed to be one of the
best-trained soldiers Revere has. Yet you heard nothing?"

"I didn't hear a sound, sir. Not until she judoed my ass and put me on
the ground. That's when she gave me the message."

"What message?"

"Well, sir, part of the message is, 'General Ben Raines, commander of
the Rebel Army, respectfully requests a face to face meeting with
President Blanton. Or the next time, it'll be your butt that gets
grabbed.' "

"Meaning me?" Blanton asked.

"I guess so, sir."

"What else?"

"If you will agree to a cease-fire, General Raines will do the same, and
you and the General can work out the details of the meeting."
154 The President looked at the wall clock. It was five o'clock in the
morning, EST. Three o'clock MST. VP Harriet Hooter came rushing into the
room. She wore no makeup and had not brushed her hair. Blanton wondered
if she'd parked her broom in the hallway.

"Is it true?" she hollered. "Have the Rebel hordes descended upon us?"

Rita Rivers came charging into the room right behind her. She looked
even worse than Hooter. "Have the racist, right-wing Rebels defeated our
armies?" she yelled.

Blanton almost lost it. He struggled mightily. He stared at the former
drug dealer and road whore turned U.S. Representative and in a carefully
controlled voice, said, "No, Ms. Rivers. Our armies have not been
defeated. But I have decided to have a meeting with General Raines."

Hooter and Rivers both flopped on the floor in a dead faint.

Moments after Ben had radioed Cecil at Base Camp One, telling him about
the upcoming meeting with Blanton, Cecil began sending out teams of
special operations people to New York State. They would parachute in to
beef up the scouts already in place. Cecil did not trust Homer Blanton
any more than he felt he could tame a rattlesnake. By the time Ben
arrived at the meeting, Cecil would have more than five hundred of the
most highly trained men and women in the world in place in case of a
double-cross.

"General Cecil Jefferys on the radio, sir," a Blan-

155 ton aide told Homer, sitting at his desk having one of his carefully
hoarded bottles of RC Cola and a Twinkie. Nine o'clock in the morning.
"He's radioing from the Rebels' Base Camp One."

"I know who he is," Blanton said sourly. He walked to the communications
room and picked up the mic. "This is your President, Jefferys."

"You're not my president," Cecil told him. "I didn't vote for you."

Hundreds of miles away, Blanton grimaced. He was getting really, really
tired of hearing that. "What do you want, Jefferys?"

Harriet Hooter came flapping into the room. "Parachutists!" she yelled.
"Paratroopers are landing all over the place. We're under attack! Do
something."

Blanton almost told her to go stand on the porch of the hotel and stare
at the Rebel soldiers. One look at her face and they'd surely surrender.
And take Rita Rivers with her. There might be some Rebel men with
extremely lousy taste in women and Rivers could pick up a few bucks.
Instead, Blanton keyed the mic. "We have reports of paratroopers landing
near us, Jefferys. You know anything about that?"

"That's why I radioed, Blanton," Cecil said. "Those troops are Ben's
security ... in case you have a double-cross in mind."

"I gave General Raines my word, Jefferys!" Blanton flared. "And that is ..."

"Pure crap as far as I'm concerned. I'd rather kiss a rabid skunk than
take the word of a liberal."
"You are a very insulting man," Blanton said.

"Just a truthful one, Blanton. Now you listen to

156 me. Don't even think of a double-cross when dealing with Ben Raines.
If Ben gave his word there would be no trouble from his end, he'll stand
by that. But he'll be ready for a double-cross from you."

"Why, for God's sake?"

Cecil chuckled. "Blanton, you've got a short memory. Every time we've
dealt with the liberal branch of the democratic party-of which you were
and are a member-they've double-crossed us ... or tried to. Don't even
consider it this time. Warn your people to walk as though they're
walking on eggs around Ben. I'm offering this as a friendly piece of
advice, not as a threat."

"All right, General," Blanton's tone softened. "I will take it as such."

"Nice talking so cordially with you, Mister President."

"Very nice chatting with you, General Jefferys."

Ben listened as President Blanton gave General Revere his orders. "There
will be a cease-fire with absolutely no hostilities between Revere and
the Rebels commencing immediately. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir, Mister President," Revere said, but Ben could tell he was
speaking through clenched teeth and did not like the orders at all.

"Corrie," Ben said, "get General Revere on the horn."

"General Revere? Ben Raines here. How about us sitting down and jawing
some?"

"I have nothing to say to you, General Raines," Revere said, a definite
edge to his voice, "that can-

157 not be discussed over the air. What have you done with those
prisoners you took?"

"They are well and safe. They are being transported back to Base Camp
One for processing and will be turned loose a few at a time. I know your
voice, General Revere. We've met somewhere down the line."

"Do you have anything else you want to say to me, Raines?"

"Nope. Have a good day, General."

Revere broke off.

"You know him, General?" Corrie asked.

"Yes. I'm sure I do. I just can't put a face to the voice." He turned to
Cooper. "Coop, where was Denise assigned?"

"To supply, sir. You said to keep her out of combat and personnel."

"Go get her, please. And have Lieutenant Kol-walski come over here.
She's a really good artist."
Denise and Kolwalski went to work, with Deriise describing General
Revere to the artist. After the work was done, Ben sat for a long time,
staring at the charcoal drawn image on the large white paper.

"You know him, General?" Jersey asked.

Ben nodded his head. "Nick Stafford. He hasn't changed much at all. We
were both special forces types as the Vietnam war was winding down, both
of us working for the CIA. Back then it was called sheep-dipping. Nick
went bad. Raped some very young girls. I turned him in. I heard he broke
out of the stockade before he could be returned to the States. Now he
turns up as General Paul Revere. Nick always did have a strange sense of
humor. But he was a top-notch soldier."

158 "You think Blanton knows all that?"

Ben shook his head. "I doubt it. All that was a long time ago. And for
some reason I can't explain, I don't think it would be wise to warn the
president of it. I've got a bad feeling about General Nick Stafford/Paul
Revere."

"You think this Nick Stafford might be playing both ends against the
middle?" Jersey asked.

Ben held nothing back from his personal team. His team was the first to
know of any major decisions. "I wouldn't put it past him. Beth, have you
finished the report on the prisoner interrogation?"

"Just about. Many of the officers in Blanton's army came to him with
General Revere. They form the nucleus. We have also learned that Blanton
is training at least one more division-and possibly two-up in Canada.
Just as you thought, the new division, or divisions, are made up almost
exclusively of Americans who hate the Rebel movement. Punks, thugs,
criminals, trash of all colors-whiners, complainers."

"That should be an extremely interesting army," Ben said sarcastically.

"They won't have much in the way of discipline," Corrie remarked.
"That's something those types of people lack."

"Yeah, but sheer numbers could do a lot of damage to us," Cooper
injected. "We're short in every battalion and stretched thin."

"You're right about that, Coop," Ben agreed. "If Revere ever learns of
the holes in our lines . . ." Ben let that trail off. Everybody in the
room knew that would be disastrous. "All right, people. Let's pack up
and go meet President Blanton."

163 "What a thrill," Jersey said. "I'm practically swooning from all the
excitement."

"When it gets overwhelming," Cooper said, standing up and getting ready
to bolt for the door, "fall in my direction, darlin'."

Jersey chased him out the door, threatening dire consequences when she
caught up with him.

164 "Far better it is to dare mighty things, to win glorious triumphs,
even though checkered by failure, than to take rank with those poor
spirits who neither enjoy much nor suffer much, because they live in the
gray twilight that knows not victory nor defeat."

-Theodore Roosevelt

165

Ben's team made bets as to how they would arrive at the old resort
hotel. Beth won. They were going to parachute in. It was by far the
fastest way to get to the ground, for the nearest functional airstrip
was many miles away. Another reason was that Ben simply did not trust
Blanton.

"Shit!" Jersey said. Although she had jumped many times, she still was
not overly thrilled about hurling her body out of a moving airplane at
five thousand feet.

"Tiger-stripe," Ben told his people. "Look sharp. Carry enough ammo for
a sustained fire-fight. We may be jumping into a real stem-winder. I
just don't trust that socialist bastard or those wimpy hanky-stompers
he's got around him."

Ike had flown in and would assume command in Ben's absence. "If Blanton
and I can reach some agreement to end this fighting, I fully expect
Revere to go on the offensive as soon as he gets word of it. And you can
bet he's got informants among Blanton's general staff. Stay on
middle-alert, Ike."

The flight across country was uneventful. The

166 planes set down at a Rebel outpost in Kentucky for refueling and
then it was on to New York State the next morning. Blanton and company
were standing on the porch of the resort hotel when Ben and his people
came floating down.

"Oh, I just knew Ben Raines would do something terribly macho!" Harriet
Hooter sniffed. "How utterly theatrical."

"Honky, racist son of a bitch!" Rita Rivers said.

The troops of Blanton were very much in evidence, and they stood
silently around the huge old hotel, watching the Rebels land. Their
commanders had met with the teams of special ops people Cecil had sent
in, and Blanton's troops were very careful to keep their weapons at
sling and their hands still.

"I just know we're going to be ravaged," Representative Fox said,
standing behind the First Lady, who was standing behind her husband for
the first time in twenty years-who was standing behind a post.

Blush Lightheart was wearing a bulletproof vest, motorcycle goggles, and
a helmet. He looked like a bigger idiot than he really was. He wished he
could have found a gun, but since he was one of those who had twittered
and sobbed and peed their panties and finally passed legislation
outlawing all guns-except those in the hands of punks, thugs, street
slime and other worthless dickheads-weapons were sort of hard to find.
Unless one knew where to look. And Blush didn't.

"President Blanton," Ben said, stepping up onto the stairs leading to
the porch. "Nice day, isn't it?"
"General Raines," Blanton acknowledged, stepping away from the post.
Those behind him moved

167 with him. It resembled a short conga line . . . with Blush out of step.

"You there!" Rita hollered, waving at two black Rebels. "Lay down your
arms and stop being the lackeys of this racist pig." She pointed at Ben.

One of the black Rebels winked at Ben. "You want me to eliminate her
now, General?"

"Oh, my God!" Rita shrieked, and jumped behind Blush.

"Great stars and garters!" Blush squalled. "Get away from me, bitch!"
Both of them bolted for the front door and got all jammed up together.

Ben laughed so hard he sat down on the steps. He took out a handkerchief
and wiped his eyes, looking up at Blanton, who was slightly embarrassed.
"Is this a fair representation of your Forces of Independence and
Brotherhood?"

That stung Blanton. "I suppose a certain type of person would find fear
amusing."

"Fear? Fear of what?" Ben stood and walked up to the landing. He towered
over Blanton. "No law-abiding person has any reason to fear a member of
the Rebel Forces."

Rita and Blush were still hung up in the doorway, with Rita doing some
pretty fancy cussing and calling Blush some very uncomplimentary names
concerning his sexual preferences.

"Yep," Ben said, moving to a wicker chair and leaning his Thompson
against the porch railing. He jerked a thumb toward Rita. "That's what I
call true brotherhood and understanding."

Blanton sighed audibly.

168 After some semblance of order was restored, Blanton and Ben met
privately in Blanton's office. They sat for a moment, looking at each other.

Blanton finally broke the silence. "I never in my life would have
thought this day possible."

"Why? We both want basically the same thing: order and stability."

"But the roads we take to those ends are quite different."

"I put people to work, Homer. If they don't want to work, they get the
hell out of any Rebel-controlled area. And I won't tolerate crime. Now
how far apart does that make us?"

Blanton was noncommittal.

"And where in the hell do you get off calling me the Great Satan, a
shit-head, and a baby-killer, and my people malcontents?"

"I will admit that leaflet was a bit overdone."
"Thank you. And we don't rape and pillage either."

"Rita and Harriet will be sorry to hear that," Homer muttered.

"Beg your pardon?"

"Oh! Nothing. Talking to myself. It's a bad habit I have."

"I do the same thing."

"Really? General . . ."

"Call me Ben."

"Thank you. Ben . . ." He leaned forward, putting his elbows on the
desk. "Do you think we could coexist, our two societies, peacefully?"

"I don't see why not. I'd rather see us come together instead of having
two separate nations within a nation." He smiled. "As a matter of fact,
I was

169 working on a book about that very thing when the nation started
coming apart, and then the Great War came. Two countries carved out of
the United States. One extremely liberal, the other conservative."

"How did the book end?"

"I never got a chance to finish it. Your federal agents seized the
manuscript."

Blanton sighed. "I made a lot of mistakes, Ben."

"You sure as hell did. But you're a big enough man to admit it now, and
that's good."

"I tried to do too much for too many, far too soon."

"Yes, you did. Do you see now that this nation cannot be all things to
all people, all the time?"

Blanton smiled. "We will never agree on that, Ben."

"Probably not. But at least we're talking, and that beats the hell out
of fighting."

"Do you blame me for the Great War, Ben?"

Ben shook his head. "Oh, no. Not at all. And I don't think historians
will either. No reason to. When you took office, the world was changing
so rapidly it was breathtaking. Major world events were happening with
such speed that no one could keep up. The entire world was rushing
toward self-destruct. And it did."

Jersey entered the room over the loud protestations of a Blanton aide.
She ignored him until he clamped one hand on her shoulder. Jersey spun
around and stuck the muzzle of her M-16 under the man's chin. "You have
a deathwish, partner?"

"Ah . . . no," the aide managed to say.
"Then don't ever put your goddamn hands on me again. You understand?"

170 "Yes, ma'am."

Ben stood up. "What's wrong, Jersey?"

"Something weird's going on, General. About half of Blanton's guards
have pulled out. And they did it real quick."

"Pulled out?" Blanton asked, getting to his feet. "Why?"

"You tell me," Jersey said menacingly.

"I swear to God I don't have a clue as to what's going on."

That was another opening for a great comeback for Ben, but he let it slide.

Blanton turned to the aide who had made the mistake of putting hands on
Jersey. "Fred, where is Bobby?"

"I don't know, sir. I haven't seen him since before General Raines arrival."

"Find him."

"Yes, sir."

"It's a trick, I tell you!" the voice of Harriet Hooter came screeching
and bouncing off the hall walls. "Raines is pulling something nasty and
evil and totally Republican."

"Spoken like a true liberal," Ben muttered.

Blanton glanced at him and smiled. "Come on, Ben. Let's see what's
happening around here. I'm sure there is some reasonable explanation for
my guards' disappearance."

"Nick Stafford."

"Who?"

"The man who now calls himself General Paul Revere. His real name is
Nick Stafford. We served together briefly in 'Nam." Ben brought the
president up to date on Nick Stafford.

171 "My God!" Blanton said.

The sounds of gunfire reached those in the old resort hotel. "Rebels are
under attack!" Corrie called.

Fred, the aide, came rushing up. "Our people are under attack, sir."

"Kill that double-crossing, no good Republican bastard!" Harriet
hollered, pointing at Ben.

Jersey gave the woman the bird.

"How dare you!" Harriet said. "You camp follower. You cheap little road
whore."

Jersey took a step toward the former representative, fully intending to
clean her clock. Ben grabbed her by the seat of the pants. "No contest,
Jersey. Just consider the source and forget it."

"Our people are under attack," Blush rushed up. "But not by the Rebels."

"Head for cover!" Ben shouted, giving Blanton a push toward the doors.
"Nick's trying to take us all out. I should have guessed it."

The old resort hotel suddenly exploded and the floor beneath Ben's boots
opened up and swallowed him. The last thing he remembered was being
conked on the head by what felt like a sledge hammer. He was plunged
into darkness.

Ben came out of the darkness into more darkness. His head throbbed and
he couldn't move his legs. He could hear no sounds at all. He blinked a
couple of times and his vision began to clear. There was some light, but
not much. He looked at the luminous hands of his watch. Eight o'clock.
He'd been out for hours. Something was cutting pain-

172 fully into his back and it took him a moment to figure out it was
his Thompson. At least he still had that. He lay still for a couple of
moments, while his vision cleared even more and his brain began to work
at one hundred percent.

Revere's people must have planted explosives all over the damn hotel,
Ben concluded. Then just before the charges went off, they split for the
woods and got into a fire-fight with Blanton's loyal people and Ben's
Rebels.

Ben wriggled around and freed one boot from the debris, then the other.
He still couldn't see for shit so he moved very carefully, not wanting
to bring tons of the old hotel down on him. He got to his feet and found
his cigarette lighter, sparking it into flame. He ached all over, but
could find no serious wounds. Standing in one spot, he slowly did a full
circle. The floor was still attached to one side of the wall, the other
side blown free and hanging at an angle. He was in the cellar. He moved
to the concrete foundation and found a door. It was either locked or
jammed shut. He kicked it open and stepped into a long corridor. He did
not have the foggiest notion where it led, but wherever it went was a
damn sight better than where he was, so he started walking.

He stumbled over a body and nearly fell down. He knelt down and saw it
was one of Blanton's aides. The man's chest had been crushed by a heavy
timber. Ben walked on. He came to another door and opened it, exposing a
stairway. He could see stars above him. Very cautiously, moving
silently, his Thompson at the ready, Ben slowly climbed the

173 stairs, finally stepping out onto what had been the porch.

There were bodies everywhere. Ben made his way through the rubble and to
the ground. He turned, looking back. The old resort hotel had been
flattened except for the north wall, which still stood.

Ben began inspecting the bodies. It had been a hell of a fire-fight, for
sure. He found Rebel dead, guards and troops loyal to Blanton dead, and
troops wearing red armbands dead. Ben assumed those were Revere's
people. He took a flashlight from one of his Rebels but did not flash
the beam, not wanting to advertise his location just yet. He took twin
canteens, field rations, and a back pack from other dead Rebels and,
moving cautiously, made his way away from the hotel grounds. He could do
nothing in the night except get himself shot, so he found a place in the
shrubbery and spread the ground sheet and laid down, pulling the blanket
over him. Since there was nothing he could do until light, he went to sleep.

He awakened several times during the night, but heard nothing out of the
ordinary. Up at his usual time, long before dawn, Ben shivered in the
cold, but did not light a fire. He breakfasted on field rations and
sipped water from a canteen, waiting for dawn. It seemed very slow in
coming.

He quickly field-stripped his Colt .45 auto-loader, and found it
unharmed. He had left his Desert Eagle .50 behind for his trip. Ben
still preferred the old service auto-loader, considering it to be a fine
old workhorse.

As dawn began to silver the sky, Ben could better see the terrible
carnage that sprawled silently all

174 around the ruins of the hotel. There appeared to be hundreds of
bodies. It was eerie, for they were all dead. As Ben walked amid the
horror, he could see why. All of his people and the people loyal to
Blanton had been delivered the coup de grace: a bullet to the head.
After inspecting the bodies, Ben concluded that Revere's forces had
carried off most of their wounded.

Ben began gathering up weapons, ammo, field rations, and first aid kits
and hiding them in the woods around the hotel grounds. He had no idea
where his personal team was; only that they were not among the dead
around the hotel. He did not know if they had been captured, were miles
away fighting Revere's troops, or believing him dead, trying to make
their way back to Rebel-controlled territory. They had good reason to
believe him dead, for several of his team and several of Blanton's
people had seen the floor open up beneath his boots and the walls cave
in on him.

Ben hooked grenades on his battle harness, loaded up five more clips for
his Thompson, filled a pack with ration packets, horseshoed ground
sheets and blankets, and started walking down the side of the road he
assumed led to a main highway of some sort. Damn thing had to either
dead end or lead to something.

He had traveled about half a mile when he heard the sound of voices. Ben
took to the brush and began slowly making his way toward the voices.

When he saw who the voices belonged to, he suppressed a groan-VP Harriet
Hooter, and Representatives Blush Lightheart and Rita Rivers. Senators
Hanrahan, Arnold, and Ditto. Of course, there

175 was not a gun among the bunch. Naturally. He couldn't think of any
bunch he disliked more than this one.

Ben stood up. "Quiet down!" he said. "You're making enough noise to wake
up Rip Van Winkle." He walked into the camp and shook his head at the
sight. It was a miserable-looking bunch of people. Not a one of them had
had enough presence of mind to grab up from the dead a food packet,
canteen, first aid kit, gun, or grenades.

"We thought you were dead, General Raines," Senator Hanrahan broke the
startled silence.
"Well, I'm not. Come on, follow me. We're going back to the hotel."

"Whatever on earth for?" Blush asked.

"To get you people outfitted for the field. You'll all die of exposure
dressed as you are. It's threatening rain now. You've got to have tarps
and blankets and ground sheets. We'll get the clothing off the dead.
Let's go."

"Off the dead!"Harriet hollered. "How grotesque!"

"Move your ass, lady," Ben told her. "Before the bodies start the second
stage of stiffening and start to stink."

"I refuse!" Rita Rivers said.

"Then stay here and die. I don't give a damn one way or the other." Ben
turned and started walking toward the hotel. He did not look back. He
knew they'd all follow him, and they all did, bitching and complaining
all the way. Until Ben threatened to shoot the next person who broke
noise discipline. That shut them up.

"Green is simply not my color," Blush bitched,

176 holding up a cammie BDU shirt. "Yukk," he said, looking at the blood
stain.

"Put it on and find some britches and boots that fit you. All of you.
Move, goddamnit!"

"You don't have to use so much profanity, General," Hanrahan said.
"There are ladies present."

Ben had disliked Hanrahan from the moment he'd heard the man speak, some
years back. That dislike had grown over the years. Hanrahan took one
look into Ben's eyes, and averted his gaze and closed his mouth.

"Wise decision, Senator," Ben said. "Very wise."

177 Ben got his reluctant commandos outfitted and ready to move. Almost
to a person, male and female alike, they handled the M-16s Ben shoved at
them like they were fondling live snakes.

"I haven't the vaguest idea how to operate this evil thing," Harriet said.

"The person behind the gun may be evil, Ms. Hooter," Ben told her. "But
since the weapon is not capable of thought or reason, it is impossible
for the gun to be evil. Move out."

Before Harriet could come back with one of her usual liberal-and totally
out of touch with reality-comments, Blush Lightheart said, "I have never
fired an M-16, but I was quite proficient with a hunting rifle in my
youth. I never liked to kill animals but I did become a good shot."

"Good," Ben replied. "I want you to get up here and lead this ..." For a
moment he was at a loss for words. ". . . dubious gathering. I'll range
ahead about a hundred yards."

"You want me to lead?"
Ill

178 "Yes. I'll signal when I want you to move out. When I signal you to
get down, get down fast."

Rita Rivers immediately started boogeying. Which was a pretty good
trick, since she was carrying about forty pounds of gear.

Ben cast his eyes toward the heavens for a moment and then moved out.
About a hundred yards away, he motioned for the rest to follow.

"Forward, troops!" Blush ordered.

Ben hoped with all his might he did not meet with any type of resistance
until he could hook up with some his own people.

"My feet hurt," Harriet complained.

"My back hurts," Hanrahan bitched.

"I think I have herniated myself," Arnold announced.

"Silence in the ranks," Blush said.

Ben heard the faint drone of a plane and motioned the group off the side
of the road and into the brush. The single-engine plane was flying low
and slow, with spotters on each side, behind the pilot.

"Keep your faces down," Ben ordered.

"Why?" Hooter asked.

"Because the paleness can be easily seen." He looked at Rita. "Excluding
you, of course."

"Honky, racist son of a bitch," she replied.

"I'm certain that remark was not meant as a racial slur," Blush
objected. "The general was merely stating a fact."

"Oh, shut up," Rita told him.

"Tut-tut," Senator Hanrahan said. "Shame on both of you."

The plane flew on and Ben got the group up.

179 "Stay close to the brush," he told them, as he studied a map. "We
should intersect with Highway 86 just up ahead. That will lead us to
Lake Placid-if anything is left of the town."

"Not very much," Blush told him. "It's been looted and stripped down to
a shell."

"By poor unfortunate people who were oppressed for years and were only
trying to survive in this still racist and sexist society," Hooter
immediately piped up. "Ruled by people with guns!" she added.

"Right on, sister!" Rita hollered.

"Move out," Ben said wearily.
Ben didn't attempt to push the group hard, allowing them frequent rest
stops. Hanrahan was well past middle age and the rest were about Ben's
age, but not nearly in the physical shape he maintained.

During one of the rest stops, Ben began questioning the group. "Did
anybody see what happened to Blanton?"

No one did.

"How about my personal team?"

Nothing.

"I was knocked unconscious for a time," Hanrahan said. "The blast
knocked me down."

"I ran outside and was immediately set upon by this huge brute of a man
who seemed intent on ravaging my body," Rita said coyly.

"No one but Godzilla would want to ravage your body," Blush told her.

Rita flipped him the bird.

No one knew anything. The blast had knocked them all to the floor and
most scrambled to their

180 feet and ran outside and into the woods. They had wandered about
until linking up.

Ben remembered shoving Blanton away just as the floor opened up under
him so there was a chance he was still alive.

While they rested, Ben eased away from the bedraggled-looking bunch,
took out a small handheld scanner, and began searching the bands. His
worst fears were soon confirmed as he picked up chatter from Revere's
troops. A group of Rebels had been taken prisoner and were being held at
Saranac Lake. Blanton and the First Lady were presumed alive and a
search was on for them. Ben Raines was confirmed dead. Ben smiled at
that. "Not just yet," he muttered.

Senator Ditto walked over and sat down beside Ben. "General, I know you
don't like me; perhaps with good reason. But for the time being we are
all in the same boat ..."

"Wrong," Ben said. "We are not in the same boat. I could walk away from
this group and easily survive. Within a week I could have a resistance
force gathered and be fighting Revere. You people are a stone around my
neck. None of you, with the possible exception of Blush, know anything
about guns, or survival, or rigging booby-traps, living off the land, or
tactics of staying alive. You goddamn sorry bastards and bitches
castrated this nation with your wimpy legislation. You ruined the
intelligence community, tied the hands of law enforcement, disarmed the
people, and bankrupted us with taxes. Fuck you, Ditto. I have a good
mind to take Blush with me and just walk off and leave the rest of you
for the jackals."

181 The group had gathered around and all heard Ben's heated words.

"You'd take a fag and leave us?" Rita said. "What are you, queer?"
"I wish," Blush muttered. He raised his voice. "I can tell you with
absolute certainty that General Raines is not gay. Believe me, we know
who is and who isn't."

"Thank you," Ben said.

"Well, for heaven's sake," Blush replied. "It wasn't meant as any type
of compliment!"

"Are you going to leave us for the jackals, General?" Senator Hanrahan
asked.

"No. I couldn't do that. I just want you all to stop your whining and
complaining and do what I tell you to do when I tell you to do it."

"I am senior here, General," Hanrahan said. "And I speak for the entire
group. We will do whatever you tell us to do. We might not like it, but
we will do it."

The rest of the group nodded their heads.

Ben looked at them and had to work to suppress a smile. "Fine. You are
now all guerrilla fighters." He reached out and took Rita's M-16. "We
will now have a short course on the use of the M-16 rifle."

Ben found a shady and well-hidden glen just outside of Lake Placid and
left the group there, warning them not to move or raise their voices.
He'd be back.

"You promise?" Harriet asked.

"I promise," Ben assured her. " 'Til death do us

182 part," he added. Or until I find some safe place to leave your ass,
he thought.

