file:///D|/Books/Johnstone/William%20W%20Johnstone%20-%20[Ashes%2003]%20-%20Anarchy%20in%20the%20Ashes.txt




To Charles and Rosemary
The enemy say that Americans are good at a long
shot, but cannot stand the cold iron. I call upon you
instantly to give a lie to this slander. Charge!
-Winfield Scott
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.
Any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, events, or locales is
entirely coincidental.
PROLOGUE: A NEW BEGINNING
  It looked good.
  Yes, Ben Raines thought as he drove the area
of the nation known to a few as the new Tri-States, it
did look good. As he drove he gazed out at the
fertile land that would soon bring forth beans and cotton
and corn and the many hundreds of small gardens that would
feed the people.
  Ben smiled.
  For the first time since the arrival of Ben and his
Rebels in portions of Arkansas, Louisiana,
and Mississippi, Ben felt some degree of
optimism for the future of those who chose to follow his
dream.
  The spring of 2001 was, Ben felt, a long
way from what most science fiction writers of his
generation had envisioned. Those writers envisioned
robots doing much of the tasks formally relegated to the
unskilled. They imagined numerous space
shuttles to faraway worlds, an easing of the world's
hunger, great strides and breakthroughs in the field of
medicine-and so very much more.
  Instead, the world now hung by a slender
thread: on one side a chance for civilization
to flourish; on the other, anarchy, barbarism, a
return to the caves.
  We've got to make it, Ben mused as he
drove. Some group of people must show the rest of the world that
civilization and order can once more prevail over
chaos.
  We've got to make it.

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  It's up to us, and I know it. But I don't have
to like the heavy yoke of responsibility that hangs like
that stinking albatross about my neck.
  But, he sighed, we almost made it. We came so
close, so very close to crawling out of the ashes of
nuclear war. 1988 was not the end. It could have been a
glorious new beginning. But 1988 blew up in our
faces and very nearly destroyed the entire world.
  His thoughts drifted back to the beginning of his dream:
Tri-States, a section of America in the west,
after the horror of germ and nuclear war; a society
of free men and women of like mind, like dreams, like
hopes. A society where people of all races could
live and work and be content. And live free of
crime. And Ben Raines and his Rebels did it.
Social scientists and social anthropologists
and assorted liberals and bleeding hearts had
always maintained it could not be done, but Ben and his people had
proved them incorrect. Grossly incorrect.
Those men and women who were the founders and the foundation of
Tri-States had succeeded against all odds. They
had made their dream work.
  And for almost a decade they had lived in peace and
harmony and contentment, in a land where good
schools-free of nit-picking and government
interference
  and unions and leniency-had done what schools were
meant to do: educate the young, mold their minds, teach
them reading and writing and math and science and discipline
and respect.
  Tri-States had shown the world-that world which
remained-that a government does not need to be
top-heavy with bureaucracy and dead weight and
hundreds of unfair and unworkable laws and
pork-barrel projects and scheming politicians
and massive overspending and dead-heads.
  But the Central Government-then located in
Richmond, Virginia because D. C. had taken a
nuke dead-on back in '88-witha lunatic at the
helm of state, could not bear the success of Ben
Raines and his people. President Hilton Logan
had ordered the destruction of
Tri-States-and all its inhabitants.

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  Only three years ago, Ben thought, waving to a
Rebel standing by a fence, talking with a neighbor. The
men returned the wave.
  "Hi, General!" they called. Both men wore
side arms belted around their waists. And they would have
automatic weapons close by, not just because they were
citizen soldiers, regulars in the Rebel army,
but because the world was still tumbling about in fear and chaos and
violence and near-anarchy.
  Citizen soldiers, Ben thought, driving past the
talking men. That is why we survived and so many
others did not. I insisted that
all
my people be a part of the armed forces, with all the training and
discipline contained therein. And we survived the
holocaust, came through it, due in no small part
to the fact the people were armed and trained and disciplined.
  That should tell the world something.
  But what world is left to hear it?
  So much has happened in only three years.
  Ben wondered, if history were ever written abut
this tragic period of the world, if anyone would believe
that one man, Ben Raines, could go from novelist
to guerrilla leader to the founder of a separate
nation within a nation back to guerrilla leader, and from there
move on to the office of the president of the United
States, and once more back to guerrilla leader-all
in the short span of only twelve years?
  Unbelievable.
  Ben smiled. It would have made a hell of a
book, he thought, the writer in him once more
surfacing. He missed writing, missed the long
hours of solitude, missed the exercising of his mind
as he grappled with plot and dialogue, missed the
deadlines he used to curse.
  Reading, he thought, the smile still on his lips.
That's the key. That is what we have to stress with the young
people. The nation, Ben knew, had begun slipping in the
reading department-really took a beating from 1960 to the
big blow-up of '88. Can't let that happen again.
Got to stress reading and math and science. For those will
be the keys to picking up the pieces of civilization
and putting them back together once more.

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  Thank God the mindless inanity of much of
prime-time TV was gone. His smile turned
grim. The only good thing to come out of being nuked.
  Ben lost his smile as his eyes picked up the
reflection of his constant shadow in the rear-view
mirror of his pickup: his bodyguards.
  Sgt. Buck Osgood would be at the wheel of the
rear
  vehicle. With another Rebel riding shotgun,
armed with an automatic weapon, and a third Rebel
in the rear of the vehicle, ready to grab the big
.50-caliber machine gun.
  By nature a loner, Ben could never become
accustomed to the idea of having a babysitter wherever
he went-not even after all these years.
  And ranging a half mile ahead of him, always
trying to stay out of his sight, for his bodyguards knew
how Ben felt, would be another Jeep or APC,
with more Rebels in it, all heavily armed.
  What price fame? Ben silently mused, the
mental question laced with sarcasm.
  But Ben knew the precautions were necessary, for there had
been sightings of mutants. However, the mutants
for the most part left humans alone as long as they were
not provoked. In addition, there was the need to guard
against roaming gangs of thugs and paramilitary
groups. At least several times a month they would
attempt to slip into the new Tri-States, to steal
or rape or burn or kill, or all of those
things.
  They would be put down hard; if not killed
on the spot, they would be hanged the next day.
  For that was the order of day now-around the battered
globe. Nowhere else that the Rebels knew of was
there social order-only the new Tri-States, which
set rules and behavior and morals.
  In this late spring of 2001, worldwide, it had
come down to the survival of the fittest. Humankind
had reverted very nearly back to the caves. And in some
cases, had indeed returned to the caves, although Ben
and his people would not learn of that for months to come.
  For now, in the new Tri-States, Ben Raines
and his six thousand survivors, men, women, and children,

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were attempting to rebuild some sort of workable
society out of the ruins of war and anarchy and a worldwide
plague. Hopefully, they could fan a spark from the
ashes.
  Ben thought that just maybe they could pull it off.
Maybe.
  God knew they had to try.
  Ben didn't think humankind would have another
chance.
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
  May, 2001
  The men and women of the IPF, International
Peace Force, had landed quietly on Canadian
soil, on their way to the United States. Their
route had been long and often tedious. They had
waited and trained and studied for ten years before making
their move. They had planned well.
  They had sailed from home port in March-not the
easiest month to leave-and skirted south of Cape
Farewell, into the Labrador Sea. They sailed
into the Hudson Strait, passed around Mansel
Island, keeping to the east, then angled south
by southwest until the mouth of the River was in sight.
There, they offloaded boats and equipment for the river
trip.
  They followed the Nelson into Lake Winnipeg,
then began a tortuous trek overland. But most were
young and strong and the trip was nothing compared to the training
they had been undergoing for the past decade.
  All came through. Anything for the Motherland and for the
development of a
meister rasse.
  The IPF picked up Highway 10 in
Canada and procured vehicles from the abandoned
cars and trucks. They headed for the United States
border, dropping off small contingents of IPF
personnel along the way. They saw very few
people alive in Canada. Those they saw seemed more
curious than hostile.
  Had the people in Canada known what type of monster
mentality they were facing, they would have turned hostile
in a hurry.

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  But by the time they discovered the truth, it was too
late for the few Canadians left alive in the
areas where the IPF landed.
  In the United States-the late, great United
States-the IPF set up base camp in
Minnesota and radioed back to home port they were
at their objective. They were told two more ships
had set sail and had steamed near the mouth of the
Nelson. There, they were awaiting orders to offload
men and equipment.
  In Minnesota, the IPF broke off into teams
and fanned out into the countryside, testing the mood of the
people. In a great many cases they found men and
women-entire families-who were just barely hanging
on to life, victims of the many roving gangs of
thugs in the land.
  The men and women of the IPF spoke
grammatically correct English, with only a very
slight accent. They were very polite: the men were often
courtly in their dealings with American women,
straightforward and open with the American men. At first.
But conditions and deportment among the IPF were
subject to
  sudden and drastic changes-very soon.
  An American man asked where the people had come from.
  "Originally, Eastern Europe," came the
reply, always with a smile.
  "That would account for the accent."
  "Yes."
  "And you want?"
  "To be your friend, and for you to be our friends. To live in
peace in this troubled world. To try and find the cause
for the terrible tragedy that has befallen us all, and
to correct it."
  "Isn't that what we all want?"
  "Yes," Gen. Georgi Striganov said with a
smile. He was a strikingly handsome man, tall and
well-built, with pale blue eyes, fair skin,
and blond-gray hair. "Indeed it is."
  The American stuck out his hand. "I'll tell you
what the problem was. The goddamn niggers wanted
everything given to them and the goddamn Jews went along
with it. Every time you looked at the TV there was about a

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million greasers comin' across the border, grabbing
up jobs that should have gone to Americans."
  General Striganov listened with a sympathetic
smile on his lips.
  "Taxes kept goin' up and up and up; it never
seemed to stop. Everything for the minorities and to hell
with the taxpayers. I said it, and by God that's the way
I feel about it."
  Striganov shook the man's hand. "My name is
Georgi. I think we're going to get along very
well. Now
  tell me: How can we help you?"
  Ben watched Ike pull into his driveway and
get out of the pickup. Ike walked up to Ben,
resting on his hoe handle in his garden.
  "El Presidente," Ike said with a grin, "it
is time, I believe, for me to speak."
  "Quote the Walrus, "Of shoes-and ships-and
sealing wax." Maybe I don't want to hear it,
Ike."
  The grin never left Ike's face. "Hell,
Ben, that never stopped me before."
  The two men had met down in Florida, back
in late '88, the ex-Seal and the
ex-Hell-Hound. They had been close friends, like
brothers, ever since.
  "That certainly is true, Ike."
  "You need a woman, Ben."
  "Oh, hell!"
  "Hear me out, ol' buddy. Things are lookin'
pretty good around here, thanks to you. You somehow put
some steel in the backbones of those who follow you. I
personally didn't believe you could do it-but you did.
With any kind of luck, pal, well make it here."
  The usage of the informal noun brought memories
rushing to both men of Pal Elliot, a black man
who had been instrumental in shaping the original
Tri-States. Pal, his wife Valerie and their
children had been killed in the governmental assault on
Tri-States.
  Ben shook away the memories of people dead and
events past. "I am perfectly content with my
life as a bachelor, Ike."

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 "That's bull and you know it, Ben. You got too
much he-goat in you for that." He grinned. "Have you
seen the twins?"
 "Which set?" Ben asked sourly.
 Ike laughed and punched the man playfully on the
shoulder. "Rosita's set."
 "No."
 "They got their momma's good looks and your
eyes. You know what she named them?"
 Ben had to smile at the memories of Rosita.
"Ben and Salina. Not very subtle of her, I'd
say."
 "Have you seen Dawn?"
 "Get to the point, Ike," Ben said wearily.
"If there is a point." He knew very well what
the point was.
 "That's your baby, Ben." It was not phrased as a
question.
 "Yes," he admitted. "She said she was going
to have it and nothing I could say would change her mind."
 "And now you're alone and have been for some months."
 Ben shrugged.
 "What are you going to do: put a rubber band around it
and become celibate?"
 Ben laughed at just the thought. "That would be painful,
buddy."
 "The rubber band or celibacy?"
 Ben tried his best glare on Ike. It didn't
work, bouncing off the stocky man. "Ben, you've been
rattlin' "round in that big ol" house like a pea
in a dry pod. For all you've been through, you still
look like a man forty years old. I know-a lot of
us know-you're restless. Would like to take off and ramble.
But you can't do that, Ben. You're the glue that
holds us together. You was to take off, Tri-States
would collapse."
 Ben did not like to think of himself as being that
 important to the society. It bothered him. "And
you think a woman would help settle me down, is
that right, Ike?"
 "It's been known to happen."
 "I read Roanna's newspaper every week.
Maybe I should advertise?"

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  "It isn't funny, Ben." Ike was serious.
  "And I'm not treating it as a joke, Ike.
Damn it, Ike, I don't want a harem. And
I'm not liking the feeling I get when I leave the
farm. That's why I've been keeping a low
profile, and why Cecil is being groomed-not that he
needs any grooming-to take my place, and the
sooner the better."
  "Cecil's a good man," Ike said guardedly.
  "Drop the other shoe, Ike."
  "Nobody can take your place."
  Ben felt temper building in him. He fought it
back. "And I don't like that crap either, Ike.
Damn, buddy, nobody is indispensable-you should know
that. Nobody!"
  Ike stood quietly, waiting by the fence.
Finally he waved his hand and sighed. "All right,
Ben, let's don't fuss about it. Too much to do
without putting that into it. Two reasons I came out
here. You won't discuss number one, so here's
number two: Intelligence keeps picking up some
strange radio transmissions. They came to me with
it "cause, well..."
  "They're afraid to come to me with them," Ben
finished it. There was a flat tone to his voice.
  "I reckon that's about the size of it," the
Mississippi-born-and-reared Ike admitted.
  "That really makes me feel swell, Ike."
  Ike spread his hands in a gesture of "what can
I
  say?" When he spoke his voice was soft. "You
know you're bigger than life to a lot of people, Ben."
  "And I get the feeling it's getting out of hand."
  "Maybe. Anyway, we pinpointed latitude
and longitude. Coming from just south of the Arctic
Circle. Twenty degrees west longitude,
sixty-five degrees north latitude. They're
coming from Iceland, Ben."
  "Iceland! But Iceland was supposed to be
destroyed, Ike."
  "You got it. And the transmissions are in
a funny language. It's almost Russian-but it
isn't. It is a Russian dialect, though."

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  Ben nodded his head thoughtfully. "Could be one of a
dozen or so. Latvian, Croatian,
Georgian. What do you make of it?"
  Ike shook his head. "Strange, Ben-weird.
You remember that we got reports back in "89
that Iceland was hot, took several nukes
nose-on."
  "Yes," Ben's reply was thoughtful. "We damn
sure did. And as I recall, I wondered why
they would-or should. OK, they've got to be
broadcasting to somebody, Ike."
  "Right. To a base in northern Minnesota."
  "Now that is interesting."
  "I did a little checking "fore I drove up
to see you, since you never seem to leave this raggedly
ol" place," Ike added dryly. Ben ignored
that dig. "Doctor Chase says it would have been
highly unlikely the plague would have hit that far
north. Extreme temperatures, hot or cold,
seem to at first stall it, then kill it."
  "Wonder why he never told me that?"
  was "Cause you don't never leave this goddamn
place!"
  "Uh-huh. You have someone attempting
to translate the language?"
  "Right. Ben, what are you thinking? Man, I
don't like the look in your eyes."
  Ben slapped his friend on the back, his mood
suddenly lifting. "Ike, I want you to personally
get me a full platoon together."
  "Now, damn it, Ben!"
  "I want supplies for a sustained operation.
Full combat gear. Mortars and light howitzers."
"Goddamn
it, Ben!"
  "At least two APC'S and rig .50's on
all the Jeeps, no telling what we'll run
into."
  "If I had known you were gonna pull this kind of
crap I'd have never come out here!"
  "And have one of Doctor Chase's doctors
accompany us. No telling what we'll find.
Get on that right away, will you, Ike?"

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  Ike stood for a moment, glaring at his friend. Ben
returned his gaze sweetly, blandly, the picture
of all innocence. Ike finally turned away,
muttering under his breath.
  Ben rubbed his hands together, a grin moving his
mouth. Ben Raines did not like inactivity. He
liked to be on the move, liked action.
  This was just what the doctor ordered.
  Sam Hartline looked like the stereotyped
Hollywood mercenary-when Hollywood existed, that
is. Six feet, two inches, heavily muscled,
a deep tan, dark brown hair graying at the
temples, cold green eyes, and a scar on his right
cheek.
  Cecil had summed up Hartline several years
back.
  "Sam Hartline is a goddamned psychopath.
And one hard-line nigger hater. He was with Jeb
Fargo outside Chicago back in "88 and
'89."
  "Mr. Hartline," General Striganov
greeted the mercenary warmly, with a smile and a firm
handshake. "How good to meet with you at last. Did you
have a pleasant trip up?"
  "Very nice," Hartline replied, his eyes taking
in and silently appraising the Russian. The man
looked to be about the same age as Ben Raines, and
in just as good physical condition. Hartline wondered
if the Russian was as tough as Ben Raines.
He'd damn well better be, he
concluded, if he's thinking of tangling with Raines.
  "You have laid claim to the entire state of
Wisconsin," General Striganov said, not losing
his smile. "Don't you find that a rather ambitious
undertaking, Mr. Hartline?"
  Hartline's smile was as cold as the one greeting
him. "Not at all, General. The people seem to be coming
along splendidly."
  Striganov leaned back in his chair. "You know,
of course, who I am and what I represent?"
  Hartline shrugged his heavy shoulders. "You're a
former member of the KGB." He smiled. "The
Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Brozopasnosti."

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  Striganov's eyebrows lifted slightly. Then
the rumors concerning Hartline's linguistic
abilities were not exaggerated.
  "A general in the Russian Army. Or what
is left of that army."
  The smile did not quite reach Striganov's eyes.
"I assure
  you, Mr. Hartline, we are of more than ample
number. Ah, well, shifting away from me for a time,
Mr. Hartline-may I call you Sam? Thank
you. Sam, it is quite obvious to any intelligent being
that communism-that type of order advocated and
practiced by my superiors over those long
decades-simply did not work. It was much too
repressive. Would you agree?"
  "Yes, General, to a point, I would."
  "Ah, good. We are of like mind already. Half the
battle is won, I believe. Sam, I have some
excellent English tea; would you care for more? Good!"
He ordered more tea sent in. "You see, Sam,
I was one of those who led the rebellion-for want of a
better word-against the Politburo back in '88.1
was a colonel then, but with quite a following." A look
of anguish mixed with regret passed over his handsome
features, quickly disappearing.
  "We failed," Georgi said simply. "The world
exploded in nuclear and germ warfare. You know all
that-ancient history. We shan't fail again. Not
if you agree to help me instead of fighting me."
  Hartline had no intention of fighting the
Russian. But he saw no point in revealing his
hole card just yet. "I'm still here, General,
listening." Hartline sipped his hot tea. It was very
good tea. The best he'd had in months. "Earle
Gray?" he asked.
  "But of course. None finer. Before you
misinterpret my previous statement,
Sam-I am still a communist. I was born a
communist, I shall die believing in that ideology. But
I lean more to the socialistic aspects of the
philosophy, and away from the harshness-more or less-of
hard-liners."
  Hartline knew the man was lying. But he decided

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to
  play the game. "But you do believe in the caste
system."
  "But of course! And so do you,
nyet?"
  "Da," Hartline replied, his eyes locked to the
cold gaze of the Russian. "I speak fluent
Russian, General."
  "I know," Georgi said.
  Hartline began musing aloud. "Divide the people
into classes. At the second level, the doctors
and scientists and legal minds and upper-echelon
executives. At the third level, the farmers and
ranchers and foremen and supervisors, people of that ilk.
The fourth level will be the workers. The fifth level,
the really menial jobs. Am I close,
General?"
  "V. But you left out the top level, Sam."
  "Why... that's us, General."
  "Yes." The Russian smiled. "Go on."
  "We need to purge the races. Make the races
pure, so to speak. Niggers, spies, Jews,
Indians, Orientals-we can dispose of them."
  Georgi Striganov laughed, a big booming
laugh. "I think, Sam Hartline, we are going
to get along very well. Very well, indeed. Oh my,
yes."
  June, 2001
  Ben longed for the day when Cecil would take over the
reins of responsibility so Ben could just roam. But
for now he was leaving Cecil in charge only
temporarily. As Ben made ready to pull out on
Sunday, June tenth, he felt better than he
had in weeks. He drove a Chevy pickup with
four-wheel drive capability if needed, and all
the vehicles in the column had PTO
  winches on the front. Four
deuce-and-a-halves carried spare parts, ammo,
food and other equipment. Ben had planned very
carefully, leaving nothing out: medical supplies,
walkie-talkies, bull-horns, clothing and
dozens of other small but likely-to-be-necessary
items.

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  Ben had cut his platoon down to forty for
mobility purposes, but the forty were, for the most
part, all combat vets, and all of them 110 percent
loyal to Ben Raines and his desire to rebuild from
the ashes.
  James Riverson, the ranking NCO in the
Rebel army, and a longtime member of Ben's recon
team, sent out two of his people to take the far point.
They would range several miles in front of the
column, always staying in radio contact.
  Although everyone was against Ben's leading the
column-directly behind the point vehicle-no one
dared say anything about it.
  Except Lt. Mary Macklin.
  "Pardon my impudence, sir," she asked, standing
by his pickup truck, driver's side, moments
before pulling out. "But are you trying to prove something?"
  Ben looked at her, blinked. Tried to place
her. Then it came to him.
  Back in Tri-States after racing to escape the
plague, arriving there in a raging blizzard, Ben
had slept a few hours in the motel Ike and his people
had prepared for the Rebels from the east, then had
walked downstairs for breakfast.
  Over bacon and eggs and a huge stack of
flapjacks, Ben asked, "How's it
looking, Ike?"
  "Fifty-eight hundred, Ben."
  Ben could not believe it. "What the hell happened
to the rest? We had more than ten thousand six months
ago."
  "They just didn't make it, partner. Word is still
pretty sketchy, but from all reports, we lost a
full battalion of people coming out of Georgia. We
were in contact one day ... next day, nothing. A
couple of companies were ambushed up in Michigan.
We lost a full platoon of people in Wisconsin,
and we don't know what killed them."
  "What do you mean, Ike?"
  "Just that, Ben. We don't know what happened.
The two people who survived died on the way here without
ever regaining consciousness. They were, well,
mangled all to hell and gone. I got the

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pictures if you got the stomach for it."
  Ben thought he knew what the pictures would
reveal; he had seen something very similar to it on a
lonely, windy highway in Illinois.
  He said as much.
  Ike toyed with his coffee cup. "And?"
  Ben shook his head. "We deal with it if or when
we see whatever killed those people with our own
eyes."
  Ike grunted softly. "Probably be best.
Keep down the horror stories, I reckon."
  The large dining room was silent, only a few of
Ben's Rebels from the east up and about. It had been
a harrowing and dangerous journey, with nerves stretched
tight most of the way.
  Ike mentioned that Jerre would like to have her babies as
soon as possible. He suggested a chopper.
  Ben agreed.
  Ike motioned for a uniformed young woman to
  come to the table. Lt. Mary Macklin. After receiving
her instructions, she saluted smartly and left.
  Ben smiled. "Getting a little rigid on
discipline, aren't you, Ike?"
  "That ain't my idea," the ex-Seal replied
glumly. "It's hers. She was regular army
"til about six months ago. I can't get that
damned salutin" out of her. Drives me up the
wall."
  "I beg your pardon, Lieutenant?" Ben
shook himself back to the moment.
  "I do not mean to be out of line, General, or
to overstep any chain of command. But all concerned would
feel much better if you were in the middle of the
column instead of leading it."
  Ben smiled at her. He took a closer look
with a man's eyes. Light brown hair, hazel
eyes, about five-seven. Nice figure. Erect
military bearing.
  "Thank you for your frankness, Lieutenant.
Noted and appreciated. Your name?"
  "Lieutenant Mary Macklin. I was a rigger
with the Eighty-second Airborne prior
to OCS:"

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  "After that?"
  "ASA, sir."
  "Well. Lieutenant, if you're so concerned with
my well-being, why don't you ride with me and
protect me?"
  "Is that a joke, sir?"
  "Not unless you want to take it as such."
  She met his eyes. "Then may I take it as
an order, sir?"
  This lady was all military, Ben thought. "No.
But if
  you like I can make it an order."
  "That won't be necessary, sir. I'll just get my
gear and put it in the bed of your truck."
  Ben watched her walk away, his eyes
on her reflection in the side mirror. Might be
an interesting trip in more ways than one, he thought.
  Hard eyes, Mary thought as she walked away.
She knew, with a woman's awareness, that General
Raines was watching her. She tried very hard to walk
with a military bearing. She failed miserably.
  The column pulled out shortly afterward. They
skirted Little Rock and picked up Highway 67,
taking that all the way to the northeast corner of
Arkansas. They stopped for the night in Piggott,
Arkansas, a small town just a few miles from the
Missouri line.
  The town had been looted, but as in most cases of
looting, the looters did not take essentials such
as food, clothing and medicine.
  "Another reason I have always advocated looters
being shot on sight," Ben muttered, driving around the
courthouse square.
  "Beg pardon, sir?" Mary asked.
  "Muttering to myself, Mary. Nothing of importance,
I suppose."
  "Looters, sir?" she guessed, for she knew
how Ben Raines felt about lawbreakers.
  "Good guess, Mary. Yes, looters.
Two-legged animals."
  "And you feel that they should be?"
  "Shot on sight."
  She stirred beside him and Ben hid a smile, knowing

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a full-scale debate might be only moments
away. He nipped it short.
  "Hemingway lived here for a time, did you know that,
Lieutenant?"
  "Ernest Hemingway? Here?"
  "Yes." Ben laughed at her expression. But
he was thankful that at least one person of her generation
had heard of the writer. All was not lost, he
supposed. "We'll get the people settled in and
I'll try to find the house."
  Col. Dan Gray was the next-ranking officer
under Ben and Ben gave the Englishman orders
to pick a spot to bivouac.
  "We'll be in radio contact, Dan," Ben
said. He dropped his pickup into gear and pulled out.
He smiled as Buck Osgood tore out after them.
  Mary looked at his smile. "Do you enjoy
worrying people, General?"
  Ben glanced at her. The lady was smart as well
as pretty. "Is that what I do, Lieutenant?
How about if I call you Mary when we're alone?"
  She met his brief glance. "All right,"
she said softly. "Yes, you worry people. And you do it
deliberately. Just like right now. You knew damn
well Buck would be after you; it's his job."
  Ben thought about that and slowed his speed, allowing
Buck to catch up. The sergeant was frantically
flashing his headlights off and on, signaling Ben
to slow down.
  "You're right, Mary." She was mildly astonished
to hear the admission from his lips. "I'm a loner at
heart, and I've been taking care of myself for a good
many years. And doing it quite well without a nanny.
I've never gotten used to being bird-dogged."
  "I've heard so many stories about you, General.
  How did you get into this ... this position of
authority?"
  Ben laughed aloud. "Did you ever hear what
John Kennedy said about him being a hero in World War
II?"
  She blinked. "Was that the president, or
what?"
  Ben sighed. "How old are you, Mary?"

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  "Twenty-four."
  Ben did some fast math. Odds were good that her
parents had not been born when Kennedy was sworn
in, back in '61.
  "Depending on how one counts it, Mary, JFK
was either the thirty-fourth or thirty-fifth president
of the United States. He was assassinated in
1963. As to his being a hero, he said, "They
sank my boat.""
  She smiled, then laughed as the humor of it
struck her. "Thank you, but that doesn't answer my
question."
  Ben was thoughtful for a few moments, as he
skillfully twisted and turned the wheel, avoiding the
many obstacles in the road: abandoned cars and
trucks, fallen trees, skeletons of humans
and animals, tin cans and garbage containers, and an
occasional fresh body.
  How to tell her? How to tell anyone? How
to tell a stranger that Ben had this dream of a free
society, free of crime and bigotry and hatred,
with jobs for those who wished to work, and those who didn't
could either leave voluntarily or be kicked out.
  "I'll tell you someday, Mary," he said. "When
you have several days to listen."
  Ben drove and drove and finally gave up.
"Well," he said, "I can't find the house.
Crap. I saw it once, back in the seventies.
It was beautiful."
  "That's right!" She looked at him, "I almost
forgot. You used to be a writer, didn't you?"
"About a hundred years ago," Ben said dryly.
"I'd like to read some of your books." "I assure
you, Mary. I have many copies."
  They drove the streets of the small town once
more. They could find no one alive. But Ben knew from
past experience that was probably not true. In a
town this size, so his statisticians had told him-and
Ben was still a writer at heart and wanted to know those
types of things-from five to eight people would have survived.
But they would have become very wary of strangers,
especially uniformed, armed strangers.
  He told Mary that. She asked, "I wonder

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how they survive-get along?"
  "Many of them won't make it for any length of
time. Only the very toughest will stand the test-usually. Of
course there is always the exception; but the exceptions
find out they'd damn well better get tough or
die. The ones who will come out will be those who will not
hesitate to shoot first and ask questions later."
  "So we have come to that." Her words were softly
spoken, just audible over the hiss of the tires against the
pavement. "Then we have gone full circle."
  "Back to the caves? No, not yet. Not
if I have anything to say about it. We're on the right
track, Mary, but we still have a very long way to go before
we get home free."
  "Optimistic, General?"
  "Only at times, Mary. Other times I hit
new lows."
  She looked at his profile in the waning light of
evening.
  She had heard all the talk about his being some sort
of god, that he could not be killed, and all that. That
shrines had been secretly built in his honor
by some of the people who followed him. She wondered if he
knew about those places of worship. She decided
he did not. Everything within her being wanted to reject
any notion of a higher being, for Mary was more agnostic
than believer-at least she felt that way most of the
time. She had heard about General Raines's
sexual escapades and the children he had sired. She
wondered if Ben was attempting to repopulate the
world single-handedly. That brought a smile to her lips.
And an idea to her brain.
  "Tell me the joke?" Ben asked, glancing at
her Mona Lisa smile.
  "I don't think you would appreciate the humor,
General."
  "Perhaps not, Mary." He pulled up, parking in the
center of a street lined with Jeeps and trucks.
"Let's see about getting something to eat."
  She came to him later that night, after the area was
silent, with only the guards maintaining their lonely
vigil. He did not seem at all surprised
to see her appear at his door.

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  "Mary," he greeted her, motioning her inside the
lamp-lit home. "What's on your mind?"
  "Can I level with you, General?"
  "Of course."
  "I have a boyfriend back in Tri-States. We
plan on getting married in a few months."
  "My best wishes, Mary." Ben looked at
her, a puzzled expression on his face.
  "But I've been trying to get pregnant for six
months."
  "Oh?"
  "Jim thinks the bombings back in '88 made
him sterile."
  "That's certainly possible."
  "But I want us to have a child."
  The expression on her face and the look in her
eyes told Ben everything else he needed to know.
  "You sure Jim wouldn't mind?"
  "Like me, General, he would be honored."
  Ben took her hand. "It's a strange world we
live in, Mary."
  "You'll make it better, General," came her
response.
CHAPTER
TWO
  It was as if the incident had never occurred between the
man and woman. Mary was her usual military
self the next morning, and Ben never brought up the
subject. It was the first and last time she was to share his
bed.
  The small contingent of Rebels hit their first armed
resistance in southeast Missouri, while they were on
state Highway 53, angling northwest toward
Poplar Bluff.
  "Trouble up ahead, sir," a scout radioed
back.
  Ben pulled the column up short and walked
forward, his Thompson SMG in hand. Mary walked
one step behind him, her M-16 at combat arms.
  "Ever killed a man, Mary?" Ben asked.
  "Yes, sir."
  "More than one?"
  "Yes, sir."

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  "Ever cut a throat?"
  "No, sir."
  "You'll probably get the chance if you hang
around me long enough."
  "I can hardly wait," her reply was dryly
given.
  Ben laughed at her. His smile vanished as one
of the young scouts hurriedly approached.
  "What's the problem?" Ben asked.
  "About fifty motorcyclists have blocked the
road a half mile ahead, sir. They're all
armed."
  "Were they hostile to you?"
  "Yes, sir. Said if I tried to push through
they'd kill me."
  "Well, that makes my job easier. What do
they want, son?"
  "Women, sir. And guns."
  Mary tensed beside Ben, her hands tightening on her
M-16.
  "Tell them to clear the road and get out of the way,
or we will forcibly remove the blockade, and them with
it."
  "Yes, sir." The scout used a bull-horn
to relay the message.
  "You don't own the goddamn road!" The shout was
electronically hurled back to Ben. "We got you
outnumbered anyways. Give us your women and guns
and you can drive on through."
  Ben looked behind him. Colonel Gray was standing
in the center of the road, calmly reviewing the
situation.
  "Colonel Gray?"
  "Sir?"
  "There is a pile of garbage in the road ahead.
Please remove it, if you will."
  "Sir."
  The Englishman saluted, gave an order, and a
team
  Colonel Gray put down his range finder.
"Nine hundred meters," he called over his
shoulder. "Fire for range, adjust, then fire for
effect. HE and WP. G."

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 The mortars thonked and delivered Ben Raines's
reply. The highway ahead exploded as range was
found and clicked in. Saddle tanks on the
motorcycles exploded as Ben's Rebels opened
up with mounted ring-type .50-caliber machine
guns, spraying the area.
 "Cease firing!" Colonel Gray
yelled.
 The morning grew hot and still once more. Moaning and
screaming from up the road drifted to the men and women
of the Rebel contingent. Snipers began firing,
stilling many of the cries.
 Ben glanced at James Riverson. "Clear it
out, James. We don't have time to jack around with
prisoners."
 APC'S rolled forward. After a few moments of
automatic weapons' fire, no more moaning was
heard. A deuce-and-a-half with a front-mounted
scoop rolled forward, lowered the scoop, and
unceremoniously cleared a wide path through the
smoking, bloody rubble.
 Mary was outwardly calm, but her pale face
betrayed her inner feelings. "I was told you don't
believe in fucking around, General."
 Ben smiled. "That depends entirely on the
connotation one places on that vulgarity, Mary."
 Her mouth closed with a snap.
 "Let's roll it!" Ben yelled.
 At Poplar Bluff, Missouri, the Rebels
found two
 dozen or so survivors. They were not in good
shape.
 "Can you help us?" a man asked. There was a whine
to his voice that cut at Ben's nerves.
 The group consisted of nine men, fourteen women, and
half a dozen young people and babies. They all looked
to be in sad shape.
 Ben's first emotion was pity-but only for the children, not
for the adults. Every good man has his fault, and that was
Ben's. He could not work up pity for a grown man that
did not know how to survive. It was his flaw, and he
knew he possessed it.
 "What do you want us to do?" Ben asked, his tone

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harsher than he intended.
  The speaker appeared to be in his
early-to-mid-thirties, in reasonably good
physical shape. Indeed, most of the men appeared in
good physical shape. But they were dirty and stank of
filth and body odors.
  Don't be too harsh, Ben silently cautioned
himself. You don't know what they've been through.
  The question seemed to confuse the man. "Why-help
us."
  "In what way?" Ben asked.
  The man backed away several steps. "You're just
like all the rest," he said, an accusing tone to his
voice. "I-we-thought the government would
help. But they haven't. You look familiar. Who
are you, mister?"
  Ben ignored the question. "There is no government."
His words were deliberately harsh. "How long does
it take for that to sink into you people? Goddamn it, you've
got to help yourselves this go round. The government
doesn't exist. It was suspended some months ago,
along with the Constitution and the Bill
  of Rights. It probably will never exist again, not in
the way you people remember it. You survived the bombings
of '88, what the hell happened to your guts this time
around?"
  The man began crying, the tears cutting trenches
down his dirty cheeks.
  They disgusted Ben.
  Ben looked around for Colonel Gray. "Dan,
we'll bivouac here in the city. Doctor
Carlton-was he glanced at a young M. D.-"after
these people have bathed this filth off, check them out-all of
them. Then see to it they are fed. They all appear not
to be able to take care of themselves." The last was said very
sarcastically.
  "Hey, mister!" a woman with a small baby in
her arms yelled to Ben. Anger was evident in her
voice. "Just who in the
hell
do you think you are, anyway? And what do
you
know about what

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we've
been through these past months? Yeah, we look
pretty bad, I know all that. But we've been on
the run for two months. A gang of
motorcyclists have been killing and raping and
kidnapping around here. They're all armed with guns.
Then over at Lake Wappapello there's about
fifty or sixty people that blew in here from I don't
know where. They're murderers and rapists and scum.
Mister whoever-you-are, the government collected all
the guns some years ago. Where have you been, under a
rock? What in the hell are we supposed to fight
with,
you bastard!"
  Ben smiled at her outburst. Here was one with some
guts. He looked at her without speaking. She would
maybe hit five feet-ninety-five pounds to a
hundred, if that much. But definitely female.
She had more fire in her than all the others combined.
  Ben walked over to her. She stood her ground and
met his gaze without flinching. "What's your
name?"
  "Gale Roth. And that's G-A-L-E."
  Ben chuckled. "I can damn sure see why it's
spelled that way. Your husband among these tigers?"
  "I don't have a husband. Never been married.
You going to make something out of that, too?"
  Ben laughed openly as he studied her. Black,
angry eyes, very short dark brown hair, a
sensuous mouth. And a dirty face. Made her
look like a tomboy. From the neck up.
  She glared at him. "If you're quite through
undressing me, mister-what's your name?"
  "Ben Raines."
  The woman paled, stepped back, opened her
mouth, then closed it without speaking. She appeared
to be in mild shock at the mention of his name.
  "A speechless Jew," Ben needled her, and from
somewhere in the ranks of the Rebels came a laugh.
The laugh sounded suspiciously like Leon
Lansky's laugh. "I believe I've met a
first."
  Gale stuck out her chin. "Well... fuck you!"

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  Ben laughed and held out his hands and the baby came
to him. Of them all, Gale and the baby appeared to be
the cleanest, but neither of them could be called a
rose.
  "Is the child in good health?" Ben asked.
  "As well as could be expected. I'm a nurse,
so I know something about health." She was still very
defiant. "Are you going to take my baby, Mr.
President?"
  "Don't be ridiculous, Gale. Of course
I am not going to take your baby. And I am not your
president."
  "Don't be ridiculous," she mimicked him,
"of
  course you are. I haven't heard of anyone
calling any special elections to replace you.
  Everyone within hearing range could feel the
electricity popping back and forth between the man and
woman. Especially the man and the woman.
  And neither of them could really understand it.
  Not yet.
  Ben looked around him, meeting the staring eyes.
"What the hell is everyone looking at? You have your
jobs-get moving!"
  "Right-o, General," Colonel Gray said with a
smile. "All right, lads and lassies, get
cracking, now. Step lively. You civilians
over there." He pointed.
  Ben turned back to Gale. The baby reached for the
woman and Ben let him slip into more familiar arms.
"Mrs. Roth..."
  "Ms.," she quickly corrected.
  "I never would have guessed," Ben muttered,
"Ms.
Roth, I will not apologize for coming down hard on
men who will not fight."
  "They don't have any guns!"
  "Then they should have killed those who did have access
to guns and then fought."
  "Now how in the hell does one go about that?" Out
came the chin.
  "One goes about that, Ms. Roth, by the use of
booby traps, Molotov cocktails,

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dynamite, punji pits, C-4, rocks,
clubs, bottles, chains, wire, ambushes...."
  Awright awready-enough!"
  "But first one must possess enough guts to do the deed with
any or all of the aforementioned articles. And where are
you from? Awright awready?"
  "I was born in New York City. Moved
to St. Louis with my parents when I was thirteen.
I'm twenty-nine years old and this isn't my
kid. He belonged to someone else."
  "Is Gale your real name?"
  She smiled. She was very pretty. Reminded Ben
of an NBC correspondent he used to enjoy
watching. Rebecca something-or-another. He couldn't
remember her last name.
  "Of course not. It's a nickname."
  "Well?"
  "Well, what?"
  "What is your real name?"
  "Why do you want to know?"
  "Oh, forget it. Leave it Gale. It
certainly fits. You said the baby
belonged to
someone else?"
  "She's dead." Gale did not elaborate.
  Ben let it slide. "How'd you get hooked up
with this bunch of losers?"
  Out came the chin. She glared at him for a few
seconds. "Mr. President, sir, General,
whatever in the hell you're called, has it ever
occurred to you that not everyone in this world is as tough as
you?"
  "Ms. Roth, there are varying degrees of
toughness. There used to be a football player, a
giant of a man called Gorilla
Jankowski. Gorilla could have, on any given
day, without working up a sweat, broken me in about
thirty-seven different and separate pieces, and then
kicked my head the length of a football
field-providing he could catch me. That's one
degree of toughness. But put us both on a jet on
a HALO/SCUBA mission, where we had to drop in
from about thirty-five thousand feet, free-falling

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down to seven
  hundred before our "chutes opened in order
to avoid radar, use tanks and wet suits to swim
ashore from about three or four miles out, crawl
ashore on an unfriendly beach, slit a few
throats, blow up a bridge or two, then
successfully complete a silent op-a body
snatch ... all without being detected by the enemy. That
is another degree of toughness. Do you understand the
parallels I'm drawing?"
  "He was trained to do one thing, you were trained
to another."
  "Right on target, Ms. Roth."
  "But those men I was-am-traveling with, they
weren't trained to do ..." She paused, a slight
smile touching her lips. "Ben Raines-sure. You
wrote a book one time-one of your best, if
not the best, I think-called
When the Last Hero Is Gone.
In it you advocated compulsory military training,
for everyone, male and female, starting immediately upon
completion of high school, and you would have made a high
school education mandatory. The length of service would
have lasted three years. After the military, the
government would then finance a four-year college
plan, picking up the tab for all expenses for those
who went into math, science or English, and stayed with
teaching for a minimum of ten years. You maintained that in
ten years the nation would no longer have a shortage of
those teachers. I did a book report on that
novel in the tenth grade. I got a C on it
because the teacher didn't like the other books you wrote."
  "My apologies. Doctor Carlton is
motioning for you to come over to that aid station just set up.
He'll check you out and also the baby. I'll see you
later."
  Gale seemed hesitant to leave. Something about the
man exuded confidence and safety. "Those ...
animals from up at the lake sent word to us that they
might be back tomorrow to ... get the women. What
are you going to do if that happens?"
  "You mentioned a gang of motorcyclists
that had been bothering you?"