"I shall protect the group with my life," Blush said. "A lonely soldier
on his vigilant watch."

"That's lovely, Blush," Harriet said, patting his hand.

Ben left before the shit got too deep.

Ben reconnoitered the town carefully before entering. It appeared to be
a dead town, with much of it in ruins. Then a slight movement in the
smashed-out window of an old home on the edge of town caught his eye. He
waited and watched. The movement came again and this time Ben could see
who and what it was. A man wearing BDUs. Ben began working his way
toward the house, staying low, skirting the house widely and coming up
behind it. He spotted a ton-and-a-half truck parked in the garage. He
was careful not to brush up against the house when he reached it. He
could hear male voices.

"I hate this crap, man. This town is spooky."

"Relax. This is easy duty. At least we're not sleepin' on the ground and
being shot at."

"You do have a point. But it's weird just us in the whole damn town."
"Yeah. To tell you the truth, man, I'd rather be over there where the
Reb prisoners is being held humpin' some of them good lookin' Reb gals."

"I like it when they put up a fight. I like to slap 'em around."

Ben stepped in through the back door and gave the would-be rapists a
taste of .45 caliber justice.

183 The heavy slugs made a big mess out of both the men. Ben picked up
their radio and headed for the truck. Ten minutes later he pulled off
the highway and into the shady glen.

"I thought I heard shooting," Hanrahan said, as Ben got out of the truck.

"You did." Ben inspected the bed of the truck. Rocket launchers, plenty
of rockets, and cases of field rations. "Get in," he told the group.
"And stay low."

"Where are we going?" Harriet asked.

"To get as close to where my people are being held as possible. Then I'm
going into town to raise some hell."

"Alone?" Blush asked.

"Yep. Come on, people-move!" He didn't tell them that this could well be
their last journey. A single rocket could send them all over the place,
in bits and pieces. He figured what they didn't know wouldn't hurt them.
At least not for very long.

Ben found a gravel road that more or less headed in the general
direction he wanted to go and stayed with it. Hanrahan was very tired
and looked awful. His color was bad. Ben made him ride in the cab with him.

"Do you know where we're going, General?" he asked.

"Call me Ben. Oh, yeah. I know where we're going. I just don't know
where we are at the moment."

The older man stared at Ben for a few seconds and then chuckled. "I
could find myself liking you, Ben."

"Don't," Ben said shortly. "Because I don't like one hundred percent
liberals."

184 "One hundred percent liberal, eh? So you admit you have some liberal
in you?"

"Sure. I'm a tree-hugger and an animal lover. To some degree I'm an
environmentalist. The Rebels have had teams working all over this nation
trying to see to the needs of children and deserving adults. We've set
up a monetary system. I've got some of the best minds in the nation down
at Base Camp One working around the clock on ways to harness the power
of the sun. And they're doing it, Senator. I had trained scientists
shutting down all the nuclear power plants around the nation,
eliminating the danger of a melt-down. My people have been busy
collecting books and art and preserving them for future generations. We
have newspapers from all over the nation on microfilm, so those who
follow us will have some understanding as to what went wrong. Of course,
we already know what went wrong; I'm sitting beside one of the reasons.
We have the best doctors staffing the finest hospitals offering the
people the most up-to-date medical care. The Rebels have successfully
fought armies that sought to occupy this nation and enslave Americans;
and we've done that at a huge loss of life. There are people of all
faiths and all nationalities and all races in the Rebel Army. We work
together without bickering and without bigotry. We have a workable
society in place, with all systems fully functional. And what have you
goddamn liberals been doing since the Great War? Nothing. Except putting
together an army to try to defeat the Rebels. Pissing and moaning and
making flowery speeches to each other. OK. Now it's your turn, Senator.
Tell me why I should like you."

185 Senator Hanrahan sat for several miles in silence. He sighed a lot.
"Our intelligence about your society was wrong," he finally said. "I
should have seen through General Revere-should have known he was
plotting a takeover. I spent too many years on the intelligence
oversight committee."

"You sure did. Fucking it up."

Hanrahan shook his head. "You know by now, of course, he had spies in
Base Camp One."

"He doesn't anymore. Just before I flew to the meeting with Blanton we
flushed them out and shot them."

"After a trial, I hope."

"A very short one."

"We will never agree with your system of justice."

"That's your problem, Senator. It works for us, and that's all that
matters. We don't pat criminals on the head and mope about feeling sorry
for them and making up excuses and rationalizations about why they did
what they did. The law is the law, and in our society it is enforced to
the letter. Every human being holds the key to their own destiny. It's
start-over time, Senator. Everybody gets a fresh start. Many of the men
and women who make up the Rebel Army were once criminals. You didn't
know that, did you? Oh, yeah. I offered them a fresh start. A one time
only amnesty. It will never be offered again."

"We heard you had done that. We didn't believe it."

Ben shrugged his shoulders in complete indifference to what Hanrahan and
his cohorts believed as they bounced along the old gravel and dirt road.

"If our president is alive ..."

186 "He's your president, not mine," Ben corrected.

"If he is still alive, will you make any attempt to work with him?"

"No. We have long had plans to enlarge the Rebel-controlled areas.
Effective immediately, Base Camp One will take in Texas, Oklahoma,
Louisiana, Arkansas, Mississippi, Tennessee, North and South Carolina,
Alabama, Georgia, and Florida. You people can have what's left."

"Good Lord, man!" Hanrahan almost shouted the words. "You can't be serious."
"As serious as a crutch, Senator."

"You are a bold one, Ben Raines. But you're forgetting we have quite an
army. There are hundreds of thousands of people out there who are
opposed to your form of government."

"I have never been called timid. As far as your army goes-an army made
up of losers and whiners and complainers-you won't have it long. I
intend to squash it like a roach. And Blanton is alive. He's being held
up here with my Rebels. I heard it on short-wave."

"Thank God! What about the First Lady?"

"I don't know."

"Do you have a workable plan for freeing your Rebels, General Raines?"

Ben smiled. "I always have a workable plan, Senator. That's why I'm
general of the most powerful army on the face of the earth, and you're
unemployed."

187 Ben left the group in a secure area, well south and slightly east of
the town. Loaded down with rockets, C-4, timers and detonators, and
ammo, he headed into town. He left his Thompson behind and carried an
M-16 because of the weight of the weapon and ammo. He stayed off the
roads and stuck to the woods and meadows until he came to the edge of
town. Once there, he began to circle until he found where the prisoners
were being held. It was on the outskirts of town in what appeared to be
some sort of playing field; baseball or football, Ben couldn't tell.
Using his binoculars, Ben studied the situation. It could have been
worse, he concluded. As it was, the area was only loosely guarded, and
as the night drew closer, the area would be shrouded in darkness, for
Ben felt sure that power had not been restored this soon. He ate some
crackers and washed them down with water from his canteen. He had
spotted several dozen of his Rebels among the crowd, including Jersey,
Beth, Cooper, and Corrie. Now how would he get them out?

Ben napped for a time, as he alternately slept and

188 pondered the prisoner situation. Then he smiled. "Hell, why not?" he
muttered.

When it was full dusk, Ben readied some hunks of C-4 and worked his way
close to the prisoners. He planted explosives on truck gas tanks, set
the timers, then as quickly as possible moved away from that area. He
was carrying six rockets for the Armbrust launcher, all of them HE
fragmentation anti-personnel rockets. When the trucks blew, he was going
to make life pretty damned miserable for a lot of Revere's troops, and
quite a bunch of them had gathered on the opposite end of the field,
away from the prisoners.

The C-4 blew and Ben fired the first rocket. The explosion sent bits and
pieces of Revere's soldiers flying all over the sound end of the field.

"Jersey!" Ben yelled. "Straight north, people. Let's go!"

He quickly readied another rocket and let it fly, then tossed the
Armbrust to a Rebel who had jumped the low fence and landed by his side.
"You have four pickles left, son," he told the young man. "Make them count."
"Yes, sir!" the Rebel grinned.

Ben started letting the lead fly from his M-16. Some of the Rebels had
jumped their guards during the first few seconds of noise and bloody
confusion, and had seized their weapons, turning them on their captors.
In less than half a minute, the old playing field was in the hands of
the Rebels and those troops loyal to President Blanton. Flames from
exploded and burning vehicles were dancing upward, and the smoke soon
cut visibility down to nearly nothing.

189 Revere's troops never had a chance once the war dance started. All
Rebels were extensively trained in hand to hand combat and they put that
training to good use against their poorly trained and very startled captors.

Ben's team gathered around him as the flames leaped and crackled and the
smoke swirled. "Where's Blanton and his wife?" Ben asked.

"We don't know," Beth said. "Last we heard they were being held
somewhere in the town."

"How many troops are we up against?"

"Couple of battalions," Jersey said.

Ben looked at her face. She had a black eye, a busted lip, and several
swollen and bruised places. "Who'd you tangle with, Short-stuff?"

"Couple of guys tried to rape me. They finally decided it wasn't worth
the effort."

Corrie had taken a radio from one of the dead and was monitoring it.
"The colonel in charge of this lash-up is ordering his people to regroup
and defend the town," she told Ben.

"He's a fool," Ben said. "Get the troops around me."

Cooper stepped away and started shouting. Jersey said, "We're pretty
much cut off here. We can't expect any help. The way I heard it was a
timed push. Revere threw everything he had against our people out west
at the same time the assault against the hotel was carried out."

"We'll make out. Everybody armed? OK. Let's take the town."

Raines's Rebels were not accustomed to being taken prisoner, and they
were pissed-off. Those troops loyal to Blanton exchanged silent glances

190 and fell in beside the Rebels, looking to Ben for command.

"We need their equipment," Ben said, as he led the walk toward the ruins
of the old town. "Let's take as much of it intact as we can."

"A Colonel Rush on the horn, General," Corrie said.

Ben took the mic. "This is General Raines. What do you want?"

"Raines, you assault this town and I hang President Blanton and his wife."

"And then I take you alive with the guarantee that it will take you a
minimum of three very long and very painful days to die, Colonel. And
I'll turn the women that your troops raped loose on them. Think about that."

The colonel had obviously heard that the Rebels could be extremely harsh
at times. It did not take him long to make up his mind.

"He's ordering his people to fall back," Corrie told Ben. "Blanton and
his wife and the staff members taken prisoner are all right. He's
leaving them behind. Revere's people are in retreat."

"Chicken-shits," Jersey muttered.

Neither Blanton, his wife, or the members of his staff were hurt, except
for their pride, which had been severely bruised.

"I am extremely grateful to you and your people, General Raines," the
president said.

"Save it," Ben told him. "We've just learned that a full regiment of
troops loyal to Revere is moving at us from the north; from the training
base in Can-

191 ada-some of the thugs and punks and gang members you recruited.
We've got to get the hell out of here. Mount them up, people."

The reunion between Blanton, Hooter, Hanrahan, and the others was
tearful, and at Ben's sharply given command, very short. He ordered a
few of his people back to the hotel to retrieve all the equipment they
could get into the trucks and told another group to head for the center
of the mountain range and set up camp there.

"My people don't take orders from you, General," Blanton told him.

"That's fine with me," Ben said. "You're on your own." Ben turned and
walked away.

Blush looked at Blanton and said, "You, sir, are a fool!" He shouted
after Ben, "Wait, General. I'm going with you."

Rita Rivers, who was still slightly irritated because none of Revere's
troops had ravaged her said, "Good riddance."

"General Raines is an arrogant and insufferable ass!" Harriet Hooter said.

"But we need him to stay alive," the first lady said. "Come on, Homer.
Put pride aside and let's go."

"Yes, dear," the pres said.

It took the convoy all night to reach their destination. Corrie quickly
set up communications and Ben got in touch with Cecil.

"We're all right," he assured his long-time friend. "Just tired and
sleepy. I've sent personnel over to Fort Drum to retrieve those supplies
and equipment we cached up there. How's it looking out west?"

192 "It could be better, but Ike is holding so far. Re-vere's troops are
poorly trained. And our long-range artillery is helping to save the
bacon. Blanton and company?"

"They're with me. Reluctantly."
Cecil laughed over the miles. "I'd love to hear some of the debates you
and Blanton are going to have."

"Oh, he's not a bad guy, Cec. Just a typical liberal with his head up
his ass, that's all."

"How did he receive the news about the expansion of our territory?"

"I'm not sure Senator Hanrahan has told him yet! Doesn't make any
difference. There isn't a damn thing he can do about it."

Several of Blanton's staff were standing around in the old home Ben had
chosen for his CP. They frowned at Ben's remarks but made no comment.
For the moment, General Raines was correct. For the moment.

The reports General Revere was receiving were sketchy, but he got the
message. Rebels had attacked the holding area and had freed those
captured Rebels and the troops loyal to Blanton. The message was more
than a little vague about just how Blanton was freed. Blanton really
made no difference anyway. He was a paper president running a paper
government. The only thing that really bothered him was the news that
Ben Raines was still alive. For a couple of days he had really felt
up-beat. Then the news that Raines was still alive mentally knocked him
to his knees.

193 Revere sat down behind a battered and scarred old desk. He had to
come up with a plan to bust through the Rebel lines and then he could do
an end-around. But he couldn't shift his people and concentrate them for
one big massive push. As soon as he did, that damnable ex-Navy SEAL, Ike
McGowan, would swing his east and west battalions around and then Revere
would be boxed.

Revere sighed. He knew perfectly well what this war would turn into: a
damn guerrilla war. And there were no finer guerrilla fighters in all
the world than Raines's Rebels.

This war, Revere concluded, could drag on for years.

The next morning, Blanton sent one of his aides with a demand that Ben
grant him an audience.

Ben looked at the man. "Well, why in the hell didn't he just come over
and knock on the damn door? Sonny, there isn't much pomp and,
circumstance with us. Tell him to come on. But make it quick. We're
liable to be fighting at any time. That enemy regiment is pushing hard."

Blanton came right over and got to the point. "General, what is this I
hear about you splitting from the Union?"

Ben leaned back in his chair. "Homer, there is no Union. Why can't you
understand that? It's over. Done. Finished. We've got to rebuild from
the ashes. I'm only taking eleven states. You've got the rest."

Blanton took a deep breath and started quoting

194 the Declaration of Independence. Ben waved him silent.

"You're awfully fond of spouting Jefferson, Blan-ton. So let me quote
some Jefferson to you. How about 'I hold it, that a little rebellion,
now and then, is a good thing, and as necessary in the political world
as storms in the physical.' Sit down, Homer. And listen to me."

Blanton sat.

"You spout the Jefferson that suits your ends, so I'll spout mine. How
about, 'The basis of our government being the opinion of the people, the
very first object should be to keep that right.' "

Blanton remained silent. Since he was a minority elected president,
there was damn little he could say about quotes from Jefferson's letter
to Colonel Edward Carrington.

"And how about this from Jefferson's first inaugural address. I'll take
it slightly out of context, as you did: 'A wise and frugal government
shall not take from the mouths of men the bread they have earned.'
That's not exact, Homer, but it's close."

"You've twisted that all around, General!"

"Shut up!" Ben shouted, pointing a finger at the man. "Don't make me
angry, Blanton. You wouldn't like me much if you made me angry. I'll
give you one more Jefferson quote that in all your time in the White
House you never once uttered. 'No free man shall ever be debarred the
use of arms.' " Ben smiled. "You are familiar with that one, aren't you?"

Blanton said nothing.

"Or how about this one: 'What country can preserve its liberties, if its
rulers are not warned from

195 time to time, that the people preserve the spirit of resistance. Let
them take arms.' I never heard you mention that one, either."

"What is the point of all this, General?"

"Very simple, Homer. Very basic. The Rebels are armed. We're going to
stay armed. We are going to carve a new nation out of eleven states. And
the reasons we're going to do that are simple. Never again will the
government be allowed to disarm its law-abiding citizens. Never again
will asinine and frivolous lawsuits be allowed to clog up our courts.
Never again will a law-abiding citizen be jailed or sued for protecting
what is theirs, be it self, loved ones, property, or pets. Never again
will law-abiding citizens be afraid to walk the streets their tax
dollars helped to build and maintain."

"Are you quite through?" Blanton asked, a stiffness to his words.

"No. You listen. We can work together, Homer. Our nations can exist side
by side. We can sign mutual defense treaties. We can trade with each
other. We can have the same currency. We can have open borders. We can
do all that, or you can fight me and you'll lose. Now I'm through."

"You'll fight fellow Americans?"

"I'll fight anybody who stands in the way of the right of law-abiding
citizens to enjoy liberty, freedom, and the right to live without fear
of thugs and punks and two-bit, liberal, would-be dictators."

"You'll destroy this nation!" Blanton shouted the words.
"Where in the hell have you been for the last few years, Blanton? Under
a rock? The nation is de-

196 stroyed. It's in ruins except for the areas controlled by the
Rebels. Doesn't that tell you anything?"

"You dare to call me a dictator? What in God's name are you, General?"

"I was first appointed by the people and then I was elected, Blanton. In
free and open elections. Held on a Sunday, by the way, to make it easier
for everybody to vote. You'll never understand our system of government,
Blanton. It's too simple, too basic for liberals to comprehend. If the
Rebel way is so harsh, so brutal, so restrictive, why then do we have
several dozen communes of hippies living willingly, freely, and openly
within our controlled areas? True, good, peaceful,
back-to-the-earth-type hippies. You want to go visit with some of them
when this war is over?"

"No. We're well aware of those communes. We've monitored signals from
someone called Thermopo-lis. Obviously a false name. What is his real name?"

"I don't know. I don't care. Why should I care? It's none of my business."

Blanton stood up. "I'm going to pull together what is left of the armed
forces and leave you, General."

"That's the best news I've heard in weeks. Providing you take Harriet
Hooter and Rita Rivers with you."

Blanton walked to the door. There, he paused and turned around. "We
shall meet again, General. In open combat. And we'll win, for God is on
our side."

Ben smiled. "Yeah, I've heard that before, too."

Blanton stalked away and Jersey strolled in. "Cor-rie says that regiment
is about a day and a half away. Two days at the most. We've got about a
hundred

197 and fifty Rebels here, tops. How are we going to fight a regiment,
General?"

"Like porcupines make love, Jersey. Carefully."

198 Blanton and his people pulled out with only Lightheart reluctant to
go. Ben's respect for the man had grown. Lightheart appeared to have
more sense than anyone else who served President Blanton. Ben put the
presidential party out of his mind and turned to his own people,
gathering around him. Ben had requested air drops from Cecil and the
supplies had been delivered that morning. Ben had immediately sent out
teams to start mining the only road in and to set up ambush points.

"We're the mouse against the elephant," he said, pointing to their
location on a map. "So the first order of business is to cut that
elephant down to size." He tapped the map with a stick. "When they reach
this point, they're going to be real cautious. So we're going to let
them come on. We want them in deep and relaxed before we spring the
trap. Revere can't pull troops from the front to assist them, and Ike
can't send anyone to help us. So we're on our own. We're going to hit
and then run like hell. We'll regroup here." He again tapped the map. "I
don't want any prisoners," he said flatly. "Disarm

199 any who try to surrender and turn them loose or shoot them. I don't
care. That's up to you. Just remember this: we are not only fighting
Revere and his people, we are also facing a battle with troops loyal to
Blanton. Speaking quite frankly, this is probably the most fucked-up
situation we've faced in a long time. I don't like fighting people who
are flying the American flag. It's very repugnant to me. But I cannot
reason with Blanton; I can't reach any sort of compromise with him, so
there it is, and here we are. Squad leaders start moving your teams out.
Good luck and God bless."

Ben pulled his small team around him. Cooper asked, "Which side you
reckon God is on in this thing, General?"

"I think he's neutral, Coop. I think He sat back a long time ago, long
before any of you were born, and put Earth on the back burner." He
paused, smiled, and looked heavenward. "Well, He didn't strike me dead
so I guess we're not totally out of favor." The team laughed at that.
When the laughter had subsided, Ben said, "Let's go, folks."

The small teams of Rebels were spread out and dug in along a mile-long
stretch of road. Each team was armed with rocket launchers-with every
member of the team carrying four rounds-Big Thumpers, and automatic
weapons. Each squad leader made certain every member knew the escape
routes and where to rendezvous. They very carefully dug in and waited.

The colonel leading the advancing regiment sent recon in first. The
recon moved carefully and cautiously. But they seldom investigated more
than twenty or so yards on either side of the old highway.

200 Bad mistake. As soon as the recon teams had passed, the Rebels
slipped out of their hidey-holes and reset the Claymores and placed C-4
at preselected sites. Then they slipped back to their holes and waited.

The first tanks of the long column appeared and the Rebels let them
rumble past, allowing them to roll deeper and deeper into the trap. Ben
and his team were located at the south end of the mile-long corridor of
death, with a handful of Rebel scouts a few hundred yards past that
point. When the enemy recon passed Ben's location, they paused to radio
in the all-clear. Five seconds later they were dead, felled by silenced
.22s. Their bodies were quickly dragged off the road and tossed into the
brush just as the first tank drew up to Ben's location.

"Now!" Ben said, and Cooper fired the Arm-brust. The rocket slammed into
the side of the tank and turned the inside into a fiery death for the
crew. Beth took out the second tank and Jersey finished the third one.
Up and down the mile-long stretch of highway, explosions shattered the
quiet and a rattled regimental commander screamed orders to get the hell
out of there.

But it was too late and too confusing. The tanks and trucks got all
jammed up in their haste to get away and it became a turkey shoot for
the Rebels and a massacre for the enemy troops. Then the Rebels
vanished, running all out east and west. When they reached a preselected
heading, they cut south, heading for the rendezvous spot. They left
behind them a mile-long section of smoking, burning, and exploding hell.
The Rebels headed for the ruins of a tiny town at the intersection of
Highways 28 and 30.
201 They had not suffered a single person lost due to death or wounds.

While Ben and his people regrouped, the regimental commander of Revere's
troops had to hold up and lose a full day clearing the road and seeing
to the wounded and burying the dead. Blanton and his troops had crossed
over into Vermont and set up in the Green Mountains. His more
experienced and worldly and less liberal commanders monitored the antics
of Ben Raines and his Rebels by radio and exchanged glances. None of
them were looking forward to tangling with the Rebels. But how to
convince President Blanton that declaring war on the Rebels was going to
be a bloody and terrible mistake? They were soldiers, and they would do
as their commander in chief ordered. But they knew in their hearts they
would never defeat the Rebels. To do that, they would have to wipe them
out to the last person, and that was impossible. The commanders met and
selected General Taylor to meet with Blanton.

"Mister President," Taylor said. "It's time to put past political
differences behind you and give serious thought to joining forces with
the Rebels and defeating General Revere. When that is done, then you and
General Raines can sit down and work something out."

Blanton shook his head. "No. I won't do that. I will not allow that man
to flaunt the constitution."

Taylor sighed. "Mister President, I've got to convince you of something.
Ben Raines couldn't, but maybe I can. Those thousands of people rushing

202 to join us are worthless. They're losers-before the Great War, and
afterwards. Believe me. My people have interviewed those types for
months . . . years! They want something for nothing. They're scared to
death of Ben Raines because they can't live under very simple and very
basic Rebel rule-"

"Of course, they can't," Blanton cut him short. "No one wants to live
under a dictatorship."

General Taylor sighed. "Mister President, I am sworn by oath to serve
you. I will not break that oath. I will stand by you. But you are very
wrong about General Raines. The Rebels don't live under a dictatorship.
They are the freest people on the face of the earth."

"Oh, that's nonsense!" Harriet Hooter stuck her mouth into it. "How can
everybody be free when everybody is armed to the teeth with those
horrible, nasty guns?"

General Taylor cut his eyes. He couldn't stand the woman, but she was a
friend of the president. "Ms. Hooter, that is precisely the reason they
are free."

"Nonsense!" was her reply. "Horrible, nasty Republicans."

General Taylor stood up. "Mister President, I would much rather have
General Raines for an ally than an enemy."

"That is possible only if General Raines and his followers will swear
allegiance to the flag of the United States of America and agree to
relinquish the territory they now claim and rejoin the Union."

"That, sir, is something that will never happen."
"Then the war will be long and costly, but we

203 shall eventually crush them in battle," said the president. "For God
is on our side."

"Shit!" said the general, then left the room.

General Revere and his people were stopped cold and could not advance an
inch. He sent commando teams sweeping around both ends of the Rebel
lines. He stopped sending them when none of the previous teams reported
back. There was no turning back for Revere; he was committed and was
fully aware of what would happen to him should he lose. Neither
President Blanton nor Ben Raines would hesitate a second in ordering him
shot on the spot.

General Taylor had ordered Revere's supply lines severed. In a week or
so, that would begin to tell. Revere had to make a decision, and had to
make it soon. There was just no way he could fight on three fronts. He
had sent messages out to the warlords he knew leaned toward his way of
thinking, but so far, no replies had come in. If they would just swing
over to his side . . .

"General," an aide broke into his thoughts. "The spokesman for all the
warlords, Al Rogers, just called in. He and all the others have agreed
to fight with us."

"All right!" Revere jumped to his boots. "Get all my people in here,
Jimmy. We've got to move fast."

"Something weird's going on, General," Corrie called to Ben. "Colonel
Taylor has been ordered back. Base Camp One reports massive movements of
warlords and their people. Thousands of well-

204 armed people. Intelligence seems to think that gangs of all colors
have apparently put aside their differences and agreed to fight against
the common enemy."

"Us," Ben said.

"Right."

"Well, you can bet they've thrown in with Revere. Get me Ike on the horn."

"Go, Eagle," Ike said.

"Ike, you heard from Cec?"

"That's ten-four. What's going on?"

"I don't know for sure. But I'll bet you a bottle of whiskey that Revere
will be pulling out, or has already begun doing that, and heading in
this direction. Those warlords and their people will be throwing up a
line right down the middle of the country to block you."

Ike was silent for a moment. "Could be it, Ben. We intercepted a message
that General Taylor had cut Revere's supply lines. He'd be hurting in a
couple of weeks. If these punks are well-equipped, they could hang me up."

"Expect that, Ike. According to reports, they are very well-equipped.
Revere's going to try to take out Blanton and his people, then deal with
me. I've got some decisions to make, Ike. I'll get back to you. Eagle
out." He looked at Corrie. "Get me home base, Corrie."

"Cec here, Ben. What's up?"

"Let me hear your opinion on what the warlords are doing."

It was the same as Ben thought.

"Ben, you're not going to try to assist Blanton and his people, are
you?" Cecil asked.

205 "With what, Cec? Less than a company? I'm not going to sacrifice my
people because of his hard-headedness. I'll try to advise him, but
whether he takes that advice is up for grabs. Probably he won't."

"And then?"

"I'm taking my people and getting the hell out of here. Have a battalion
start moving north, Cec. Armor, artillery, the whole mobile bag. As many
people as you can spare. Stay on the east side of the Mississippi. We'll
link up with them somewhere in Indiana."

"Will do, Ben. Cec out."

"Get me Blanton, Corrie." Ben poured a cup of coffee while he waited.

Corrie said, "The president is not available at this time, General."

"Not available? What the hell is he doing, watching for the maple sap to
start dripping?"