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  "Yeah."
  "We killed them all about ten o'clock this morning.
Just west of the St. Francis River. Does that
answer your question?"
  She blinked. She had very pretty eyes now that the
anger had vanished. Eyes that looked as though they
could dance with mischief. "I guess you are as tough as
people say."
  "I guess so, Ms. Roth."
  He stood and watched as she walked away. She
looked exhausted. Colonel Gray walked up.
  "What are we going to do with them, General?"
  Ben shook his head. "I can't leave them to be
killed, Dan. We could arm them, but without proper
training, they would still get killed. Those civilian
men aren't exactly man-hunters."
  "I will certainly agree with that, General."
  "Send out a team to round up some vehicles.
We'll outfit them and take them with us."
  Dan smiled. "Yes, sir."
  Ben looked at the Englishman. He could not
understand the smile. "What are you smiling about,
Dan?"
  "Nothing," the colonel said innocently.
"Nothing at all, General." He walked away,
chuckling softly.
  "Crazy Englishman," Ben muttered.
  Had he but noticed, everyone in his command was
grinning.
  Eight more ships from Iceland had put ashore
personnel and equipment: two ships every four days.
The IPF troops based on American soil now
numbered ten thousand, and they had spread out
into Wisconsin from northern Minnesota.
  The IPF teams used no force in dealing with the
survivors they found. They left food, clothing and
medical supplies; they worked with the people in repairing
equipment and restoring such services as electricity
and running water. The doctors with the IPF treated
the sick and consoled the elderly and despondent. They
promised that conditions would soon get better. They
promised they would restore order and a government.
They promised they would have jobs for everyone. They

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promised proper medical treatment and better living
conditions. If one had been a farmer before the
holocaust, then you could again be a farmer; if you had
been a mechanic or a carpenter or a teacher or
whatever, that job would soon be opening for you. They
promised a lot. They did it all with a
smile and a gentle pat on the arm. They were such
nice people. So considerate. They never fussed or
snapped or became angry or upset. They never
used force.
  They didn't have to.
  Yet.
  Lenin would have been so proud.
  Ben stood on the outskirts of Poplar Bluff
and stared out into the darkness, his thoughts busy. Gale
  had told him her group was not the only group of
survivors in the small city. She said there were
others, but their numbers were smaller, and they were much more
elusive. And they were well-armed. She didn't know
where they got the weapons.
  Ben didn't have the heart to tell her guns were
easy to find.
  Being a curious sort, Ben had prowled through what
remained of the local library, his heart sore at the
sight of the books ripped and rotting and torn and
gnawed by rats and mice. He had located a World
Almanac-circa 1987-and looked up Poplar
Bluff, Missouri. Population 17,139.
  Gale had told him that maybe-maybe-there were a
150 people left in the small city. There had been more,
but about 50 had died during the winter.
Mostly old people, she said.
  "The nation's elderly have been getting crapped on
for years, Gale," he said. "Right up to and including
1988." He spat on the littered sidewalk.
"A goddamned criminal gets better treatment and
has more of his rights protected than the nation's
elderly."
  She had looked at him in the fading June
sunlight and replied, "Maybe you're not so tough
after all, Ben Raines."
  He had not replied. But his thoughts had been
flung back to the spring of "89, when he had been

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traveling with a very idealistic young lady by the name of
April. He had found her in Florida and gotten
rid of her in Macon, Georgia. He had been
relieved to see her go. But before they had parted
company, never to see each other again-and Ben did
wonder, occasionally, what had happened to April-they
had happened upon a
  small gathering of elderly.
  "As to our troubles, Mr. Raines," Ms.
Nola Browning, an elderly schoolteacher had
told him, "it seems we have a gang of hoodlums
and roughnecks roaming the countryside, preying on the
elderly-those who survived God's will, that
is."
  "They've been here?" Ben questioned. "Bothering you
people?"
  Ms. Browning, who had been an English teacher
for fifty-five years, then told Ben and April
that yes, the hoodlums had indeed been bothering the
elderly. They had raped and tortured some of the
members of the small group. And they were coming back
to perform some, well, perverted acts on the person of
one Mrs. Carson, a very attractive woman of
sixty-five. There were fifteen hoodlums, and
only one Ben Raines. So what could he hope
to do?
  Ben smiled, and Ms. Browning noted that his
smile was that of a man-eating tiger who had just that
moment spotted dinner.
  "Oh, I imagine I can think of something suitable
for them, Ms. Browning."
  Ben had killed all but two of the punks; the
elderly had hanged them.
  Ben wondered how long the old people had survived
after he left them.
  Ben pulled his thoughts to the present as he continued
to stare into the darkness. The darkness seemed void of
any life. He wondered about the people left
  alive, not just in Poplar Bluff but around the
nation. How many had made it? He did some fast
math. Was a half million shooting too high?
Only a few percentage points of the population.
And was it the responsibility of Ben Raines

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to take every damned one of them under his wing like helpless
chicks to raise?
  Resolution stiffened within him. No, it was not. Then
compassion touched him. If he-or someone like him-did
not do it, where was civilization heading?
  Back to the caves? Probably. Already, Ben
knew, the nation was well into a generation of young men and
women whose education was spotty, at best.
  Ben Raines could not attempt to educate the
entire nation. But he could start with his own people. If time
would allow it.
  And he had doubts about that.
  He sighed, the soft expelling of breath lost in the
whispering of the night wind. Again, his thoughts drifted
back in time, bringing a smile to his lips.
  All he wanted to do was travel the nation after the
bombings, as a writer, from coast to coast, border
to border, chronicling the events, talking to the people,
putting their opinions and his views down on paper,
in the hopes that someone, sometime in the future,
would take the time to read it.
  Instead, he had found himself as the leader of a people. And
he had not wanted the responsibility.
  But maybe it was his responsibility. Perhaps that was
his purpose in life. But as he thought that, the ageless
question rose silent in his mind, as it had done so many
times: Why me?
  As usual, he could find no answer.
  Ben hefted the old Thompson, shifting the
weapon from right hand to left. The submachine gun,
modeled after the old 1921 Thompson with several
improvements added over the years had been called the
Chicago Piano in its heyday. It was as
closely identified with Ben as the FBI had been
with J. Edgar Hoover. Ben did not know, could not have
known, that the Thompson was held in almost as much awe
as the man who carried it, that youngsters believed the
weapon held some special power. There was not a child in
the entire Rebel-controlled areas who would have touched
the weapon.
  And quite a few adults felt the same way.
  Ben Raines did not look his true age, nor
did he feel it-except in memory. Discounting the

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light touch of gray in his hair, Ben looked years
younger than he was. And he was in excellent
physical shape, just as randy and horny as any young
buck.
  He fought back a smile in the gloom of night.
Perhaps his true mission in life was to procreate the
earth.
  He turned at the sound of footsteps behind him.
Doctor Carlton.
  "I've checked out the survivors here as best I
could, General," the young M.d. informed him.
"They're scared and suffer from lack of
confidence-life's beaten them down pretty badly-but
surprisingly, their physical condition is good."
  "Do they know how they beat the plague?"
  "No. But Ms. Roth took the same type of
medicines we took." He laughed softly. "That,
General, is one feisty lady."
  "I've noticed. Thank you, Wes. Oh, by the
way, do you know if the teams found suitable
transportation for the survivors?"
  "Yes, sir. And they are eager to join us." He
hesitated for a moment. "General, the people are scared,
sir. Even after the bombings of '88, we still had some
form of government, some hope, if you will. Now they have
no government, nothing to look forward to, no one
to tell them what to do, and they don't know what
to do."
  "The de-balling of America," Ben muttered under
his breath, the words tossed unheard by the breeze.
  "Beg pardon, sir?"
  "The government got what it wanted," Ben told
him. "The goddamn liberals and the goddamned
lawyers and the goddamned courts succeeded in
de-balling the American people."
  "That's a sexist remark if I ever heard one."
The voice came out of the darkness.
  Neither man had to turn around; they both knew who
it was. Ben said, "You wander around out here in the dark,
Ms. Roth, around my people, and you're very likely
to get your butt shot off."
  "The de-balling of the American people, Mr.
President?"

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  "Ms. Roth," Ben said patiently, "I am not
your president."
  "For a fact. I damn sure didn't vote for
you," she told him.
  "I don't recall
anybody
voting for me, Ms. Roth."
  "Do you always carry that gangster's gun around with you,
Mr. President?"
  Ben kept his patience. He sighed heavily.
"I've found it to be the wisest thing to do, Ms.
Roth."
  Dr. Wes Carlton found his cue. "I think
I'll say
  goodnight," he said. He quickly disappeared into the
darkness.
  "Coward," Ben muttered to his fast-vanishing
back.
  "What if I don't want to accompany you and
your Rebels, Mr. President?" Gale asked.
She stepped closer to Ben. A very slight figure
in the dark.
  "Then you may stay here."
  "You'll leave troops behind to protect me?"
  "Hell no!"
  She stamped a foot. "Mr. President, I
think you are-was
  Ben cut her off. It would turn out to be one of the
very few times he would be able to do that. "Goodnight,
Ms. Roth. Go to bed, Ms. Roth. We pull out
at 0700, Ms. Roth."
  "What the hell is oh-seven hundred, Mr.
President?"
  "Seven o'clock in the morning, Ms.
Roth."
  "Where are we going?"
  "Why don't you just let it be a surprise?"
  "I don't like surprises."
  Ben turned to walk away. "Give the old
college try, Ms. Roth. Boola-boola, and
all that."
  Ben did not see her tongue sticking out at him
or the perfectly horrible-looking face that she

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made next. Neither did he see her toss the
bird at him.
  Then she smiled gently.
CHAPTER THREE
  The convoy took Highway 60 out of Poplar
Bluff, staying with it until they came to state
Highway 21 angling off to the west. Ben wanted
to stay with the lesser traveled roads, feeling more
survivors would be found in the less-traveled areas.
He was right.
  As they slowly traveled through the small towns of
rural Missouri, slowly edging northward, the
Rebels found survivors: ten in Ellington, a
half dozen in Reynolds, twelve in Bunker,
four in Stone Hill.
  "Do you know of more who stayed alive around
here?" Ben asked a middle-aged man outside
Stone Hill. The man had been hoeing in his large
garden. He wore a .45-caliber pistol around his
waist, and had picked up a bolt action .30-06
upon first sighting the small convoy. He looked as
though he was perfectly able and willing to use either
weapon.
  "A few more," he replied, relaxing when he
learned who he was speaking with. "We're trying
to gather up as many as possible and rebuild. That is,
providin' the IPF leaves us alone."
  "The what?" Ben asked.
  "Call themselves the IPF International Peace
Force. They talk funny, with kind of an accent.
Can't rightly place it. You ask me, they're just
too damned nice. Ain't nobody that nice to a
perfect stranger "less they want something in
return, or they're tryin" to hide something."
  Ben kept his smile a secret. He thought:
Leave it to a farmer. Rural folks could spot a
ringer a mile off.
  "They say where they were from?"
  "Nope." The man shook his head. "And I
asked them flat out." He spat on the ground.
"Personally, I think they're communists."
  "Why do you say that?"
  was "Cause you can ask the same damn question to every

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damn one of them. The answer don't never vary.
It's down pat-like they've been drilled over and
over. A few folks around here have taken a shine
to them." Again he spat on the ground. "Personally,
I don't like them worth a shit!"
  "Are they armed?"
  "I'll say they are. Well-armed." He
described the weapons.
  "AK'S," Colonel Gray spoke. "Or
AKM-74'S. Maybe the AKS'S. Soviet
bloc weapons."
  "Did they give you any names?" Ben asked.
  "Yep. But first names only. No last names. And
I got the feelin" they was lyin' about the first names.
I don't like them people."
  A sergeant standing nearby mused aloud. "How in
the hell did they manage to keep it a secret for
so many years?"
  "By careful planning," Ben told him.
  "Well," the civilian said, "you probably right
about that, Mr. Raines. But I'll tell you this-all
of you. We're organizing around here. So far, it's
comin' along slow, but it's comin'. We've
got about a hundred people so far, and we're all
reasonably well-armed and know how to use the
weapons-and will use them. I've defended this place
several times since the rats and fleas come last
year." He pointed to a graveyard in back of the
house. "Them's the ones who come to steal and rape and
kill. They didn't make it but just that far.
Anyways, it's them damn young people up to Rolla
that's playin' footsie with the foreigners."
  "Young people?" Ben quizzed.
  "Bunch of them have gathered up there at the old
college. My cousin over to Dillard says his
boy went to one of the lectures given by the IPF,
come back home sayin' it was communistic. The workers
this and the workers that-free this and free that. I'll be
goddamned if I'll see this nation go back to that
kind of crap; fucking unions damn near ruined us
back in the sixties and seventies. Quality
workmanship was hard to find back then. Time the
eighties rolled around, if it was made in Japan,

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buy it. If it was made in America, odds were good
it wasn't worth a shit." He looked hard at
Ben. "You still the president, Mr. Raines?"
  "No," Ben said. "No, I'm not."
  "Shame. You might have been the one to pull
us all back together. I think you might have been the
only one able to do it. You're a hard man, but you're
a fair one. But now ..." He shook his head.
  "But now what, sir?"
  "Come on, Mr. Raines-we've had it. Oh,
I'm
not giving up. Don't you ever think that. But I've
been
  doin' some arithmetic. Say, on the average, and
this might be shooting high or low, ten percent of the
American people made it out alive from the rats and
fleas and plague. What does that leave us, Mr.
Raines? A half million folks? A
million? Most of them scattered all to hell and
gone in little groups of twenty and thirty. No
organization, no goals, no plans except
survival of the fittest. No nothing. And the young
folks!" He laughed bitterly. "Hell, you know
how a kid's mind works: They're easy prey for
anyone with a slick line, holding out a carrot,
preaching love and peace and an easy time of it.
We're old enough, Mr. Raines, you and me,
to remember the peace and love movement back in the
sixties. The hippies and the flippies and the
Yip-pies. No, sir. If the IPF people
can reach our young, us older folks can bend down, put
our heads between our legs, and kiss our asses
goodbye."
  "I've got some three thousand fighting men and
women who just might have something to say about that, sir,"
Ben told the man.
  "I don't care if you've got thirty thousand,"
the man stated flatly. "If a time has come, it's
come. Mr. Raines, you ever seen a young person-any
young person of any generation-who would rather work than
play? I haven't, and neither have you. That's why
they're young folks; they have yet to learn the work
ethic." He tapped the side of his head. "The

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IPF people, now, they're smart-give them credit for
that. I think they're evil, but they're smart.
They're sending kids into the countryside-nineteen,
twenty years old, good-lookin' young people. The young people
are all blue-eyed and blond, and they're pulling in
our young folks faster than eggs through a hen."
  Something ancient and evil stirred within Ben. That
remark about blond and blue-eyed triggered something
... a memory recall. But he couldn't pin it
down. It would come to him.
  The man was saying, "Now you on the other hand,
Mr. Raines, you're the picture of
toughness, discipline, hard work-a fighting man. Many
of the young people-not all of them, but many-won't be able
to relate to you, sir. They've had enough of war and
disaster. And if these IPF people can convince them you stand for
war and they represent peace, we've had it.
  "Now, your people know what you're doing is right; I
know it and most people my age know it. But you're going to have
one hell of a time convincing a lot of the young people."
  Earthy wisdom, Ben thought. Plain,
old-fashioned common sense. Why in God's name
did the American people ever turn their backs on this
type of thinking?
  "Are you suggesting I don't even try to talk with
them?" Ben asked.
  "Oh, no. You can try. But I recall tryin'
to talk to my youngest boy back in '87. Like tryin'
to talk to a fence post. His mind was made up, and there
wasn't nothing I could say or do to change it. He
pulled out one morning to see the world. I guess he
seen it, "cause I damn sure never saw him
again."
  Caught up in the hell of global warfare, Ben
mused. "Anything else you can tell us about these people from
the IPF?"
  "Not a whole hell of a lot more to tell.
I heard one of them talk about Iceland, wonderin"
how things was goin' back home. But if these folks
is originally from Iceland, I'm a Baptist
preacher." He smiled. "And I've
  been a Methodist all my life. Their leader
is a man calls himself George. But I heard

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some of his people call him General Strogonoff. That's
not the right way to pronounce it. Something like that, though."
  "How do they conduct themselves?"
  "They're well-trained and polite. But I get
the feeling they'd as soon kill a man as look at
him. And the few black people left around here walk real
light around them, as if they can sense something nobody
else can."
  The memory recall leaped strong into Ben's
brain: Hitler. The master race. He kept that
to himself.
  Ben thanked him and the man returned to hoeing in his
garden. Ben turned to Colonel Gray. "Dan,
get Judy Stratmann and Roy Jaydot. Have
them dress in jeans and tennis shoes-like the young people.
Get them duffle bags or knapsacks and tell
them to look trail-worn. We'll pull back and
bivouac in Greeley, keep our heads down.
Tell Judy and Roy to find out what's
going on up at Rolla. We'll sit back and
wait."
  The Englishman saluted and left.
  "James," Ben waved to Riverson. The
six-foot-six ex-truck driver walked over.
"When we get to Greeley and settled in, pass
the word for a low-alert status. These IPF people are
sure to have patrols out-if they're smart. We
don't want to be spotted."
  James nodded and called the four squad leaders
together.
  Lieutenant Macklin came to Ben's side.
"The International Peace Force, General? What in
the world do they represent?"
  "I... I'm not sure, Mary. But I think
it's one hell of a threat to whatever future this
country has left it."
  Mary shivered, although the day was quite warm.
  The young man was fair-skinned, blue-eyed and
well-built. The blue in his eyes was of the piercing
type, cold. Almost all the young ladies gathered
at the long-abandoned branch of the University of
Missouri at Rolla thought him handsome.
  Judy Stratmann thought his smooth line just a

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bit too oily and well-rehearsed. He
reminded her of an old movie about Southern
Californian used car salesmen. Those old, old
clips she'd seen of that guy named Johnny
Carson.
  Roy Jaydot thought that if all the members of the
IPF were as smooth-talking and good-looking as this
dude, the country was in trouble.
  And both Judy and Roy had immediately noticed one
thing: There was no blacks, Indians, Orientals,
Jews or any other minority on the old campus.
  Roy was a Ute Indian and Judy was half
Jewish. It made them feel just a bit
uncomfortable.
  And the young ladies with Mike-Mikael, Roy
felt would be the correct way to spell his name-they were
all just as pretty as Mike was handsome.
  On the second day of their roles as wandering young
people, one of the young ladies with the IPF zeroed in on
Roy.
  "Hi," she said, walking up to where Roy was
sitting on the grass. "My name is Katrina."
  Roy looked up at her. Very pretty. About
five-five, blue eyes, blond hair,
fair-skinned. Very well endowed. No makeup.
He wondered if she spelled her name with a
C or a K? "Roy," he said, getting to his
feet.
  "How do you like it so far?" Katrina asked.
  Roy returned her smile. The opening was just too
good to let slide by. "I don't know," he said,
"yet."
  She looked puzzled for a moment, then the double
meaning came to her. She smiled, but the smile did
not quite touch her eyes. They remained as cold as the
land she reportedly was from. "Yes," she said, "I
see. A joke. That's funny." She laughed.
  Roy thought the laughter sounded very false. "I'm
sorry if I offended you."
  "You didn't," she was quick to reply. "A
society without humor would be very drab indeed.
Tell me, Roy, what are you going to report
to General Raines?"

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  Roy felt the first mild clutches of panic
grab at his guts. He kept his expression bland,
but his face felt hot and he knew he was flushed.
He thanked the gods for his dark complexion.
  "Don't try to deny it, Roy." She stood
calm and self-assured. "You and Judy were not on the
campus six hours before we discovered you both were not
what you pretended to be."
  Roy decided to level with her. There was something about
the young woman. He kept picking up strange
vibes that suggested-he hoped-she was not really happy
with her role in the IPF.
  "Very well, Katrina. I will report to General
Raines that you and the others in your party are here spreading
communist dogma."
  She cocked her head to one side and looked at
him. "Dogma. A good word. I like it. I shall
retain that word for usage. Aren't you in the least
interested in how we discovered your secret?"
  Roy shrugged. He wondered if he was going to have
to shoot his way out of this bind. He had a 9mm
submachine in his kit, and could feel the weight of the
.38 pressing against the skin of his belly. He
wondered where Judy was.
  "I noticed the minute we arrived we didn't
exactly fit in with the crowd."
  "How?" she asked politely.
  "Other than the fact I'm Indian and Judy
is Jewish, I think we are too well-fed, too
healthy, and that we walk with a military bearing, perhaps.
Is that good enough for you?"
  "Yes. That is correct. That is totally
accurate. Thank you."
  She sounded like a computer. "Are you a clone, or
something?" Roy asked her.
  She cocked her head to the other side. Roy
felt something soft touch his heart. Oh boy, he
thought. Feelings of gentleness for a goddamned
Russian, he berated himself. Roy, you're coming
unwrapped. But she sure was pretty.
  "Clone? I do not understand that. What is a
clone?"
  "Your speech is perfect. Your dress is

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perfect. Your posture is perfect. Your hair
is perfect. Are you real?"
  This time the smile touched her eyes. "Would you like
to touch me to see for yourself?"
  Roy smiled, mischief in his eyes. If, the
young man thought, I'm to be hanged anyway, I
might as well make the best of a bad situation.
He reached out and cupped a soft breast.
  Katrina did not pull away. But her eyes
darkened a bit.
  "I guess you are real," Roy said, removing his
hand reluctantly.
  Katrina licked her lips. "Why... what was the
purpose of touching me there?"
  "Because I wanted to touch you there."
  She looked confused for a moment. "In your
society, does one always do what one wishes to?"
  "No, of course not. What I just did was wrong.
It would be considered very rude and I'd probably
get slapped for doing it."
  That only seemed to confuse her more. "Why, I
mean, it felt... nice."
  Now Roy was confused. "You're, ah, you've never
been touched, I mean, like that before?"
  She shook her head. "Oh no! Any type
of... sexual touching is not permitted before the
committee chooses a marriage partner."
  "What? I mean, Katrina, are you supposed
to be telling me all this?"
  "That is correct. I am not."
  "Then why are you telling me?"
  Again she shook her head. Her eyes, once so
cold, now seemed troubled. "I... don't know
why. You're ... different, I think."
  Roy had been correct: The girl was not happy
with her life. "How old are you, Katrina?"
  "I believe I have seventeen years of age."
  She believes? Jailbait, Roy thought. But
if we have no nation, then we have no laws. And if
we have no laws ... He shook that thought
away.
  "What do you mean, Katrina, that bit about a
marriage partner being chosen? I never heard of such a