Corrie ducked her head to hide her grin.

"Can you get me General Taylor?"

"I'll try, sir."

Ben rolled a cigarette and sipped his coffee.

"General Taylor on the horn, sir."

"General Taylor? Ben Raines here." He laid it all out for the man.

"Damn!" the general said, when Ben finished. "I think you're probably
right, General Raines. I'll give your suggestions and my recommendation
to the president and urge him to take your advice. But . . ."

"Yeah, I know. Good luck to you, General Taylor."

"Luck to you, General Raines."

Ben handed Corrie the mic and said, "Pack it up, people. We're shagging
ass out of here."

206

They had names like Bad Boy and Bull, Jammin' Jimmy and Rappin' Sid.
Others were called Street Queen and Glory Girl, Lovely Leroy and Kansas
City Kid. Still others went by the handles of Ass Kicker Kelly, Moline
Max, Cool Man Milo, Toy Boy Bart, Ross the Rumbler, Dido Duke . . . and
so on and so forth, well past the point of being nauseous. They were the
absolute dregs of a fallen society. In the past, billions of taxpayer
dollars had been spent (by a democrat-controlled, liberal government)
trying to help people such as these. The money might as well have been
flushed down the toilet. The sobbing sisters and hanky-twisters and
snit-throwers in congress just never understood that street punks and
gutter slime respect only one thing: brute force.

One cannot offer these types compassion because they don't have any, for
anything or anybody. They are the types of people who want something for
nothing. They demand a job but they are unqualified to do anything
except mug and rob and assault and rape and kill. They demand that
society foot the bill to train them for work and then complain that the
jobs they're offered are beneath them. They demand respect at the point
of a gun or a knife. They come in all colors, all races. They are savage
and ignorant and bigoted and don't have enough common sense to pour piss
out of a boot, and they are proud of it. When they don't get their way,
they riot and loot and burn and then demand that the law-abiding,
tax-paying citizens pay to rebuild their neighborhoods.

These types were about to discover that their way

207 of thinking was totally alien to the Rebel philosophy. These types
were about to discover that in the Rebel society, if you contribute
nothing to society, that is exactly what you get from it. These types
were about to discover that if you threaten a Rebel, you run the risk of
getting killed-very quickly.

"You were right," Corrie said, monitoring transmissions as the column
rolled south and west out of New York State. "Our scouts report that the
punks are throwing up a line on the east side of the Mississippi River.
And they are well-equipped."

"Artillery?" Ben asked.

"Yes. But not under their command. Revere's people control that."

Ben was silent for a couple of miles. "While we were fighting Hoffman
and his Nazis for all those months, Revere and his people were busy
setting all this up. It almost worked. Ike has confirmed that Revere is
swinging his people around; shifting them to the east. Revere thinks
he's going to put me in a box. Has Cec put that battalion on the road yet?"

"Yes, sir. Pushing hard to link up with us."

"Tell Ike to hold his positions until we are certain of Revere's
motives," Ben said. "At my command he is to begin first swinging his
westernmost battalions south and east. When the last of Revere's
battalions are east of the Great Lakes, Ike will start lining up north
to south in the heartland, facing the Mississippi River and the punks."

"Then we'll start harassing the punks from the rear," Cooper said.

"Right," Ben said.

Jersey smiled. "Kick-ass time!"

208 Ben pushed his people hard, rolling the short convoy as fast as he
dared along the old crumbling highways. If they could travel at 45 miles
per hour, that was good. Usually it was less than that.

Blanton's agents had done their work well in spreading the "chicken in
every pot" (skinless) crap. Sometimes people hidden along the way shot
at them, sometimes the people waved and cheered. Residents of the
battered nation were pretty evenly divided between the Rebels' form of
government and the old unworkable, so-called "democratic" type of
government.

"Looks like about half the people are for us and half against us," Beth
remarked.

"The old government would have worked if the politicians had adhered to
the constitution the way it was written and stopped trying to screw it
up," Ben said, during a welcome break. "But it seemed like suddenly
every liberal became an expert on the constitution . . . interpreting it
the way they wanted it to read."

209 "How about folks like us?" Cooper asked. "Why didn't we get a say in
matters?"

Ben smiled and poured another cup of coffee. "The news media usually
branded anyone who believed in using lethal force to protect what was
theirs a right-wing lunatic. We didn't have much of a chance to say our
piece. Usually when the press did stick a microphone under the nose of a
citizen who believed they still had a right to protect what was theirs,
it was nearly always some ignorant, bigoted ultra-right-winger with an
alligator mouth and a hummingbird ass."

"We're going to have company just about a mile down the road, General,"
Corrie called. "Some group calling themselves Partners of Peace."

"POP?" Ben said with a smile.

"That's a hell of a lot better than Warriors of Peace," Lt. Bonelli said
with a laugh.

When the laughter had subsided, Ben asked, "What frequency are they using?"

"CB."

"Very up to date, aren't they?"

"Channel 19," Corrie added.

"Really professional," Jersey said, stretching out her diminutive frame
for a short nap.

"Wake me up in thirty," Ben said, lying down. He was asleep in two minutes.

"Scout it out," Lt. Bonelli said, jerking his thumb toward the road.

They returned just about the time Ben was waking up.

"The interstate is blocked and they're definitely waiting for us," the
Rebels told Ben. "And they're well-armed."

210 The convoy had skirted Youngstown and were staying on 1-76, working
their way to Indiana.
"Looks like about a hundred of them," the other Rebel said. "Men and
women. Flying the American flag."

Ben sighed. "Exactly what I didn't want. This is shaping up to be a
full-blown civil war. Blanton's smart. That's what he wants. He's the
good guy and we're the bad guys. He's worked for many years setting all
this up. I'll give him credit for patience."

"What about POP?" Cooper asked.

Ben stood up and stretched. He reached for his Thompson. "Let's go see
what their beef is."

The Rebels could have easily shot their way through, or simply bypassed
the area. But neither of those was, at the moment, acceptable to Ben.
About five hundred yards from the barricade, Ben halted the convoy and
got on the CB.

"You people do not own the highways," he radioed. "Please allow us to pass."

"You are a traitor, Ben Raines," a man's voice came through the speaker.
"You have turned your back on the President of the United States. Your
reign of terror ends here."

"Are they kidding?" Beth asked.

"I don't think so," Ben said, keying the mic. "I don't know where you
got your information, mister, but it's wrong. I offered help to the
president. He turned it down."

"We did?" Jersey looked at Ben.

"Sort of," he replied.

No one had to ask what the Rebels should do if the members of POP opened
fire. No one fired on the Rebels without retaliation. If the members of

211 POP had a death wish, they couldn't have found a better group to see
that their wishes became reality.

"You lie, Ben Raines," the spokesman for POP said. "Everybody knows you
are a liar."

Ben had been called lots of things both before and after the Great War,
but being called a liar was something he would not take. Everyone who
knew Ben even slightly knew he was honest to a fault. Ben was uncommonly
blunt with the truth. "Clear that goddamn road," he radioed. "And do it
quickly. That is the only warning you are going to get." He turned to
Lt. Bonelli. "Rocket launchers in place?"

Bonelli nodded.

"You go straight to hell, Ben Raines!" the spokesman said. "We are
prepared to die for President Blanton."

"Idiots," Ben muttered. "Put two HE's into that barricade" he ordered.

The vehicles that blocked the interstate went up with a swooshing boom
as the high explosive rounds impacted against them and ignited the gas
tanks. Bodies and parts of bodies were hurled into the air and slammed
away from both sides of the road. Those left alive put their feet to
work and hit the trail.

"Clear the wreckage," Ben ordered.

Deuce and a halves moved up and pushed the mangled hulks out of the Way,
clearing one lane. The Rebels mounted up and moved forward. At the
smoking site, Ben saw the American flag the members of POP had been
flying lying on the grass, just off the shoulder.

"Hold it, Coop." He got out of the Hummer and righted the flag, jamming
the pole deep into the

212 ground. He looked at a member of POP, sitting on the ground, holding
a rag to his head. The man was not badly hurt, only scared as he looked
into the muzzles of dozens of M-16s, all pointing at him.

"Well, go ahead and shoot me, Ben Raines," the man said, a quiver in his
voice.

"I have no intention of shooting you," Ben told him. "Unless you try to
shoot me or any of my people."

"President Blanton's agents told us you were initiating a scorched earth
policy. That you killed everyone who did not agree with you."

"Blanton is a politician and lying is second nature to a politician,"
Ben replied. "You have a doctor with your group?"

"Yes."

"Fine. Then my medics won't have to waste time checking you out. You
just remember this: the next time you threaten a Rebel, you might not
get off so lucky. Goodbye."

The Rebels mounted up and moved on, leaving the citizen with the bloody
bump on his head sitting on the ground, looking very confused.

As it turned out, the communications network of Blanton's supporters
throughout the nation was much more sophisticated than the Rebels first
thought. Somebody from POP got on the horn and warned other groups that
the Rebels played rough and dirty and didn't bluff worth a damn. Ben's
small convoy encountered no more trouble as they rolled through Ohio and
into Indiana. As before,

213 some citizens cheered them and others booed and hissed and shook
their fists.

Ben started stopping along the way, talking to those who were friendly
to the Rebels. He told them of the new nation that was being formed. If
they thought they could live under Rebel law, he invited them down.

The exodus started.

The Rebels bypassed the ruins of Indianapolis and started angling south.
They linked up with the battalion sent from Base Camp One at the
junction of Highway 57 and 1-64.

"If that's a battalion, I'm Daffy Duck," Lt. Bonelli said, lowering his
binoculars.

"I think Cecil just might have overdone it a bit," Ben said, lowering
his binoculars. He had spotted Colonel Dan Gray amid all the vehicles
and personnel. "Come on. Let's sort all this out."

"Don't blame me," Dan said, after shaking Ben's hand. "Ike ordered me to
join you. We've got approximately two and a half battalions here, and
that's not counting artillery and armor."

"What's the latest from Revere?"

"He's definitely moving against President Blan-ton's troops. Intel
reports he's saving us for last. We've been seeing a lot of people,
families, moving south. What's that all about?"

"They're heading for the new nation we're carving out."

"What is this new nation going to be called, Ben?"

"The Southern United States of America. The flag will be the stars and
stripes. With eleven stars."

Dan smiled. "That's what that new factory down at Base Camp One is so
busy working on."

214 "That's right."

"President Blanton is not going to be happy about this."

"Blanton's happiness or lack of it is not my concern."

"Everything is all jumbled up, Ben," the former SAS man said. "We're
getting reports that Canadians are fighting Canadians over the building
civil war down here. They're split about fifty-fifty. Looks like about
the same here in the Colonies." He said the last with a smile. "General
Jefferys is of the opinion that Blanton wants a civil war."

"I agree with that assessment. Why else would the man feign his own
death and stay in hiding for years? Why the elaborate network of agents
quietly working the nation, and the secret military bases?" Ben shook
his head. "He's a slick one, all right."

"Ben, we held off Revere's army with trickery and deceit and experience.
There is no way that Blanton's troops can even come close to our
proficiency."

"You're right. In a manner of speaking, I agreed to help Blanton. He
wanted no part of it. Hell with him. The only one I feel sorry for,
believe it or not, is Blush Lightheart."

"Oh, I believe it. You are aware that we do have some homosexuals in our
ranks?"

"Of course. They were warned to keep their sexual preferences confined
to others of their particular persuasion."

"I wondered if you knew."

"Very little goes on in this army that I am not aware of," Ben said with
a smile.

215 The convoy pulled out the next morning, heading west into Illinois.
Almost two thousand ground troops, with tanks and artillery to back them
up. The column stretched for miles, and it put fear into the hearts of
those who backed Blanton, and joy in the hearts of those who favored the
Rebels' form of government.

Ben knew Blanton had spies everywhere (that much had not changed since
his administration when federal agents were spying on everybody they
could-including Ben Raines), so there was no point in making any attempt
to conceal what the Rebels were up to. That would have been near
impossible anyway, considering the size of the columns.

"We'll head south when we reach 1-57," Ben told his officers late one
afternoon. "We'll start cleaning out Revere's punk army and working
north at what's left of Memphis. Dan, get your teams of scouts dressed
in civilian clothing and in cars and trucks and motorcycles and get them
going. I want comprehensive reports from them. When we get a bit farther
south, we're going to have to cut back east and cross the Ohio River and
come at them that way. Most of the bridges are blown over the
Mississippi. Corrie, have you heard any reports today about Blanton and
his troops?"

"Nothing, sir. They've gone silent."

Dan studied Ben's face. "You're worried about the man, aren't you, Ben?"

"Yes," Ben said after a slight hesitation. "He's an American president.
I didn't like or trust him years back and I don't like or trust him now.
But he's still a living, elected president. And he's a law-abiding,

216 decent American citizen. But I can't be his nanny. Get some sleep,
Dan. See you in the morning."

The column was in southern Illinois, just about to cross the Ohio River,
when the first reports from the scouts came in. Revere's punk army was
stretched out all along the Mississippi, on both sides of the river, and
they were extremely well-equipped. The only thing they didn't have to
match the Rebels-as far as equipment went-was long range artillery. But
they were well-supplied with mortars and appeared to know how to use them.

"Let's find out," Ben said with a hard smile.

Nothing was left of Memphis but burned-out and bombed hulks of
buildings. Most of the nation's cities had been destroyed in order to
wipe out the cannibalistic Creepies. Rebel units began moving to the
west, from the east side of the Missouri bootheel, south down to the
outskirts of Memphis.

Rappin' Sid and Cool Cal were the leaders of the gangs whose jobs it was
to prevent the eastward advance of Ike's Rebels. Revere just hadn't
counted on Ben Raines coming up behind his punk army.

Thirteen and 14 Battalions, under the command of Raul Gomez and Jim
Peters had set up across the river in Arkansas and at Ben's orders
started pounding the punk positions with long range 155s.

"Holy shit!" Rappin' Sid yelled as the huge shells began raining down on
his position. The first few rounds had landed dangerously close to his
headquarters and had knocked him out of the chair. He'd been listening
to his favorite rap group, The Snot Drippers, perform on tape their
greatest hit,

217 "Give Me Yo' Watch & Wallet or I'll Kill the Bitch That's With You."
The song really had not enjoyed much success since ninety-nine percent
of the nation's radio stations had refused to play it. But it had become
a favorite among certain street gangs . . . which should give one some
insight as to the overall mentality of the aforementioned.

Then Ben cut loose with his own 155s from behind Rappin' Sid and Cool
Cal's position. The first round landed just behind Cool Cal's HQ,
collapsed the rear wall, and knocked the punk out of his chair,
sprawling him face down on the littered floor. To make matters worse, he
lost his favorite comic book, the one that featured Ghetto Man killing
all the cops in the city and screwing all the rich bitches who had
refused to go along with redistributing their wealth.

"Good God!" Cal hollered, crawling to his feet just as the second round
landed in front of the old home and the concussion blew out all the
windows and doors. Cool Cal wound up on his butt in the bathroom, his
head resting on the commode seat.

Rappin' Sid grabbed up the radio mic and alerted the next gang north,
which was commanded by someone called Little Pecker, up in the Arkansas
town of Osceola. "We're under attack from the west and the east. Defend
yo' turf, man. Death to Ben Raines and the Rebels!" He grabbed his M-16
and headed out the front door just as another 155 round landed in front
of the house. The concussion tore the door off its old hinges. The door
slammed into Rappin' Sid and knocked him down the hall. Sid ended up in
the kitchen with the muzzle of the M-16 stuck up one side of his nose.

218 Little Pecker immediately radioed Big Pecker up in Blytheville, who
radioed Boo Boo in Caruthers-ville, who contacted Poke Chop in Portageville.

Ben looked over at Corrie, earphones on her head. She was laughing so
hard tears were running down her cheeks. "What got you started?" he asked.

"Little Pecker, Big Pecker, Boo Boo, and Poke Chop," she managed to say.

Ben stared at her for a moment. "Did you suddenly develop a speech
impediment?"

She couldn't speak. Just handed him the headset. Ben listened, a smile
slowly creeping across his lips. He started laughing. Ben sat down
beside Corrie and removed the headset. He shook his head. "I guess I
should be ashamed of myself, but I can't help it," he said over the
thunder of artillery. "The mightiest army on the face of the earth has
been reduced to waging war on someone called Poke Chop."

"It gets worse," Corrie finally managed to speak.

"How?" Ben asked.

"Someone named Super Dick is commanding the gang in Charleston."

219 Six

"That trash defending along the river is not going to hold," General
Revere was advised.
"Of course, they're not," Paul said. "I didn't expect them to hold. Just
buy us some time, that's all. I want Raines and the Rebels to destroy them."

"Clever," the colonel said. "We would have had to contend with them
later on anyway."

"That's right. Raines is doing us a favor."

An aide came into the big tent. "General Taylor has broken up his army
and sent them out in small units dressed in civilian clothing. The
president, First Lady, and staff have gone underground."

"Goddamnit!" Revere cursed. "Do we have any idea where they might be?"

"Not a clue. They just dropped out of sight."

"We know the government built dozens of underground bunkers-from small
to huge-before the Great War, and then added hundreds after that,
stocked with enough supplies to last for a century. Blanton and his
staff could be anywhere. They could be in any one of a dozen or more
states. Keep

220 looking. I want them found, and I want them

killed."

"How many people do we pull off the line?" Revere hesitated, then said,
"As many as you

need. Find President Blanton and staff, and kill

them!"

Beth finished decoding the message communications handed her and studied
it for a moment, then she walked out of the trailer and over to Ben.
"Strange message, General. Does this mean you?"

Ben read the cryptic note. FIND & KILL EAGLE AND CHICKS. He shook his
head. "Eagle was the Secret Service name-one of them-for the president.
The chicks are probably his wife and staff. Has Corrie had any luck in
making contact with Blanton?"

"Negative, sir. Intell thinks they've gone hard underground."

"They may be right. Both before and after the Great War, the government
built several hundred bunkers deep underground and stocked them with
plenty of food and water and fuel for generators."

"Do you know where they are?" Cooper asked.

Ben smiled. "Most of them."

Deep underground in the mountains of West Virginia, President Homer
Blanton sat at the head of the long table and stared at his staff and
those senators and representatives who had been with him for years. The
arguments had been heated, and everyone was pausing to let tempers cool.

221 Lightheart stood firm and he picked it up. "Let General Raines and
his people have their nation, Homer. They're going to have it
anyway-whether we like it or not."

"No!" Harriet Hooter shrieked, and everyone present winced. Her voice
was like someone dragging their fingernails across a chalkboard.

"No!" Rita Rivers shouted.

"No!" Benedict hollered.

Senator Hanrahan was unusually silent, as was Ditto and Arnold.
Blanton's eyes touched Hanrahan. "You have said nothing for an hour,
Senator."

"Give the Rebels their country," Hanrahan said, his words soft. "Or
we'll be at war from now until the end of time."

"Have you lost your mind?" Harriet squealed.

"Perhaps I've just found it," the aging senator said. "Ben Raines spoke
to me at length, and his words stung. He's very correct in saying that
we ignored a large segment of the American population. We over-taxed the
good citizens to pay for programs the majority of them didn't want. We
had no right to seize private firearms. We just didn't have the right to
do that. We went soft on criminals and hard on law-abiding citizens. Oh,
we were well-meaning in what we did ... I guess. Looking back I'm not so
that sure we weren't all on a powertrip. We all knew that a straight
across the board flat tax was the really fair way to go. But instead we
made great flowery speeches and in the end screwed the American people
with such a complicated tax system not even tax lawyers agreed on how to
interpret it. We . . ."

222 "I must protest this," Harriet Hooter hollered. "I feel . . ."

Hanrahan looked at her and stepped completely out of character by
saying, "Shut your goddamn mouth. For once, just close that great
flapping orifice and listen."

Harriet's mouth dropped open so far it would have taken a team of
Percherons all working in harness all day to wrench it closed.

"Why, you damned old senile fool!" Rita Rivers shouted, jumping to her feet.

"Shut up!" President Blanton said.

Rita's mouth started working like a fish, but no sounds were coming out.

"And sit down," Blanton added. Rita sat. "Go on," he said to Senator
Hanrahan.

Hanrahan shrugged his shoulders. "You've admitted privately that we were
wrong, Homer. Time and time again we were wrong. Now I'm admitting it. I
think that Ben Raines is a fair man . . ."

Harriet almost had a heart attack at that, and Arnold and Benedict
looked stunned.

"People who are offered jobs and refuse to work at them deserve nothing
from the government-that is, if we had a government. Face it people, the
only stable government in the world, that I am aware of, is the Rebel
government. Oh, my, yes, their laws are harsh; Orwellian, to our way of
looking at it. But they-the Rebels-don't mind living under those laws.
Ben Raines is not asking us to live under his laws. He's just telling us
that he and his people are not going to live under ours. He has stated
he will discuss a compromise. All right, let's try it. I per-

223 sonally think we can work with General Raines. It's certainly worth
a try."

"I'll think about it," Homer Blanton said.

Rappin' Sid and Cool Cal survived the barrage with their sanity and not
much else. On both sides of the river, the Rebels had laid down a
blanket of deadly walking-in artillery, the 155 rounds systematically
destroying everything in their path.

Then Ben sent his ground troops in.

The "troops" of Rappin' Sid and Cool Cal (those who were still alive)
had no stomach left for the fight. For thirty-six hours the artillery of
the Rebels had rained down on them, and a heavy and unrelenting
artillery barrage is the most demoralizing of all combat situations.
Most threw down their weapons and surrendered. Those who chose to fight
were killed; no mercy, no quarter.

Rappin' Sid and Cool Cal were brought to Ben's CR They were badly shaken
men. Ben stared at them for a long minute, his cold eyes shifting from
one to the other.

"Is you gonna off us, man?" Rappin' Sid mush-mouthed.

"Can you speak proper English?" Ben challenged.

"Huh?"

"I said, can you speak proper English?" Ben shouted. "Goddamn, are you
deaf as well as ignorant?"

The two ex-gang leaders stood silent.

"I'd guess you both were about twenty when the Great War blew the world
apart," Ben said. "Ample time for you to have graduated from high school

224 and have some college or vo-tech. Ample time for you to have found
jobs and begin contributing to the society in which you lived. Did you
do any of those things?"

Rappin' Sid, who was black, looked at Cool Cal, who was white. Neither
of them had ever held a job and they were both high school drop-outs.
Rap-pin' Sid was from Chicago, Cool Cal from St. Louis. Before the Great
War they were street punks. They still were. Both of them had police rap
sheets half a city block long.

"My daddy beat me," Cool Cal said.

"The teachers picked on me," Rappin' Sid said.

Ben leaned back in his chair and stared at the pair. He thought: Why do
I even bother talking with them? It's always the same old story. It's
always someone else's fault.
The Rebel ranks were dotted with men and women who had come from broken
and dysfunctional homes-men and women who had suffered child abuse and
poverty ... yet who had not turned to a life of crime. They had gone on
to live productive lives, making no excuses for their childhood
deprivations, placing no blame on society.

Ben stood up and the gang leaders tensed. "Get out of here," Ben told them.

"And do whut?" Cool Cal asked.

"For just once in your miserable lives, try to live decently. Plant
gardens. Fix up a home and respect the rights of others around you."

"Ah ain't no mottha-fuckin' farmer," Rappin' Sid said defiantly. Then
his eyes widened and his breath became short as he stared into the eyes
of Ben Raines. His lips formed a large O. Rappin' Sid sud-

225 denly realized he was looking into the face of death; realized that
one more smart-assed crack out of his mouth might well get him a bullet
right between the eyes. He could almost hear the hoof-beats of the Pale
Rider.

"Shut up," Cool Cal hissed.

Rappin' Sid bobbed his head up and down. "You be right, sir," he said to
Ben. "I'm gone like a breeze. You ain't never gonna see me 'gain."

"If I do see you again," Ben told him. "Or you," he cut his eyes to Cal.
"And you are doing anything other than living quiet, decent lives, I'll
kill you on the spot! Do you understand?"

They understood. For the first time in their lives they realized there
was no fall-back place. No social workers, no probation officers, no
soft-hearted judges and weepy lawyers. No free rides. They were looking
sudden death square in the eyes.

Rappin' Sid remembered something his long-suffering mother had once
said. "We walk the straight an' narrow, right, sir?"

"That's right."

"I can do that," Cool Cal said quickly.

"Good," Ben told him. "See that you do. You have one minute to clear
this camp. Move!"

The last time Ben saw Cool Cal and Rappin' Sid they were picking them up
and putting them down, heading east.

"Whoo!" Little Pecker said frantically, when he learned of the fate of
Rappin' Sid and Cool Cal and that the Rebels were moving toward his loca-

226 tion ... on both sides of the river. He radioed Big Pecker.

"They's strength in numbers," Big Pecker said. He recalled that line
from somewhere. "Pull out and head on up here. Then we'll join up with
Boo Boo and figure somethin' out. Git gone, man."

The Rebel scouts reported that a mass exodus was taking place, the gangs
pulling out and moving north. The Rebels relentlessly followed them.
Far to the north, Ike had split his battalions and was working both
sides of the Mississippi River, working south, putting the gangs in a
slowly closing vise.

"Hey, General Man," Bad Boy radioed to Revere. "This plan of yours ain't
workin' out worth a shit for us! We're gettin squooze somethin' fierce."

"Hold your ground," Revere ordered.

"Screw you!" Big Foot Freddie radioed. "I didn't join this here
chicken-shit outfit to commit suicide."

Hundreds of miles away, in the underground bunker in West Virginia,
General Taylor listened to the heated exchanges. "Ben Raines is a
brilliant tactician," he said to no one in particular. "I do not look
forward to meeting that man in open battle. He's totally unpredictable.
You can't read him. He doesn't follow any rule book."

"I'm not sure all our troops will fight him," a staff colonel said
softly, standing close to the general.

"I know," Taylor whispered. "Except for that ragtag pack of losers and
complainers and whiners that think Blanton is the next best thing to God
Almighty."

"Is it true that his own staff is divided?"

227 "Yes. Senator Hanrahan did a one eighty on the issue. Surprised the
hell out of me." He chuckled. "I think it surprised the hell out of him,
too."

The Rebels chased the punk gangs all the way to the Missouri Bootheel,
harassing them every foot of the way. There, under the command of a huge
thug who called himself Super Dick, the punks decided to make a stand of
it. As far as numbers went, they more than outnumbered the Rebels. But
when it came to discipline, they were zip. These were strong-arm types,
most of them long on muscle and cruelty, many of them much more
intelligent than they appeared, but extremely short on common sense.

"We'll stop 'em, people," Super Dick boasted to the gang leaders. "We're
out of the range of them pricks and cunts acrost the river."

Wrong. The Rebels had rocket-assisted projectiles with a range of just
about 40,000 yards.

"And we's a hell of a whole lot more smarter than them, too."

Sure.

Thirteen and 14 Battalions got into position just east of Sikeston,
Missouri while Ben and his battalions set up just across the river near
Wickliffe, Kentucky. They readied their 155s and 203mm howitzers.

Super Dick readied his punk army for a ground attack that didn't come.
"Somethin' funky goin' on," he muttered.