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thing."
  "How many years do you have, Roy?"
  "I'm twenty-three. Don't you want to answer
my question?"
  She hesitated, cut her eyes toward a group
of people gathered a few hundred meters away, then
took his arm. Her touch was warm to his skin.
"Let's walk around some, Roy."
  They walked the weed-filled campus, heading
away from the crowd.
  Katrina said, "I was chosen to confront you with the
news of your discovery. Your deception. I was
instructed to let you run if that was to be your choice of
action."
  "The IPF would have killed me?"
  "No. I do not believe so. That is not supposed
to be our mission. But with Mike one never knows. There
are members of the IPF surrounding this institution.
They would have stopped you."
  "Judy?"
  "The Jewess? She would have been taken alive.
She would probably have been ... would have
become one of the pleasure women."
  "Beg pardon?"
  "Malestfemale contact in any sexual manner
is strictly forbidden in our society. To preserve
the races. But males over the age of twenty-one
are allowed to satisfy themselves with selected women who
have been altered."
  Roy looked at her, not understanding any of this.
  "Altered women cannot bear offspring," she
explained matter-of-factly.
  "I see. I think. Let me see if I can
put the rest of this ... story together, Katrina. You
people-your leaders-practice selective breeding among
humans?"
  "That... is one way of putting it, yes.
We-they-are attempting to purify the races."
  "Blond hair, blue eyes, fair skin?"
  "Yes. Most of us."
  Something yanked gently at Roy's mind. Something
he had read or heard or seen about some other person
or group, a long time ago, who had strived for the

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same thing. He couldn't bring the person or group
to mind. He thought it had something to do with Europe.
Long time back. Before his parents were even born.
 "There are no people of color in your
society?" he asked.
 She looked at him as though he had asked a very
stupid question. "No. That is why we chose Iceland.
Theirs is practically a pure race."
 Germany! The word leaped into his consciousness. It
had something to do with Germany. And some guy with a funny
name. But history had never been one of Roy's
favorite subjects, and like so many others his age,
his education was erratic at best.
 "What will you-your people-do with the different races here in
America, Katrina?"
 She shrugged. "Over a period of time, we shall
breed all colors out. That will take many generations,
but our leaders believe it can be done. Our learned people
have said so."
 Hitler. Roy found the man's name. More flooded
into the light of consciousness. The Gestapo, the SS.
Concentration camps. Extermination. Gas chambers.
The horror he had seen in old movies. He
looked at Katrina. He just could not believe she
could do such things to another human being.
 But he also knew that looks could be very deceiving.
 Katrina said, "Our people have taught us that people of
color are inferior to us. From what I have seen-or have
been allowed to see-I tend to believe it."
She seemed eager to talk and Roy wondered if he
was being set up for a fall. For some reason, he
didn't believe so.
 "People can't help what color they're born with,
Katrina."
 "That is certainly true, at this time. But we can
change all that, our leaders say. And when we do, the
world will be a better place to live."
 "Katrina."
 "Most call me Kat. That's with a K."
 "All right, Kat. Why are you telling me all
this?"
 They had come to a small wooded area, just off
campus. They sat down on a bench by a broken

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walkway.
  Kat was deep in thought and silence for a few
moments. Roy did not attempt to break into her
reverie.
  "What do you know about Iceland, Roy?"
  "Very little."
  "Icelanders are-were-great readers. They loved
literature. When I was younger, I found a huge
wooden box of books in the basement of the home where
I lived."
  "With your parents?"
  "No. I don't even know who my parents are.
I don't know whether I was born in Russia or
Iceland. I am just
here.
That is all many of us were told. That is the way.
Parents are not important after the birthing. Children are
kept in special places called communes until
they are six years of age. During that time they
  are taught, beginning at an early age. After
intelligence is tested and determined, the child is
placed in a home-setting appropriate to the
intelligence of child and male and female sponsor.
The environment is tightly controlled. One is
trained to do one thing and that is what that person will do.
That, forever.
  "But I was talking about books. I never knew
there were so many different books. Our reading is
selected for us-we have no choice in the matter. But
these books ... oh my, they were wonderful. They were
about everything. Life and love and mystery and
adventure and romance and, oh, just about everything!
  "I had never seen anything like it, and I knew because
I had never seen them before that the books were forbidden.
I said nothing about them, for in our society you never
know who will report you to the committee for some
infraction of the rules."
  "The committee?"
  "Each street in all cities have committee
persons living on it. One or two people. No one
ever knows exactly how many. You don't have them?"
  "No!" Roy was both horrified and fascinated.
  "Then how do you keep order?"

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 "By rules, Kat. We all know the rules and
we obey them."
 "But what happens if you don't obey the
rules?"
 "If you get caught you get punished."
"If
"you get caught?"
 "That's right."
 "That seems a rather lax way of doing things."
 "Freedom requires some degree of
looseness, Kat."
 "You are free?"
 "Oh yes."
 "You can do whatever you like?"
 "Within reason."
 "Who sets the reason?"
 "Common sense."
 "That must be interesting. Anyway, I found
about a dozen books-paperbacks-by a writer named
Ben Raines."
 Roy smiled.
 "Did I say something amusing?"
 "No, Kat. Go on."
 She looked at him strangely. "This writer,
of the same name as your general, he wrote of many
things, of monsters and werewolves and fighting men-the
only true heroes-and love and honor and, oh,
everything! One person did all that. That is not
permitted in our society."
 "I don't understand, Kat."
 "One person is designated to write of one
specific subject, be it history,
philosophy, whatever. He will devote his life
to that subject matter and nothing else."
 "Kat, that sounds awfully boring to me."
 She sighed. "I... feel the same way,
Roy."
 "You're not happy with your life, are you, Kat?"
 "Happy is unimportant. It is the state that
matters."
 "But you don't believe that anymore, do you,
Kat?"
 She put her head on his shoulder and began

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to weep.
  Roy didn't know what to do.
CHAPTER
FOUR
  "They should have been back by now," Ben said
to Colonel Gray. "You told them to return in
two days, right, Dan?"
  "Affirmative, General. And not to take any
chances. They should have been back by last night."
  "Mount up," Ben said. "Well just leave the
civilians outside the campus and just roll right
in-face these people. That might be the one way to make the
kids come to their senses."
  "And it might backfire, General."
  "There is that to consider, too, Dan. But I'm not
going to toss Judy and Roy to the wolves without a
fight. Or to the bears, as the case may be. Just
to be on the safe side, Dan, when we get to the
outskirts of the campus, you take a team and
infiltrate the buildings, give me a backup."
  "Will do, General."
  They were on the outskirts of Rolla two hours
later, with Ben trying to convince the new members it
would be in their best interest to stay clear of the college
  area. None of them bought his plan,
especially Gale. She puffed up, stuck out her
chin and marched up to Ben.
  Ben braced for a confrontation.
  "Mr. President, General-whatever. Are you
trying to dump us?"
  "Ms. Roth," Ben said patiently. "I have a
great many things on my mind right now, and you are not
making any of them any easier to resolve with your
stupid goddamn questions?"
  "I only asked one."
  Ben looked toward the sky as if seeking some
advice from a higher power.
  Gale shifted the kid from left to right hip. Ben
still didn't know the kid's name. Woman and baby
glared at him.
  It must be contagious, Ben thought.
  "Ms. Roth, I have absolutely no intention of
leaving anyone behind. But if matters deteriorate

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to the point where fast, violent action is the only
way left us, I do not want a bunch of helpless
civilians mucking about, getting in the way,
hollering and bawling and being what they are: useless in
any type of fire-fight. Now, Ms. Roth, is
that perfectly clear?"
  "It sure is. We're going with you."
She turned to leave.
  "Your ass, baby," Ben said.
  Gale spun around, off balance with the child perched on
one hip. She almost fell. Ben caught her.
  She jerked away from his hands and said, "Don't
call me baby!"
  "OK, honey."
  She glared at him then walked off, muttering about
  sexism still prevailing among men who should know
better. But, she concluded, just loud enough for Ben
to hear, anyone who wrote shtup books for a living
couldn't be anything but a sexist. And a male
chauvinist pig, too. And other things that a lady should
never even think, much less mention aloud. In
public.
  Ben laughed at her. "Are you any relation
to Gloria Steinem?"
  "I wish," she called over her shoulder. "Were
you any relation to Hilton Logan?"
  "Bite your tongue!"
  Ben grinned, thinking: Things sure had gotten
livelier since she joined the parade.
  Over the loud and sometimes heated protests of his people,
Ben went into the campus alone, ordering his Rebels
to dismount and prepare for a fire-fight, but
hoping it would not come to that. Yet. Colonel Gray
had his orders and, with a carefully selected team,
quietly set about carrying them out.
  Ben walked slowly up the weed-grown and cracked
drive of the long-deserted college, toward a group
of young men and women gathered in front of a building.
They fell silent at his approach.
  "President Raines," someone muttered.
  "Aw, come on. No way," another young person
said.
  "Yeah, ain't no way

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he'd
be here."
  "That's General Raines," a young woman said,
her eyes on the tall figure walking toward them.
"Believe it."
  "Wonder what he wants with us?"
  Some of the young people began backing away, to
  the left and right. Ben's reputation of shooting first
and asking questions later had preceded him.
  "President-General Raines," a voice
called from the steps of the building. "What an honor
to have you join us. My name is Mike. What can I,
or we, do for you?"
  Ben looked at the young man. Tall and
blond and well-built and blue-eyed. His eyes
picked out many more like Mike. They looked as though they
could have been brothers and sisters.
  "Just looking for a couple of young friends of mine,"
Ben told him, his voice carrying over the
now-silent crowd. The butt of the Thompson rested
on his right hip. A thirty-round clip was stuck in
its belly, another thirty-round clip taped to that,
for fast reloading. "Judy Stratmann and Roy
Jaydot. Perhaps you've seen them?"
  Mikael smiled. He had been well-trained,
and was highly intelligent. He felt he could
probably convince the general he had not seen either.
But what he wasn't sure of was how many troops the
general had backing him up. And any convincing would have
to be done privately; to lie now-openly-in
front of the American young people would destroy everything
he had so carefully constructed over the past two
weeks.
  "Yes, of course, I've seen them. They are
here now, studying and learning."
  "Well, then," Ben said with a smile. "You
won't mind if I speak to them, will you?"
  Mikael's smile had not wavered. "Of course
not." He turned to a young lady and spoke
quietly. He swung his gaze back to Ben as the
young IPF member walked away. "They will be along
presently, General."
  "Fine. Don't let me interrupt your

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lecture.
You
must be quite a speaker to hold the attention of so many young
people. My speeches used to bore a lot of them."
  Small laughter among the crowd.
  Without losing his smile, which, to Ben's way of
thinking, was a cross between a smirk and being downright
smart-assed, the young man said, "Perhaps, sir, with
all due respect, you did not speak to them on the
right topic?"
  "That might well be true, young man," Ben said
sagely. "But then, perhaps it was because I didn't
tell them everything they wanted to hear."
  Some of the young people looked at one another, shaking their
heads in agreement with Ben. Their accord did not go
unnoticed by Mikael. I will lose some of them, he
thought. Perhaps ten or fifteen percent. But no
matter. The majority will still be with me.
  Ben's mind was one jump ahead of the young
Russian. He said, "We're going to be camped
just down the highway. Be there for a time. Perhaps
Mikael would agree to debate me sometime? Then we
could all have a question and answer session. That might not
only be fun, but interesting and informative."
  The bastard! Mikael silently raged. He would
have to contact Base One concerning this unexpected
development. "Perhaps," he said, his voice losing
some of its confidence. "I will let you know tomorrow."
  "Why not now?" Ben challenged. "Or do you have
to first speak with your superiors to get their
  permission? Isn't that the case-
tovarich?"
  Mikael knew his face was suddenly flushed.
He fought to control his temper and struggled to keep from
balling his hands into fists of anger.
  Before Mikael could retort, a young woman in the
crowd stood up and faced him. "What did General
Raines mean, Mikael? What does
tovarich
mean?"
  Mikael's eyes were decidedly mean as he
faced the questioner.
  Ben said, "It means comrade, young lady. Your

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nice, friendly Mikael is a Russian."
  The young woman's face drained of blood. "Is
that true, Mikael?"
  The Russian shrugged his shoulders. Silently
he was damning Ben Raines to the pits of hell-if
that place existed, and right now he hoped it did.
"There is no Russia, Denise. Most of it was
destroyed by nuclear warheads back in 1988. They
were sent by NATO countries, and supplied by-was
  Denise shook her head impatiently. "I
didn't ask for a political lecture,
Mikael." She stood with hands on hips. "Are you
a Russian?"
  His bright, hard blue eyes shifted from young lady
to Ben. "Yes," he said softly, with many straining
to hear. "I am."
  A young man stood up. "Well... that don't
make no difference to me. I like what Mikael and his
friends are all about and what they've told us. I
believe what they say is true. I'm sticking with
them."
  About two-thirds of the young people present agreed with
that. It did not surprise Ben.
  Ben said, "You young men and women who have not yet
made up your minds about Mikael's ...
  ideology, come with me when I leave. Just walk
with me to where we're camped and talk with those with me.
I promise you no pressure will be exerted
upon your minds. Let's just talk. Isn't that what
a democracy is all about?"
  A mixed group of young people-a few more than Ben
expected-rose and walked to where Ben stood.
Denise said, "We'll listen, General. But
we'll make no firm commitments."
  "That's all I ask, young lady."
  Denise looked at the man. She was standing beside a
true living legend and it filled her with strange,
unexpected emotions. She had thought
President-General Raines would be an old man.
But he looked to be in his mid-forties. But he had
to be older than that. Maybe, more than one person in
the group thought, there is something to his being more than a
mere human. There just had to be.

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 Roy and Judy came out of the building. Both of
them appeared to have been roughed up and then hurriedly
patched up.
 They stopped beside Mikael. Ben called,
"Mikael and his buddies hammer on you two?"
 "Yes, sir," Roy called. "And Judy was
raped."
 Ben looked at her.
 "I'll be all right, sir," she said grimly.
"Much better, in fact, in about a minute."
 "What happens then?" Ben asked.
 "This," Judy said. She spun, driving her
elbow into Mikael's stomach. He doubled over,
gagging. She brought her knee up into his face,
smiling with satisfaction as his jaw popped like a
gunshot and teeth rolled and bounced on the concrete
steps. She
 brought the knife edge of her hand down hard on the
back of his neck, and Mikael dropped to the steps,
bleeding, hurt, and out of commission for a time.
 Judy stepped back and, stone-faced, drew
back her right foot and kicked the Russian
squarely in the balls with the toe of her heavy combat
boot.
 A dozen IPF members appeared on the steps,
automatic weapons at combat ready.
 "Now, now, boys and girls," Colonel
Gray's voice rang from the top of the building.
"We don't want this situation to turn into a sticky
wicket, now, do we?"
 The IPF members looked up into the muzzles of
M-16's and AK-47'S. They heard the roar of
engines racing up the broken blacktop. Jeeps
swung around, .50-caliber machine guns leveled
at them, the muzzles menacing.
 "Holster or sling your weapons," Ben told the
IPF troops.
 They did as ordered, handling the weapons gingerly.
 "One more person I have to get, General," Roy
said. "Give me a minute?"
 Ben nodded. "G." He was curious as to the third
person.
 A number of young women had gathered around Judy,

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asking her questions, their distaste for this newly discovered
side of the IPF very evident. And they were all
curious as to how she had learned how to fight like she
did, and if they could learn it.
  She said they could, just join up with Raines's
Rebels-if they thought they could cut it.
  Roy reappeared, a very pretty young woman with
him, holding onto his hand. The young woman had
  obviously been beaten. There were bruises on the
side of her face and her hands were swollen from her
wrists being tied too tightly.
  Ben looked at the crowd of young people. "Any of you
young folks want to leave with us? Don't worry, the
IPF won't try to stop you."
  Almost half the crowd silently made up their
minds to pull out.
  Ben ordered a team to escort them to the
edge of the campus and to arrange transportation for
them. He smiled at the young woman called
Denise; she seemed to be some sort of
spokesperson for the young people.
  "I think it best that we hold our discussions some
miles from this place, don't you, miss?" Ben said.
  She returned his smile. "Yes, I do,
General. And that's ms. if you don't mind."
  "Right," Ben said dryly. "What else?"
  One young member of the IPF allowed courage
to override training and common sense. He grabbed for
his pistol and leveled it at Katrina. "You
traitor!" he screamed at her.
  Ben stitched him from belly to face, left to right,
with a short burst from the Thompson. The young man's
feet flew out from under him and he slammed back against
the brick wall, bloodying the old bricks as he
slid slowly downward, his brains leaving a gray
trail edged with crimson.
  "James?" Ben called.
  "Sir!"
  "Gather up all the weapons and ammunition you can
find. Take as many people as you need to do it in a
hurry. Search all the buildings. I don't
believe these
  people represent all the IPF personnel here.

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If your team comes in contact with any armed men or
women, shoot first and ask questions later."
  "Yes, sir."
  Colonel Gray yelled from the top of the
building. "You IPF people! Down on your bellies,
hands behind your head, fingers interlaced. Move!"
  The dozen young people obeyed instantly. Ben thought:
well-trained and well-disciplined. The Russian
equivalent, of the German
Herrenvolk
may consider themselves to be the master race, but they
damn well want to survive in order to prove it.
  Ben motioned Judy, Roy and Katrina to his
side. "What was done to you?" he asked the young
Russian girl.
  "They beat me," she said softly, her accent
giving her voice a pleasing lilt. "They made me
take off my clothes and then beat me. They were going
to rape me but they were afraid of what might happen
to them should they do that. Tell your men they are wasting their
time looking for more members of this contingent of the IPF.
They are gone. At the arrival of your people, they would have
assessed the situation, decided they could not defeat
your troops, and pulled out. Do not construe
it as any act of cowardice, it is merely good
sense."
  "Mikael is the leader?" Ben asked.
  "Yes." She looked at the unconscious young
man. Blood streamed from his broken mouth and from one
ear. "What is left of him, that is." She added,
"He is a pervert."
  The young people who had elected to remain at the school
with the IPF, who had decided to adopt the
  philosophy of the IPF, now sat sullenly,
defiantly, silently. Katrina gave them little more
than a quick glance of dismissal.
  "They are what we call hard-core recruits.
They needed very little persuasion. You could not reconvert
them now, no matter what you said. So far, we have
found many like these."
  Ben suspected as much. "All of them young?"
  "Oh, no," the girl replied. "Many people, of
all ages."

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  "And you?" Ben asked her.
  "I have not been content with General Striganov's
views of matters since I found books," the
seventeen-year-old said. "I read books. In them
I found a much different world than my superiors
described. I began to think-and that is
something our leaders and cell coordinators do not like for
us to do. They do not like for us to think about anything other
than what we are told to think."
  "Education, then," Ben prompted, "is what
swayed you?"
  "Oh, my, yes. As much of a broad education as
I could give myself with the crate of books I found in
Reykjavik." She smiled. "And some of the books
were authored by you, President-General Raines."
She met his gaze. Even badly bruised, the
girl was beautiful. Her pale eyes held one.
  "And how do you know I am the same Ben Raines,
young lady?" Ben smiled at her.
  "Two reasons, President-General. One:
When I mentioned the name to Roy, he smiled. Two:
Your picture was in one of the books. It was, I
believe, taken some years ago, but it was you."
  "Don't compliment him too much," Gale said,
standing just outside the group. "It'll go to his head and
he'll be more impossible than ever to live with."
  Katrina shifted her pale eyes. "You live with
President-General Raines?"
  "God, no!" Gale said. "That's a figure of
speech."
  Katrina smiled.
"Bot kak!"
  Walking away, Gale asked Colonel
Gray, "What did that girl say to me back
there?"
  Dan smiled; he spoke some Russian.
"Let's just say she questioned the validity of your
statement."
  "I wonder why?" Gale asked innocently.
  "You three get to Doctor Carlton," Ben
told Judy, Roy and Katrina. "We'll pull
out as soon as James is through."
  "He won't find a thing," Katrina

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predicted.
  She was right.
  The convoy took Highway 63 out of Rolla and
rolled to just outside of Jefferson City, pulling
into a motel complex in mid-afternoon. They had seen a
few survivors, but Ben knew more had seen the
convoy from hiding places along the highway. The people were
wary and scared. The great unknown had reached out and
slapped the nation twice, hard, in little more than a
dozen years, knocking those that survived to their
knees. He knew that many of those slapped down would
never get to their feet.
  Ben gathered the seventy-five or so young
people from the campus around him. "If any of you want
to go home, I'll try to find some type of
transportation for you."
  No one did. Denise explained, "We don't
have homes, General-none of us."
  "For how long?" he asked.
  "Years," she said. "I've been on my own
since I was ten. You don't know there are large
groups of young people on both sides of the
Mississippi River?"
  Ben shook his head.
  ""Yes, sir. The western group is headed by a
young man named Wade. The eastern group is headed
by a young man named Ro. Both groups live in the
woods. They are, well, rather wild, but they've never
hurt anyone to the best of my knowledge."
  "I see," Ben said, not sure if he saw or
not. "Well, Denise, you and your people have homes now,
if you want them."
  "With you and your Rebels, General?" a young man
asked.
  "That is correct."
  "If we decide to stay with you, General,"
Denise said, "what would we do?"
  "Stay with us until we can check you out with
weapons and survival tactics. Although-was he
smiled-"if you've been on your own for all these
years, I don't believe you need any lessons
on survival.
  "After we check you out, you would then move out in

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teams, attempting to convince other young people that the way
of the IPF is the wrong way, that we-Americans-have
to rebuild this nation. We have to rebuild with education and
hard work, compassion when it's needed, and toughness
tempered with mercy in many cases. How about it?"
  The young people thought they liked that plan.
  They would stay.
  "Tell me about these groups of young people, Denise,"
Ben asked.
  "I ... really don't know much about them,
General, other than what I told you." She
looked at him strangely. "Except, well, their
religion is not quite like what the rest of us, well,
practice."
  "I don't understand. They worship God, don't
they?"
  "In a manner of speaking, yes, sir."
  "Explain that, Denise." There was a sinking
feeling in the pit of Ben's stomach. He braced
himself for what he knew was coming.
  "They worship you, sir."
  Jefferson City contained more than four hundred
survivors, but as was the case in most areas, Ben and
his Rebels found organization lacking. People had
splintered off into little groups, each with their own
leaders, with their own varying philosophy as to what should
be done and how to go about doing it. In some cases the people
were fighting each other.
  And Ben did not know how to bring an end to the
fighting.
  It was what Ben had been afraid he'd find.
  He spoke with a few of the survivors-those that would
let him get close to them-and tried to convince them they
had to get off their butts and start working, straightening
matters out. And to stop warring between themselves. Many times
he would turn and walk away in disgust, leaving before
anger got the best of him. Of those he spoke with,
  Ben figured he got through to maybe ten percent.
  Clearly disgusted, Ben ordered his people mounted up
to pull out. He told Dan Gray. "To hell with
these people. Let them kill each other off. They've
lost the will to survive in any type of productive
society."

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  "I concur," Colonel Gray said.
  It was then Ben noticed that Mary
Macklin was reluctant to ride with him. He did
not understand it. He thought it might be due to their brief
sexual encounter-but he did not really believe that was
it. When they reached Fulton, Missouri, just
prior to stopping at a small college there, Ben
pulled the growing convoy off the road and walked back
to where Lieutenant Macklin was sitting in a Jeep
alone.
  "I say something to offend you?" he asked her.
  "No, sir. Not at all."
  "You maybe don't like my deodorant?"
  She laughed. "No, sir. It's nothing like that.
Believe me."
  Ben didn't believe her. He felt she was
holding something back, but he decided not to push.
"Finally decide I could take care of myself, eh,
Mary?"
  "Something like that, sir." You'd better be able
to take care of yourself, General, she thought. Because when
you and Gale stop spatting and hissing at each other
like a cat and dog, things are sure going to pop.
  And Mary really wasn't all that certain how she
felt about that.
  Ben nodded, not believing a word he had heard.
"All right, Mary. Right now, I want you
to take a team over to Westminster College.
Check it out for survivors. Shouldn't take you more
than a couple of hours. Well wait for you here."
  She nodded and pulled around the convoy, stopping
twice to pick up people. With four in the Jeep, she
headed out.
  Ben ordered his people to dismount and take a rest.
  "I'm surprised you would delegate that much
authority to a woman, General Raines," the
voice came from behind Ben.
  "Ms. Roth," Ben said, turning around. "I
really don't-was
  He cut off his sentence at the sight of her. He
could hardly recognize her. She had done something
to her hair, cut it maybe-something was very different.
Maybe she had simply combed it, Ben thought. But

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he decided he'd best keep that a thought and not put
it into words. For safety's sake. His own. She
wore jeans that fitted her trim figure snugly,
and what looked to be a boy's Western shirt.
However, Gale would never be confused for any boy.
Ben stared. She was somewhere in between pretty and
beautiful.
  "A speechless gentile." She tossed his words
back to him with a smile. "My goodness, I
believe I've found a first."
  Ben ignored that. "Where's the kid?"
  "With the new people from the college. One of the young women
had just lost her baby-a couple of weeks ago.
She asked if she could take care of the baby. I
told her that was fine with me. Baby's probably
better off with her, anyway."
  "Why would you think that?" Ben looked into her eyes.
She really had beautiful eyes.
  She returned his open stare. "You really ask a
lot of questions, you know that, General?"
  "Perhaps. Why would ... what is the child's name,
anyway?"
  "I haven't the vaguest idea. I found him in
Flat River when I was traveling south. Believe
me, I don't know from nothing about babies. Well,
not all that much, anyway."
  Ben sensed she was putting up a brave front,
but had decided the child would be better off with someone
else. "The mother who lost her baby-she still in the
nursing stage?"
  "That's right."
  "And fresh milk is hard to come by these days."
  "Right."
  "I see."
  "I doubt it. What do you know about nursing
babies? Nothing," she answered her own question.
  He stepped closer. She stood her ground. Out
came the chin.
"Ms.
Roth, would you do me the honor of riding with me in this
parade?"
  She seemed taken aback. For a very brief
moment. "Why in the world would I want to ride with

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you?"
  "To harass me, to annoy me, and to be a constant
source of irritation to me."
  "You talked me into it."
CHAPTER FIVE
  Westminster College was deserted except for one
senile old man and several young ministers and their
families who had elected to stay behind and care for the
elderly man.
  Some young people had been through, Mary was told, but they
had not stayed long. Seemed like nice young people, but rather
distant, one young minister said. He thought they might have
all been related, they looked so much alike.
Blond and blue-eyed, mostly. But, he told the
small unit of Rebels, something about the young people had
frightened them all, and none were sorry to see
them leave.
  Ben pointed the column toward Columbia. He
wanted to check out the University of Missouri.
  Columbia was a dead city, seemingly void of
human life. But Ben, standing on the outskirts of the
city, picked up a slight odor in the air, the
breeze blowing from west to east. He knew what that
odor was.
  He shook his head in disgust. "Mutants," he
told his people. "I know that smell very well."
  A Rebel looked at Ben. "You killed one of
them once, didn't you, General?"
  Ben was conscious of Gale's eyes on him.
"Yes,
months ago."
  "Close up, General?" one of the new people from the
campus at Rolla asked.
  Ben smiled. "About as close as you can get without
getting intimate with the thing." He tried to brush off
the question as lightly as possible. He knew only
too well his battle with the mutant had only served
to strengthen the belief among many that he was somehow more
than a mere mortal.
  When he moved off, walking down the center of
Interstate 70, Gale asked, "What
happened, Ben? I mean, the mutant."
  Ben had walked out of the communications shack and

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toward a thick stand of timber. He wanted to think,
wanted to be alone for a time. More and more, since leaving
Idaho he had sought solitude.
  A young woman's scream jerked his head up. Ben
sprinted for the timber, toward the source of the frightened
yelling.
  Ben reached the edge of the timber and came to a
sliding halt, his mouth open in shock.
  It was a man, but it was like no man Ben had ever
seen. It was huge, with mottled skin and huge,
clawed hands. The shoulders and arms appeared to be
monstrously powerful. The eyes and nose were human,
the jaw was animal. The ears were perfectly formed
human. The teeth were fanged, the lips human. The
eyes were blue.
  Ben was behind the hysterical young woman-about fourteen
years old-the child of a Rebel couple. She was between
Ben and the ... whatever in God's name the creature
was.
  The creature towered over the young woman. Ben
guessed it was an easy seven feet tall.
  Ben clawed his .45 from leather just as the creature
lunged for the girl. She was very quick, fear
making her strong and agile. Ben got off one shot;
the big slug hit the mutant in the shoulder. It
screamed in pain and spun around, facing Ben. Ben
guessed the thing weighed close to three hundred
pounds. And all three hundred pounds of it were mad.
  Ben emptied his pistol into the manlike
creature, staggering but not downing it. The girl, now
frightened mindless, ran into its path. Ben picked up
a rock and hurled it, hitting the beast in the head,
again making it forget the girl. It turned and screamed
at Ben. Its chest and belly were leaking blood, and
blood poured from the wound in its shoulder.
  Ben sidestepped the lumbering charge and pulled his
bowie knife from its sheath. With the creature's back
momentarily to him, Ben jumped up on a stump for
leverage and brought the heavy blade down as hard as
he could. The blade cut through skull bone and brain,
driving the beast to its knees, dying. Ben worked the
blade out and, using both hands, brought it down on the
back of the creature's head, decapitating it. The

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ugly, deformed head rolled on the grass, its
eyes wide open in shocked death.
  Ben wiped the blade clean on the grass and
replaced it in leather. He walked to the young woman
and put his arms around her.
  "It's all over now, honey," he spoke
softly, calming her, patting her on the shoulder.
"It's all right, now. You go on and find your mother."
  A young boy stood a short distance away, holding
hands with his sister. Both of them were open-mouthed in
awe. "Wow!" he said. "He is a god. He
can't be killed."
  "He fought a giant and beat it," his sister said.
"Just wait 'til I tell Cindy over in Dog
Company about this."
  By now, many Rebels had gathered around. They
stood in silence, looking at the beast with some fear in
their eyes, looking at Ben with a mixture of awe,
fear, respect and reverence.
  Ben looked at the silent gathering. "You see,"
he told them. "Your bogey men can be killed. Just
be careful, travel in pairs, and go armed. Now go
back to your duties."
  The crowd broke up slowly, the men and women and
kids talking quietly among themselves-all of them
speaking in hushed tones about Ben.
  "Maybe it is true."
  "Heard my kids talking the other day. Now I
tend to agree with them."
  "A mortal could not have done that."
  "So calm about it."
  "Tell you, gods don't get scared."
  "Kid prays to General Raines before bed.
Maybe it's not such a bad idea."
  Ben heard none of it.
  Ike stepped up to Ben, a funny look in his
eyes. He had overheard some of the comments. "Are you
all right, partner?"
  "I'm fine, Ike."
  Ike looked at him. Ben's breathing was steady,
his
  hands calm. Ike looked hard at the still-quivering
man-beast. "I wouldn't have fought that thing with anything

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less than a fifty-caliber."
  "It had to be done, Ike. Don't make any
more out of it than that."
  Ike's returning gaze was curious mixture of
humor and sadness. He wanted so badly to tell
Ben that feelings about him were getting out of hand; something
needed to be done about them.
  But he was afraid Ben would pull out and leave for
good if he did that.
  Afraid! The word shocked Ike. Me? he
thought. Afraid? Yes, he admitted. But it was not
a physical fear-it was a fear of who would
or could take Ben's place.
  Nobody, he admitted, his eyes searching
Ben's face. We're all too tied to him.
  "That was a brave thing you did," Gale told
him.
  "I was there and it had to be done." Ben stood,
looking down at her. "I was lucky."
  "Maybe," she replied cautiously. She did
not tell Ben that all during her travels since the
plague struck the land, she had heard of Ben
Raines's powers. At first she had dismissed the
talk as the babblings of a hysterical populace
seeking something to believe it, something to grasp during this
time of upheaval. Now she wasn't so sure.
  "Let's get rolling," Ben told her.
  The convoy backtracked, picking up Highway
54,
  heading for Mexico, Missouri, where they would
spend the night.
  Ben and Gale rode in silence for a time, with Ben
finally breaking the uncomfortable tension between them.
  "Tell me about yourself, Gale."
  "I'm boring. I'd rather talk about you."
  Ben smiled.
  "And keep your ethnic cracks to yourself."
  Ben laughed. "I wasn't going to say a word."
  "Sure. We're friends, right, General?"
  Ben pretended to mull over that for a few
seconds, pursing his lips and frowning.
"Come on!"
  "OK. But only if you call me Ben."

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  She pretended to think seriously about that, frowning and
pursing her lips.
  Ben laughed at her antics.
  "All right," she said. "Tell me more about the
monster you killed single-handedly, Ben."
  Ben had hoped that episode was past history.
"It was a matter of necessity, Gale. It was there
and I was there. Believe me, I would have preferred
to have been elsewhere."
  She doubted that. The general, she had concluded,
thrived on action. "But you didn't run?"
  "No. But a young girl's life was at stake.
Gale, don't make any more out of it than it was.
Too many people are doing that now, I'm afraid."
  "You're afraid? I don't believe you're
afraid of anything, Ben Raines."
  "I meant that as a figure of speech."
  "I know it. I still don't believe you're
afraid of anything."
  They were again silent for a few miles, and again Ben
wondered if his staying with the Rebels was the right thing,
both for himself and for the people. He knew Gale had heard
the stories and tales and myths and rumors about him.
He wondered if she believed any of them. He
hoped not.
  He glanced at her. She looked so small and
vulnerable. But he knew for her to have survived she
had a deep well of toughness in her. He suddenly
wanted to put his arm around her; but he wanted
to avoid having his arm broken even more. He resisted
the impulse.
  The town of Mexico, Missouri, once a
thriving little city of about thirteen thousand, appeared
deserted. After pulling into a large motel parking
area, Ben sent a team into town to check it out. He
had detected that odor in the air and had ordered the
rest of his contingent to stay mounted up. He was bracing
himself mentally for what he hoped the recon team would not
find.
  Col. Dan Gray reported back to him. From
the look on his face, Ben knew the news was not
good.
  "It's rather grim, General," the Englishman

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reported. "Looks like the beasties have used
this place to winter and to breed. The stench of them is
strong."
  "What do you think, Dan?"
  "I think it's very unsafe, General."
  "Very well," Ben said. He turned to his
squad leaders. "We're pulling out. It's about
sixty miles to Hannibal. Well bivouac
there."
  The column rolled and rumbled through the town.
Downtown Mexico looked as though a pack of
wild kids
  had trashed the streets and stores. Not a window
remained intact; filth was strewn everywhere. Once,
Ben stopped to retrieve part of a heavy metal gas
can from the street. The can appeared to have been physically
ripped apart, torn open, much like a huge bear would
do, with super-animal strength.
  Ben silently showed the can to Gale.
  For once, she had nothing to say.
  Unlike Mexico, Missouri, Hannibal
appeared untouched by time or mutants. There were a
few rotting skeletons to be seen, but the Rebels
had long months back grown accustomed to that sight.
  Ben ordered the people to dismount and clean up the
Holiday Inn; they would use that for a base
while in the area. Ben wanted to spend several days
in this part of Missouri. He wanted to search for any
original manuscripts of Samuel Clemens and
as many of his artifacts as possible. Ben felt that
something had to be preserved-some link with the past, when
times were better and life was easier. Before the bomb.
  Gale mentally prepared herself for the proposition she
was sure was forthcoming from Ben Raines, for his sexual
antics were almost legend among the Rebels, and she
had been subtly warned to prepare herself.
  She went to sleep in a chair in her room, still
waiting for Ben's advances. When she awakened at
one o'clock in the morning, her back hurting and her
neck stiff from sleeping in the chair, she smiled
ruefully at the white, almost virginal nightgown
she had picked up from a store in Fulton,
Missouri. The gown lay across the foot of the bed.

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  She carefully folded it and replaced it in her
duffle. "Another time, another place," she said,
adding, "Shit!"
  Doctor Carlton took several Rebels with
him right after breakfast. Said he wanted to prowl around
a bit, see what he might discover. The others
took the two-day lull to wash clothes, lounge about,
rest or sightsee. Ben and Gale
visited the many landmarks in that part of Missouri:
Hannibal's Cardiff Hill; Lover's Leap,
overlooking the Mississippi River; the old
lighthouse, built in 1935 as a monument to Mark
Twain.
  "I don't understand," Gale said, as she and Ben
sat eating lunch, "how one town could be virtually
destroyed by those... things, mutants, and another town
could be almost untouched." She looked at the can of
C-ration and grimaced.
  "I can't answer that," Ben said. "Maybe a
scientist could, but I don't know of any in this area.
I don't know of any scientists-period. So much
has been lost, and it doesn't appear that too many
people really care. I can understand it, but I don't have to like
it."
  "Explain then, please. Take my mind off this
horrible food."
  Ben laughed at her. "I lived off that stuff for
months, Gale."
  "No wonder your disposition is so rotten."
  Chuckling at her, Ben said, "I think many who
survived the bombings of "88 somehow found the
strength to bounce back. Maybe the world would have
survived if the rats had not brought the
plague. Just seems like it knocked the props out from
under most who made it through that sickness."
  "It didn't knock the props out from under you," she
observed.
  "No, it didn't. But we're different, the
Rebels and me."
  "I."
  "Are you sure?"
  "Damn, Ben-you're a writer!"
  "Me still sounds correct."

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"Ben!"
  "Whatever. We had a goal, we were organized,
we had a dream of a better society. Maybe we
were just stronger people. Sometimes I wonder if it's all
worth it."
  "Hitting those new lows you told Mary Macklin
about, Ben?"
  "No, not really." Ben shook his head. "The
fact the IPF is here shows that we have survivors
from around the world, shows that somebody other than myself is
going to try to pull this world out of the ashes. Even if
it's just a small part of the world. Walk before you run,"
he quoted the old saying.
  "If you don't mind, Ben." She looked at
him, putting her hand on his thigh. "I'd rather
it be
us
than
them."
  "So would I, Gale."
  "Then let's do it, Ben Raines."
  He met her gaze. "All right, Ms. Roth.
Let's do it."
  "It was only a matter of time," General
Striganov spoke to Sam Hartline. "But Ben
Raines need not disturb us all that greatly. Neither
he nor us is strong enough to mount any type of
sustained attack against the other. Perhaps, really, we
might never need to fight. If he will keep to the
south, and we to the north, perhaps we could work out some kind
of peaceful coexistence
  plan. I think that would behoove both of us."
  "Don't count on it," Hartline said. "Raines
is a communist hater out of the old school. And he
is one tough bastard."
  "I do not want a fight at this time." The
Russian was adamant. "Let us attempt
to converse with President-General Raines. During
the meeting-if he agrees to it-we shall attempt to work
out some dividing line that would separate his form
of government from ours-a physical line." He
turned to an aide. "Have leaflets printed and order
a team sent out to find General Raines. No

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contact at this time. Later we shall have a pilot do a
fly-by and drop the leaflets. Raines is slowly
progressing northward, taking his time, according to our people just
in from Rolla." A look of disgust passed quickly
over his face at that thought. The general had already seen
to Mikael. "Iowa would be a good place to locate
him and for us to meet, I believe." He studied the
map on his office wall. "Yes. Ask Mr.
Raines to meet me at, ummm, ah, Waterloo."
He smiled. "Yes, Waterloo, Iowa. That should
be a very appropriate place, don't you think,
Sam?"
  "For one of you," Hartline grunted his reply.
The Russian did not know Ben Raines as well as
Sam. Ben Raines would never permit a communist
form of government to exist alongside his own. At
least Hartline didn't believe he would.
  Not for any length of time.
  But... maybe it was worth a shot.
  On the morning of the third day in Hannibal, the
column pulled out, rolling northward on Highway
61.
  Ben had cautioned his people to be careful, for he
remembered only too well the incidents last
year, when the Rebels were moving west out of
Richmond, when the government collapsed.
  The scouts had failed to report in at their given
time. Ben and the convoy waited impatiently on the
cold, wind-swept highway. The bridge at Fort
Madison had been plugged up tight with stalled and
wrecked cars and trucks. The scouts had radioed
back they were going on to Hamilton, taking a
secondary road. Ben waited a long half hour
past the time they were supposed to have radioed in. He
turned to Cecil.
  "I'm taking a patrol," Ben told him.
"I'll call in every fifteen minutes. Anything
happens, you're it."
  "Ben..."
  "No. It's my show. Maybe the radio conked
out. Could be a lot of things. I'll be in touch."
  Back in his pickup, Ben looked at
Rosita. "Out," he told her.