Funky arrived in a barrage of nasty surprises for the gang members. On
the east side of the river, Ben opened the funkiness by launching a salvo of
228 artillery rounds, each round containing 195 M42 grenades while the
batteries of 13 and 14 fired HE and WP rounds.

The few remaining residents of the small Missouri town had fled before
the arrival of the gangs. Whether they loved or hated the Rebels, all
had a pretty good idea how Ben Raines would deal with the gangs. Many
had followed the tactics of the Rebels for years, listening to short
wave broadcasts from around the battered country. About half headed
south to become a part of the new Southern United States.

The high explosive rounds shattered buildings and sent brick and mortar
and lumber flying in all directions. The willie peter set things blazing
and the hundreds of exploding M42 grenades turned the small town into a
death trap. Frightened gang members went running wild-eyed in all
directions. But they soon discovered that there simply was no place to
run to escape the deadly hail that rained down upon them.

"Hold your positions!" Super Dick shouted. "This can't last long."

Wrong.

The barrage began at 0700 and the guns finally fell silent three hours
later. There was little left of the town except fire, smoke, and ruins.
Of the hundreds of gang leaders who had very unwisely gathered in the
small Missouri town, only a handful remained alive.

"Goddamn you, Ben Raines!" Super Dick screamed into the mic. "Goddamn
you to hell! You don't fight fair!"

"Mop it up," Ben ordered.

229 "You just kilt them all," a badly frightened and trembling gang
leader said to Ben. His crotch was stained from the urine his relaxed
bladder had emptied into his underwear during the murderous and
hours-long artillery barrage. "You kilt hundreds. I never seen nothin'
like it. They's blowed off arms and heads and legs and guts ..." He
began crying, the tears cutting traces down his dirty cheeks. "And the
blood. Oh, God, the blood!" He sank to his knees and put his face into
his hands and wept. The gang leader, who went by the moniker of Lucky
Louie, lay on the ground, curled into a fetal position, sobbing
uncontrollably.

Even Super Dick was subdued. He had the shakes and could not make them
stop. He was twitching like a dry leaf in a breeze. "My old lady was
runnin' crost the street when a round hit. She just disappeared, man.
She just . . . wasn't no more."

"You have my shallowest and most insincere condolences," Ben said acidly.

Super Dick blinked and slowly shook his big,

230 shaggy head. "You got to be the hardest son of a bitch I ever seen!"

"Thank you."

"Is you gonna off us?" Little Pecker asked. He'd been looking for Big
Pecker but had been unable to find him. If he ever did he'd have to
scoop him up with a shovel and a spoon.

"I don't know. But right now I'm going to give you some advice."
"Well, here it comes," Poke Chop sneered the words. "The man gonna give
us a lecture about us bein' bad boys."

Dan Gray took one step forward and placed the muzzle of a .45 autoloader
against Poke Chop's head. He cocked the .45 and Poke Chop shit his
underwear.

"At your orders, General," Dan said.

"JesusGodAlmighty!" Poke Chop shouted. "I got a right to speak my piece."

"You have no rights, punk!" Dan said.

"I cain't take no more of this!" Little Pecker wailed, sinking to his
knees on the ground. 'Til do whatever it is you want me to do, General."

"Me, too!" Boo Boo blubbered. "Oh, Lard, Lard, don't kill me. I don't
wanna die!"

The Rebels had proven that when very harsh sentences are carried out
promptly after being handed down, crime takes a tremendous nosedive.
Crime of any type was so rare in any Rebel-controlled zone it was viewed
as a phenomenon.

Poke Chop was stinking something awful and the breeze was ripe with it.
"Get him out of here, Dan," Ben said. "And convince him to live a life
free of crime. Tell him what will happen if he doesn't."

231 "Right, sir!" He lowered the pistol and prodded Poke Chop in the
side. "Move, you misplaced cesspool."

"Don't kill me," Little Pecker begged. "Please don't kill me."

Ben turned to Cooper. "Get them out of here, Cooper. Turn them over to
the chemical boys and girls and find out what they know."

"Right, sir."

He looked at Corrie. "Let's get over to the comm truck and find out how
Ike is doing.

"Piece of cake, Ben," Ike told him. "These punks are all bluster and hot
air. We're blowing great big gaps in the line. I figure at the rate
we're going, we'll be linking up in a couple of weeks."

"Sooner than that, Ike. I'm ordering everything we have that will fly
into the air. These punks have no SAMs. That's been confirmed. The
sooner we get this trash done with, the sooner we can turn our attention
to Revere and his people. You will have a new flag in your hands in a
few days. Cecil bumped me a few hours ago. Fly it proudly."

"Will do, Ben. Shark out."

The new flag had been flown to Ben that morning, during the bombardment.
The pilot had landed at a small strip just east of Ben's position. The
new flag of the Southern United States of America was very much the same
as the original American flag. Only the stars were different. The Rebel
flag flew eleven of them, in a circle. Under the circle of stars were
the words that had flown on one of the flags at the Alamo: COME AND TAKE IT.
The pilot had also brought hundreds of tiny sew-

232 on flags for the Rebel uniforms, those were being passed out to the
troops now.

Ben walked the encampment. Many of the Rebels were silent as they sewed
the new flag onto the right sleeve of their BDUs-silent and very, very
proud. The pride they felt was almost a tangible thing.

Ben now wore the old French Foreign Legion lizard cammie uniform, and he
was the only Rebel who wore them. He did not wear any other insignia
denoting his rank of Commanding General of the Rebel Army. He didn't
have to.

President Blanton sat alone in his office deep underground and fingered
the small sleeve flag of the new Southern United States of America. He
was highly irritated and it showed on his face. The flag had been
brought to him only hours before.

"Where did you get this?" he had questioned the young soldier.

"Plane flew over, sir. Dropped a whole bunch of them. I, uh, guess, sir,
General Raines knows where we are."

Now, alone, Blanton muttered, "Sure he knows. Bastard used to work for
the goddamn CIA." He touched the sleeve flag. "He really did it. He
really, officially, broke away from the Union." He looked at the words
under the circle of stars. COME AND TAKE IT.

Senator Hanrahan entered the office with the presidential seal embedded
in the polished tile floor. Blanton looked at him and lifted the tiny flag.

"I saw it, Mister President," the aging senator said. "Hundreds of them
were dropped."

233 "That son of a bitch Raines!" Blanton cursed, his face turning red.
"Flaunting this piece of traitorous shit in my face." He hurled the
sleeve flag to the floor. "You know what he is? He's a goddamn seditionist."

Hanrahan sat down. "It's rather hard to be a seditionist when there is
no stable government to preach sedition upon, sir."

"I'm the goddamn government!" Blanton flared. 'You're the government. We
represent the government. We were elected by the people, not Ben Raines."

Blanton pressed a button on his desk and an aide stuck her head into the
room. She looked like a college cheerleader. "Get General Taylor in
here," he ordered.

When Taylor was seated, Blanton said, "We keep our people hard to
ground, General. All of them. Arms and uniforms hidden. We'll let
Generals Revere and Raines slug it out and whoever wins will surely be
considerably weakened afterward. That's when we strike at the victor
with everything we've got. Including gas."

"Tear gas?" the general questioned.

"Nerve gas," Blanton said-
"Now, wait a minute," Hanrahan said. "You wait just a damned minute
here, Homer."

"No!" Blanton shouted, slamming a hand on the desk. "I will preserve
this Union by any means possible. I am still the Commander in Chief.
Correct, General Taylor?"

"That is correct, Mister President. You give the orders, I carry them out."

234 "Just as long as we understand each other," President Blanton said.

News of what happened in Southern Missouri spread quickly south to north
along the Mississippi River. Morale began to sag among the punk army.
Less than twenty-four hours later, morale and discipline broke apart
after Ben sent helicopter gun-ships and PUFFs into the gang-controlled
area around Cape Girardeau, Missouri. Death from the skies took on a new
meaning as the Apache helicopters and the PUFFs roared in and turned the
gang-controlled streets into something that resembled an open-air
slaughter house. From the skies, the streets and alleys and sidewalks
and lawns began to look like Jonestown ten-fold over.

Then the artillery began its roar and pounding. After only one hour of
rounds from 105s, 155s, 203s, and 81mm mortars raining down on them, the
punks packed it in. Ben ordered a cease-fire and let the gang members
stagger out. Trembling, white-faced, and wild-eyed from shock, the gang
members came stumbling out of the fire and carnage, hands held high over
their heads. Many of them were openly weeping.

Revere had promised them that the Rebels would be easy to fight. That
the battles would be short ones with the gangs always victorious. Revere
lied.

"What in the name of God are we going to do with all of them?" Dan asked.

"Disarm them and turn them loose," Ben said. "It's all we can do other
than shoot them. I'll grant

235 you that many of them probably deserve no better than a bullet, but
. . ." He let that trail off.

The gang members were giddy with relief when they learned the Rebels
were not going to put them up against a wall. Within minutes they had
chosen a committee and several spokespersons and demanded a meeting with
Ben Raines.

"This ought to be interesting," Ben said, sitting in the lobby of what
used to be a nice motel complex just off the interstate. He laid his big
.50 caliber mag Desert Eagle autoloader on the table in front of him and
nodded at Cooper. "Show the spokes-people in, Coop."

Four men were shown into the lobby. Two blacks, two whites. They had
elected as their spokesman a big, unshaven, beady-eyed and smelly piece
of white-trash who swaggered up to the table. "They call me Big Johnny."

"State your business," Ben told him.

"We got us a list of demands, General," he announced.

"Is that right?"
"Shore is. Furst of all, we got to have guns to protect ourselves agin
the lawless and to hunt wif."

"To protect yourselves against the lawless?" Ben repeated.

"You deef?" the lout hollered.

Ben smiled and picked up the Desert Eagle, thumbing back the hammer. He
pointed it at Big Johnny.

"Whoa!" the man yelled. The muzzle looked like the end of a fire nozzle.

"First of all," Ben told him. "You don't come marching in here and
demand anything."

236 "We don't?" Big Johnny whispered.

"You don't."

"Whut does we get?" another asked.

"Who are you?"

"Cretan Shabazz Boognami."

Ben blinked and Jersey giggled.

Boognami cut his eyes to her and said, "You think that's funny, bitch?"

Jersey smiled very sweetly and Cooper backed away from her. "I think
it's hysterical. And if you call me a bitch one more time I'm going to
stick a grenade up your ass and see just how far shit splatters."

Boognami's eyes widened but he wisely kept his mouth closed.

Ben chuckled as he eased the hammer down on the big pistol and laid it
on the table. "And if you think she's kidding, Shabazz, you're making
the biggest mistake of your life. Now the four of you listen to me.
You're getting your lives, and that's all. I'm making a mistake by doing
that, for a lot of you will not even attempt to live a decent and
orderly existence. But I warn you of this: there will be no more breaks
from me. This is the only one you're getting from the Rebels. I don't
care how you eke out an existence, but it better not include preying on
the innocent. Now you drag your asses out of here and don't ever let me
see you again. Move!"

The grievance committee did a quick about-face and beat a hasty retreat
out of the lobby.

"We'll have to fight them again someday," Jersey prophesied.

"Probably," Ben agreed, standing up and holster-

237 ing his Desert Eagle. "Mop this sector up and let's get on the road."

After the fall of Southern Missouri and Ike's hard push all the way down
into Iowa, the entire line of punks collapsed and they went running in
all directions. Revere's plan had worked for a little while, but not
nearly long enough.
"Head your people east, Ike," Ben radioed.

"We're going in to bail out the president?"

"Do we have a choice, Ike?" Ben answered the question with a question.

"I reckon not," the Mississippi born and reared man said. "But you know
he's gonna be about as grateful as a stepped-on rattlesnake."

"I know that, too. But we're going to have to fight Revere no matter what."

"Ben," Ike said. "Let's meet on this matter. There are things I have to
say that need to be said face to face, like standing out in the middle
of a field."

He didn't want to say anything over the air. "All right, Ike. When you
have a spot picked out, bump me on scramble."

The bump came in by flattened out burst transmission a few minutes later.

"So we meet in an Indiana corn field," Ben said with smile.

"A corn field?" Jersey blurted.

"Well, sort of," Ben said with a wink. "We'll be flying in, Corrie.
Arrange it, please."

"Wonder what General Ike's got on his mind?" Cooper asked.

238 "Strong suspicions of a set-up," Ben said, and then walked out of
the comm truck. He paused at the door and turned around. "But then, I
feel the same way."

238

239 Ben had all battalion commanders flown in, and had General Cecil
Jefferys, administrator of Base Camp One, now soon to be called the
Southern United States of America, flown up.

They were meeting by a lake near the old Hoosier National Forest. Ike
had already sent people in to secure the area, and security was tight.

Ike didn't waste any time in speaking his mind. "Blanton is using us,
Ben. His military advisers have informed him that we'll take a lot of
losses tangling with Revere's people. We'll be weak in personnel and low
on everything after the fight. He also knows this fight will take months
and he'll be using that time to train and beef up his own army, and
probably sending spies and sappers into our home base."

"I'm in agreement with all that, Ike. That's the first thing I thought
of. So what would you have me do?" He looked around at all the batt
corns. "I want input from everybody on this."

"To hell with Blanton," Greenwalt, commander of 11 Batt said. "We don't
owe him a damn thing."

240 "I'll go along with Greenie," Tina Raines, commander of 9 Batt, said.

Buddy Raines, commander of all the special ops people, said, "I've got
to go along with Tina on this, Dad."
"You know where I stand, Ben," Ike said.

Mike Richards, head of the Rebels' intelligence network, said, "There
are other things to consider here. If we do nothing, once Revere has
whipped Blanton's forces-and he will do that-the whiners, losers, and
complainers in Blanton's army-which make up about fifty percent of his
entire force-will immediately switch sides and join Revere. He'll
promise them pie in the sky and everything else those types of
I-demand-this and you-owe-me-that people want to hear, and they'll rush
to join him. Then we could conceivably be overwhelmed by sheer numbers.
There would be so many of them it would be impossible to protect front,
rear, and flanks."

"I concur," West, commander of 4 Batt, said.

"Reluctantly, I agree," the Russian, Striganov, commander of 5 Batt,
rumbled.

"I reckon I'm with Georgi," Jim Peters, commander of 15 Batt, called the
New Texas Rangers, said.

"I know what it's like to be involved in a civil war," Pat O'Shea, the
wild Irishman in command of 10 Batt, spoke up. "Uncle fighting nephew,
brother fighting brother. Sister against mum. It's horrible." He looked
at Dan Gray. "Do you agree, Dan?"

"Yes," Dan Gray, the former SAS man and commander of 3 Batt, spoke softly.

241 Jackie Malone, commander of 12 Batt, looked at the faces around her.
"Does this problem even have a workable solution?"

"None to my liking," Cecil Jefferys said. "Ther-mopolis?"

The hippie-turned-warrior, in charge of    seeing that everything the
Rebels in the field needed got to them,    and keeping track of where every
unit was, shook his shaggy head. "We're    damned if we do and damned if we
don't. And we're going to be hurt badly    either way we go."

Ben said, "How badly, Therm?"

"My people figure that if we manage to whip both armies, that is Revere
and Blanton, we will suffer at least a sixty percent loss and perhaps
higher than that. We're going to have a thousand-mile plus supply line
that will be very vulnerable to attack."

"In short, we're fucked!" Tina Raines said bluntly.

"I should wash your mouth out with soap," Doctor Lamar Chase, Chief of
Medicine, said. "However, I concur with your very brief and profane
summation. Ben, providing medical treatment will be a nightmare. And
we're only just now starting to replenish our supplies. Stay out of this
conflict."

"Blanton has nerve gas and plans to use it against us," Mike Richards
chilled the group.

"You know that for a fact?" Ben challenged. "You have people that close
to the man?"
"Yes, to both your questions. During the affair at the old resort I
managed to get one of my people into Blanton's army and he's now in G2."

Ben's face turned hard as marble. "Mike, I want a constant update on
Blanton's whereabouts. Cecil, when you get back to Base Camp One, I want
some

242 of our nuclear warheads reprogrammed for a Doomsday Strike. And I
want Blanton to know all about it. If he uses nerve gas against us, the
nukes fly when he surfaces. And let that lying son of a bitch know that
one will be programmed to impact with his nose."

"All right, Ben," Cecil said.

The Rebel commanders seated around the three old picnic tables were
silent, all watching Ben. They knew that when Ben's face became set with
anger and his eyes were like blazing bits of flint, he was unpredictable
and could-and had-become terribly savage. Anything that threatened his
dream of the Southern United States of America, with true justice and
stability and order for all who chose to live there, regardless of race
or creed, could turn Ben into an extremely dangerous person.

"There is another alternative that we have not discussed," Rebet,
commander of 6 Batt, said.

Ben looked at him.

"Take out Blanton."

General Taylor wore a small smile as he walked into President Blanton's
office. He carried a message from General Raines. Rebel communications
had finally triangulated Blanton's position and sent them a message by
burst.

"You have a message for me from the Rebels, General?"

"Yes. They say if you value your life you will cease broadcasting from
this location. If they can triangulate our position, so can Revere."

243 Blanton flushed deeply, but said nothing.

"The second message is from General Raines, personally. He has ordered
the recomputing of a number of missiles located at Base Camp One . . .
armed with nuclear warheads. In the event you use any type of deadly gas
against any of his people, he will, and I am quoting here: 'Incinerate
your ass.' "

Homer jumped to his feet. "He wouldn't dare!"

"Oh, he'd dare, all right," General Taylor said, meeting the president
eye for eye. Then the general smiled hugely.

"What the hell do you find so funny?" Homer hollered.

"How Raines knew about your plans to use nerve gas."

Blanton sat down hard. "We've been violated!"

"The word is penetrated," General Taylor said drily.
"Whatever."

"We know who it is."

"Shoot him!"

"Can't. Obviously his work is done. Captain Miller slipped out the back
way sometime last night and by now has probably linked up with a Rebel
recon patrol."

"My God, General! Are you telling me Rebels are here?"

"Oh, they've been here for about a week. They're all around us. They
aren't doing anything. Just watching the mountain."

"Why wasn't I informed?"

"What would you do, Mr. President?"

"Engage them in combat and wipe them out!"

244 The general gave the president a pitying look. He shook his head and
left the office, closing the door softly.

The mighty war machine called the Rebels had shut down momentarily. Ben
was still undecided as to what to do. Revere was making no hostile moves
toward Ben or toward where he might suspect the president to be hiding.

Ben had ordered his people up to his location in Indiana, for when he
did make up his mind, he would move quickly. Blanton had not responded
to Ben's warning concerning his use of nuclear weapons in retaliation
for any nerve gas attack, but Ben knew the man was no fool . . . even if
he was a screaming liberal.

His batt corns were fairly evenly split on the issue that faced them.
But whatever decision Ben reached, they would follow. That was not in
question.

And, as Ben had predicted, the punks and thugs and former street slime
that had gathered under Revere's banner and tried to contain the Rebels
along the Mississippi River had once more come together. Not as large a
force as before, but so much wiser in the ways of the Rebels. They
realized they could not go head to head with the Rebels. Not alone. They
had to have help. But where would they get it?

They really wanted no part of Revere, for the men who had once more
emerged as gang leaders realized that Revere had been using them. With
the main force of the Rebels now east of the river, the

245 gang leaders came together for a meeting in Nebraska.

The Rebels were aware of the meeting, but at Ben's orders, took no
action. "I'm certain they're up to no good," Ben said. "But I don't know
that for sure. Intel says they've harmed no one . . . that they can
find. So we'll leave them alone until they make a hostile move."

Blanton's army-in-hiding, although not as large as Revere's forces, had
spent their time training, and were shaping up to be a fairly
well-organized force. But they had not yet been bloodied, so only time
would tell as to their effectiveness.
The lazy summer days crawled by, with each opposing force growing in
numbers, training, seeing to equipment, stockpiling supplies for the
mother of all battles that each side knew was coming.

To the west lay the army of malcontents and punks and thugs. They had
smartened up considerably. Their leaders had sent out teams to search
for weapons, and had found them. What they couldn't find, they made.
They could have used their abilities toward peaceful ends, but they
chose not to do that. They chose, instead, to use their intelligence to
forward a life of crime and degradation . . . which only proved what Ben
Raines had maintained all along: most criminals will remain a criminal,
no matter what society tries to do to change that.

Over half of those former thugs and punks that had elected to join ranks
with the Rebels over the years had deserted, unable to adjust to a life
of order and discipline and respect for the rights of others. Ben's
analysis people had worked out the percent-

246 ages, and the results were predictable. Three out of four simply
would not be rehabilitated into any sort of productive existence.

"So what else is new?" Ben had replied at the conclusion of the study.
"I've been saying that for years."

Citizens of the battered and war-torn and ripped-apart country that was
once called the United States of America were making hard choices,
carefully studying the various factions who were poised at each other's
throats, ready to leap into a war that would, in all probability, last
for years.

President Homer Blanton promised pie in the sky and something for
everybody. His agents laid out the tired old liberal claptrap that
they'd been espousing since the early 1960s . . . but whose programs had
managed only to plunge the nation deeper and deeper into debt and
dissatisfaction, seen the crime rate soar, and in general accomplish
nothing. But still there were those who believed it could work. Among
this group were people who in general wanted something for nothing; they
wanted cradle to grave security from the federal government (which after
the Great War did not exist) but at the same time their left hand never
really knew what their right hand was doing.

Revere offered a totalitarian form of government, vaguely along the same
lines of the Rebel philosophy. But most people saw Revere as no more
than a smooth snake-oil salesman-the man who would be a dictator king.

The hordes of punks and thugs promised nothing except total anarchy . .
. and they had their supporters. A surprisingly large number of supporters.

247 Which came as no surprise to Ben. Long before the Great War
fire-ballooned the world into turmoil, morals had been taking a terrible
beating, public education had turned into an expensive and terribly
profane joke, classrooms were out of control and discipline was
practically non-existent. Athletic programs seemed to be more important
than education. In a vain quest to insure that everybody got the same
treatment (something that Ben Raines called the Animal Farm Syndrome),
many kids were spending more time being bused halfway around the world
than they spent in classrooms. The liberal folly of the seventies,
eighties, and nineties left two generations of unhappy, dissatisfied,
poorly educated, and confused young people.
Ben Raines and the new Southern United States of America offered those
who were willing to work for it, peace, order, education, values, jobs
(for those who were qualified), security, and medical care from cradle
to grave. Ben's system was not perfect; certainly it had flaws and he
would be the first to admit it. It was not for everyone. The few laws
the Rebels had on the books were extremely harsh and enforced to the
letter. People with a give-me-something-for-nothing, or
you-owe-me-something attitude couldn't live under the Rebel form of
government. Rebels respected the land and the environment and each
other's rights. Those who leaned toward criminal activities soon learned
they had no rights. None. The Rebel judicial system was very simple:
either you did the crime, or you didn't do it. There was no
double-standard in the administration of justice. The law applied to
everybody, re-

248 gardless of race, religion, sex, wealth, social standing, or lack of it.

Ben was once asked to explain the Rebel philosophy. He smiled and said,
"After all these years, if you have to ask what it is, my advice to you
is to stay out of Rebel-controlled territory. Unless you want to be
buried there."

249 President Blanton was the first to break the silence of gunfire.
Over the loud objections of General Taylor and the general's staff,
Blanton ordered his elite guards to attack and take prisoner the Rebels
watching his mountain hideout. Bad mistake. Those Rebels watching the
mountain were hand-picked and hand-trained by Dan Gray afld Ike McGowan.
They were SEAL trained, Ranger trained, Special Forces trained, Marine
Force Recon trained, Air Force Commando trained, and SAS trained. They
had seen long bitter months (in some cases, years) of brutal warfare,
most of them seeing it all around the world, and they weren't about to
be taken by green troops, no matter how well trained.

Blanton's elite guards never came back.

"Where are they?" Blanton questioned, after twenty-four hours had passed.

"Probably taken prisoner by the Rebels," Taylor said tightly.

"But those were the best troops I had!"

"Goddamnit!" General Taylor lost his cool. "You're not fucking around
with a bunch of candy-

250 asses out there, Mister President. Those Rebel soldiers are
hard-line, well-trained, disciplined, dedicated, tough-assed
professionals. They've been doing this for years. Just recently,
outnumbered ten or so to one, they held off nearly four divisions of
Revere's troops. Four goddamn divisions! If you wage war against the
Rebels, they're going to eat you for lunch, mister!" He paused to take a
breath and an aide stuck her head into the room.

"Wonderful news, Mister President! Generals Forrest, Holtz, and Thomas
have left Revere and are on the way here. With over a division of troops
with them. They are all prepared to swear allegiance to the United
States of America and to support you all the way."

"Thank you, Lord, thank you!" Blanton said earnestly, looking heavenward.
"They won't be enough," Taylor said. "Not against the Rebels."

Blanton slammed a hand on the desk. "That's it. By God, that's all. I've
had enough of you. You are relieved of duty-immediately!"

"That suits me just fine," Taylor said tightly. "You sanctimonious dipshit!"

General Taylor was gone within the hour, taking two battalions of troops
loyal to him with him. On his way out of the mountains, on his way to
Ben's location in Indiana, Taylor was amused to find the entire
contingent of Blanton's elite guard, limping back to the mountain
hideout, minus boots and pants and equipment. The only thing hurt about
them was their pride.

251 The leaving of the generals did not upset Revere; their taking over
a division of troops did. But not for long. The division he'd been
holding in reserve was ready to go and counting all the small units he
had in hiding all over the country, he was confident he had enough men
to overwhelm both Raines's Rebels and Blanton's FIB. Still, he waited to
see what Raines was going to do.

Ben shook hands with General Max Taylor and waved the man to a chair.
"Any relation to that other Maxwell Taylor?" Ben asked.

"I don't think so. Hell of an outfit you've got, General."

"Call me Ben. Yes, it's a good outfit. General..."

"Call me Max."

"Thank you. I won't ask you to fight against Blanton's ... ah, FIB."

Taylor laughed. "He never did get it. Never could figure out what we
were laughing about. Well . . . Blanton's not thinking straight. He's a
man obsessed . . . but he's obsessed with doing what he thinks is
right." He stared hard at Ben. "Like someone else I just met."

"This nation became too diverse for democracy to work, Max. There were
too many dissatisfied taxpayers who felt they had no representation in
Washington; and I'm one of them." He pointed toward his troops. "And
thousands more just like me camped right out there. It would have worked
if the original meaning of the Constitution had been adhered to. But it
wasn't."

The career soldier nodded his head. "I know,

252 Ben. I know. I'm no liberal-lover. The left-leaning members of
congress did as much to ruin this nation as the Great War."

The two men were generally in agreement. Ben said, "The troops you
brought with you?"

"Top-notch soldiers."

"I'll give you two more battalions, Max. Eleven and 13 Batts. Keep that
gang of punks and street slime off my back when the shooting starts."

"You got it."

"You draw up a list of equipment that you need, and don't short yourself
on artillery." He smiled. "We have the very best."

Max grinned. "Yeah, I know. You stole it from us!"

General Taylor took the four battalions, backed up by heavy armor and
artillery, and moved out. Once across the river, he split his forces and
set up four resistance points; not so far apart that one could not
quickly reenforce the other in case of attack. By doing that, he closed
much of the route the punk army could take. The Great Lakes, especially
Lake Michigan, blocked much of the northern route, the Rebel-controlled
Southern United States cut off the southern route. That left the punks
only a very few bridges over the Mississippi, then they had to cut south
to avoid Lake Michigan. They could not take any Canadian route, for that
would put them into direct conflict with Revere's forces. So if they
wanted to butt heads with Raines's Rebels, they first had to get through
the lines that General Taylor had thrown up.

253 Big Foot Freddie was placed in command of all the gangs, and he was
having a hell of a time figuring out how to get across the Mississippi
River without first tangling with Taylor's battalions. His recon
people-many of whom were ex-servicemen- reported that Taylor had tanks
and artillery up the ying-yang. The last thing Big Foot Freddie wanted
was to mix it up with a bunch of main battle tanks, for he had nothing
in the way of weapons to stop them.

He sat down at his HQ in Nebraska and scratched his head. "Shit!" he
summed it all up.

Generals Forrest, Holtz, and Thomas pulled Blan-ton's army out of hiding
and began whipping them into shape. They all had a gut-feeling that the
showdown was not far off. Revere had moved his people closer, stretching
them out from New York State down into Ohio.

Civilians were getting the hell out of the area in contention. There was
a wild exodus of cars and trucks and motorcycles and horse-drawn wagons
and buggies heading out in all directions. The mother of all battles was
about to give birth.

Ben tried one more time to reach some sort of settlement with Blanton.
Corrie got the president on the horn and Ben took the mic.

"Blanton, without our help, Revere is going to eat you for lunch. It's
going to take him some time to do it, but he'll get it done. Getting
yourself killed is not going to see your lofty ideals bear fruit. I

254 don't particularly care for cliches, but half a loaf is better than
no loaf."

"Will you and your Rebels swear allegiance to the United States of
America and help me make this nation whole again?"

"No, Blanton, we will not."

"Then we have nothing left to discuss, Raines." Blanton broke off.

Ben had deliberately spoken to Blanton on an open net. There was no need
for secrecy now, everybody knew where everybody else was. He handed the
mic to Corrie just as she received incoming.

"General Revere, sir."
"Go ahead, Nick."

Hundreds of miles away, Revere/Stafford chuckled. "I wondered when you'd
put it together, Ben. How you been, partner?"

"Better than nothing, Nick." He cut his eyes as Denise walked into the
CP. She had lost weight and gained a hell of a lot of muscle tone during
an accelerated Rebel training course. He nodded at her and she smiled.

"You want to throw in with me, Ben?" Nick asked.

"You know better."

"Yeah, I guess I do, at that. But... I had to ask. Ben, you're going to
fuck up bad by fighting me. Surely you know that."

"We're both going to get bloody."

"Doesn't have to be, Ben."

"Sure, it does, Nick. You couldn't make it living under Rebel law, and I
won't live in a dictatorship, and that's what you have in mind."

"Last chance, ol' buddy. You better think about it."

255 "I don't have to think about it. But there is something you better
understand, Nick. When you come after me, you damn well better finish
the job. For if you leave just one Rebel alive, they'll track you down
and cut your throat while you're sleeping some night."

There was a long pause before Nick keyed the mic. "Yeah ... I heard that
about you folks. But, Ben ... I have to take that chance. We all do.
You, me, Blanton, and the punk gangs out west. It's showdown time. All
bets are down and the dice are hot. So ... may the best man win."

Ben smiled. "Oh, I will, Nick. I will."

Blanton had listened to the exchange in the comm room. He was so angry
he was trembling. He clenched his hands into fists and cussed. "That
arrogant bastard!"

"Beg your pardon, Mister President," General Holtz said. "But Raines is
not an arrogant man. He is just a very capable one and a brilliant leader."

"He and his Rebels have fought all around the globe, sir," General
Thomas said. "And they have never been defeated."

"And I'm not sure we can defeat him," General Forrest said glumly.

"Nonsense!" Homer scoffed. "God is on our side."

The generals all sighed at that.

"Go to middle alert, Corrie," Ben ordered. "Immediately. Everybody in
body armor. Berets are

256 stowed except for specials ops people and scouts, and helmets are
the headgear from this moment on."
"Yes, sir."

He turned to Denise. "How was your basic training and indoctrination
courses?"

"Rough," she answered quickly. "You people don't ever let up, do you?"

"We can't afford to, Denise. We're always outnumbered." He noticed she
had been promoted to the rank of lieutenant. "Your assignment?"

"Eight Battalion."

"That's my son's group. Buddy. He runs a good outfit. Just be glad
you're not assigned to Ther-mopolis's unit."

"Thermopolis? Why?"

"A little con artist named Emil Hite and his Great God Blomm."

"I'm confused."

"If you're confused now, I don't want to be around if you ever meet
Emil," Cooper said.

Ben laughed and said, "Come on. I'll walk you over to 8 Batt. You look
like you need the exercise."

Denise rolled her eyes at that and followed Ben out the door. She was
unaware that it was a very long walk over to 8 Batt's billet and that
this was the way Ben staked his claim. By the time they reached 8 Batt,
every Rebel in camp would have seen the General personally escorting the
pretty lieutenant to her unit. Not one male would have the nerve to ask
her for a date. And Buddy would get the message as well. She would more
than likely be assigned to the comm van and for the most part kept out
of harm's way; as much as any Rebel is

257 kept out of danger. Jersey kept a respectable distance behind the
pair, her M-16 always ready.

"Hello, Pete!" Ben shouted to a tank commander. "Ready to rock and roll
with Revere's boys and girls?"

"You betcha, General." He eyeballed Denise's derriere and dropped down
the turret to spread the word.

"Sonny!" Ben called to a young captain. "How's it goin', boy?"

"Everything's copacetic, boss."

"All right." Ben waved to a platoon leader. "Carol. Your gang ready?"

"Chompin' at the bit, Chief."

"Keep your powder dry."

She laughed and waved.

Denise stopped cold in her tracks when she caught sight of a
wild-looking band of motorcyclists, all working on their Harleys. Men
and women, tattooed and unshaven and uncurried. "What in the name of God
is that?" she pointed.

Ben laughed. "Oh, that's Leadfoot and Beerbelly and the Sons of Satan.
Over there is Wanda and her Sisters. They used to be outlaw bikers who
fought against me-brief ly. They decided to throw in with us a few years
back. Outstanding fighters. Leadfoot!"

The huge man straightened and turned around and grinned. "Yo, boss!"

"Ready to bang some heads, gang?"

"You damn right, General!" Wanda called. She looked at Denise and said,
"My, my!"

Denise blushed as they walked on. "She is, ah ..."

"Yeah. Bi. She was just kidding with you. Believe

258 me. Anyone of that bunch would fight to the death to protect a
fellow Rebel."

"Hey, Little Bit!" a sergeant yelled to Jersey. "How's about you and me
takin' a stroll in the bushes tonight?"

"I lost my taste for dirt sandwiches when I was a little girl," Jersey
said. "So stick it up your kazoo, Bernie, and spin on it."

Bernie laughed and winked at the general.

"Political correctness is not observed much around here, is it,
General?" Denise asked.

"More than you might think, Denise. Jersey and Bernie have known each
other for years. And Bernie is a happily married man with four kids.
What you just heard is a game they play. Political correctness got all
out of hand just before the Great War. It became ridiculous. Believe me,
if a stranger said to Jersey what Bernie just said, he would be
stretched out on the ground now with a broken jaw from a butt-stroke."

"And Jersey's punishment for that?"

"Punishment? You have to be joking. No punishment. If he politely asked
her for a date, she could either accept or politely decline . . . and he
wouldn't push the issue. Common sense has taken the place of textbook
law in Rebel society, Denise."

"I have a lot to learn," she admitted.

"Oh, not so much as you might think. If you made it this far, you're in.
How many in your training class washed out?"

"About half. Now I see what you mean. They couldn't take the freedom!"

"That's it, Denise. For generations, Americans had Big Brother telling
them what to think, what

259 to do, how to do it, what to eat, what to drink, how to brush their
teeth, how to dress, how to drive their cars, what kind of homes to live
in, how much insurance they should have, where to send their kids to
school, what they could and couldn't be taught, etc., etc., ad nauseam.
Then the speech and thought police moved in toward the end. Political
correctness and all that. Here, Denise, the individual pretty much is in
charge of his or her own destiny. You see, Blanton is fighting for the
old democratic party ideology: control of every aspect of your life." He
tapped the small red, white, and blue striped flag with the circle of
eleven stars sewn on the sleeve of her BDUs. "We're fighting for freedom."

259

260 Doctor Lamar Chase had flown in and was ram-rodding and haranguing
his medical personnel when Ben and Denise walked up to Buddy's location.

"Why don't you retire and go sit on your front porch in a rocking
chair?" Ben asked him. "And stop yelling at people."

"Why don't you mind your own business," Chase fired back. He looked at
Denise, then back to Ben. "Robbing the cradle again, eh, Raines?"

"Old goat," Ben muttered. "He married a woman young enough to be his
granddaughter," he said to Denise.

Chase waggled his eyebrows. "Nice work if you can get it."

Denise laughed at both of them and Chase went off, yelling at some of
his medics.

"I gather Doctor Chase has been with you a long time?" Denise asked.

"From the very beginning. Just a handful of us got together after the
Great War and decided to form our own nation."

261 "I remember," she said softly. "It wasn't that long ago."

"The government, what there is of it, in one way or the other, has been
fighting us ever since. And this time won't be any different. At least
fifteen nations around the world are rebuilding, patterning their new
governments after the Rebel way. That's got to tell an open-minded,
thinking person that we're doing something right. But Blanton either
can't, or won't, see it."

Buddy walked up. Denise noticed that the family resemblance was strong.
Eyes, hair, square jaw. But while Ben was tall and rangy, Buddy's
musculature was heavy, his arms and shoulders packed with muscle. Denise
also noticed that the young man's expression was serious.

Ben picked that up immediately. "What's wrong, son?"

"We just got the message a moment ago. Revere's army is on the move
against Blanton's forces. They should make initial contact in a week."

"Put all troops on high alert, son."

"Yes, sir. The lieutenant assigned to me?"

"Yes. I'll see you both later on." Ben turned and began walking back to
his CP, Jersey right behind him.

"Interesting man, the general," Denise remarked.

Buddy smiled. "That's one way of describing him. Come on, let's get you
settled in. Things are about to pop."

Indeed they were. Revere, showing his experience and knowledge as a
commander, sent troops of his

262 new division in a probing action against Blanton's army, holding his
more experienced and battle-hardened troops in reserve. His plan was to
let Blanton's army score a few minor victories against the inexperienced
troops and build a false sense of superiority. Then Revere would launch
a major offensive using his mercenaries and smash through.

On the same day that Ben learned of Revere's declaration of war, he
learned that to the south, an unholy and unusual alliance had been
formed, brought together by agents of Revere. The warlords and cult
leaders, Al Rogers, Bandar Baroshi, Carl Nations, Jeb Moody, Carlos
Medina, and Jake Starr, had combined their forces to fight against
Raines's Rebels.

"Shit!" Ben said. "Four fronts. Corrie, get Cecil on the horn." Ben
waited for a moment, then took the mic. "Cec, get some of your people on
the road and block Jake Starr's movement north. Contain him in Florida."

"Will do, Ben."

"And you keep your butt out of it. You're not yet ready for the field."

"Spoil-sport," Cec muttered. But he knew Ben was right.

"Corrie, have General Taylor shift two of his battalions to stop this
Carlos Medina person. That's going to allow some of the punks to slide
through, but it can't be helped. They're not even a fair paramilitary
group. These others are far more dangerous."

"I'm on it, Boss."

Ike walked in the CP and stood quietly while Ben

263 gave the orders. When Ben noticed him there, he asked, "What are we
going to do, Ben?"

"Take out these warlords first. Then I guess we'll either fight
Blanton's people or Revere's troops."

"Or both," Ike said grimly.

"Yeah. Or both. Probably both. Take two battalions and deal with this
Jeb Moody, Ike. I'll take Dan and we'll handle Al Rogers and his bunch
of kooks. Tina and Pat O'Shea can take care of Carl Nations. We'll give
Bandar AH Shazam Baroshi to Striganov and Rebet. Keep everybody else in
reserve. Let's shake our tailfeathers, folks. We've got work to do."

Al Rogers had settled along the Illinois/Indiana border, stretching his
people out from Danville in the north down to Lawrenceville in the
south. It was not good ambush country. Ben rolled his two battalions,
plus armor and artillery, up to the border and sent people in to look
the situation over.

"Not good," the scout said, reporting back. "Rogers hasn't evacuated
women and kids from Danville. For that matter, none of the towns along
the entire route north to south is loaded with women and kids."
"He knows we do our best not to harm noncom-batants and kids," Ben said.
He smiled and turned to Corrie. "Tonight we move south. Start the
Low-Boys and the tankers out now. Head back east, like we've changed our
minds, and at 41, cut south. Cross over the Wabash at Mount Carmel and
then we'll head north. We'll take Al out one town at a time, working
north, pushing them ahead of us, main battle tanks spearheading. Let's go."

264 Ten MBTs, turrets reversed, hit the outskirts of Lawrenceville at
dawn, and scared the be-Jesus out of the residents by simply driving up
to the houses and crashing into them, tearing off porches, destroying
barns and outhouses, and causing hens to stop laying for at least a
week. No one was seriously hurt, but those on the outskirts of the town
sure had any lingering constipation problems taken care of.

Before the Great War, Lawrenceville was about six thousand population.
Now less than five hundred of Al Rogers's people eked out a living in
and around the town. All that changed one quiet summer morning. The
followers of Rogers got off a few defiant rounds, but hit nothing except
the heavy armor of the tanks, whining away into the dawn. The men began
throwing down their weapons and raising their hands into the air.

"The town is ours," Corrie said. "No Rebel injuries or deaths and only a
few minor injuries on the other side."

"That's the way I like it," Ben said. "Drive us into town, Cooper."

Ben wasn't sure of the philosophy of Al Rogers's followers. So many
groups and gangs, both left and right of center had sprung up during the
year-long battle with Hoffman's Nazis, that his intelligence people were
hard-pressed to keep up.

As Cooper drove slowly toward the center of town, Ben could see that
whatever their beliefs, the men and women weren't faring very well. By
the slight odor hanging over the town, he could tell that basic sewer
services had not been restored. On the way in, he had seen that the
crops planted were not

265 pushing out of the ground as they should have been for this time of
the year.

"A few got away," Dan told him as he stepped out of the Hummer. "Heading
straight north."

"Take your battalion and armor and continue the push north," Ben told
him. Dan nodded and left at a run, hollering for his people to mount up.

The Rebels had separated the citizens by gender, women on one side of
the street, men on the other. Young kids were with the women.

"Does anybody know who is in charge of this rabble," Ben asked. A man
was quickly shoved out of the line and marched up to Ben.

Ben towered over the man, who was very frightened and trying his best
not to show it. "Why have you chosen to fight against me?"

The man would not reply. He just clenched his teeth and shook his head.

Ben grimaced. "All right. To hell with you, then." He turned to an
officer. "Take their heavier weapons and ammo. Leave them .22s and
shotguns for hunting, Let's go."

"Wait!" the man called as Ben started to walk off. Ben stopped and
stared at the man. "It's a free country, General."

"It was briefly. Until the politicians and federal judges and
bureaucrats took control. Then the Great War struck us. I don't know
what to call it now. Pockets of anarchy all over the place. You really
want to live the way you have been? Your kids aren't receiving medical
care, the place stinks like an open cesspool."

"Blanton's gonna fix all that. He done promised he would."

266 Ben smiled. "A chicken in every pot, huh? I don't see any black
folks among your group. You have something against black folks?"

"We don't have nothin' to do with niggers," the man said sullenly. "But
you must love 'em. I see coons scattered amongst your soldier boys and
girls."

"Mount up!" Ben called. "Let's leave these good folks to their beliefs."

"Wait!" the spokesman yelled. "We got sick."

"That's your problem," Ben said, without breaking stride. He was the
last one into the Hummer. "Drive, Coop."

"With pleasure," Cooper said, and headed out, leaving the sad-looking
group behind.

"They never learn," Ben muttered. "They just never learn."

To the north and east, Blanton's army had been bloodied and they held
against Revere's just-tested new short division. No winners, no losers;
both sides had fought to a draw. Out west, Big Foot Freddie had tested
General Taylor's very weak and stretched-out lines and still the gang
leader's troops had the shit kicked out of them. Far to the south, Jake
Starr could not penetrate the Rebel lines Cecil had thrown up. Carlos
Medina had tried twice to buck the Rebel lines in the southwest and
after sustaining heavy losses finally said to hell with it and ordered
his people back home.

"See if you can work out some sort of a peace agreement with him," Ben
told General Taylor. "Tell him we'll leave him alone if he does the same
for us."

267 Carlos agreed to that and one gang threat was averted. Taylor
immediately pulled his people back to face Big Foot Freddie's people.

"Shit!" Freddie said. "That damn spic done give up on us. He turned yeller."

Not yellow at all, Carlos just accurately read the writing on the wall
and wisely bowed out. He told his people, "I think we can live with the
Rebels. They're willing to try if we do. So let's try."

In Illinois, Ben had smashed all the way up to 1-70 and was preparing to
move against the town of Paris. Al Rogers was just about finished and
the man had sense enough to know that. He called for a meeting with Ben
Raines.
There was both defeat and undisguised hatred in Rogers's eyes as Ben sat
down at the table opposite him. They were meeting in a classroom in the
old high school building.

"Speak your piece, General," Al said broodingly.

"Not much to say, Al. Just stop fighting us and don't throw in with
Blanton or Revere or the punk gangs out west."

Al's eyes widened in disbelief. "That's it?"

"That's it. Live the way you want to live. I won't interfere unless you
cause trouble for me or my people."

"You know I don't like certain folks."

"I don't care anymore, Al," Ben told him. "If you and your kind want to
hate people for the color of their skin or the way they sincerely
worship . . . have at it. But if you ever attempt to come into the
Southern United States and try it, you'll find yourself dangling from
the end of a rope."

"What you're doin' don't seem right, Ben Raines.

268 The south is gonna be a mixture of white and nigger and spic and
Jew. Robert E. Lee is probably spinnin' in his grave."

"I doubt it, Al. I really doubt it. You should read more about the life
of Lee before you start making statements like that." Ben stood up. "Our
war is over, Al. Make sure it remains that way. Because if I have to
come back, I'll kill you." Ben and his team walked out the door and into
the clean, fresh air. It was welcome. Al Rogers didn't smell very good.
In more ways than one.

271 "It must be a peace without victory. . . . Victory would mean peace
forced upon the loser, a victor's terms imposed upon the vanquished. It
would be accepted in humiliation, under duress, at an intolerable
sacrifice, and would leave a sting, a resentment, a bitter memory upon
which terms of peace would rest, not permanently, but only as upon
quicksand. Only a peace between equals can last."

-Woodrow Wilson

272 1

273

Ben sat alone in his makeshift office and read and reread those words
from Wilson's address to the U.S. Senate. He had found a battered old
copy of John Bartlett's Familiar Quotations and had thumbed through it.
He was thinking of what would happen when this conflict was over. Ben
was a dreamer, but a realist at the same time. He knew what his people
were capable of. There was no way the punks were going to defeat the
Rebels, no way Revere/Stafford was going to defeat the Rebels, and there
sure as hell was no way that Blanton's army would defeat the Rebels. The
troops of Blanton and Stafford were going to give the Rebels a hard
time, a run for the money, but in the end, the Rebels would win. Ben
didn't give a damn for the feelings of Paul Revere/Nick Stafford, but in
a strange way he liked Homer Blanton, he'd seen a drastic change in the
thinking of Senator Hanrahan, and Blush Lightheart was not a bad
fellow-for a liberal.

Ben stood and stretched his muscles. He stood for a moment, listening.
He frowned and turned out the gas lamp. He picked up his Thompson and

274 walked to the door leading to the outside and cracked it just a bit.
He listened intently. Nothing. No night birds singing, no crickets, no
squirrels chattering. He gently closed the door and walked swiftly to
the front room of the old house.

"Heads up, people," he said softly. "We've got company, and they're real
good."

Corrie immediately got on the horn and put everybody on what the Rebels
called QFA: quiet full alert.

"Nobody could have slipped through our security," Jersey bitched in a
whisper. "That ain't possible."

"Revere's got men with him that are just as good as we are, Jersey," Ben
returned the whisper. "Believe it. Some of the gang members have had
hard military training in elite outfits. We're not perfect."

Jersey muttered something terribly profane under her breath and Ben
smiled in the darkness.

"Now, now!" Cooper chided.

"Kiss my ass, Coop!" Jersey told him, then groaned, knowing what was
coming right back at her.

"Any time, any place, dear."

"Screw you!" Jersey popped back, then shook her head, knowing she had
just made it worse.

"I could fit you in tomorrow night," Coop replied.

Jersey cussed him softly.

"Incoming mortars! Grab some ground!" a Rebel yelled from the outside,
just about two seconds before the fluttering round from an old tube
exploded.

"Light up the night," Ben ordered. Seconds later, flares blew the skies
into light. "Jesus!" Ben said. "The place is crawling with bogies."

Ben spun around as the back door was kicked in

275 and leveled his old .45 caliber Chicago Piano. He held the trigger
back, fighting the powerful old Thompson as it struggled to climb up and
right. Ben put half a dozen invaders on the floor, on the ground, and
dead and dying as the fat slugs tore flesh and shattered bone.

"With me, Jersey," Ben said. "The rest of you hold the front." We've got
spies in camp, Ben thought, as he took up position at a window. At least
one and quite possibly two of those on guard this evening were in
Revere, or Blanton's, pocket. As much as he hated the thought, it had to be.

Then he had no more time to think about that as the action abruptly
shifted to a fever pitch.

Those attacking the camp were wearing the same type of BDUs as the
Rebels, making it doubly difficult to tell friend from foe. But that was
also working against the attackers.

Jersey's M-16 rattled and two more of the unknown enemy went down in a
sprawl. "Some of our own people are fighting against us, General," she
called.

"That's what I was afraid of, Jersey." Ben leveled the old Thompson and
sent a knot of invaders screaming, stumbling and falling as the .45
caliber slugs stitched them hip to head, working left to right. He
popped a fresh clip in, his eyes busy in the flare-lit night.

"They're falling back," Corrie called from the other room. "Pursuit?"

"Affirmative. Small teams. Find out where they go."

"Done."

Ben walked to the radio and picked up the mic.

276 "This is Eagle. All batt corns double the guards and count heads.
We've been infiltrated."

"We don't know how many of the dead were actually working for Blanton or
Revere," Dan said the next morning at first light. "But what we do know
is that forty-five of our regulars are missing. And many of those were
on sentry duty last night."

"But we have no way of knowing how many others who are in Blanton or
Revere's pocket are still in camp," Buddy added.

"We will before long," Mike Richards said, walking into the room.

Everyone turned to look at the chief of Rebel intell. "How so?" Ben asked.

"We caught three of our people trying to sneak out," Mike said, pouring
a cup of coffee, adding sugar. "My people are chemically interrogating
them now. We should know something by mid-morning." He looked at Ben.
"You were right, Ben. Denise is one of them."

Ben grunted. "Yeah. I figured she was a plant. It was just too easy."

No one in the room spoke for a moment. Buddy broke the silence. "What,
ah, do you intend to do with them, Father?"

Ben cut his eyes to him. "Spies are usually shot, son."

Late that afternoon, Ben visited the three spies, all from Blanton. He
had placed Denise in Revere's

277 army and the other two were planted several years back in the
Rebels. The three were worn and haggard looking from the chemically
induced interrogation. But they were still defiant.

Denise stared daggers and hate at him. "I assume we are to be executed?"

"You assume correctly," Ben told her.
"You will never defeat us," she said. "The democratic party will rise
like a phoenix from the ashes to once more rule this nation and bring
order and peace and justice for all."

"Don't forget a chicken in every pot," Ben replied. "Skinless, of course."

She spat at his boots.

"When is the sentence to be carried out, General?" one of the two men asked.

"Tomorrow. Dawn. I have chaplains standing by for you."

"Any chance we can make a deal?" the third man questioned.

"Maybe." Ben glanced at a guard, and the man was taken from the room.

Ben looked at Denise and the other man. "Anything else either of you
want to say to me?"

"Go to hell!" Denise told him.

"Long live the party of the people," the man said.

Ben looked at him. "I never really understood that. How can it be the
party of the people when at least half the people don't subscribe to
your philosophies?"

"Because we know what is best for all," Denise answered the question.

At that most arrogant of statements, Ben left the room.

278

Denise and   the man were buried side by side in unmarked graves. For a
very brief   moment, Ben actually contemplated finding a headstone and
having the   words, WE KNEW WHAT WAS BEST FOR EVERYBODY chiseled into the
stone. But   he quickly put that thought out of his mind.

The Rebels in the central part of the nation waited and read reports
sent in by recon teams in the east. Blanton's troops were very slowly
giving up ground to the superior forces of Revere. Fighting was intense
at times, and Blanton's army was putting up much more of a fight than
either Revere or Ben had thought them capable of doing.

"If that stiff-necked Blanton would ask us for help," Ike remarked to
Ben one morning. "Would you still give it?"

"I don't know, Ike. A few weeks ago, I would have. Now, I just don't
know. Probably not, since he sent those troops against us." He shook his
head. "I just can't figure the man. He's supposed to be such an
intelligent person, but he can't see that hundreds of thousands of
people are violently opposed to returning to his type of government. He
wants a return to the form of government that was slowly bringing this
nation to its knees ... if the Great War hadn't come along and hastened
the process. He can't see that there isn't one nation in the entire
world that is returning to the form of government they had before the
Great War. He's living in the past and I don't know how to jar him out
of that."
279 "Well, if Revere's army won't, nothing will," Buddy offered.

"I'm afraid you might be right, son."

Blanton had been moved south, to a deep bunker a few miles north of the
North Carolina line. His troops were beginning to show the signs of
weeks of heavy combat without relief, and Homer Blanton finally got it
through his head that his people were not going to win this war. But no
matter how passionately his generals pleaded with him to do so, he
adamantly refused to ask Ben Raines for assistance.

Then the generals began to talk quietly among themselves, as Ben had
suspected (and hoped) they would.

"Maybe six weeks if we're lucky," General Holtz said, just back from the
front.

"Or unlucky," General Forrest added.

"A month, max," General Thomas said.

"I can't move the president," Holtz said, toying with his coffee cup.

"He hates Ben Raines that much?" Forrest asked.

Holtz shrugged his shoulders. "Hate? No, I don't think he hates him. I
think Blanton is a raging liberal whose idea of government is meddling
in everybody's business and running their lives from cradle to grave,
and Raines is a hard conservative who believes that it's up to the
individual to sink or swim on their own, and when you fuck up you pay
the consequences."

Thomas smiled. "And never the twain shall meet."

"You got that right."