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  She refused to leave.
  "Do I have to toss you out bodily?"
  "That would look funny," she calmly replied.
  Ben closed the door and put the truck
in gear. "Your ass," he told her. He pulled
out, leading the small patrol.
  Rosita smiled at him and said something in
rapid-fire Spanish. It sounded suspiciously
vulgar.
  "Check your watch," he told Rosita.
  "Ten-forty-five."
  "Call in every fifteen minutes. It'll take us
forty-five minutes to an hour on these roads to get
to Fort Madison. That was their last transmission
point. Whatever happened
  happened between there and Hamilton. You've got the
maps. What highway do we take?"
  "96 out of Niota."
  At Nauvoo they found the pickup parked in the
middle of the highway. One door had been ripped
off its hinges and flung to one side of the road.
  "What the hell?" Ben muttered.
  Rosita's face was pale under her olive
complexion. She said nothing. But her eyes were
frightened.
  Ben parked a safe distance behind the pickup and,
Thompson in hand, off safety, on full
automatic, walked up to the truck. Thickening
blood lay in puddles in the highway.
  "Jesus Christ!" one of Ben's Rebels said,
looking into a ditch. "General!"
  Ben walked to the man's side. The torn and
mangled body of the driver lay sprawled in the
ditch. One arm had been ripped from its socket.
The belly had been torn open, the entrails
scattered about, gray in the cold sunlight.
  A Rebel pointed toward an open field.
"Over here!" he called.
  The second scout lay in a broken heap, on his
stomach. He was headless. Puddles of blood
spread all about him.
  "Where's his head?" the man asked.
  "I don't know," Ben answered. "But we'd

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damn sure better keep ours. Heads up and
alert. Combat positions. Weapons on full
auto. Back to the trucks in twos. Center of the
road and eyes moving. G."
  Back in the warm cab of the truck, Ben noticed
Rosita looking very pale and shaken. He touched her
hand. "Take it easy, little one. We'll make
it."
  He radioed in to Cecil. "Cec?
Backtrack to Roseville and 67 down
to Macomb. Turn west on 136.
We'll meet you between Carthage and Hamilton.
Don't stop for anything. Stay alert for trouble."
  "What kind of trouble, Ben?"
  Ben hesitated for a few seconds. "Cec-I
just don't know."
  "Ten-four."
  Ben honked his horn and pulled out, the other
trucks following.
  They saw nothing out of the ordinary as they drove
down 96. But Hamilton looked as though it had
been sacked by Tartars followed up by hordes of
giant Tasma-nian devils.
  "What the hell?" Ben said, his eyes taking in the
ruins of the town. Bits and scraps of clothing blew
in the cold winds; torn pages of books and
magazines flapped in the breeze, the pages being
turned by invisible fingers. Not one glass
storefront remained intact. They all looked as
if they had been deliberately smashed by mobs of
angry, sullen children.
  There was no sense to any of it.
  Ben said as much.
  "Perhaps," Rosita said, venturing forth an
opinion, "those that did it do not possess sense as
we know it."
  "What are you trying to say, Rosita?"
  "I... really don't know, Ben. And please
don't press me."
  "All right."
  Ben cut to the bridge and saw it was clear
except for a few clumsily erected barricades.
They looked as though they had been placed there by people

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without full use of their mental faculties.
  Rosita said nothing.
  Ben radioed back to the main column. "Come on
through to the bridge at Keokuk, Cec. But be
careful."
  "I copy that, Ben. Ben? We just passed through a
little town called Good Hope. It looked ... what
was it the kids used to call it? It looked like it had
been trashed."
  "I know, Cec. The same with Hamilton. Just
no sense to it."
  "Well be there as quickly as possible, Ben."
  "Ten-four."
  With guards on the bridge, east and west, Ben
and the others cleared the structure in a few minutes.
Beneath them the Mississippi River rolled and
boiled and pounded its way south, the waters dark and
angry-looking.
  "They look like they hold secrets," Rosita
said, her eyes on the Big Muddy.
  "I'm sure they do." Ben put an arm around her
shoulders, pulling her close.
  They stood for a time, without speaking, content to be
close and to look at the mighty flow of water rushing
under them.
  "General?" one of the men called, "lake a look
at this, sir, if you will."
  Ben and Rosita walked to where the man stood.
Painted in white letters on the bridge floor,
close to the railing, were these words:
  GOD HELP US ALL. WHAT MANNER
OF CREATURE HAVE WE CREATED? THEY
CAME IN THE NIGHT. I CANNOT LIVE
LIKE TH.
  It was unsigned.
  "He was talking about the mutant rats," Ben
said.
  Rosita looked at him, eyes full of doubt.
  "I wonder what happened to the person that wrote
this?" the Rebel who discovered the message asked.
  "He went over the side," Rosita said.
  "Probably," Ben agreed.
  No more was said of it until the column

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rolled onto the bridge. There, in the cold
January winds, Ben told his people what had happened
to the scouts.
  Roanna told Ben of the AP messages she
had received, and of her sending Jane Moore
to Michigan.
  Ben was openly skeptical. "Mutant beings,
Roanna? Are you serious?"
  "Yes, I am. Same copy that told of
mutant rats. Received the same night from AP."
  Ben could but stare in disbelief.
  "It's entirely possible, Ben," Cecil said,
as the cold winds whipped around them. "I recall
hearing some doctor say that after the initial wave of
bombings that God alone knew what type of
mutations the radiation would bring in animals and
humans."
  When Ben spoke, his words were hard and firm.
"Now I don't want a lot of panic to come out of
this. None of us know what happened to our scouts. They
were killed. By what or by whom, I don't know.
What I do know is this: We are going to make
Tri-States. Home, at least for a while.
We've got some rough country to travel, and we've
been lucky so far. I expect some
fire-fights before we get there. So all of us stay
alert.
  "Well be traveling through some ... wild country,
country that has not been populated for some time-more than
a decade. So it's entirely possible that we'll
see some ... things we aren't, haven't witnessed
before. I hope not. But let's be prepared for
anything. When we
  do stop at motels, we'll double the guards and
stay on our toes. But I won't have panic or
any talk of monsters. Let's move out. Let's
go home."
  And now, more than a year later, as the Rebels
traveled northward, they began to see more and more
evidence of the mutants' existence: destroyed stores
that looked as if bands of madmen had descended upon
them; absolutely no sign of human life; and that
awful odor that was the trademark of the mutants. For a

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time, it was a drive of utter desolation. And it was
making the Rebels nervous.
  "Steady down, now," Ben spoke calmly over
the radio. "Keep your weapons at the ready and your
eyes open. But stay calm and keep your cool."
  His voice and words and relaxed attitude seemed
to do the trick.
  "Keep your cool?" Gale looked at him, a
smile on her lips. "Boy, that sure dates you,
old man."
  "Wanna hear my imitation of Chuck Berry?"
Ben asked.
"Who?"
  "Forget it," Ben told her.
  "Was he a singer or what?"
  Ben ignored her. She grinned at him.
  A few miles south of where the highway turned
due east, Ben halted the column and put out
guards while he consulted a roadmap.
  "I was going into Keokuk," he said to Colonel
Gray and Lieutenant Macklin. "But now I
don't think I'll take the chance. We'll pick
up this secondary road here and take it up
to Highway 2, take that all the way until we
  junction with 63. Then well cut right straight
up the center of the state. Stay on 63 all the way
into Minnesota."
  "You want me to send out advance recon,
General?" Colonel Gray asked.
  "No," Ben said. "I think, if what Kat said
is true, and I have no reason to doubt her, this
General Striganov will probably
attempt to contact us."
  "And then?" James Riverson asked, the
M-16 looking like a toy against the hugeness of the
big ex-truck driver.
  "We'll have to play it by ear. But unless
provoked, we are not hostile. Let them open the
dance." He looked around for his radioman. He
thought of Gale. He smiled as he realized his
radioman was a woman. All right.
Radioperson. "Corporal, get in touch with
Ike back home. Tell him to put two

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companies on stand-by and have planes standing by ready
to go." He glanced at Colonel Gray. "Do we
have two companies of personnel who are
jump-qualified?"
  "Only by stretching the point, sir, and by pulling
them all in from the three-state area."
  "Mary?" he looked around for Lieutenant
Macklin.
  "Sir?" She stepped forward.
  "You know of more riggers down home?"
  "No, sir."
  "Well, that's that," Ben said. "Good idea while
it lasted. Colonel, when we get back, I
want you to personally train at least two
companies of airborne."
  "Sir."
  To the radio operator: "Tell Colonel
McGowen we can't risk a jump if his people are
needed. The pilots will just have to land the planes on a
strip or in the damn road."
  "Right away, sir."
  Fifteen minutes later, Ben ordered the
column out. A half hour later, they rolled
into Iowa.
  "Radar O'Reilly," Ben remarked with a
smile as they approached Ottumwa, Iowa.
  Gale laughed. "I remember watching that show when
I was a little girl. But mostly I remember the
reruns. It was funny."
  "What did you do directly after the bombings of
'88?" Ben asked.
  Gale thought for a time. She was so long in silence
Ben asked, "First time you've talked about it?"
  "Yes," she replied, the word just audible over the
highway rush.
  "If it bothers you, don't speak of it."
  "No. I think it's time. It's not all that great,
anyway. I mean, as compared to what happened to a
lot of other people."
  Ben let her gather her thoughts.
  "I was sixteen," Gale began. She cleared
her throat and spoke louder, firmer. "Sixteen.
I didn't know crap about the real world. I was still

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going to a damn summer camp when I was fifteen
years old. That summer I didn't go to camp.
Raised so much hell with my parents they finally threw
up their hands and told me I was impossible.
  "On the day ... the day it... happened, I was out
driving with a girlfriend. We went into a panic. We
just couldn't believe it was happening. We were way out in
the country, miles out of the suburbs. But when we
tried to get back into the city, all the highways and
streets were blocked for miles. I tried
shortcuts, got lost. Then I
  calmed down some and pulled an E.t. Managed
to call home. My mother said my father was at the
hospital, working. I remember she was very calm.
She told us not to attempt to enter the city, but
to drive into the countryside-even further out than we
were-get miles from St. Louis. She said to get
food and bottled water and clothing-if I didn't
have the money to buy them, steal them. I was shocked.
Really. This was my mother telling me to steal. She said
to find a sturdy house or barn, hide the
car, and hide ourselves. Don't come out for anything or
anybody. She said it might take days for this thing
to wind down. Something like that."
  "Your father was a doctor?"
  "Yes. A surgeon. A very good one. My mother
was a psychologist. I still remember how incredibly
calm she was over the phone. Anyway, the girl I
was with, Amy, she became unglued. Said she
wasn't going anywhere except back into the city.
She jumped out of the car. I tried to stop her. I
yelled at her and screamed at her. She just kept
on running. I never saw her again.
  "I drove ... I guess maybe thirty
miles from the city. Then I stopped at a country
store and got gas. No one was there. It was eerie.
I mean, the place was deserted. I rummaged around
and got all sorts of food and bottled water and
pop and clothes and stuff. I felt so ... so
guilty
about just taking it. So I put all but five dollars
of my money on the counter and left.
  "I drove. Just drove aimlessly. Ben, to this

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day I can't tell you how long I drove, but it was
fifty or sixty miles further from the city. And
I can't tell you where I finally hid. It
was terrible, though, I can tell you that. I hid like some
animal in this barn. I mean, I never
left
that place. I had hidden my car, a little Chevy, in
some kind of stall
  thing and covered it all up with straw and hay and
stuff. Except to go to the bathroom and to wash my
face and hands, I stayed the whole time up in the
second floor."
  "The second floor of a barn?" Ben questioned,
looking at her.
  "Whatever you call it."
  The loft."
  "Thanks. I'll treasure that knowledge forever, I'm
sure. What do I know from barns? Anyway, it was
scary. There were rats and snakes up there at first.
How do snakes get up that high? I don't know.
Anyway, I killed them with a handle off some kind of
tool. It was broken when I found it.
  "Then the men came prowling around. They were looking
for whiskey and women. Not necessarily in that order.
The first group of men-I don't know whether they were
black or white or green-had a little boy with them.
They did ... disgusting things to him. I don't want
to talk about it. Then they left, took the
little boy with them. Then some white men came in and
looked around. One of them even climbed up the ladder
to the second-to the loft-and looked around. But I was
hidden really well in the hay and he didn't see
me. This bunch said now would be a good time to get together
and kill all the niggers. They left. Then some
drunk black men came around and I overheard them
talking about how would it was a good time to get together and
kill all the honks. But first they wanted some tight
white pussy. They left and some guys came in and
had this woman with them. Woman isn't correct.
She was a young girl, maybe fourteen or fifteen.
I never saw her, but I could hear her begging them
to stop... what they were doing. It got pretty ...
perverted. They raped her-among

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  other things. Took turns with her. It was awful.
  "When they finally left, they took the girl with
them-said they could swap her for guns, maybe. I was
alone for two or three days. I don't
remember; the days kind of all ran together. Maybe
it was longer. Then it got real quiet, like I was the
last person left on earth. You know what I
mean?"
  Ben nodded, remembering his feelings of being alone
when he finally left the house after being so
sick for so long.
  It was his birthday. It was a Sunday. 1988.
It was a day the survivors would remember all their
lives. Ben had started a new book, writing for
three hours. It was the first time he'd felt like
writing after being stung repeatedly by a swarm of
yellow jackets. The stings had dropped him
into shock. He did not know at the time how long he'd
been out-days, surely. But now he felt fine. The
mood was not to last.
  He drove into town. Just outside of the small
town in Louisiana, Ben cut his eyes to a ditch
and jammed on the brakes.
  There was a body in the ditch.
  Ben inspected the dead man. Dead at least a
week-maybe longer. The corpse was stinking and
blackened.
  He tried his CB. Nothing. He turned on the
radio, searching the AM and FM bands. Nothing.
  With a feeling of dread settling over him like a
pall, Ben drove into town.
  There, he found the truth.
  "Yes," he told Gale. "I know the feeling
quite well."
  "I guess maybe you do," Gale said.
"But you're tough. With me, it was different, believe
it. Anyway, I finally ran out of food. I went
through it like Grant took Atlanta."
  "Sherman," Ben said automatically.
  "Who's telling this story, anyway?"
  "Sorry."
  "I had eaten like a starving person. Ate from
fear, I suppose. Gained about ten pounds, at

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least. I had to leave to find more food. And, I
guess, even though I was still scared, I wanted
to see what had happened. I just couldn't believe there
had really been a war. Well, my damn car
wouldn't start. I lifted the hood and looked in.
Talk about a shock. There wasn't any motor.
I finally figured out the motor was in the rear. I
am not mechanically inclined, believe it. What I
knew then about engines and stuff was nothing. But I could
see where the rats had chewed a lot of wires and
things. I sat down by the car and bawled and squalled.
  "I finally got it together and stepped out of the barn.
The sunlight blinded me for a few moments. Gave
me a headache, too. Then I stepped right on a
body. Talk about freaking someone out. I almost lost
control at that point. Maybe I did lose
control for a time. I ran. Boy, did I
run. But it didn't do any good. There were bodies
everywhere.
Like in a movie, you know, after a big battle? And
animals and birds were
eating
the dead people. It was the worst thing I had ever seen in
my life. Period.
  "Well... I stopped at this house-fell down
in the front yard would be more like it, collapsed. Then
I went inside. Luckily, the shape I was in,
emotionally, the house was empty. No people, I mean.
  "Ben, I know how you feel about liberals, and my
mother and father were liberals, the whole bag. Gun
control, civil rights, opposed to capital
punishment, everything, you know?"
  Ben nodded his head in agreement.
  "OK, so they were liberals. But they taught me
how to
think.
They taught me to sit down, be calm and rationalize
things out. So that's what I did. I sat in a
chair, calmed myself and thought. I thought myself right into a
headache-that's all I accomplished."
  Ben laughed at the mental picture of her doing
so, then he apologized for it.
  She smiled. "No, it's all right, Ben. I

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feel better finally being able to talk about it. And I
understand, really, I do. Looking back, some of the things
I did were funny-but not at the time. So I went
looking around in this farmhouse. It was set way back
from the road, in a bunch of trees, and had been
left alone by the looters. I found a rack full
of guns. I took out a shotgun and then found a
box of shells that said twelve gauge. The
double-barrel gun was a twelve gauge-said so on the
metal. So I thought: By God, there isn't
anybody going to rape this kid. I'll get tough.
  "I finally figured out how to open the damn gun-that
thing was heavy-and loaded it. I went outside to fire
it. Damned thing knocked me down. When I hit the
ground the other barrel went off and almost took my
foot with it. I decided right then I'd better find
me some other kind of gun.
  "There were some other shotguns in the rack. I got
the smallest one. A 410, it said. Wonderful.
Personally I found it all rather confusing. It was
smaller than the twelve gauge, but it had a bigger
number, so thinking
  logically, it should have been more powerful, right? I
mean, there's three hundred and
ninety-eight things difference between the two, right?"
  Ben was trying desperately to maintain a straight
face.
  "Go ahead, laugh, you big ox. I know, I
know, klutzy little girl from the city trying to figure
out how to work guns. But Ben, my parents wouldn't
even let my brother play with
toy
guns when he was little. Me? I had Ken and
Barbie. Fantastic. Really helps a girl
prepare for disaster. Doesn't help you prepare for
anything. Ken had been neutered and Barbie didn't
have nothing. It was a big disappointment.
  'The 410 was OK. It kicked, but not much. The
keys to a pickup were on the kitchen table. The
electricity was still working. I took a long, hot
bath. I mean, I was
gamy.
I washed my clothes, fixed something to eat, and

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slept in a real bed.
  "The dreams were kind of bad."
  She was silent for a few miles, gazing out the
window at the barren landscape, at lands that were once
among the most productive in all of America.
  Gale said, "When I got up the next
morning and dressed, I looked out the living room
window. There were some guys walking up the gravel
road. I loaded both guns and walked out onto the
front porch. I just knew bad trouble had found
me. The twelve gauge was as big as me. The men
laughed at me. I told them to stop and to go away.
They laughed and one of them asked me what I was.
I told him I was an American. He said that
wasn't what he meant. I knew what he meant.
Then he said some things I'd rather not repeat. Finally
he said he'd never had any Jew pussy.
  "Ben-was she glanced at him, her eyes seeking
support
  and condonation of what she was about to say-"I got so
mad I lost control. I became so angry I
didn't even feel the shotgun kick, and it
didn't knock me down when I fired it. I shot
the man right in the stomach. Then I fired the other
barrel and hit a man in the leg. There was maybe
thirty feet between us. Took his leg off at the
knee. Just blew it off. I dropped the big
shotgun and grabbed up the 410. I fired both
barrels of it. I don't think I hit anyone, but
the other two men were really running up the road. I
heard a car or truck start and never saw
them again. I went in the house, packed my stuff, and
put it in the pickup, along with both shotguns and
all the shells I could find. I walked out to where the
guys were lying on the ground. One was dead. The other
one was bleeding really bad. I vomited on the
ground.
  "I stood right there and watched that man die, Ben.
I felt ... I felt lots of things. But Ben,
I didn't feel any pity for him. I... felt
like he deserved what I had done to him."
  She sighed heavily, as if the telling had lifted
a load from her slender shoulders.

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  "One of the men had a pistol in a holster, and some
bullets for it in loops. I took all those. I
got in the pickup and drove off. Kind of. It was
one of those four on the floor types. I knocked
the whole porch down before I figured how to get the
damn thing out of reverse. It was embarrassing.
  "I found some people a little while later and they were very
nice. They told me they heard St. Louis had
blown up. So I headed for Columbia. My
parents had friends there that taught at the university.
They took me in. There's a whole lot more, but
that's the high points. Except for this:
  "I am tired of running. I am tired
of being alone. I am tired of being scared. I do not
want to be alone
ever again.
Do you understand what I am saying, Ben Raines? I
mean, really understand it?"
  He looked at her and full comprehension passed
silently between man and woman.
  "Yes, I do," Ben told her.
  "Fine." She smiled and mischief popped and
sparkled in her dark eyes. "Then keep your eyes
on the road, Ben. You're not the best driver
I've ever ridden with, you know?"
CHAPTER SIX
  Ottumwa contained more people than Ben had seen
theretofore in any one place. And Ben noticed that
most of them were armed, with both side arms and rifles.
  He ordered his convoy to a halt and got out to speak
with some of the people. He was greeted courteously, if not,
at first, warmly.
  So spotty were communications throughout America that
some of the people did not even know Ben had been in and out of the
White House at Richmond.
  Ben commented on the highly visible arms.
  "Had to go to it," a man told him. "First those
awful things were around-you know what I'm
talking about, don't you?"
  Ben nodded. "Mutants."
  "Yeah. Then the IPF came nosing around,
spewing that communistic bullshit. We ran them out of
town, but they just spread out all around here, all around

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us. They got a firm hand and hold on Waterloo,
conducting classes at the college, and lots of
folks are being taken in by that line. But not us."
  "How far up north do they extend?"
  "All the way up into Canada, so I hear
tell. But it's a funny-odd-type of communism.
Not like the way it was in Russia before the bombings."
  "Yet," Ben said.
  The man smiled. "Yeah. Say, why don't you
folks spend the night here? We have running water,
electricity, all the comforts. Well, most of them.
We can talk about what to do about the IPF."
  "I'd like that," Ben said with a smile. He stuck
out his hand. The man shook it.
  "You're sure you won't reconsider and make the
move down south with us?" Ben again asked. "Join up
with us."
  Dinner had been delicious. The people of Ottumwa
had opened up their homes to the Rebels, eager for
company and for some news of happenings on the
outside. The days of turning on a radio or
TV for news and entertainment were long gone... and for
many would never return.
  The Iowan smiled and shook his head
negatively. He refilled their cups with hot
tea. Coffee was now almost unknown. The tea was a
blend of sassafras root and experimental tea
leaves grown in South Carolina and in hot houses.
  "I don't believe so, General. This land around
here is still some of the best farm land in the world, and me and the
wife have been farming it for some years now. Think
we'll just stay on."
  "And if the IPF returns?" Ben asked.
"In force, with force?"
  "We do try not to think about that, General
Raines." the man's wife said. "But we're not
always successful in doing it."
  The farmer said, "If that happens, General
Raines, look for us to join you."
  "I'll stay in contact, try to warn you in time
to get out."
  "We'd appreciate that, General."
  "But if you see it coming at you, don't wait

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until it's too late," Ben cautioned.
  "There's about three hundred of us
rebuilding around here," the man said. "And we're
all armed and know how to use the weapons."
  "The Russians have between five and ten thousand
troops," Ben replied.
  The man paled. "Then well have to give your
suggestion some heavier consideration, General."
  The convoy pulled out the next morning, rolling
northward. They halted at the junction of
Highways 63 and 6 while a team was sent
into Grinnell College to inspect.
  Ben stood beside Gale, both of them leaning against the
fender of the pickup. They heard the plane coming and
looked up at the twin-engine prop job as it
dipped lower, coming out of the north.
  "It's unarmed, General!" a spotter called,
viewing the plane through binoculars. "But its markings
show it's an IPF aircraft."
  "Stand easy," Ben told his people.
  Paper fluttered through the air as the plane did a
slow fly-by. The pilot waggled his wings, banked
to the north, and was gone before the bits of paper had
fallen to the earth.
  Gale snagged one of the falling leaflets and handed
it to Ben. After she read it. Ben waited
patiently.
  TO: PRESIDENT-GENERAL BEN RAINES
FROM: GENERAL GEORGI STRIGANOV MY
DEAR MR. RAINES: I AM WAITING IN
WATERLOO TO MEET WITH Y. I WILL
MEET YOU ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF THE
CITY, SOUTH SIDE, AT THE CITY
LIMITS SIGN. IF YOU WISH, COME
ARMED. I WILL NOT BE ARMED AND NEITHER
WILL ANY OF MY P. LOOKING FORWARD
TO MEETING WITH YOU AND SHARING SOME
INTELLIGENT CONVERSATION.
  GEORGI
  "I wouldn't trust a goddamn Russian any
further than I could spit," a Rebel said.
  Colonel Gray smiled, anticipating Ben's
reply. He was not disappointed.

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  "I think that probably has a great deal to do with the
shape of the world at the present time," Ben said. "But
the Russians never inspired a great deal of
confidence in me, either. Colonel Gray?"
  "Sir?"
  "Take a team and reconnoiter the situation. Do
not fire unless you are fired upon. If you meet with
any of General Striganov's people, set up day after
tomorrow for the meeting and report back to me
immediately."
  "Sir." The Englishman saluted and called for
three other Rebels to join him. They left within
five minutes in two Jeeps.
  "Corporal." Ben looked at the radio
operator. "Get on the horn and have Colonel
McGowen get his people up and moving. I don't want
to risk a night landing using vehicle headlights, so
tell him to use the airstrip just outside of town and
I'll expect him no later than 1200 hours
tomorrow. I'll be waiting."
  "Yes, sir."
  "Dismount and make camp," Ben hollered.
  "You are?" Colonel Gray asked the uniformed
young man.
  "Lieutenant Stolski, sir, IPF."
  "Nice old Welsh name," Dan muttered under his
breath. "Well, Lieutenant, are we going to be
civilized about this, or do we draw a line with the toe
of a boot and dare each other to step over it?"
  The young IPF officer laughed and stuck out his hand.
"I have some excellent tea in my quarters, sir.
Would you join me for a cup?"
  Dan shook the offered hand. "Delighted, son."
  The four old, prop-driven planes were
airborne within an hour after receiving Ben's orders.
The planes were old, but in excellent mechanical
condition, the motors rebuilt from the ground up. The
four planes carried two full companies of
hand-picked Rebels, in full combat gear.
  The planes had refueled in central Missouri
and spent the night there. They were circling the small
airport outside Grinnell, Iowa at 1150
hours.

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  Ben had arranged transportation (thousands of
vehicles
  around the nation were still operable after a bit of servicing)
and the troops mounted up and were rolling after guards were
placed around the aircraft.
  "You're in charge here while I'm meeting with
General Striganov," Ben told Ike. "I'm
only taking four people with me."
  "Plus your bodyguards."
  "Only four people," Ben repeated.
  "Plus your bodyguards," Ike insisted, staring
out the windshield.
  Ben sighed. "All right, Ike. If it will make
you happy."
  Ike sniffed the air of the cab. "Smells like
perfume in here, Ben. Have you gone funny
on me?"
  Ben gave him a hard look. But it was to no
avail. No one could stay miffed at Ike. Ben
told him about Gale.
  "One good thing came of this trip anyway," the
stocky ex-Seal said with a grin. His grin faded.
"We got a little more trouble down home, though."
  "Oh?"
  "Emil Hite and his band of kookies and
fruities. They're growing, Ben. Seems people are
looking for something or someone to believe in. 'Bout
five or six hundred more new members just joined
up with Hite and his cream-pies."
  "Moving into our area?"
  "I don't know how to keep them out, Ben.
They're not armed, never make any kind of hostile
move. They are not aggressive at all. What the
hell can we do under those circumstances?"
  "We can run their paganistic asses clear out
of the area," Ben spoke through clenched teeth. Emil
Hite was the Jim Jones type-only worse.
Ben suspected, but had no way of proving, that
Hite was having sexual relations
  with young boys and girls ten years of age-and
less. And he
knew
comhaving seen with his own eyes-Hite and his followers

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were worshipping idols. Well, they could worship a
pile of horse hockey if they chose, but it was the
children that concerned Ben.
  Ike glanced at him and worked his chewing tobacco
over to the other side of his mouth. "The mutants
might not like that too much, ol" buddy."
  "What the hell do the mutants have to do with Emil
Hite?"
  "Well-was Ike spat out the open
window-"Emile Hite and his nutsos kind of
worship the ugly bastards."
  That so startled Ben he almost lost the pickup.
He was glad Gale was not with him. "What!"
  "Yeah. Our intelligence just discovered that a few
days ago. Seems they-Hite and his jellybeans-have
been feeding the mutants for the past year or so; kind
of tamed some of them, I reckon. And hold on
to your balls for this one: Every now and then, so
intelligence has gathered, Hite gives the ugly
things women."
  "You have got to be kidding!"
  "Nope." Ike shrugged philosophically.
"Savage and stupid people the world over have been
doing things similar since the beginnings of time, Ben.
You know that."
  "Yeah. The Aztecs, Mayans, hell, the
Hawaiians used to toss selected maidens
into volcanoes." He shook his head in disgust.
"Well, I'll deal with Hite later. Right now,
let's worry about the Russians."
  "One thing at a time." Ike grinned.
  The men stood for a full minute, each silently
appraising the other. They were very close in age; no
more than
  a year or two separated them. Both were in
excellent physical shape, heavily muscled and
lean-waisted.
  "General Striganov." Ben was the first to speak.
He extended his hand. The Russian took it.
  "So good to at last meet you, General Raines.
It's rare one gets to meet a legend."
  "If indeed I am a legend."
  "Oh, you are, sir." Georgi said with a smile.

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"Have no doubts concerning that."
  Ben decided to pull no punches with the man. "I
won't apologize for what happened to your young man
in Rolla, General. He and his men raped one of
my people and roughed up another."
  The Russian smiled grimly. "No
apologies expected, General. I personally
shot him."
  Ben lifted his eyes to meet the Russian's
open gaze.
  "Oh yes, General Raines. His orders were not
to rape or physically abuse the population. And I
run a very tight ship, so to speak. I will not
tolerate any breach of discipline. Besides,
Mikael, so I learned, was somewhat of a-how to say
this-was twisted sexually. He will not be missed. His
rather lame excuse about your two young people being spies had
no validity. Spies against what or whom?
Russia no longer exists as a government;
America no longer exists as a government, a
power. The world, indeed, is a free, open land, as
unbridled by man-made law as the vast seas. I
view it this way, General: If you have the right to set
in place your own form of government, amenable to the people
who follow you, then so do I. Would you argue that?"
  Ben had to smile. Putting the question that
simplistically, Ben could not argue the concept or the
method-thus far-but he could argue and question the
ideology.
  The Russian returned the smile,
viewing the American through cold eyes. "As the
Americans used to be fond of saying, General,
I'm being quite "up front" with the people. At first I was
not; I will admit-openly-to some initial deceit.
But no longer. I am telling the people who I
was
and what I have now
become:
a communist who has now shifted a bit to become a
pure socialist in thinking and actions."
  "And of the caste system you advocate?" Ben was not
letting him off the hook that easily.
  But the Russian was full of surprises. "But

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of course! Stupid and shallow people are very often quite
vain, General Raines. You are a very intelligent
man; I don't have to tell you about human nature.
Oh no, General, I am now-much to Sam
Hartline's disgust-being quite open and honest in my
dealings with the people. But what is amusing to me is this: Not
one of the people who now embraces my form of government
actually believes he will be placed in the lower
levels of the system, even though I intimate they
certainly will. That, I believe, is the dubious
beauty of the naive and the arrogant man who knows not that
he is either. And would not believe it if he
was so informed. You know those types, General Raines.
The world is-or was-full of them."
  The man was anything but a fool, Ben
reluctantly conceded. And he would be a formidable
adversary. If it came to that.
  As if on some invisible signal, an aide
brought them coffee-real coffee. Ben savored the
rich smell and taste. He had to ask where in the world
General Striganov got the coffee.
  "Call me Georgi-please. And may I
call you Ben?"
  "Certainly, Georgi."
  "Stockpiled it, Ben. Hundreds of tons of the
finest coffee beans in the world, although I can't
personally guarantee each bean was hand-picked by that
fellow on your American TV."
  Ben smiled in remembrance of that commercial: a
coffee bean picker with manicured fingernails.
  "And also some of the finest tea in the world, as well,"
Georgi concluded proudly.
  "But none of that will be shared with the, ah, lower
classes of your system?"
  "Certainly not."
  "I could attack that, Georgi."
  "But of course you could! However, Ben-was
the Russian leaned forward, pyramiding his finger
tips in a vague gesture of praying-"do tell me
this: Does an ignorant person appreciate the
beauty and talents of a Renoir, a Van Gogh,
Cezanne, Caravaggio?" He smiled in
anticipation of an easily won verbal victory.

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"We both know the answer to that. If an ignorant
person had a choice, which would you envision him hanging
in his hovel: a print of a famous master, or some
hideous cloth depicting dogs playing billiards
or poker?"
  Ben had to laugh at that, for in that, he shared the
Russian's philosophy. But he felt compelled
to say: "They could be taught to appreciate fine
art; are you in agreement with that?"
  Striganov waggled his left hand in a gesture of
comme ci, comme ca.
"I can attack that, Ben. Back in the eighties,
before the world exploded in nuclear and germ madness-which
brought us to this point today-which TV program do you think
drew more viewers,
Hee Haw
or a special from the Metropolitan Opera?"
  Ben could but smile. Again, he agreed with the
Russian. "We're speaking of personal
choices, Georgi; that is the price a society
must pay if said society is to live in
freedom."
  "Nice safe answer, Ben. So you are
admitting that freedom can sometimes bring mediocrity
to the forefront?"
  "That's an interesting way of putting it," Ben
said.
  "And you're hedging the question."
  "I learned a little about politics, Georgi."
  "Of all music, Ben, which do you want to endure
through the ages?"
  "I think you know the answer to that, Georgi. I was
listening to a tape of Tchaikovsky's
Serenade for Strings
and
Capriccio Italien
on the way up here. But I still maintain it is all
a matter of free choice."
  "We could argue for quite sometime about this, Ben."
  "Yes. But what would be the point? Unless one of
us wanted to play devil's advocate?"
  Georgi laughed. He leaned back, sipping his
coffee. "I forbid the yowlings of hillbillies and the

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jungle throbbings of black music among
my people."
  "I don't," Ben said. "But I don't have
to listen to it, either."
  "You are very agile at sidestepping, Ben. But
I think we are of like mind on many-no! perhaps a
few-issues."
  "Probably."
  "How many sides do you possess, Ben?"
  "Personalities?" Ben shrugged. "Several,
I'm sure. I think you and I are both music
snobs, Georgi."
"Yes,"
the Russian said. "Q. And you are an honest man,
Ben Raines. A truthful man. Diogenes the
  Cynic would have enjoyed speaking with you, I
believe. Ben, let me be quite open and honest with you.
When I first... when this plan of mine was first conceived-and
it is not original with me, I assure you-I thought
at first... well, that I would find Americans to be
more compassionate than we Russians. But do you know
what I've found, Ben? The majority of the
Americans I've encountered are no more compassionate
than my people. So for the past few weeks, I have been
very honest with those to whom I speak. I tell them up
front: We are going to have a pure white
race-colorless. There will be no concentration camps,
no gas chambers, nothing of that horror. No
torture, no starvation, nothing of that sort. Now
... history may well perceive me as-to use a
movie term-the bad guy, but historians, if they
exist at all a hundred years from now, will not
portray me as some sort of modern-day Vlad the
Impaler or Hitler or Amin. Selective
breeding-yes. It will take many, many generations, and of
course, I shall not see the end results of my work,
certainly, but I will die with the satisfaction of knowing
I started a pure race.
  "And Ben, eighty percent-at least that many-of the people
to whom I have approached
agree
with what I'm doing. You don't appear to be startled
at that news, Ben."

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  "No, I'm not, Georgi. I have thought for years
that Americans are some of the most arrogant people on
earth. But I also think, in spite of, or perhaps
because
of, that arrogance, we have done more for the world than any
other nation in history."
  Georgi reminded Ben: "You also helped to bring
about the world's downfall."
  "That, too."
  "More coffee?" the Russian offered. "Ah-good.
I shall have another cup with you. Must we fight,
General Raines?"
  Ben sugared his coffee. Real sugar too.
"General Striganov, the historians might well
condemn
me
for what I'm about to say and do, and I
may-probably will-have second thoughts about it. But from
what you have told me so far, at this moment, I
don't want a war with you. For several reasons. I
think what you are planning is wrong; I think it is
monstrous. But I just don't have the troops to beat
you. At least I don't believe I have. I think
you carefully surveyed the situation before you came in,
and you know all we would accomplish, at this time would be
to annihilate each other. And I won't do that,
General. I have plans and hopes and dreams for what
remains of this nation. Besides, you'll fail, General,
with or without me. If you think the surviving
minorities in this land will just roll over and let you
wipe them out as a race, you, sir, are very badly
mistaken."
  "They are not organized, Ben, with the
exception of that little group out in South Carolina and that
other group in the Southwest. And those groups are of
little concern to me.
You
are a man of organization.
I
am a man of organization. And
we
know that without organization-a central government, a
man in power, in full control-all is lost. How

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many blacks and how many Hispanics and Indians
are left? Let's say a million. Spread out
over more than three-and-a-half million square
miles.
Nyet,
Gospodin Raines, they will present no problem.
You present the immediate problem to me."
  Ben knew the man was right, but damned if he was
going to agree with him. "So, General Striganov,
do we now talk of a dividing line?"
  "In time, yes, I believe that is the only
answer. But first, let us have lunch. Then we will
speak of boundaries."
  The lunch was excellent: thick steaks and green
salad and good wine and baked potato with
real butter and sour cream. Sour cream! Ben
couldn't believe it. He said as much.
  The Russian was amused. "I like to eat," he
said simply. "And eat well."
  "Do your troops eat just as well?"
  "Very nearly so, yes. The steaks might not be as
thick, and they may have mashed potatoes with gravy,
but they are well-fed, yes. I assure you of that.
I do not stint on my people's behalf."
  "But there are people probably not fifty miles from
where we sit, gorging ourselves, who are starving."
  "Not in any area I control," General
Striganov contradicted, his answer surprising
Ben. "You see, Ben, we are-you and I-of very like
mind. In some ways," he was quick to add. "I do not
wish slavery or hunger or disease or poverty for
my people. Besides, they would be so much more difficult
to control should I be an advocate of those
undesirable traits." He smiled. "You were
correct in your statement that I have planned well.
I do demand discipline, Ben, but no, there is no
hunger in any area the IPF controls."
  "Providing I buy all that you have told me,
General, and I have certain reservations, there is still
one issue-correction-several issues that
bother me."
  The Russian refilled their wine glasses.
"Ties, I'm sure. Now we come to the part where I

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must try to match your honesty."
  Ben took a sip of wine. It was a
Rothschild, a very old
  vintage. "White is a rather bland color,
General. Black or brown or tan or yellow will
almost always be dominant. You say you aren't going
to kill the minorities; you aren't going to starve them
out. No concentration camps, no gas chambers.
Tell me, just bow do you plan on achieving the master
race without some form of genocide?"
  The smile on the Russian's face widened.
"The minorities will not have children."
  Ben laughed. "Men and women have been known
to engage in sex, General."
  "They may engage in all the sex they wish,
General. As a matter of fact, I plan
to encourage that-keep them happy. I am merely
saying they will not have any offspring."
  "You'd better have one hell of a medical team if
you're planning on performing operations on every man and
woman in this nation who doesn't fit your standards of
what a human being should look like."
  The smile remained on Striganov's lips, but
his eyes were cold. "What do you think we've been
doing in Iceland for the past decade, Ben-playing
cards and drinking vodka?"
  "I have no idea what you've been doing,
Georgi."
  "When we left Russia, Ben-getting out with
only seconds to spare, I can tell you that-I
took quite a few very good scientists with me.
Doctors, scientists, the like." He shrugged.
"Many of them were Jews, I will admit, but still
intelligent people. I don't like Jews," he conceded,
"but they are survivors. And good scientists, too.
It seems the Jew scientists perfected-and kept
it a secret for years-a simple method of
preventing pregnancy. One injection virtually
destroys the ability to reproduce. They kept
silent about their discovery for years; we
  found out only by accident. Then it was only a
matter of, ah, well, convincing them to share their knowledge with
us. How we got it is not something one would want

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to discuss over lunch."
  "Torture."
  The Russian shrugged. "The end justified the
means, Ben."
  "I'm sure." Ben's reply was as crisp as the
wine.
  "The people will be able to have and enjoy sex as often as they
like. But they will never be able to reproduce offspring."
  Ben stared at the man for a full moment, allowing the
horror of what he had just heard to sink in to its
hideous depths. "That is monstrous!"
  "Calm yourself, Ben." Striganov patted
Ben's hand and Ben fought to restrain himself from taking
physical action for that gesture. "After all, I'm
not destroying a human being; I have no gas chambers
or firing squads or the like. I beg you, please
don't compare me to Hitler."
  Ben thought of several people and many things he would be more
than happy to compare the Russian to and with. But he
kept silent.
  "And, Ben, there is this: We aren't monsters.
If the people do not wish to have the injection, they may
breed-selectively-with someone of fair skin. The
offspring will do likewise, all very carefully
controlled, of course. And so in time, several
generations, they will conform. Selective breeding. It's
all up to the individual, I assure you."
  "How magnanimous can you be?" Ben said
sarcastically. "And if the newborn child
does not conform in color to your plans?"
  "It will be destroyed for the good of the pure race."
  Ben felt a small sickness within him grow
larger. He looked at the handsome features of the
Russian and in his mind, the man wore the face of
evil, his hair that of a Medusa.
  Ben heard himself saying, "It will never work,
General Striganov."
  "Oh?"
  "When I leave here, I am going to spread the word
about you."
  "But of course you are. I fully expect you to do
that."
  "And you're not' going to try to stop me from

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leaving?"
  "No, indeed, Ben. I'm not a barbarian."
  Ben could but look at the man and wonder if he was
insane.
  "You see, Ben, we've already injected over
five thousand blacks, Hispanics and Jews.
All your spreading the word will do is slow the process
a bit, but really not very much. In the end, General
Raines, we will be victorious."
  "I fail to see how, General."
  "Because a great many people simply do not like
blacks and Spanish people, Ben. A like
number-maybe even more-do not care for Jews. Those people
will turn them in to us." He smiled at how simple
it all was-in his mind.
  Ben thought the smile resembled the SS
death's-head insignia. "Let me guess how you
plan on keeping records, General Striganov:
little, portable tattoo machines."
  The Russian applauded Ben. "How
marvelously astute of you, President-General
Raines."
  Ben's lunch lay heavy on his stomach. The
once-delicious meal felt as though it had turned
wormy. He had
  lost all taste for the wine. He wanted to run
outside and breathe deeply of the summer air. He
felt the invisible odor of death and evil and everything
hideous and unimaginable through his clothing, sinking
into his flesh. For a brief moment, Ben entertained
the wild thought of reaching across the table with his steak
knife and slashing the Russian's throat. He
rose from the table.
  "I am going to stop you and your master plan,
General Striganov."
  "You will forgive me if I don't wish
you luck, General Raines. But no matter-you will be
unsuccessful, I assure you of that."
  Ben's smile was grim, the smile of a
mongoose looking at a cobra. "You will forgive
my lack of manners by not offering to shake your hand?"
  "Perfectly understandable, General Raines."
  Ben walked out of the building and to his waiting

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troops. "Let's go," he said. "First chance you
get, pull over to the side of the road."
  "Something the matter, sir?" Sgt. Buck
Osgood asked.
  Ben looked back at General Striganov,
looking at him through a window. The Russian waved
merrily. "Yeah," Ben said, "I need to puke!"
CHAPTER SEVEN
  "So you didn't speak of dividing lines?" Ike
said.
  "No, I blew it," Ben replied. "Got
mad. Lost my cool. Almost my lunch. I wish
I had. I wish I had vomited all over that
bastard. He's got to be stopped, Ike."
  "I agree. Al Maiden time, Ben?"
  "With much reluctance, Ike. I don't like Al
Maiden. Cecil doesn't like Al Maiden. There
isn't a black in all of Tri-States
that likes him. He's a militant white-hater.
He's as bad in his own way as Striganov." Ben
shook his head. "No, he isn't. I shouldn't have
said that. The man reminds me of Kasim, that's
all. But I know he isn't that bad."
  Ben had met Kasim back in the late fall of
1988, at a motel in Indiana. The man had
been traveling with Cecil, his wife, and several
other blacks, including the lady who was later
to become Ben's wife, Salina. Kasim had
hated Ben from the beginning, and the feeling had been more
than mutual with Ben. Kasim had later been
killed by Hartline's mercenaries; Cecil's wife
and family, along with Salina, had been killed
during the
  government assault on the first Tri-States.
  "Juan Solis?" Ike asked, shaking Ben out
of the misty memories of the past. Ike had lost his
family during the bloody and needless battle of
Tri-States, and, like Ben, sometimes retreated
into memory.
  "Him I like. Yes, get in touch with both of them.
Sorry to have brought you up here on a false alarm,
Ike."
  "Got me out of the house for a little while."

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Ike grinned. "You want to meet with them in
Tri-States, Ben?"
  "Yes. Tell them what's going down." Ben
sighed. "But for God's sake, Ike, don't
tell
Maiden to come in for the meeting. You'll get him mad
and he'll puff up like a spreading adder."
  Ike laughed and slapped his friend on the back.
"Hell, Ben. Maiden is just doing what you did
back in '89: starting his own little country." There was
a twinkle in Ike's eyes. He knew only
too well he was touching a very sore spot with Ben.
  Ben bristled. "Damned if that's so, buddy, and
you know better." Then he smiled. "You do love
to needle me, don't you?"
  "Helps to keep you young, ol' buddy." Ike
grinned lewdly. "And with Gale, boy, you'd damn
well better stay young. That lady is a
spitfire."
  "Tell me. OK, buddy, you head on back.
I'll see you in a couple of weeks."
  So often when tragedy strikes, the first glimpse
is misleading. The initial scene depicts total
desolation, seemingly void of life; but there are
almost always survivors
  at the second glance: men and women who somehow
made it through the impossible.
  Such was the case with Juan Solis and Al
Maiden and their followers.
  Juan had surfaced only a few weeks after
Ben and his Rebels and pulled into the new
Tri-States. Juan had sent patrols out,
looking for Spanish-speaking survivors, urging them
to resettle in New Mexico and Arizona. Some
eight thousand had, with more trickling in each day.
Juan was building, as Ben had done back in
'89, a society of like-minded men and women whose
aim was to rebuild from the ashes of chaos and
destruction a workable, fair society, with schools
and businesses and a strong economy. Juan's was not
an all-Spanish-speaking society. Just like Ben's
Tri-States, there were people of all faiths, all
nationalities.