280 "So? And?" Forrest asked.

"I swore allegiance to the flag of the United States of America. But we
don't have a United States. Those spies that Blanton planted deep in the
Rebel movement were uncovered and shot."

"How do you know that?"

"Raines intelligence section sent me a message." He reached into his
pocket and tossed three sets of dog tags onto the table. What he didn't
know was that the owner of the third set was alive and well and being
groomed for use as a double agent, if necessary.

"What now?"

"I just can't bring myself to betray the president. I thought about it.
Hard. But I can order him physically moved to safer ground ... if it
comes to that."

"It will," Thomas said. "It will."

Ike had dealt swiftly with Jeb Moody, scattering his people all over the
place. Tina and Pat O'Shea had brutalized Carl Nations, and the Russian
Bear had dealt quite harshly with Shazam. None of the leaders had been
killed, but their troops had been demoralized and for the most part,
ineffective. When that had been accomplished, Ben had ordered all
battalions, with the exception of 13 and 11, who were attached to
General Taylor, to start forming an L-shaped line, running straight
south along the Ohio/Indiana line. The bottom of the L stretched out
eastward from roughly Evansville, Indiana over to the West Virginia line.

All the Rebels knew what General Raines was doing: he just could not
bring himself to fire against

281 the American flag. At least, not yet. He was going to Blanton's aid,
whether the man wanted it or not.

Corrie got General Holtz on the horn, on scramble, and handed the mic to
Ben.

"General? Ben Raines here. We need to talk about defeating Revere. We
can settle our differences, if any, at a later date. After Revere is
finished."

A deep sigh is difficult to scramble. Depending on the system used, it
sometimes comes out sounding like a fart. "I agree with that, General."

"Just let me lay out my plan to you, and I think you'll like it. I give
you my word this is not a trap."

"General Raines, I know it isn't a trap. I also know that you are a man
of honor. All right, I'm going to catch hell from President Blanton, but
let's meet."

General Holtz, commanding General of Blanton's Army, and General Ben
Raines of the Rebels met clandestinely in a lonely forest in Kentucky.
Each man brought one platoon of troops and their personal aides.

Holtz was shocked and showed it when Ben told him how he had
repositioned his Rebels. "But my intell didn't inform me of this!"

"Your intelligence people probably don't know it was done," Ben said
calmly. "We can be very quiet about things when we so desire."

Holtz studied the map and nodded his head. "I think I know what you have
in mind, General, and if I'm right, it's brilliant. Regardless of what
Blanton says, we'll go along."

"Good. When you're in place, we'll force Revere

282 to fight on four fronts. He doesn't have the people to do that."

The two men smiled and shook hands. "For the record, General Raines, I
think our two societies could coexist very nicely together."

"Oh, they will, General Holtz. They will. Just give us time."

283 "Never!" President Homer Blanton shouted. "I will never agree with
this."

"You don't have any say in the matter," General Holtz bluntly informed
the president.

"I am President of the United States!" Homer hollered.
"That's right!" VP Hooter sounded off.

"Down with the military! Up with people power!" Rita Rivers stuck her
lip into the matter.

General Holtz almost told Rita to get fucked. But he was afraid she
might take him up on it. He cut his eyes to Blanton. "Mister President,
with all due respect, without assistance from General Raines and his
Rebels, we'll be defeated in a matter of weeks, possibly days. Your
presidential guard can only protect you for a short time once Revere's
people break through our lines. And when Revere takes you and your
people prisoner, he'll either shoot you all or hang you. Now, am I
finally getting through to you, sir?"

"I urge you to take General Raines's offer," Senator Hanrahan said.

284 "As do I," Blush Lightheart agreed.

"Ben Raines is nothing but a nasty, filthy, disgusting Republican pig!"
VP Hooter dissented.

"And a honky, too," Rita said.

"Revere's troops are on the verge of breaking through our lines,"
General Holtz said. "We've got to act now. And I will. With or without
your approval."

"All right," Blanton said, bitterness in his words. "Tell General Raines
I accept his kind offer of assistance."

General Holtz left the room immediately.

"That decision will go down in history as the biggest blunder of your
administration," VP Hooter prophesied.

"Oh . . . kiss my ass!" Homer told her.

It didn't take Revere long to discover he was in a box and the lid was
about to be nailed down. He sure as hell didn't want to have to fight
both Blan-ton's troops and the Rebels. He ordered an immediate retreat.

"Pull back to the north!" he ordered all commanders. "Get the hell out
of this box."

Ben had anticipated that and had ordered his Rebels at the top of the L
to swing east. Holtz ordered his people to swing west. Those moves left
Revere with only a small escape hole and it was fast closing. Ben added
five battalions of his Rebels, with armor and artillery, to Holtz's two
regiments, at the bottom of the L, and ordered them to start advancing
straight north.

The walls began closing in on Revere and he

285 could do little except watch as what began as an orderly retreat
soon turned into a rout and his soldiers began fleeing north, trying to
reach the dwindling hole to safety.

General Revere got out of the trap just in the nick of time and
immediately began setting up new lines in southern New York State. He
sent planes and dispatched trucks to bring the punk army of Big Foot
Freddie to him. But all that move did was to free General Taylor and his
troops, and Ben's 11 and 13 Battalions to beef up the eastern front.
Jake Starr, facing a solid line of Cecil's Rebels, ordered his people to
retreat back into central Florida. From there, they moved over to the
east coast and boarded ships. They set a course for New York, or
Connecticut, or some damn place. Just get the hell away from Raines's
Rebels and somehow link up with Revere. Shazam, Carl Nations, and Jeb
Moody and their followers were doing the same thing.

Cecil sent word to Ben that Florida was more or less clear of punks.

The defeat of Revere and his people was remarkably anticlimactic. Those
troops caught in the box had sense enough to know that to continue
fighting was foolish. They laid down their arms and surrendered.

"Shoot the hard-liners," Ben suggested to General Holtz. "They're easy
to spot if you know what you're looking for."

"I can't do that!"

"Then you'd better realize that you're going to have to fight them again
someday."

"Suit yourself," Ben told him. He turned to Cor-rie. "It's over. Let's
go home."

286

The officers and troops of Blanton's army watched silently as the mighty
machine of war called the Rebels began pulling out, heading for the new
nation called the Southern United States of America. They had seen the
Rebels in action, up close and personal, and they were impressed.

In Charleston, West Virginia, Ben sat in the den of a fine home that was
now the temporary White House for Homer Blanton and rolled a cigarette.

"We don't allow smoking in these rooms," Homer told him.

"Get a fan," Ben replied, and lit up.

The two men sat and stared at each other for a moment. Homer broke the
silence. "So what happens now, General Raines?"

"That depends entirely upon you, President Blanton. I'm going home to
play with my dogs and catch up on my reading. Perhaps . . . return to
writing. That's what I started out to do years ago, after the Great War.
And I'll take some part in building a new nation. I don't care what you
do, just as long as you don't try to interfere with the running of the
Southern United States of America."

"Is that a threat, General Raines?"

"You bet your ass it is."

There were just about as many people coming into the new Southern United
States as were leaving. Certain types, of all colors, knew they could
never live under the simple Rebel rules of almost total self-government,
and packed up and left for
287 the dubious umbrella of protection of a more or less so-called
democratic form of government. No one who called themselves Rebel was
the least bit sorry to see them go.

Since for years Rebels had been seizing all the gold they could find,
Ben ordered the money of the Southern United States to be backed by
gold. They would not print more money than they had backing for.

"Ben," Cecil said with a smile. "We have all the gold."

"Yeah," Ben replied. "That is a fact, isn't it?"

Revere pulled all his troops across the border into what had once been
Canada and began rebuilding.

Ben stepped down as President of the Southern United States of America
and called for general elections. He threw his backing to Cecil Jefferys
and the vote was very nearly unanimous. For the first time in any large,
industrialized nation, a black man was elected president.

The first thing Cecil did was to name Ben as commanding general of the
armed forces.

In Charleston, West Virginia, Rita Rivers said to Homer, "Well, now.
With a black in power, perhaps we can reason with him."

Homer gave her a very sour look. "Cecil Jefferys is more to the right
than Ben Raines. And don't kid yourself, Ben Raines is still the power
to reckon with down there. Jefferys will see to the administration of
the country, Ben Raines will see to the defense of the country. They
don't have police, per se, down there. The army polices the country. Any
time the army is the police, the head of the army runs the country."

288 "That's true if the laws are reasonably complex," Senator Benedict
said. "As we tried our best to make them before the Great War. So the
average person wouldn't have a clue as to what was going on. But the
laws on the books down there ..." He shook his head. "I don't understand
it."

"But it works for them," Senator Hanrahan said somberly.

"Everything seems to work for them," Senator Arnold said. "Damned if I
can figure it out."

"It works because nearly everyone is of a like mind," Hanrahan said.
"But it isn't a democracy."

"It's a damn dictatorship," VP Hooter said.

"Run by a damned racist, honky Republican," Rita Rivers flapped her mouth.

But it works for them, Senator Hanrahan thought.

Indeed it did. By the fall of that year, less than ninety days after Ben
had left Blanton in his office in West Virginia, the SUSA was getting
factories back into operation and putting people to work . . . those who
wanted to work and could do so without complaining and whining and
bitching about it.

Hawaii had declared its independence from the United States and signed a
treaty with the SUSA. Blanton was furious, but powerless to do anything
about it. He had no navy, no air force to speak of, and his army and a
few battalions of marines were in hard training for what they knew would
be another campaign against Revere . . . sooner or later.

289 After several weeks of rest, Ben took his 1 Battalion and headed out
to inspect the SUSA, to "spread a little cheer and joy," he said with a
smile.

"Right," Cecil said drily, knowing full well what Ben was going to do,
and that it was going to be extremely unpleasant for anyone who did not
subscribe to the Rebel philosophy . . . and there were many thousands in
the eleven states who did not, and would never go along with the Rebels.
They had to be either cleaned out with extreme prejudice, put on the
road, or talked to ... firmly.

Moments after Ben had pulled out, Cecil pointed to Striganov and the
Russian grinned and left the office, hollering for his XO to get his
battalion ready. They were going to bird-dog General Raines.

There were no undesirables within a hundred mile radius of the old Base
Camp One; they had either conformed to Rebel ways, or had pulled out, or
had gotten themselves killed when facing off against a Rebel security
team ... or in several cases, when making the tragic mistake of getting
up into the face of Ben Raines, who was known for having an extremely
low boiling-point when it came to human trash ... of any color.

For several days, Ben had been studying field reports of hot spots
within the SUSA . . . and there were literally hundreds of them. His
team and battalion had been with him a long time and could read the
signs. They were ready to go days before the official word reached them.

Ben headed south, scouts ranging out several miles ahead, and MBTs right
behind them. For the first few hours, the Rebels traveled relaxed, for
this area had been in Rebel hands for a long time, and

290 the fields, recently harvested of their crops, were neat, the homes
well-cared for, the people open and friendly and waving at the long
convoy as it passed.

Doors were seldom locked in Rebel-controlled territory, for in the SUSA
everybody was a soldier, everybody was well-armed, and crime, of any
type, was virtually non-existent. Under Rebel law, a registered citizen
could protect his or her property, life, family, or pets by any means at
hand, including deadly force, without fear of arrest or civil lawsuit.
After the first few rather violent months of birth, the Rebel-controlled
territory-known previously as Base Camp One-had settled down, the word
quickly spreading, and criminals giving it a wide berth. Now that the
territory had been vastly expanded, the SUSA was purging itself of those
people with no respect for one another's basic rights.

It was going to take the Rebels several years to do this, but it was
something they were determined to do. And Ben Raines was flawed just
enough to enjoy doing it. He had never maintained he was perfect.

Those who chose to live a life of semi-lawlessness, those who felt that
they had a right to steal, poach, disregard the law, abuse their
children and anyone else who had the misfortune to come in contact with
them, live a life of ignorance, and in general contribute nothing to
their society, had long ago learned not to live too close to any major
highway, for the RSPs (Rebel Security Patrols) had a nasty habit of
showing up at the most inopportune moments and rousting them out at the
point of a gun and then reading them the riot act.

For years, the area outside of Base Camp One

291 was known as the Zone. Now the Zone was part of the SUSA. And Ben
Raines was on the prowl.

Everybody knew that Cecil Jefferys was President of the SUSA. He saw to
the political running of the vast new nation and kept things moving at
an orderly pace. President Jefferys was everything an administrator
should be, and everything the old Washington politicians had never been.

But Ben Raines, now, that was another story. This was Ben Raines's dream
come true, and Ben was going to see it flourish. Cecil Jefferys was by
nature a wise, prudent, kind, and giving man. Ben Raines, on the other
hand, was polite to ladies, kind to animals and children, respected the
rights of law-abiding citizens, and hated human trash . . . and made no
apologies for it.

Just about a hundred miles south and slightly east of what used to be
known as Base Camp One, the son of a huge and thoroughly disagreeable
and cretinous individual named Robert Holcombe came to his father.

"That there Ben Raines is on the prowl, Poppa. And he's a-headin' this way."

Holcombe picked his nose and then hawked a wad of snot on the ground.
"Wai, we always knowed that law and order prick would come snoopin'
around, tryin' to run our bis-ness. Git the boys together, Malvern.
We'll settle Raines's hash once and for all and be done with him." He
glanced at a hound, heavy with pregnancy. "And kill that goddamn bitch
'fore she births. We got enuff pups run-nin' around here."

292 The area that Robert Holcombe controlled had for years before the
Great War been infamous for the quality of its dubious citizenry. It had
been known throughout the South as a bastion for rednecks, white trash,
incest, illiteracy, lawlessness, terrible cruelty to animals, open,
sneering contempt for any type of law enforcement, and in general it was
a haven for human slime . . . but the area, strangely enough was dotted
with churches, and the majority attended them. The residents interpreted
the Bible as they chose, with some rather bizarre statements coming from
the mouths of the so-called preachers.

"Ben is heading straight for Deckerville," Stri-ganov radioed back to Cecil.

Cecil smiled, then replied, "I guessed that was where he'd go. He's long
wanted the time to clean out that human cesspool."

"Orders, President Jefferys?"

"Let Ben have his fun. Move in only if he gets in too deep."

Georgi's laugh was strong. "Da, President Jef-

293 ferys. I will find high ground and watch the fun through long lenses."

"Poppa, here come them Rebs and they's a shit-pot full of 'em!" another
of Robert's offspring hollered, from his perch atop the old water tower.
Naturally, it was no longer functional.
"That don't tell me jack-crap, boy!" Robert bellowed. "Be a little bit
more 'pecific."

"They's tanks and big ol' guns and all sorts of shit, Poppa," the young
man, called Cletis, squalled.

The first Hummers, driven by scouts, entered the edge of town.

A citizen shook a double-barreled shotgun at the scouts. "Git your
nigger-lovin', Jew-lovin', spic-lovin', queer-lookin' asses on outta
here!" he hollered. "This yere's our town and we don't want your kind in
yere."

"Yeah!" his equally ugly and yellow-toothed wife yelled. She spat at the
vehicle.

"Boy, is the general going to have a fine time with these people," the
driver of the Hummer said.

"Watch this," the gunner said. He was Kevlared from the waist up. He
popped the hatch, stood up behind the roof-mounted .50 caliber machine
gun, and swung the heavy .50 in the direction of the shotgun totin',
bad-mouthin' citizen.

"Whooo!" the citizen said, and took off up an alley like the devil was
after him.

"Wait for me, you son of a bitch!" his wife screamed as she went
flapping after him.

"Hey, there, soldier boy!" a large-gutted man yelled. "You cain't come
in here a-pointin' them guns at us. You bastard!" He jerked a rifle to
his shoulder and the scout stitched him with the .50.

294 The force of the impacting slugs knocked the man spinning for
several yards before he tumbled dead to the old street.

The street filled with angry, shouting, cussing, fist-shaking white
trash. The shouting and the cussing faded into shocked silence as the
street suddenly filled with 60-ton Main Battle Tanks, their 120mm guns
lowered dead at the crowd, as were their 7.62 and .50 caliber machine
guns. Rebel troops suddenly appeared on and around the tanks, their
weapons leveled at the crowds.

"Jesus Gawd!" one man broke the shocked silence.

Women began hurriedly shooing kids off the street and back to their
homes, dress tails flapping as they rushed about.

"Is we gonna settle Ben Raines's hash now, Poppa?" Malvern inquired.

"Hish your mouf, boy," Holcombe whispered. "You tryin' to git me kilt?
And git yore brother Cletis down offen that tower 'fore he falls off and
makes a big mess."

First Ben's personal platoon came out of the crowd of Rebels, followed
by Ben and his team, Jersey's eyes shifting constantly. She'd faced
rednecks and white trash before, and knew they were capable of doing
some awfully stupid things. She had yet to meet one she trusted.
There were approximately three hundred to three hundred fifty armed men
facing the Rebels. Ben said, "The first one of this rabble to fire a
shot, kill everyone within range."

"Jesus Lard!" Holcombe hollered, jumping out to face the crowd. He waved
in arms. "Don't nobody git no itchy fingers. Lardy, Lardy, Lardy!"

295 A scout came up and whispered in Ben's ear. Ben's eyes narrowed in
fury. He nodded his head. The scout took off at a run, followed by a
doctor and two medics.

"You, ah, got you some sorta medical emergency, General?" Holcombe dared
to speak.

Ben walked up to the man and grimaced. Holcombe's body odor was fierce.
"That once fine mansion up on the hill, overlooking the highway . . .
that's where you and yours, ah, den-up, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir, that's right! At airs the finest house in this county, by
golly. But it shore is hard to keep up. Why, I reckon if I had me a
dozen niggers a-steppin' and a-fetchin' it still would be some job. Why
. . ."

"Shut up," Ben told him.

Holcombe shut his mouth, but his eyes mirrored raw hate.

"There is a very old, and worn-out Labrador bitch back there. And some
goddamn, sorry, pus-brain has shot her ..."

Malvern wished he could suddenly be transported to the moon. Everybody
knew the Rebels took very good care of their pets. And everybody knew
that Ben Raines especially liked dogs.

Oh, shit! Malvern thought.

"That poor old girl, badly wounded, gave birth to her puppies, and badly
hurt, managed to perform all the necessary after-birth functions and is
trying to nurse those puppies. Did you shoot that old girl, Holcombe?"

"How come it is you knows my name, General?"

"I know everything about you, Holcombe. For years the Rebels have been
gathering up police rec-

296 ords and floppy discs and computer tapes and accessing hard disc
drives from police departments all over the nation. You answer my
question, you miserable excuse for a human being. Did you shoot that dog?"

"Naw. I din."

"She was on your place. So who did?"

"She's jist a goddamn ol' wore out bitch, General. Why make sich a big
thing out of it?"

Ben jammed the muzzle of his Thompson under Holcombe's chin. Holcombe
paled under his summer tan. "I will ask you one more time, and then I
will blow your goddamn brains out."
"I din shoot the bitch!" Holcombe shouted. "I din do it. Malvern thar did."

"At whose orders?"

"Mine! I tole him to do hit."

"Why? Did she bite someone? Was she rabid? Why?"

"Hell, we shoot dogs all the time around here. We fight 'em for sport.
Hit's good fun. We ..." Holcombe suddenly realized he was saying all the
wrong things to Ben Raines.

Ben lowered the muzzle of the Thompson and pushed Holcombe back toward
the crowd. A Rebel doctor approached him and whispered for about a
minute. Ben nodded his head.

"The dog didn't die, did she?" Malvern blurted.

"That wasn't about the dog," Ben said. He looked at Robert Holcombe.
"Your sanitary facilities are non-existent. You have no medical
facilities. Your children are poorly nourished. You have no schools. The
list of things you don't have, but should have had you the least bit of
discipline, dig-

297 nity, pride, and concern for your children and for those less
fortunate, is depressingly long. In short, you are not the kind of
people I choose to have residing in the new Southern United States of
America. You will leave."

"Haw?" Holcombe said. "Say whut?"

"I will put it in words you might better understand: carry your
white-trash asses out!"

"Where?" Holcombe asked.

"North, east, or west. Make your choice. But get out."

"And if we don't?"

"Then you all shall be buried right here."

"You'd . . . kill us?" Holcombe stammered.

"Believe it."

"But there yere's our home!"

"Not anymore. You have two hours to pack up and get out. In one hundred
twenty minutes I will start shelling this town." He turned to a Rebel
sergeant. "Round up all the animals you can and transport them to
safety. The four-legged kind," he added. Ben turned around and walked
through the maze of tanks and Rebels.

The Rebel tanks and those not involved in the gathering up of cats and
dogs and horses and mules and goats and sheep slowly backed up until
they were clear of the town. Ben began positioning his tanks and mortar
crews on the high ground.
"Poppa," Malvern said. "Do he mean all that?"

"Yeah," Robert said. "He means it. We'll leave. We ain't got no choice.
But we'll link up with President Blanton's people. He don't have hard
feelin's for poor folks like us. He's a good Democrat. He knows we
cain't hep whut we is. It's the fault of rich

298 folks and sich. So-ciety made us whut we is. 'Tain't our fault.
Folks like us got to have government hep. You 'member that, boy. Always
look to the government. They'll take care of us. And don't never trust
no Republican."

"Poppa?"

"Yeah, boy?"

"Whut's a Republican?"

Ben watched as the long line of vehicles began moving out . . . north.

"They'll link up with Blanton's people," Jersey said.

"Sure," Ben said. "We'll fight them someday."

"They'll spread the word that this has happened all because of a dog,"
Beth said. "They never grasp the big picture."

"Let them spread it," Ben said as the last vehicle pulled out of sight.
"Burn the town. Corrie, alert the combat engineers to come in here with
dozers, as soon as they can, and scrap this place clean."

"Yes, sir."

Ben looked at Coop. "How is the old dog?"

"She died."

"This can't be tolerated," Homer Blanton said to his staff. He had just
read the reports of Ben purging the SUSA of any he deemed undesirable.
"Those poor, poor people. I just feel terrible about this."

Rita Rivers, for once, kept her lip buttoned on the subject. She knew
that the majority of people

299 General Raines was running out were the worst of racists. It had
never been pointed out to Rita-and she would have denied it
vehemently-that she was also a racist.

"We have to take them in," Homer said. "Set up camps to house them."

"Yes, sir," an aide said.

The military exchanged glances. They knew only too well the types of
people Ben was running out of the SUSA. He was keeping the best and the
brightest and handing them the dredges.

"Smart," General Holtz muttered.

"Beg your pardon?" Homer looked up.
"Nothing, Mister President," the general replied. "Nothing at all."
Which is exactly what Raines is shoving across the borders, he summed it up.

The word spread very quickly throughout the SUSA, and rather than face
the scorn and the guns of the Rebels, many people packed up and pulled
out. President Blanton would take care of them. He promised he would.
And they could live in filth and squalor if they wanted to and he
wouldn't interfere. Not like that goddamned Ben Raines.

Cooper pointed to a large billboard. The original message had been
painted over with the words: KILL BEN RAINES.

"It's so nice to be loved," Ben said. "Makes me feel good all over."

"How come we're not hitting much resistance?" Jersey questioned.

"Blanton is welcoming all the crap and crud into his fold, " Ben told
her. "Making the same mistakes

300 as before. The people who are leaving our sectors know that instead
of making them work for what they receive, Blanton will just give it to
them. Food, housing, medical care . . . the whole ball of wax. For nothing."

"And their kids?" Corrie asked.

"They will grow up expecting something for nothing. It's a terrible,
vicious cycle. And the only way it can be broken is by what we're doing:
slapping these people right in the face with hard jolts of reality. You
can't force someone to learn at the point of a gun. You have to first
ask them to learn. We've given these people in our sectors years to
clean up their act. If they haven't done it by now, they're not going to
do it-ever. I don't want these types of leeches around good, decent,
hard-working citizens. They are a corrupting influence."

"I've heard you and Thermopolis argue this before," Beth said.

"Yeah," Ben smiled. "But he's doing it halfheartedly. He's playing
devil's advocate. He just likes to argue." Ben laughed. "And so do I."

Those types of people who refused, for whatever reason, to respect the
rights of others, who enjoyed lawlessness, who preyed on the weak, who
expected the government to take care of them, who took away from society
more than they gave . . . seemed to just melt away at the approach of
Ben and his Rebels. They were flooding across the borders, north, east,
and west. Blanton's administration, now in full operation-as full as
possible, under the circumstances-was almost from the beginning
overwhelmed by, as VP Hooter put it, "the wretched

301 refugees from the dictatorship of a Republican madman."

Since a few blacks were beginning to cross the borders, fleeing the
Rebel occupation, Rita Rivers could now stick her mouth into the debate.
And she did. Often. To anyone who would listen. She formed an
organization and called it, Citizens Opposed to the Oppression of Negroes.

The two black members of the newly formed U.S. Supreme Court, each with
an inordinate sense of fairness, and also possessing a wild sense of
humor, pointed out to Rita that it might be best if she came up with a
new name for her group.
302 Conditions outside of the SUSA continued to worsen under Blanton's
open-arms policies with no restrictions, while conditions inside the
newly formed nation continued to improve. Bullshit artists, con-men,
people who delighted in cheating others out of possessions, loud-mouths,
trouble-makers ... began pouring out of the SUSA. Many times the Rebels
ran them out with only the clothes on their backs. And they immediately
ran whining to agents of Blanton's struggling government, complaining of
the harsh treatment at the hands of the Rebels.

"Those poor unfortunate people," VP Hooter said. "We simply must find
some way to crush that terrible regime of Ben Raines."

Blanton stared at her for a moment. "I'm open to suggestion," he said,
very very drily.

Hooter shut her mouth and left the new Oval Office.

Conditions were bad in those states that Blanton more or less governed,
but it need not have been a hopeless situation. Blanton could have put
together a bipartisan government and eased up on his left-

303 wing ultra liberal form of governing. But he didn't. Within weeks of
his new emergence, many moderate Democrats-including many of those who
had voted for him years back-began to seriously question his policies.

The nation was still reeling from years of anarchy-the cities were in
ruins, those factories still standing were no more than piles of rust.
Gangs, from a few in number to hundreds strong, still roamed the
countryside. Highways were cracked and pot-holed (they were that way
even before the Great War, but money that could have been used to
maintain the nation's arteries went to fund "great" art projects like
putting Christ in a bucket of piss, sculptures of two horses fucking;
building huge sports arenas where semi-literate, near neanderthals-if
they had not been playing football or basketball and making millions
would have probably ended up as muscle for the mafia, holding up
convenience stores, or selling dope on a street corner-could blunder
around, crashing into each other under the guise of sport while the
nation's libraries were closing for lack of funds; and throwing wide the
nation's borders for everybody who wanted a free ride from cradle to
grave-at taxpayer expense, and hundreds of other congressional pet
projects that finally bankrupted the nation), and good, decent,
hardworking, law-abiding people were starving to death. So considering
all that, what was the first official legislation President
Grits-for-Brains signed into law?

Gun control.

304 Ben and his Rebels were in southern Alabama when Cecil bumped him,
informing him of Blanton's first official act since emerging as president.

"He's in trouble already," Ben said, after reading the communique.
"After all the nation has gone through, if that dimwit sends agents out
to seize privately-owned firearms, a large majority of the citizens will
resist." He paused, then smiled, his eyes brightening with mischief. He
poured a cup of coffee and sat down, chuckling softly

"Uh-oh," Jersey said, watching the expression on Ben's face. "The boss
is cooking something up."

Cooper looked at Ben. "You're right, Jersey."
Beth said, "This is going to be very interesting. You can bet on that."

Corrie anticipated Ben and made ready to bump President Jefferys.

"Corrie," Ben said. "Get me Cecil on scramble."

A presidential aide laid the paper on Blanton's desk and then backed up.
Blanton picked up the paper and scanned it. He wadded up the paper and
hurled it across the room.

"That goddamn son of a bitch!" Homer Blanton said. Ol' Pooter had
officially been replaced.

TO ALL DECENT, HARDWORKING, AND LONG-SUFFERING AMERICANS OF ALL RACES
AND CREEDS: THE SOUTHERN UNITED STATES OF AMERICA IS SEEKING QUALIFIED
MEN AND WOMEN TO REBUILD THE COUNTRY. IF YOUR DESIRE IS TO LIVE AND WORK
AND RAISE

305 YOUR CHILDREN IN A CRIME-FREE, DRUG-FREE, GANG-FREE ENVIRONMENT, AND
YOU ARE WILLING TO WORK HARD AND RESPECT THE RIGHTS OF OTHERS, CONSIDER
RELOCATING TO THE SUSA. IN THE SUSA, EVERY INDIVIDUAL HAS THE RIGHT TO
PROTECT WHAT IS THEIRS FROM THUGS AND PUNKS-AND THAT RIGHT INCLUDES THE
USE OF DEADLY FORCE. IN THE SUSA, THE RIGHTS OF THE LAW-ABIDING CITIZEN
COME FIRST. OUR EDUCATIONAL SYSTEM IS THE FINEST IN THE WORLD. OUR
MEDICAL CARE IS EXCELLENT, AND AVAILABLE TO ALL. WE HAVE JOBS WAITING TO
BE FILLED. IF YOU ARE WEARY OF THE MEALY-MOUTHED, HANKY-STOMPING,
WISHY-WASHY WAYS OF THE LIBERAL DEMOCRATIC PARTY, WHY NOT GIVE US A TRY?

"I hate that son of a bitch!" Blanton said, after retrieving the notice
and rereading it.

"Honky, racist, nasty, filthy Republican!" Rita Rivers said.

"I think we should assassinate him," VP Harriet Hooter said.

"Say!" Senator Arnold said. "That's not a bad idea."

"I agree," Senator Benidict spoke up.

"What would Thomas Jefferson do in this situation," Blanton mused aloud.

For one thing, he wouldn't seize personal firearms, Homer.

306

Ben and team pulled up just on the outskirts of a small southern Alabama
town. By now, Striganov was traveling with Ben and battalion. Ben had
halted his people and radioed the Russian to join them. He knew
Striganov was acting on Cecil's orders and could not refuse them . . .
even if he had wanted to.

Striganov lowered his binoculars. "They are flying the old battle flag
of the Southern Confederacy. The stars and bars."

"No law against it," Ben said. "But if they're holding people against
their will, using them as slave labor, or have a closed society . . .
then I suppose we'll have to do something about that."

Striganov cut his eyes to Ben. "It was my understanding that your
government passed laws against the flying of the Stars and Bars some
time before the Great War."

"They did. One of many very stupid laws pushed through by liberals. As
soon as they did, I went out and bought a confederate flag and flag
pole. Flew it every day. So did about ten million other people.
Northerners, Southerners, Westerners, and Easterners. People who before
the law was passed would have never flown a Rebel flag. White
Southerners have as much right to be proud of their heritage as black
people do to be proud of theirs. It's just a piece of cloth."

The Russian's eyes twinkled. "I think that on this day, perhaps only
moments from now, your philosophy is about to be tested, Ben."

Ben wasn't daunted. "Years ago, the courts ruled

307 on the right of a private club to exclude whomever they chose. If
that town is all white, and wishes to remain so, that is their right, so
long as people of color who pass through are not harmed in any way, or
denied emergency medical treatment or services such as food, lodging, or
things of that nature. We'll soon know. Here comes a couple of vehicles."

The two cars stopped and four men got out. They held their hands up to
show they were unarmed. "Welcome to Danville, General Raines," the man
in the lead said. "We've been expecting you. I'm the mayor, Joe Story.
These men are members of the town council. We know that you've sent
Rebel teams all around the town; we watched them being positioned. And
we know that some of your artillery has us zeroed in. I won't deny that
we are well-armed, but we would be very foolish to start trouble with
you. And we won't. As long as you don't start it with us. All we ask is
that you hear us out. Will you do that?"

"Certainly," Ben said.

"Fine," Joe said with a smile. "Bring as many of your troops into town
as you like. We've prepared refreshments and sandwiches."

"Take over, Georgi." Ben turned to his team and personal platoon. "Let's
go, people."

What Ben saw impressed him. The town was immaculate. The houses neat and
freshly painted. Lawns mowed. Stores open. Gardens well-tended. Children
clean, happy at play, and obviously well-cared for.

"Pure white," Beth said, looking around her.

"Yeah. I see it," Ben replied.

From the back seat, Corrie said, "That's 10-4, Far-

308 eyes. Recon reports no people of color anywhere in the county," she
said to Ben.

"This is going to be very interesting," Ben muttered.

The town had been a county seat, and tables had been set up on the
courthouse lawn. Plates of fried chicken, bowls of mashed potatoes and
gravy, fresh corn on the cob, and gallons of iced tea were awaiting the
Rebels.
"Do you want a food taster before you eat, General?" Joe asked with a smile.

"Oh, I don't think so," Ben said, filling a plate. "Should anything
happen to us, in one hour your town would no longer exist, and every
living thing in it would be dead."

"You do bring it all down to the basics, don't you, General?"

Seated, Ben began eating while Joe Story talked. "We came here from all
over the nation, General. Right after the Great War. Nearly every state
is represented here. We wanted to build a community that was free of
gang violence, free of drugs and crime. Where we could teach our kids
the way kids used to be taught, without social promotion based on
color." He paused to take a sip of iced tea, for the day was warm.

"Good fried chicken," Ben said. "My mother used to fry it like this. Go
on, Mister Story. I'm listening."

"The bottom line is this, General: we don't believe in the mixing of the
races. Black people occasionally travel through here. To the best of my
knowledge, no person of color has ever been abused. Nigger is a word
that is forbidden in this

309 community. Black people have been helped if they needed it, and then
told to move on."

"And if they don't move on?" Ben asked, buttering an ear of corn.

"We've never been confronted with that situation."

"And if you ever are?"

"Speaking frankly, we'll move them. Or bury them."

"What is your objection to people of color, Mister Story?"

"Not all people of color, General. Just some people of color. Their
values are different. They worship differently than whites." He smiled.
"Most whites."

"And those whites who don't worship the way you think they should . . .
you have any of those in this community?"

"No, we do not, General." Before Ben could say anything else, Story
asked, "What church do you attend, General?"

"I don't have a regular church, Mister Story. Haven't since I was a
kid." Ben smiled. "But I don't condemn others for their manner of
worshipping God."

"Let's skim off the grease and get right to it, General" Story said.
"I'm speaking for every member of this community. Black people are not
going to live here. Not now, not ever. We will not allow our children to
be corrupted by their lack of morals, their terrible music, and their
inferiority to the white race."

Ben pushed the plate from him. He had lost his

310 appetite. He agreed with Story only in that there were undesirable
people among every race.
"There are several all-black towns north of here, General," Story said.
"And you know it. You allowed them to flourish. Are you going to deny us
the same right?"

Ben was silent for a time. There was some truth in what the man had
said. "They are not all black, Mister Story. There are some whites
living in those communities."

"Nigger-lovers!" Story blurted.

Ben smiled sourly. "I thought that word was forbidden in your society?"

"We slip occasionally."

"We're all human," Ben replied.

"You going to fight us, General?" Story asked.

Ben stared at the man. He was sweating, and he was scared. But he was
also determined to stand his ground and defend his position. Ben could
read that in the man's eyes. "No," Ben said softly. "Not now. Probably
someday, but not here. For despite all your assurances, Mister Story, if
you stay here, some day some of your people will slip up and do harm to
a person of color. It's only a matter of time before that happens. There
has always been right and wrong on both sides of the color issue. Many
people just can't seem to strike a happy balance between black and
white. We have, in the Rebels. But you're not really Rebel material. You
couldn't make it in our army. And you're not going to make it in the
Southern United States of America, either. There are a number of things
that I could do. Cut you off from all aid and assistance from the
Central Government. Throw a blockade around this den of

311 hate. But that would be a waste of my time. I can tell that it would
be just a matter of time before this community collapses under the sheer
weight of your hatred. So while we talked, I took action."

Story lost his cool. "You goddamn nigger-lovin' son of a bitch!" he
cursed Ben. "I thought you were on the side of the white people."

"I am on the side of all people, regardless of color, who wish to live
and work and get along with each other . . . and who agree to abide by
Rebel law. I'm not going to have pockets of hate in the SUSA."

"You going to kill all the women and babies, General Raines?" Story
sneered the question.

"Mission accomplished, General," Corrie said, and Joe Story looked at
her strangely.

Ben smiled. "Oh, no. I won't have to. Your little town has now been
completely infiltrated by Rebel troops. While we talked, two battalions
of my troops quietly occupied Danville. We have seized your armory and
your heavier weapons. I was curious as to the lack of men in the town.
Your militia has been found, disarmed, and is now under guard. You and
your followers can now pack up and get out."

"What!" Joe blurted, jumping up and looking around him. The streets
around the courthouse were ringed with Rebels. He heard a rumbling and
his eyes widened as Main Battle Tanks began rolling into town. He
snatched up a hand-held CB from the table and pressed the talk button.
"Jimmy! Come in, Jimmy."

Only silence replied.

"Ross!" Story called. "Come in, Ross!"

312 "Ross is preoccupied," a voice strange to him crackled through the
tiny speaker. "This is Sergeant Davis. Could I help you?"

Joe Story sat down in the chair and looked at Ben. Ben sipped his tea
and smiled. "Give me a situation report, Corrie."

"No injuries, sir. Occupation of the town is complete. No known pockets
of resistance."

"Shit!" Joe Story said, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

Ben stood up. "It's been very enlightning chatting with you, Mister
Story. Now you'd better start packing up. You have quite a long drive
ahead of you."

313 Ben and his battalions followed Joe Story and his   people north until
Ben was certain the hate-group was indeed leaving the   SUSA. Then Ben
ordered the column to cut slightly west. He wanted to   have a chat with a
very militant black who had set up his own bastion of   hate and filled it
with white-hating blacks.

He wasn't looking forward to dealing with the man who called himself Moi
Sambura. Ben had driven Moi out of one section of the country a couple
of years back, and felt sure the man had been killed in the battle.
Wrong. Moi surfaced in another location and once more began spewing
hate. He had closed off his section of the country and killed any white
who dared defy his orders to leave. Ben had run out of patience with the
man. Moi Sam-bura's days were numbered.

"This the same guy we kicked ass on awhile back?" Jersey asked.

"Same one. Charles Washington."

"He must be a hard-headed dude," Cooper said. "Or just plain stupid."

314 "He's not stupid, Coop. He holds a Ph.D. from a very prestigious
university. He just hates whites."

"Why?" Corrie asked.

"I don't know. Something truly terrible might have been done to him by
whites. And as I told him before, if that is the case, I am sorry. But
the past is done. It's time for a new beginning. I've given him more
chances than I have ever given anyone else. That's over. And after we
deal with Moi, we give Wink Payne another visit."

"You mean that ignorant redneck is still alive, too?" the usually quiet
Beth asked.

"Yep. Intell found that out about three weeks ago. And not too far from
Moi. Those two have a really weird love/hate relationship. I personally
wish they would square off and kill each other."
"Let's finish the job this time, Boss," Jersey suggested.

"I plan to do just that, Jersey."

Moi and Wink had moved into the Talladega National Forest, with Moi and
his people occupying the eastern part and Wink and his fruitcakes
settling in the western part, with Highway 5 and a small river
separating them.

With twenty miles to go before reaching Moi's position, Ben halted the
columns and told Corrie to get Moi on the horn.

"The old and very young have been transported to safety," Moi told Ben
curtly. "This time, the battle is to the death, Ben Raines."

"You're a fool!" Ben replied. "What the hell does it take to get through
to you?"

"Come meet your destiny," Moi told him, then broke off.

315 "As you wish," Ben muttered. He ordered Stri-ganov to swing around
and get in position opposite Wink. "Leave the northern routes open in
case they want to run. Wink will do just that; I'm thinking Moi will
stand to the death this time. We'll open fire simultaneously."

Ben began placing his artillery for maximum accuracy. It was the middle
of the afternoon when Corrie received word that the Russian was in place.

"Do we give them a last chance to surrender?" she asked.

"No," Ben said softly. "Commence firing."

Dozens of artillery pieces and heavy 81mm mortars opened up, hurling out
death and fire and destruction. The rolling thunder continued all
afternoon and into the night. Ben and Georgi had staggered their
artillery; when cool-down was necessary, other pieces were moved up so
the deadly barrage never stopped, giving those on the receiving end no
relief from warfare's deadliest elements.

Rebel artillery saturated the area with everything at their disposal.
The fires from within the war zone lit up the night skies. When Ben
finally ordered a halt to the artillery barrage he called in PUFFs and
helicopter gunships to add the next touch to this deadly game. It was
midnight when he ordered a stand-down and without another word, walked
to his tent, pulled off his boots, and laid down on the cot for a few
hours of rest.

Ben was up long before dawn and the platoon leaders were waiting for
him. A cup of coffee was handed to him. He took a sip and said, "Mop-up
commences at 0600. First platoon, A company will go in with me."

316 Ben's 1 Battalion was known throughout the Rebel Army as the
roughest, meanest, nastiest fighters of them all. First Platoon went
beyond that. They were all hand-picked and carefully trained by Ike and
Dan Gray. They had thousands of hours of combat behind them and fought
with the cunning of a wolf and the savagery of a wolverine. They usually
took no prisoners.

This time there were few prisoners to even consider taking. For reasons
that would remain known only to Moi and Wink and God and the Devil, the
two men had bunched their people up. Ben had no earthly idea why they
had done it. But the artillery barrage had very nearly wiped them out.

"Must have been fifty or sixty people here," Cooper called, looking at
what remained of a huge bunker that had taken several direct hits from a
155.

Ben walked over and looked into the blood-splattered and limb-littered
cratered ground. It was not a pretty sight. "Bring some prisoners over
here and hand them shovels. They can fill up these holes."

The Rebels were accustomed to Ben's callousness. The prisoners were not.
"They were human beings," an older man, a follower of Moi Sambura,
pointed out to Ben.

"They were idiots," Ben said, and walked off.

There was no sign of Moi, but Wink Payne had been found and brought to
Ben. Ben needed only one glance at Wink to know the man was finished as
a leader. He was jerking and twitching and slobber was leaking out of
his mouth. The hideous and seemingly endless barrage had shredded the
man's nerves. Ben had personally witnessed battle-hardened combat
soldiers lie on the ground and scream

317 themselves hoarse under sustained artillery barrages. For there is
no place to run, no place to hide, and nothing to do except wait for
death to touch you.

Wink tried to talk, but only jabber came from his mouth. He waved his
hands and babbled. A Rebel doctor standing beside the man looked at Ben
and shook his head.

Ben glanced at a small group of Wink's followers, dirty and
blood-splattered and badly shaken. "Take your glorious leader and get
the hell out of here. Out of the Southern United States of America." He
pointed north. "That way. There is no place for any of you here."

Two of the men stepped forward and took Wink's arms, leading him away.
Wink Payne, self-proclaimed most holy and exalted leader of the Order of
the Bedsheet was still babbling as he was led off. He had shit his
underwear.

The crushing defeat of Moi and Wink just about finished any racist and
separatist movement in the SUSA. Most of those so inclined packed up and
got the hell away from the SUSA. Ben was fully aware that there would
always be pockets of hate scattered throughout the SUSA. He couldn't
stamp them all out. They would gather in secret to spew their venom to
anyone who would listen. But for now, Cecil had asked Ben to return. The
former CEOs and chairmen of the boards of a number of large corporations
had surfaced from years of hiding and were asking if they could come
into the SUSA and start over. But they were a little confused about the

318 laws in the Southern United States of America. They seemed, so
simple. Surely they were misreading them?

The CEOs and chairmen and presidents of several dozen companies once on
the Fortune 500 were a little in awe of Ben Raines as he strolled into
the large conference room. They were expecting a man in a three-piece
business suit. What they got was a rugged-looking middle-aged man in old
French Foreign Legion lizard BDUs.
Ben laid his Thompson on the table and said, "What's the problem, ladies
and gentlemen?"

Cecil smiled and leaned back in his chair. He would enjoy this show.

"Charles Hays, General Raines," a man spoke. "1MB. The best and
brightest appear to have all moved into this area. We'd like to have a
hand in the rebuilding of this nation. But we just don't understand your
laws."

"What is it you don't understand?" Ben asked, sitting down and pouring a
glass of ice water. "Hell, a third-grader understands our laws. They're
taught in school, beginning in the first grade. Along with values and
morals."

"Ms. Cynthia Barnhart, General. RayTon Corporation. But they are your
values and morals," the woman stated.

Ben cut his eyes to her. "It's the only game in town, lady."

She arched an eyebrow and sat back in the comfortable chair. Her eyes
widened as Jersey nonchalantly strolled in and took a seat along the
back wall, where she could keep an eye on everybody in the room.

319 "This is a private meeting," she told Jersey.

"Stick it in a sock, lady," Jersey replied.

"General Raines," Cynthia said. "I am not accustomed to being spoken to
in such a manner ... by subordinates."

"I'm not your subordinate, lady," Jersey fired back. "And if you
continue talking down to me, I'll kick your hoity-toity ass all over
this room."

Many of the men and women in the room struggled to hide their smiles.
Cynthia Barnhart had been a one hundred percent bitch before the Great
War, and the ensuing years had done nothing to temper that. But this
lovely, shapely, diminutive, and somewhat savage-looking Rebel soldier
wasn't about to be intimidated.

Ben stepped in quickly. "Let me explain something right now. You all may
be the movers and shakers of the newly-emerging business world, but that
doesn't make you a goddamn bit better than a tractor mechanic or a
short-order cook or a private in the army or anybody else. Respect is
not handed out on a platter here. It must be earned. A secretary is just
that. He or she is not your personal gofer. You want a cup of coffee,
get it yourself-or hire someone to do that."

"Well, I never!" Cynthia flounced about in her chair.

"You ought to, lady," Jersey said with a wicked grin. "Every now and
then. It takes the edge off."

Ben smiled very thinly at the president of RayTon Corporation. He slowly
shook his head. "You won't make it here, lady. You might as well leave
now. You're just a bit on the pretentious side to fit in well. You'd
always be looking down that aristocratic
320 nose at someone, and someone, like Jersey over there, would spread
it out all over your face."

"Then she would be put in jail!" the woman said, with considerable heat
behind the words.

Ben again shook his head. "Doubtful. Not here, and not for several
reasons. To borrow a title, lady, this is a brave new world. Almost
nothing is the same as before the Great War. It's mainly the little
things, ladies and gentlemen."

"Art Grenville, General," a distinguished-looking man said.
"American/General Motor Company. Explain those little things."

Ben smiled and his hawk-like features softened. He rose and poured a cup
of coffee and returned to his chair. Everybody looked at Jersey, who had
not moved to fetch her general coffee.

"She's my bodyguard, not my servant," Ben cleared that up. "Little
things, Mister Grenville? Well . . . we're removing every trace of
bureaucracy that we possibly can, in order to make life simpler for the
citizens of the Southern United States of America. Once a person
completes a very basic driving test-which is not necessary if you drove
yourself here; that would be a bit superfluous, wouldn't you say-a
license is issued. It's a SUSA license, valid in all states. A new
license is issued only if one changes address. Every three years a
driver gets his or her eyes tested. Once a person passes sixty, every
year. We have none of those silly written exams because all traffic
signs are universal here. When an income tax is enacted here, it will be
a flat tax that everybody understands and that will be a burden on no
one. In all probability, we will never have to have a personal income
tax. You see, for years we've

321 been sending teams of Rebels all over the world. They've been
gathering up all the gold, all the silver, all the diamonds and precious
and semi-precious stones. All the famous paintings and other various
types of art. All the great works of literature. We hav£ valuable coin
and stamp collections that would boggle your mind. In addition, we have
stockpiled massive amounts of uranium, lithium, titanium . . . you name
it, we've got it. We quite literally have, if converted into cash,
untold trillions and trillions of dollars in our coffers. We have enough
engines and car and truck bodies and spare parts and tires in climate
controlled bunkers to last us for approximately five hundred years. We
have planes, ships, massive amounts of artillery and tanks, millions of
small arms, and billions of rounds of ammunition. We have all the oil.
We heat our homes by a very advanced technique using solar energy. Yeah,
it works. We don't need nuclear power. We don't have to pay police,
because the home guard is the police. Everybody in the SUSA is a soldier
to some degree or another. I expect that by this time next year, we will
be able to mass over one million men and women, trained and ready to
fight to protect their homeland."

Ben paused to sip his coffee. "This is not a democracy, people. Not as
you know it. We do have a president. The people voted him in. The people
were asked if they wanted something along the lines of a House of
Representatives and Senate. Ninety-eight percent of them said no. That
ought to tell you what we think of your system of government."

"Hays Smith, General," a man said. "Telecommunications and Technology
Corporation. Pardon
322 my bluntness, but without a house and senate, how the hell do you
enact laws?"

Ben chuckled. "I appreciate your bluntness. It's refreshing. The laws
are already in place. And while they are not set in stone, it's close.
Any new law has to be voted on by the people. And under our system of
government, fifty-one percent does not constitute a clear majority. It
takes sixty percent to constitute a majority in any election ... on any
issue. I don't anticipate many new laws being put on the books.
Everybody seems to be happy the way things are."

"Because you all are of a like mind," Cynthia said.

"Exactly, Ms. Barnhart."

A man raised his index finger and Ben nodded. "Joel Greenburg, General.
MicroComp, Inc. Like Hays Smith, I'll be blunt. This is a very
restrictive society, is it not?"

"In some areas, yes," Ben admitted. "When it comes to crime, of any
sort, we don't tolerate it. We're growing now, and suffering growing
pains as we expand into all eleven states. But I assure you, that will
soon end when those so inclined toward crime learn-and they will learn,
believe me-that citizens of the SUSA are free to use deadly force to
protect what is theirs . . . without fear of arrest or civil lawsuit."

"What are your restrictions on guns, General?" Joel asked.

"None. We're all armed."

Ben held up a hand to stop any further questions. "Let's have some lunch
and then I'd like to take

323 you all on a short tour. Look around and ask questions of the
people. I think you'll be surprised."

"Or shocked," Cynthia added.

"Probably," Ben agreed.

324

President Blanton was shocked right down to his socks when he learned
that some of the nation's largest corporations were planning to rebuild
in the SUSA. That was something he had not even considered. He looked
across his desk at Cynthia Barn-hart, one of the few that once headed
Fortune 500 companies who had met with Ben Raines and decided not to
move to the SUSA. What he did not know was that her decision not to
relocate was purely personal. She hated Ben Raines and despised his
smart-aleck little bodyguard. That bitch had no manners and no respect
for her betters. Someday, Cynthia had silently vowed, she'd see that
trashy little Indian-looking squaw grovel at her feet.

Dream on, Cynthia. Groveling was something that Jersey did not do well.

Blanton stared at Cynthia. The woman had once been a TV soap star of
some importance and Homer just loved TV and movie stars. They were so
... well, with it.
"And the others?" he asked the woman.

"Most are relocating to the SUSA. They seem to

325 like the prospect of living under a right-wing dictatorship."

To call the SUSA a right-wing dictatorship was about as far off-base as
comparing an eagle to a parakeet. But a lot of people, including Homer
Blanton, really believed it was a dictatorship. In many respects the
SUSA was right-wing . . . but it was far from being a dictatorship.

Cynthia left the Oval Office to return to her office at the State
Department. She'd just been appointed to the position of Secretary of
State, a post she was certainly qualified to hold, of course. Homer was
busy looking for a one-eyed, club-footed, speech-impaired, syphilitic of
aborigine ancestry to fill the post of Secretary of Health and Human
Services. One must be fair to all, right? One of his first appointments
had gone to a former gangster, rap star who called himself Camel Puke.
Camel had been appointed Secretary of Education. Which was only fair,
since Camel had none. His press secretary-a ditz named Goo Goo MacGruff-
had antagonized the rapidly emerging press corps to the point of open
hostility. The newly appointed head of the FBI, Lance Loveless, who had
been kicked out of the Virginia Highway Patrol's training academy
because he could not bear the thought of having to shoot one of those
nasty, horrible pistols, was pressuring the pres to call for an
immediate ban on guns of all sorts. Anything that went bang or boom, as
Lance put it. Blanton's appointment to the newly created, brand-new,
by-golly, gee-whiz position of Secretary of GHE-Good Health For
Everybody-was a former basketball hero turned coach called Hubba-Hubba
who was eight-and-a-half feet

326 tall, drafted into the NBA out of a Mississippi junior high school,
and insisted upon coming to work in short pants, without a jock strap.

Homer just could not understand why his regime was not going well.

It's the caliber of people you pick, stupid.

Fall rolled quietly into winter and in the Southern United States of
America, conditions were going so smoothly it was very nearly boring.
Combat engineers were taking the ruined cities one at a time and
demolishing what was left, then clearing away the rubble and bulldozing
the area flat. The Rebels got in some target practice because the ruins
still held a goodly number of Night People, and the Creeps did not look
favorably on having their homes destroyed.

"Why don't they just move out of our area and into Blanton's part of the
country?" Jersey questioned. "Since he loves all sorts of weirdos."

"That's a good idea, Jersey," Ben replied. "Cor-rie, get me Blanton on
the horn."

She smiled. "He's not speaking to you, General. He says that since what
you did by breaking away from the Union is illegal, and the Southern
United States of America is not real, then you must not exist."

Ben looked at her. "He really said that?"

"Yes. According to Goo Goo."
Ben and team were returning from what had once been Birmingham. No trace
of the city now existed. It was as if some giant hand had reached down
from the heavens and ripped the ruins from

327 the face of the earth and flung them into another galaxy.

Cities in the SUSA were rapidly becoming a thing of the past. The
citizens had voted not to have them. From this day forward, smaller
communities would be stressed. They were much more personal and
friendly, schools were more conducive to learning, smaller towns much
better to live in, and easier to defend,

Railroads were being rebuilt and people were happily discovering and
using the much less stressful and relaxing mode of travel.

But outside of the SUSA, matters were going to hell in a handbasket.
While unemployment was practically zero in the SUSA, unemployment was
running rampant elsewhere. Blanton just could not get his regime
running; which came as no surprise to anyone with any sense.

"It's the same old tired democratic party philosophy of attempting to do
all things for all people all the time," Ben said to a visiting
journalist who asked for his opinion on the difficulty the other states
were having. "I don't know why in the hell they can't see that it just
doesn't work. God knows, they've been trying to make it work for decades."

"Blanton swears that this new nation of yours will someday rejoin the
Union."

"First of all, it isn't my nation," Ben corrected with a smile. "It
belongs to the people who inhabit it. That's where both the Democratic
and Republican parties got off the track years ago. They forgot the
country belongs to the people, and the people have a constitutional
right to overthrow or amend it if they so desire."

328 "Will you ever rejoin the Union, General?"

"No. Not as long as one Rebel is alive and can pick up a gun and fight.
We'll fight to the last person and we shall never surrender."

"Hard words, General."

"Hard times, my friend."

Even though Blanton had certainly appointed some real squirrels to
rather high positions in his newly formed government, somehow he had
managed to get some good people in among the kooks and flakes and banana
cream pies. His Secretary of Defense, Dick Penny, was one of them. Dick
managed to gain an audience with Blanton, after having to run a gauntlet
of what appeared to be teenybop-pers staffing the new White House. He
stopped by a young man who was standing in the hall, snapping his
fingers, his eyes glazed. There was an earplug in one ear.

"Pardon me," Dick said. "Are you Secret Service?" He had to repeat the
question three times.

"No, man," he was told. "I'm the assistant communications director. I'm
on my break. I'm just groovin'. Everything is out of sight. Don't get
uptight. It ain't cool to fight. It's right at night. You know what I mean?"
Dick stared at the young man for a moment, then slowly shook his head.
"I'm sorry I asked. Excuse me." He walked on. He stopped by the Secret
Service guard in front of the doors to the Oval Office. He recognized
this man from the old days. "Don, is that hollow head down the hall
representative of what's going on around here?"

329 "I'm afraid so, Mister Penny. You couldn't get me reassigned, could
you? Like maybe to Guam. That would be wonderful."

"I'll try."

"Thank you. Go right in. But be ready for anything. Big Mama just left
and they had a fight. She threw a vase at him."

"Did she hit him?"

"Unfortunately, no."

"Pity," Dick muttered and walked in. The president was standing by the
window, looking out at the first snowfall of the season.

Blanton turned to face the man. His face was grim. "Dick, what would you
say if I told you I was considering declaring war on Ben Raines and his
breakaway states?"

Dick Penny sat down. Quickly. He felt faint. Lightheaded. He stared at
the president for a moment while he recovered. "Mister President, with
all due respect, sir, I think that would be one of the dumbest goddamn
things you have ever considered." And you have a history of doing some
extremely stupid things, he added silently.

"Thank you for your candor, Dick. But I think I will declare war on the
Southern United States of America. Just . . ." He waved a hand. "Wipe
them out. Boom. Bang. Kablooy."

"Ka . . . blooy?"

"Right. Drop a big bomb on them. Blow them all up. Pow!"

"We don't have a bomb that big, sir."

"Well . . . hell! Build one!"

"A bomb big enough to blow up eleven states without doing damage to us?"
Dick shouted.

330 "That's impossible. Sir, Ben Raines has nuclear capability. You try
something like this and he'll put a guided missile right up your nose!"

Blanton sat down. "You really think he'd do that?"

"Hell, yes, I think he'd do it. He told you he would. Ben Raines doesn't
bluff."

"Then we'll use conventional weapons and infantry to wipe them out down
there."

Dick longed for a good stiff drink. But he knew Big Mama didn't approve
of alcohol. Somehow, he had to get the facts of life through to Blanton.
"Homer, listen to me. Our latest intel shows that Ben Raines has over
twenty battalions of the most skilled fighting men and women on the face
of the earth. He has ten other battalions held in reserve. And his
battalions in no way resemble our conventional battalions. Every person
that swore allegiance to the SUSA is a soldier. Approximately half a
million men and women. All armed. Heavily. All trained. Extensively. All
the equipment we have we had to build from scratch because Ben Raines
and his Rebels stole every goddamn tank and plane and gun and truck and
ship and boat in this entire nation. He has an Air Force. We don't. He
has a Navy. We don't. He has a Coast Guard. We don't. Everything we have
is poised to fight off the war with General Revere . . . which we know
is coming this spring. And you want to pick a fight with Ben Raines and
the Rebels, who have never been defeated? Homer, have you lost your damn
mind?"

"Bad idea, huh, Dick?"

"Terrible."

"Well, it was just a thought."

331 "Don't think it again. Ever!"

After taking his leave from the pres, Dick slowly walked down the long
hallway, thinking: is the man losing it? Has the strain finally gotten
to him? Or was that just frustration talking back there? Perhaps a
combination of both, Dick concluded. Although he admitted that Blanton's
seeming lack of basic common sense scared him at times.

He passed by the young man in the hall, who was still grooving, popping
his fingers and his gum.

"Hang in there, dude," Dick said.

"Yo, man," the assistant communications director replied, his eyes still
glazed from the impact of the music he had plugged into his ear. "Outta
sight!"

Dick walked on. Too many young people working around here; with too many
idealistic ideas. It's going to end in tragedy unless Blanton comes to
his senses and pulls in some older and calmer heads to advise him.

And it's going to end in tragedy a hell of a lot quicker if he ever
declares war on Ben Raines.

He stood for a moment at the front entrance and looked past the
wrought-iron fence at the crowds of people, all of them protesting about
one thing or the other. Food, jobs, housing, medical aid, lack of heat.
Dick shook his head in disbelief. There were coal trains loaded with
thousands of tons of coal still stuck on railroad tracks, the coal there
for the taking, and these yoyos were too goddamn lazy to go get it.
There were thousands of long-abandoned homes all over the nation and
these people were too goddamn lazy to occupy them and fix them up from
the millions of board feet of lumber lying about, theirs for the taking.
During the years of

332 hiding after the Great War, Dick and his family had planted huge
gardens, he and his wife and children home-canning the vegetables for
consumption later. Why in the hell didn't these protesters do the same?

"We want money, We want money, We want money!" came the chant.
"Money?" Dick muttered. "From what? The nation is flat broke."

He chose to exit out the back way. Same thing. Protesters all over the
damn place.

"We can clear you a way through, Mister Secretary," a Marine guard told him.

"Thank you," Dick said, his voice just audible over the angry chanting
and shouting and cursing from the rapidly growing, unruly mob.

"Rabble," Dick muttered.

"Beg your pardon, sir?" the Marine asked.

"Oh . . . nothing. Just talking to myself. It's a bad habit of mine."

"I do the same thing," the Marine admitted.

Dick managed to get his ten year old car started and work his way
through the demanding mob. They pounded on the hood and screamed
obscenities at him.

"It isn't worth it," Dick said aloud, once clear of the mob. "It just by
God isn't worth it."

He drove to his home in the suburbs and told his wife to pack up and get
the kids. They were leaving.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"To the Southern United States of America. I want to see if Ben Raines
has a job for a middle-aged ex-government employee."

333 The Rebels never stopped working during the unusually harsh and long
winter that fell upon the nation. Road-building and heavy construction
came to a virtual halt, but everything else continued, in many cases,
around the clock. Ben knew fully well that Revere was going to launch a
springtime offensive against Blanton, and he knew, with a warrior's
senses, that Blanton's forces were going to be defeated. It was only
logical to assume that once the other thirty-eight states were in the
control of Revere, the SUSA would be next. And that would be the mother
of all battles.

And Ben had made up his mind on another matter: this time, he would not
come to the aid of Blanton. If Blanton and his people sought asylum
inside the SUSA, that would be granted. But the Rebels were staying out
of the fight . . . unless Blanton agreed to recognize the SUSA as a
separate and sovereign nation.

Ben had ordered many of the bridges and overpasses leading into the SUSA
blown, and blockaded many of the secondary highways, thereby cutting

334 down the routes any enemy could use getting into the new nation.

Cecil had welcomed Dick Penny and family, and immediately put him to
work in the SUSA's fledgling state department, naming the man Secretary
of State.

Dick had never met Ben Raines, but during the first few seconds of their
first meeting, he realized why the man had been able to accomplish so
much. Ben Raines exuded power and confidence. His very presence filled a
room. And Dick Penny also sensed, quite correctly, that Ben was a very
dangerous man.

But Ben was smiles and handshakes on that first, all important meeting .
. . for a few seconds. Then he waved Dick to a chair and got right down
to business.

"Is Blanton going to make war on us, Dick?"

"He very much would like to, General," Dick leveled with him. "But I
think I talked him out of it."

"It's going to be a moot point later on this spring, anyway," Ben said,
with a shrug of his shoulders. "Because Nick Stafford is going to roll
right over him. The man who goes by the name of General Revere."

"Yes. You ... we ... are not going to back President Blanton?"

"No," Ben said firmly. "Not the committing of troops. Not unless he
recognizes us as a legal and separate nation."

"He's not a bad person, General."

"Oh, I know that. He's fairly likeable . . . for a liberal democrat.
Hanrahan, Lightheart. . . they're all right. But I'm not going to commit
my people to aid a political party whose views I am diametri-

335 cally opposed to." He shook his head. "Not a second time. Not unless
my conditions are met."

Cecil had warned Secretary Penny of Ben's decision, and the man offered
no argument on the subject. He was well aware that Ben Raines had
offered to sign a defense pact with Blanton-in return for Blanton
recognizing the SUSA as a separate nation-and that Blanton had tossed it
right back in his face. Another incredibly stupid act on the man's part.

"You and your wife and family getting settled in, Dick?" Ben asked, and
Dick knew then the matter of Blanton's fate was indeed closed.

"Oh, yes. Thank you. But we're all having somewhat of a difficult time
adjusting to the land of peace and plenty after what we've been living
in for years. Both of us still go from door to door before retiring for
the evening, to see if they are locked."

"It's a hard habit to break, and you're not alone. A lot of people still
lock their doors at night."

"Do you, General?"

Ben smiled. "No. But I have several dogs and they've very good at
alerting me. And," he sighed, "my area is patrolled quite heavily at all
times."

"That's the price of fame, General," Dick said.

Ben laughed and stood up. "No, Dick. That's the price one pays for
having two or three million people wanting to kill you."
Winter began loosening its icy grip on the nation and Blanton's military
leaders braced for General Revere's assault. All winter long Revere had
been positioning his troops and tanks and artillery and

336 Blanton's generals had watched with an increasing feeling of doom.
There was no way their smaller and inexperienced army was going to stop
Revere and his hard core of mercenaries. The best they could hope for
was a delaying tactic, during which time Homer Blanton and staff could
be spirited off to safety.

"No!" Blanton said, most emphatically. "I will not ask for asylum in the
SUSA. That is absolutely, positively out of the question. I will not go
groveling to Ben Raines. Besides, the SUSA does not officially exist. I
do not recognize that breakaway nation."

"Homer," one of his top people said, struggling to keep his temper in
check. "I know it's difficult for you, but will you stop being such an
asshole." That got Blanton's attention. "This Revere/Stafford person
will not attack the SUSA. Not until they deal with us. And they will.
The Rebels are just too strong a force. You've got to be a big enough
man to put pride and stubbornness aside and think about the good of the
country."

"Asshole?" Blanton whispered. "You think I'm an asshole, Willie?"

"At times, yes."

"I could not bear the thought of living under a dictatorship," VP Hooter
said.

"Horseshit!" Senator Hanrahan spoke up. "What do you think we held the
American people under for years before the Great War?"

"It was not a dictatorship, Senator," Homer said.

"The hell it wasn't. We taxed them to the breaking point to pay for
programs the majority didn't want, and when they objected and finally
spoke up about it, refusing to pay more than what they felt

337 was their fair share, we seized their possessions and/or put them in
prison. During your administration-and I accept my part of the blame for
it- the dictatorial powers of the IRS bankrupted and made homeless
untold thousands of decent, hardworking American citizens. You issued
orders-and the congress went along with it-to spy on the people, bug
their phones and personal computers, stifle freedom of speech, and you
stuffed unwanted programs and legislation down their throats, and in
effect told the majority of American citizens that if they didn't like
it, that was just too goddamn bad. And you have the audacity to sit
there and proclaim that you didn't run your own petty and oftentimes
petulant little dictatorship. I say again: horseshit!"

"What's changed you so, Senator," the president asked. "What's happened
to you?"

"I'm an old man, Homer. A worn-out old liberal who is tired of dodging
the growing number of potholes in a political road that we should have
abandoned several decades ago. I'm not saying that Ben Raines is one
hundred percent correct. No political philosophy ever is. Ours certainly
wasn't, and if you haven't seen that by now-and you obviously
haven't-then I feel sorry for you." He stood up and walked to the door
of the room. "I'm leaving, Homer. And I'm taking several of your key
staff people and senators and representatives with me. We're going down
to join Ben Raines. And if you have the sense God gave a goose, you'll
do the same. Goodbye, Homer."

Senator Hanrahan opened the door, walked out, and did not look back.

"We'll fight the mongrel hordes descending

338 upon us!" Rita Rivers bellowed, jumping up and marching around the
room, hollering at the top of her voice. She sang a verse of "God Bless
America." In rap. Kate Smith was probably spinning in her grave.

"Oh, no!" Blush Lightheart said, covering his ears.

"Right on, sister!" VP Hooter hollered, jumping up to march around the room.

"Wait a minute, Senator Hanrahan!" Blush hollered. "I'm coming with
you." He ran out of the room.

"We'll fight them and defeat them!" Rita squalled. "Damn filthy honky
republicans. The democratic liberal way is the only right and true and
just way. Power to the people. Together we'll carry the banner of
liberalism into battle and be victorious over the nasty, filthy
republican right. Our slogan will be a chicken in every pot."

The President of the United States took his hands from over his ears and
looked at the woman. He sighed and said, "Oh . . . fuck you, Rita!"

"Now?" she asked.

Cecil walked   into Ben's office. Ben was doing paperwork and he was
frowning. He   hated any and all types of paperwork. Cecil was wearing a
smile that a   charge of C-4 would not have been able to remove. Ben
looked up at   his old friend. "Want to tell me the joke, Cec?"

"We won, Ben?"

"Won what?"

He held up a paper. "Blanton has agreed to sign

339 treaties with us. He will officially recognize the SUSA as a
separate and sovereign nation."

Ben took the paper and put on his reading glasses, quickly scanning the
document. He sighed and removed his glasses, laying the paper aside.
"It's a desperation move, Cec. You know that. He wants us to fight his
wars for him. That's all this amounts to. He's a goddamn liberal
democrat. He'll never keep his word after the smoke clears."

"I beg to differ, sir," the voice came from the open doorway.

Ben looked up to see Hanrahan and Lightheart standing there. He smiled
and stood up, shaking hands with the men. "Did you two bring this document?"

"Yes, we did, Ben," Blush said. "And Blanton means every word of it. But
there is more. He has agreed to give you total command of our army. The
generals agreed to that. Once Revere is defeated, our two nations will
exist side by side. We will sign a mutually agreed upon non-aggression
pact and work out a free trade agreement. The United Nations is
reconvening. They have agreed to the recognition of the SUSA as a
separate nation. You've won, Ben. You've won."

There was joy in the SUSA, but it was tempered with the knowledge that a
hard battle lay between them and full acceptance as a nation. Many
Rebels would die. But freedom has never come cheaply. Members of the
Rebel Army reached for their weapons and made ready for war.

Cecil and his staff and Ben and his team flew

340 into Charleston, West Virginia and were escorted to the White House.
Cecil and Homer shook hands warmly. Ben did not offer his hand to Homer
Blan-ton and the President of the United States did not offer his hand
to Ben Raines. The two men didn't like each other, didn't trust each
other, and that was that.

Rita Rivers and VP Hooter glared daggers at Ben, and he pointedly
ignored them.

Ben turned to the large group in the room and said, "I would like for
President Jefferys and I to meet privately with President Blanton and VP
Hooter."

"Now see here!" Rita protested.

"Please, Ms. Rivers," Blanton quieted her. "All of you. Leave the four
of us alone."

Blanton rang for coffee and when that was served and the door closed
behind the aide, he looked at Ben. "It's your call, General."

"President Blanton," Ben said, after taking a sip of coffee. "You and I
will probably never get along. I think you sense that as strongly as I
do. But I really feel that you, and Vice President Hooter, do not truly
understand the philosophies of the Rebel government. There has been so
much misinformation spread about us, that your confusion is understandable."

Ben leaned forward. "I wanted Cecil to be the one to tell you these
things, but he insisted that I do it. Perhaps in the hopes that you and
I could become, if not friends, at least not enemies. I don't know. But
I'll give this my best effort.

"President Blanton, much of what you and all the other liberals in
government tried to do before

341 the Great War was admirable. Only a very callous or shortsighted
fool would deny that. It was very impractical, but admirable. But you
were trying, and will probably continue to try, to buck human nature.
There will always be poor people, Mr. Blan-ton. That's the way life is.
In any land, on any continent. It has been that way since the beginning
of time and will remain that way until God takes a hand and fulfills His
promise to destroy the earth and all on it.

"There will be those who will work hard all their lives and never have
anything to show for it. There will be hopelessness and despair, tragedy
and misfortune, needless suffering of good decent people, and the most
terrible and heinous of crimes committed against the weak. There will be
winners and there will be losers.
"Mr. Blanton, we, as leaders, can only point people in the right
direction, perhaps provide them with some incentive and material, and
then turn them loose and hope for the best. We cannot be all things to
all people, all the time. Not at the expense of others who can ill
afford to foot the bills.

"When people take away from society more than they give, in the form of
criminal acts, and do it time and time again, I see no point in keeping
those people alive. Not at taxpayer expense. This time around we didn't
kill them. I just ran them out and handed them to you."

"I know," Blanton said, very drily.

Cecil had to duck his head to hide his smile at that.

"Now. Mr. Blanton, what you do with those types of people is your
problem. You and the rest of the

342 old hanky-stomping, weepy, take-a-punk-to-lunch, soft-line liberal
party helped create them, so you can have them. If they come back into
the SUSA with anything else on their minds than obeying the law and
working hard and respecting the rights of others, we'll bury them.

"Mr. Blanton, I'm telling you all this not to chastise, but to warn you,
to urge you, that if you don't adopt some domestic policy very similar
to ours, your emerging nation is not going to make it. You see and hear
all those protesters outside this office? Why aren't they out working on
a home to live in? Gathering up free coal or cutting wood or gathering
up scraps of wood to burn? There are millions of head of cattle just
running loose all across this nation. They belong to no one. Why don't
they go gather up some and start a small ranch and farm? There are
literally billions of chickens running loose, laying eggs all over the
place. There is no reason for any of those people out there to be
hungry. But they're waiting on the government-your government-to do it
for them.

"Now there are old people out there who do need help, and they genuinely
deserve that help, because you and all the other politicians sure as
hell tore the taxes out of them for many, many years. There are very
young people and some disabled people in that crowd. They, too, do
deserve government help. And you don't need forty-seven house and senate
committees to do that. And the rest of those people, Mr. Blanton-they're
losers. They've been losers all their lives and they'll die losers. They
think nothing is ever their fault. It's always the fault of someone
else. The boss didn't like them, he or

343 she picked on them. They didn't get promoted because of this, that,
or the other reason. But never was it their fault. And if they do find
work, they will do just enough to get by. Never more than their share.

"I feel sorry for you, Mr. Blanton, because we've handed you the dregs
of society. We've handed you the whiners, complainers, the chronic
whip-lash and bad-backers. We've handed you the slackers and the
dullards and the underachievers. Those are some of the types of people
who are attracted to your form of government. The other type is the
high-idealed, idealistic, and out of touch with reality person. They're
the smart ones. They have lots of book sense but not nearly enough
common sense. They're the ones who will form your staff and make up your
house and senate. They will write your speeches and pass the legislation
and implement all the glorious and totally unworkable social programs
that will lead your government right back to the way it was when you
first took office, a decade ago. And you know where that led.

"So, Mister President, here we are. The Eagle and the Dove. The nation
that I helped create is going to fly. We're going to soar. We're already
so far ahead of your nation that you'll never catch up, not unless you
start to copy our ways. And I urge you to do that."

Ben stood up and looked at Homer Blanton. "That's what I came to say,
sir. You and Cecil work out all the formalities between our two
countries. But you'll have to excuse me; I have a war to fight."

"My war, you mean," Blanton words were softly offered.

344 Ben nodded his head and walked to the door. There, he turned around.
"That's about the size of it, Homer."

344

345 Far to the north of the new White House in West Virginia, General
Revere sat behind the desk in his headquarters building and mulled over
the new situation that faced him. It was a brand new ball game now, for
sure. The prospect of facing twenty battalions of combat-tested and
proven Rebels, plus massive armor and artillery, soured his stomach.

The signing of treaties between the USA and the SUSA had thrown a monkey
wrench into Revere's plans. That plan had been to defeat Blanton's
poorly-trained and ill-equipped army and then turn the hundreds of
thousands of malcontents and whiners and complainers that Ben Raines had
tossed out of the SUSA loose against Raines. They would overwhelm the
Rebels by sheer numbers, then Revere's troops, coming in force right
behind them, would mop it all up.

Now the baby just got tossed out with the bathwater and Revere was back
to square one.

Revere's army was larger than the Rebels and Blanton's troops combined,
for thousands of foreign mercenaries had arrived to join his forces. But

346 when facing the Rebels, size did not count for all that much.
Khamsin, the Hot Wind from the desert, had learned that. So had Kenny
Parr and Lan Vilar and Matt Callahan and the Night People and Sam
Hartline and all the others who had faced Raines's Rebels over the
bloody years. Those people now lay rotting in their graves and Ben
Raines was walking tall.

"Shit!" Revere swore softly, as the door to his office opened and the
commanding officer of his intelligence section walked in and took a
seat. Revere lifted his eyes to the man. "I suppose you've brought me
bad news," he stated, not putting it as a question.

The man lifted a folder. "Analysis just finished working this up. If we
tangle with Ben Raines head to head in a conventional ground war, our
losses would be unacceptable. They would be even worse if we tried to
fight him using unconventional tactics. He is considered the world's
foremost expert in down and dirty guerrilla warfare."

Revere sighed. The news was not unexpected. "Give it all to me."

"We fall back across the old Canadian border, into the areas that are
secure to us, and reopen the factories there while we continue to build
in strength. If we run the war factories around the clock, seven days a
week, in a year's time we'll have the armor and artillery to
successfully face and defeat Ben Raines and Blanton's forces."

Revere grunted. "Your experts have taken into consideration that during
that year's time, Raines and Blanton will be doing the same thing and
growing stronger?"

"Yes. But only Raines will be doing that. Blan-

347 ton's main thrust will be concentrating on social programs. Blanton
is not nearly as security minded as Raines. Our people have been purged
from the Rebel ranks, but we have many around Blanton. We have two on
the White House staff who feed us information daily. We know everything
that Blanton plans. He doesn't polygraph people the way Raines does."

"Can we sanction Ben Raines?"

"Highly unlikely. That's been considered and rejected. Raines has
security around him at all times. Most of the time you can't see them,
but there is a security circle around the man constantly. Outside of
that, there is a uniformed larger circle, then another circle outside of
that one. Even a suicide attempt would probably not be successful."

"Damn! How much time do we have?"

"Not much, Paul. We'd better start moving immediately."

Revere slowly nodded his head. "All right. I'll order the pullback. A
year is not that long."

"I knew it!" President Blanton yelled when he heard the news. "Revere is
all mouth and bluster. I knew he'd back away from us."

"He didn't back away from us, sir," General Holtz corrected. "He just
didn't want to tangle with Ben Raines."

"Whatever," Blanton said with a wave of his hand. "Now we can
concentrate on really important issues instead of pouring money into the
military."

The generals exchanged glances. Same old juke-

348 box, same old song. The generals rose as one and walked out.

After receiving the news of Revere's withdrawal, Ben called for a
meeting with all his batt corns. "I don't have to tell you what this
means," he said. "You all know. All Revere did was postpone the fight
until he can grow stronger. Well, I'm not going to let him do that.
We're going into Canada and kick the shit out of him."

"Blanton won't like that, Ben," Cecil warned.

"I don't care what Blanton likes or dislikes," Ben was quick to reply.
"I have it on good authority that General Holtz will not commit troops
against us. Blanton is going to pitch one of his temper tantrums but
that's about all he can do. We've got to cut the head off this snake
before it can grow. Start moving supplies out by ship . . . now." He
placed a pointer on a map. "Dock in Maine, here, and start moving
inland, setting up a depot . . . here. I want four battalions in place
on the ground as security before the first ships dock. Dan, have your 3
Battalion parachute in along with Buddy and his special ops group.
Georgi, you and your 5 Battalion go in with Jackie and her 12 Battalion.
I'll get things rolling here and then join you with my 1 Battalion.
Thermopolis, work out the logistics. That's it, people. Let's go."

"He can't invade a friendly sovereign nation!" Blanton squealed. "I'll
deny him ground routes and air space."

349 "With what?" one of his senior advisers asked. "That rabble
protesting outside the White House? What are they going to do, hit the
Rebels with their placards?"

"You asked for Raines's help," Senator Arnold said. "Personally, I can't
stand the man. But he's only meeting the threat the best way he knows
how- before Revere can grow stronger. Reluctantly, I've got to support
him. Besides," he said with a nasty smile, "the Rebels might be so
weakened after a sustained campaign against Revere that we would be able
to crush him and put this Union back together."

"Right on!" Blanton said. "Good thinking, Senator." He turned to his
secretary of state, the former soap star, Cynthia Barnhart. "Advise
Secretary of State Penny that this campaign has our full blessing. God
speed and all that crap."

"He's lying through his capped teeth," Ben said, tossing the communique
aside. "He hopes we'll be so weakened by fighting Revere that his troops
will be able to overwhelm us."

"Regretfully, that is my conclusion too," Dick Penny said. "But I don't
believe General Holtz will stand for committing troops against us."

Ben smiled. "Oh, I know he won't. I anticipated this from that goddamn
liberal and met with General Holtz and his senior officers two days ago
in Tennessee. If Blanton orders Holtz and his troops to face us after
the Canadian Campaign, Holtz and his people will turn on him and depose
him." Ben smiled at a clearly startled Dick Penny. "You see,

350 Dick, there are many things I have over President Blanton. He's not
nearly as sneaky as I am, and not nearly the one hundred percent
hard-assed son of a bitch that I am. Nice guys can't govern a nation
this size. It takes a mean bastard to do that. It takes a man able to
pick up a phone and order a sanction against an enemy. There hasn't been
a Democratic president since Harry Truman with the balls to do that. The
Iranian mess could have been avoided if the president had killed Khomeni
in Paris, but he didn't have the guts to do it. All he wound up doing
was fucking up a hostage rescue. I'd have killed that bastard and not
given it a second thought. Khomeni, not the president. We had the
deniables ready to go and in place. Blanton is going to make a bad
mistake if he fucks with me."

"Ben," Dick Penny said, leaning forward. "Could you kill the President
of the United States?"

Ben met the man's steady gaze. "To preserve all we've fought for over
the long bloody years . . . I'd have to consider it."