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  Al Maiden had surfaced on the East Coast,
claiming parts of North and South Carolina. But
unlike Juan, Al's regime was a rocky one,
with many of his followers objecting to Maiden's constant
barrage of not-too-subtle hate directed at the
whites. When Maiden tried to drive the whites out
of his disputed territory, most of his own people
had stopped him, horrified at Maiden's
unwarranted actions and bitter vituperation.
  Ben's intelligence corps had predicted that
unless Maiden changed his methods, he would,
probably within a year, be assassinated, with a much more
moderate black coming into power. That would be Mark
Terry, a former IBM executive, Harvard
graduate, class of '83. Mark was a very vocal
opponent of any type of New Africa. Mark
had met secretly with Cecil Jefferys several
times during the past year, seeking advice
  from the level-headed VP of Tri-States and the
first black to ever become vice president of the
United States. When there had been a United
States.
  Cecil had told him bluntly that, "You would be
doing the world in general a great favor if you would just
shoot that ignorant, bigoted, biased son of a
bitch and pull your followers out and
into Tri-States. Then we could get on with the
process of rebuilding."
  But no man is totally bad, and Al Maiden
did have a few good points, despite his open
hatred of whites. He did want the best for his people,
but if the whites suffered for it, that, to Al,
was of no consequence. He wanted good schools for the
blacks, but he insisted upon his teachers teaching myths
and half-truths instead of fact. (cecil had
once asked Maiden that if indeed there ever was a
"great black center of learning located at
Timbuktu," where in the hell was it now-lying somewhere
alongside Atlantis?)
  In short, Al wanted everything for his people that he
did not have as a child in south Alabama. And he did
not care how he achieved that goal.
  "I can't do it, Cecil," Mark had said.

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"Maybe Al will come around."
  "Doubtful," Cecil had responded. "I had
the same hopes for Kasim, back in '89 and
'90, when I was attempting to build in
Louisiana and Mississippi. Kasim's hatred
of whites had made him crazy, just like Maiden."
  "We have to try, Cecil." Mark smiled. "You
know that Al calls you a white man's nigger?"
  Cecil's returning smile was not pleasant.
"I am nobody's
nigger."
  Mark's smile this time was genuine, knowing he had
  riled his friend. "Yeah," he said softly. "I know
that for a fact."
  Ben watched the planes carrying his Rebels
lift off and head south. His own people on the ground were
mounted and ready to roll. The young people he had gathered
at the college in Rolla were ready to move out also,
but they would not yet be returning to the new
Tri-States. Ben had personally checked them out with
weapons-rifles and pistols-and found most of them
better than average with each. He had given them
plenty of ammunition with which to practice and was now
sending them out into the countryside, half of them to the
west, the other half to the east. They would spread the
word about General Striganov's IPF and their
monstrous plan for a pure race. Each of them
carried a signed statement from Ben Raines containing
Ben's condemnation of the Russian's plan and urging
all Americans to arm themselves and resist, to the death,
if necessary.
  "What are the odds of us succeeding, General?"
Denise asked.
  "I think they're better than even," Ben told
her, thinking how young she was and how much she reminded him
of Jerre. She wore a revolver at her waist and
carried a 20-gauge shotgun.
  Ben said, "Striganov was correct when he said
a lot of people don't like minorities. The
man did his research well; no telling how long
he's had people in this country, reporting back to him.
He'll get some support-perhaps not as much as he
believes, but more than enough, unfortunately."

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  The young woman had a puzzled look on her
face. "Why do people dislike minorities so,
General?"
  "Right and wrong on both sides, Denise. A
lot of it has to do with arrogance, what the people were taught
as young people in the home, and that which the minorities brought
on themselves. I don't think they did so knowingly, many
of them, but they did. You're far too young to remember
the social programs designed to help people. They were
badly misused, badly administrated and grossly
over-budgeted back in the sixties through the
eighties and caused a lot of resentment among the
taxpayers who had to foot the bills."
  "I don't understand, General," Denise said.
By now, quite a crowd had gathered around Ben, not just the
new young people, but many of his own Rebels.
  Careful, Ben silently cautioned himself. Many of
these people-maybe all of them-think your words should be
chipped in stone to stand forever, and for many of them, this will be the
final mental imprint of an event that history
might never record with the written word.
  He looked at them. They waited patiently.
  But I am a man, Ben thought. Therefore I am
human, with all the frailties therein. So I have
to tell it as I saw it and perceived it.
  "The government meant well," Ben said, choosing
his words carefully, conscious of Gale's eyes on
his face, listening intently. "But in their fervor
to correct a centuries-old problem, they went
overboard with their efforts. The government and courts
meant well, and much of what they did was right and just.
I will never be convinced that a racially balanced school
system
  did one damn thing for or toward quality education.
Do not-any of you-misconstrue my statement. I am
not now and have never been an advocate of the so-called
separate but equal philosophy. If one is
equal, that is enough said. I believed very strongly in
neighborhood schools. They were built so the children of
that neighborhood could stay in that neighborhood and still
receive a quality education. The courts changed all that
by forced busing, and they created a monster; they created
hard feelings and near-riots, undue expense for the

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taxpayer and unnecessary hardships for the kids who had
to-were forced-to endure miles of riding a bus.
Yes, they were forced. If the parents did not
submit to the whims of the government, they faced jail.
So much for personal freedom and freedom of
choice.
  "The government created a welfare state, up
to three and four generations of people on welfare. The
government took away the will to work among many people.
Certainly not all the recipients, but enough of them
to create one massive problem. The solution was
simple to men like me:
Make
the people work if they were able to work. But the courts refused
to do that. More hard feelings among many of the taxpayers
who were picking up the tab-and the tab got more and more
expensive. It got-along with the programs-out of
hand.
  "The great shame of our social programs was the
way the government neglected the elderly and the very young.
That was a shame I shall never forget. The government would
give a community a half million dollars
to build a goddamn swimming pool, yet in that
same community, the elderly didn't have enough to
  eat, proper shelter or warm clothing. I
don't know how our politicians could shave in the
mornings without feeling the urge to cut their throats.
  "It seemed that for a while, almost everything
the government did irritated somebody or some
group. And sadly, rightly or wrongly, the
minorities got the blame for it. Many people's dislike
of Jews turned to hatred because so many of the American
Jews supported the social programs, were against
the death penalty, headed drives in support of
gun control. That did nothing to enhance the position of
Jews in rural areas-and not just in the South, for the
South had become the whipping boy for the liberal
eastern establishment.
  "The government-in the form of the courts-moved into the
private sector, into the work place. Private
industry was
ordered to
establish hiring practices that would include X

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number of blacks, X number of Hispanics,
X number of this and that and the other thing. I'm not saying
it was right or wrong, just that it created as many problems
as it did solutions.
  "And then we had the traditional haters on both
sides of the color line. Whites who hated
blacks but couldn't tell you why-they just did.
Blacks that hated whites and couldn't tell you
why-they just did. Both sides taught their kids
to hate. We had teachers in private
academies who would stand up in front of their
all-white classes and proudly announce they would
never teach or allow a damn nigger in their
classrooms. And that is fact, people, not fiction.
  "And in many-if not most-of the public schools in the
South, and probably all over the nation, teachers
became afraid to discipline blacks, and I mean
literally
  afraid. Fear of losing jobs, fear of having
their tires slashed, fear of a lawsuit. All it
produced was a couple of generations of badly
disciplined and ill-educated blacks. But whitey
wasn't gonna do no number on me, man. You
dig?
  "Now ... that was not the majority of blacks, but just
enough to leave a bad taste in a lot of people's mouths.
  "Anybody with any insight at all could have and should
have seen what was coming: white flight. That became quite a
popular word back in the seventies.
  "It may seem to you all that I am being unduly
harsh on the black people. But you new people, look around
you-you don't see any of the blacks in this command
leaving, do you? None of them are leveling guns at
me for what I just said. No, because we worked it all
out. We agreed on every major issue.
We of Tri-States don't have bigotry and
hatred for someone of another color. We don't have
it because we all realized that education was the key
to removing it. Education, understanding, some degree of
conformity, and patience. We understood that regardless of
color, a child is going to need and get a spanking from
time to time. That is up to the teacher and it begins and ends
there. That is the agreement made between school and

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parent.
  "We almost made it work in Tri-States. We
came so close the taste of victory was on our
tongues. But the central government in Richmond just
couldn't stand it. I thought they would applaud the
achievements we made: all races and
nationalities living and working together without one incident
in ten years. I thought the central government might
learn something from our experiment. But they didn't. But
we aren't giving
  up, people. We'll make it work again. On a
smaller scale, certainly; but we will make it work
once more."
  The Rebels stood in silence for a few moments,
then slowly began to disperse. Denise stood with a
wistful expression on her face. "I just want
to live in peace," she said. "Yet here I
am carrying guns. It's crazy, General."
  "Crazy world, Denise. But it's always been my
belief that the olive branch of peace only gets
partial attention. Especially to people who aren't really
interested in peace. It gets their full attention if
the other hand is holding a gun."
  "But isn't one the contradiction of the other?" she
asked.
  "So is the term fair fight."
  She laughed and turned to leave. "Wish us luck,
General."
  "Break a leg, kids."
  She walked away to join the other young people in one
final check of supplies and equipment and weapons.
  "When I first heard about Tri-States," Gale
said, moving to Ben's side, "I thought what you people were
doing was monstrous."
  "Little liberal got all outraged, eh?" Ben
smiled at her.
  "That's putting it mildly, Ben."
  "Our success stuck in the craws of government,
Gale. They just couldn't stand our proving them wrong
on nearly every social issue they had advocated and
bled the taxpayer to implement and keep going for
years. Government just couldn't believe we
could bring it all back to the basics and make it work.

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But we
  did and it outraged them."
  "And you are going to do it again, Ben." It was not put
as a question.
  "If I can."
  The man and woman stood in silence for a few
moments. Stood and watched as the young people began leaving.
Gale said, "I wonder if they know what they are
facing?"
  He took her small hand in his. "No. No,
they don't. But those that survive this will grow wise
to the ways of this ravaged planet very quickly, I am
thinking. Either that or die."
  Gale glanced up at him, horror evident on
her face. "Those that
survive?"
  "We will never see thirty to forty percent of them
again," Ben said flatly.
  "Knowing that, you still sent them out?" There was genuine
outrage in her voice.
  "It had to be, Gale. I tried to tell them
what they were going up against, but I'm not sure how much
of it registered on them. I really hope my words
sank in. We'll know when we see the
number that return."
  "I can't believe you would do something like that, knowing that
many of them faced death, would be sure to die."
  "The survivors will make it. The rest will either
get tough or die. That's the way of the world now. Those
that don't have the right stuff will die along the way.
There is no momma to write home to, now,
honey. No USO, no Red Cross, no State
Department. This nation, the very laws upon which it was founded
and which the high courts and our elected leaders chose
to spat upon for decades, is standing on the brink,
teetering,
  first in one direction, then the other. A lot of people
will die before any type of democratic process
is ever again in force. If, in fact, any type of
democratic government is
ever
again adopted. And I have very grave doubts about that.
Right now, Gale, this moment, we are facing the

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greatest challenge since the bombings of '88. And
if we don't win, we can all kiss any hope of
freedom and democracy goodbye."
  She looked at him. Blinked, then smiled.
"Thank you, Professor Raines," she said. She
rose up on tiptoes and kissed him.
  The small column, now minus the young people from the
college, backtracked to Ottumwa. There, Ben
told the villagers what was soon to go down.
  "What do you want us to do, General?" he was
asked.
  "I'd like for you to come with us, back
to Tri-States."
  The people of Ottumwa had already discussed this. The
man shook his head. "No, sir, we won't do that.
This is our home, and we have agreed to die defending
it. We may be making the wrong decision, but we're
going to stand firm."
  Ben knew there was no point in arguing. He shook
hands with the spokesman and pulled out, heading south,
leaving them with their shotguns and hunting rifles.
Against trained troops and experienced combat
officers, with mortars and long-range howitzers.
Maybe, Ben figured, just maybe, if they were
lucky, and had the time to group before the IPF hit
them, they might last six hours. If they were
lucky. But Ben
  could understand the desire to defend homes and a free
way of life.
  Ben ordered his column to head west until they
intersected with Highway 65, then to cut
down into Missouri, staying to the west of Kansas
City by about sixty miles, for Kansas City was
radioactive and would be for centuries. During the
trek, they found survivors in Princeton, and
Trenton, and about a hundred in Chillicothe.
Thirty families elected to go with the Rebels, the
rest stayed, despite Ben's warnings they didn't
have a prayer of defeating General Striganov's
IPF.
  But they would not leave their homes.
  The column crossed the Missouri River and
found more than a hundred people at Missouri Valley

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College. It was there Ben made up his mind, there
Ben put the smugglings of his brain to rest.
  "Get me General Striganov," he told his
radio operator. "You'll have to search the bands, but
I feel sure he's got people waiting to hear from
me."
  "Yes, sir."
  She began searching the bands, carefully lingering over
each frequency. She would broadcast for a few
moments, then listen, seeking some reply.
  Ben looked over the band of people on the campus of the
old Presbyterian college. They were a
grim-looking lot. Most of them wore a
defeated look, and once more, that flaw appeared in
Ben. He was not now and had never been the type of
man to give up. No one who was ever a part of any
hard-line special military unit was a quitter.
One could not make it through the training by being a quitter,
and very few special troops have anything but contempt
for a quitter. Past training had been too brutal,
too dehumanizing
  for a man to face failure by just rolling over and
giving up.
  With very rare exceptions, no man who was once a
part of any tough military unit, the elite, if you
will, will ever beg or quit in a bad situation. And
they do not like to be associated with those that do.
  Ben shoved his personal feelings back into the dark
recesses of his mind and asked, "Where are you people from?"
  "South Dakota, mostly," a woman replied.
"Aberdeen-Watertown area. Thought we were making a
sort of life for ourselves. Then the IPF came in.
They suckered us, General Raines. They were nice,
at first. Real nice young people. They helped us. But
our minister, Ralph Dowing, he was the first to figure
them out, what they were really all about and up to. He
called them on it. They didn't do much about it, at
first. No rough stuff, nothing like that. But we
noticed that after that, they all started carrying
automatic weapons. So my husband-no, he's not
here, he's dead-he started carrying a pistol wherever
he went. He and several other men. They-the
IPF'-THEY didn't like that. They told my husband

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they would rather he not wear a gun. They would protect us
if the need arose. My husband told them he
didn't give a jumping good goddamn what they
liked or disliked or wanted." She wiped a hand
across her face and sighed heavily. "Shortly after
that, there was an accident-so the IPF called it. My
husband was run over by a pickup truck. The
IPF said my husband fell in front of the
truck." She shook her head. "It was no
accident, General. He was deliberately killed
to get him out of the way."
  "Yes," a young man standing beside her said. "Then
  they started rounding up all the privately owned
guns. That's when we started to fight them. But let
me tell you, General Raines: They're tough and
mean. And Lord, are they quick. Those of us you see here
got out just in time, "bout fifty of us. We picked
up the other people outside Watertown. Same thing
happened to them. General, what in the hell is going
on?"
  Briefly, Ben told them what he knew. He
could see by the expressions on their faces many did not
believe him, but the majority did.
  "I've got General Striganov's HQ,
sir," the radio-operator called from the
communications van.
  Ben keyed the mic. "This is Ben Raines.
To whom am I speaking?"
  "My dear Mister Raines," the familiar
voice rolled from the speakers in the van. "This is
Georgi. I trust you have had a most pleasant
trip thus far?"
  "Just dandy, General. But I am not contacting you
to exchange social amenities. Interstate 70
is your stopping point, General. Starts in what is
left of Baltimore and cuts right across the center
of the country. That's your southern boundary, Georgi.
You keep your IPF people north of that line."
  "Are you buying time, President-General
Raines, or tossing down the gauntlet?"
  "Maybe a little of each, General."
  "And if I don't comply with your demands?"
  "Then that little war we talked about just might come to be

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a whole hell of a lot sooner than you expect,"
Ben said bluntly.
  "I see," the Russian said after a short
period of silence. His mind was racing as fast as
Ben's. "Then may I have your word you will not interfere
with my
  personnel north of the line?"
  "I most certainly will interfere, General. If
you disarm the citizens, I'll send teams in to rearm
them. If you use any type of force or torture,
I'll meet it with force."
  There was an edge to the Russian's reply. "I
don't like this game, General Raines. You're not
even being slightly fair with your demands."
  "It's the only game in town, General
Striganov. Take it or leave it."
  "I'll think about it," the Russian said.
  "You do that, partner."
  The connection was broken from the Russian's end.
Rather rudely, Ben thought.
  A crowd had gathered around the communications van.
A man asked, "Is there going to be another war,
General?"
  "Do you want to live under communist rule?" Ben
answered with a question.
  "I don't care," the man replied. He had the
pinched look of a man who had been born
into poverty and never escaped it. His expression was
sullen. "I ain't gonna fight them people. I
don't think what they're doin" is all that wrong,
noways. I just want to live and be left alone."
  "Then you're a damned fool!" a woman cried,
her face flushed with anger. Ben noticed she had a
pistol belted around her waist. "Man, have you lost
your courage or your senses-or both?"
  "I won't fight them people," the man insisted. "So
what if the niggers and the spies and Jews are wiped
out? Be a better world without them people."
  About a third of those present agreed with the man.
  Gale stirred beside Ben, but kept her mouth shut.
But if her eyes could speak, they would be speaking
volumes. Her fingers dug into Ben's arm with a hard
fury.

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  "Then why don't you take those of like mind and join
up with General Striganov's people?" Ben asked the
man.
  "By God, maybe I'll do that little thing!" the man
flared, his eyes furious. "I just cain't see what
is so wrong with what he's doin'. And a lot of
others around here agree with me."
  "Mister." Another man stepped forward, his hands
balled into hard fists. "Why don't you just
take those that agree with you and carry your goddamned
ass out of here? My wife is Mexican, and I
don't like what you're saying or what you're all
about. And if you open your fat mouth one more time, I'm
going to knock your goddamn teeth down your
throat."
  The man who thought he might like to join
Striganov's IPF opened his mouth to speak, then
thought better of it. He walked out of the small
encampment with about two dozen other men and women
following him.
  "I just can't believe Americans are really doing
this," Gale said. "This is ... unreal."
  "Oh, you can believe it, dear," Colonel
Gray spoke. "There is a lot of hate in this
world. Or, rather, what is left of this world."
  "And it will get worse," Ben cast more gloom.
"Count on it."
CHAPTER EIGHT
  Ben shook hands with Juan Solis and Mark
Terry and then offered his hand to Al Maiden. Maiden
merely looked at him and folded his arms across his
chest.
  Ben shrugged it off and gazed out the window. It was
late June and the weather had been ideal.
If these conditions prevailed, there would be a bumper
crop of wheat and corn and thousands of acres of
vegetables.
  "So from what you have seen, General," Juan said,
"you think that perhaps thirty percent of those approached
are buying the garbage the Russian is spewing?"
  "At least that many, Juan. There's a lot of
hatred in this country directed toward minorities.
Striganov is bringing it to an ugly head."

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  "Placing yourself amid the pus of that boil, too,
I hope, General," Al said.
  Cecil sighed and looked out the open window. Mark
caught Ben's eye and shook his head in disgust. Ben
could but smile.
  "Al," Juan said, "you're a real asshole,
I hope you know that."
  "You'll see someday, Juan," Al replied.
He smiled, but his smile was void of humor.
"Big Ben Raines," he said sarcastically. "The
great white hope."
  Ben decided the best action he could take was
none. He ignored Maiden. When he spoke, his
words were directed to Juan and Mark. "I don't
see how any of us can sit on our hands and do nothing
about this situation. Are we in agreement with
that?"
  "I agree with nothing you say," Al said.
  Juan said, "Are you suggesting we take the fight
to them, Ben?"
  "Have we any choice in the matter?" Mark
spoke. "My people will work with you in any way we can,
Ben. You can count on that."
  "Hey,
brother!"
Al rose from his chair in open anger. "I run the
government of New Africa, not you-or have you
forgotten that?"
  "You run the political arm of the parts of North
and South Carolina our people have settled in," Mark
said pointedly. "But I run the military arm of it.
That is a position the
people
placed on
my
shoulders-not yours. Al, are you so full of blind
hate for all whites that you can't see that Ben is
trying to help us?"
  "Ben Raines never did anything except for Ben
Raines," Al retorted heatedly. "Are you
forgetting he once threw the national
president of the NAACP out of his office when he was
in charge of this nation?"

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  "No, I haven't. But did it ever occur to you the
man might have deserved being tossed out? I never did
learn what happened. All I got was the one
side-the side the liberal press chose to report,
as usual. And,
  Al, I seem to recall that back in the early
eighties, when Reagan was president, the same
man, before he took charge of the NAACP, once
referred to President Reagan as a California
cow-shit kicker. Now, Al, playing devil's
advocate for a moment, I wonder how that man would have
felt, being from Colorado, if President
Reagan had stooped to his level, and called him a
Colorado Coon?"
  Cecil burst out laughing, as did Juan and
Ben. Al Maiden bristled with anger.
  "All I'm saying, Al, is how about some
fairness? That's all." He again looked at Ben.
"We're with you, Ben. I'll give you all the
help and personnel you feel you need."
  Maiden kept his mouth shut, but the hate in his
eyes was intense.
  "Same here, Ben," Juan said.
  "All right," Ben said, rising to his feet and
walking to a large wall map in the office.
"Gentlemen, let's get down to nuts and bolts."
  Emil Hite stood in the bedroom of his quarters
in the Ouachita Mountains of Arkansas and looked out
over his growing kingdom. Not so little anymore, he
thought. Growing daily.
  On his bed lay a young girl, sleeping after her
first initiation into sex. Her breasts were still developing
and her pubic hair was sparse. She was just the way
Emil liked his female sex partners: from twelve
to fifteen. Younger than that and they screamed and cried
too much; older than that and he felt inferior,
inadequate in the act.
  To say that Emil Hite was a bit twisted
mentally would be putting it most subtly.
  Emil walked back to the bed and caressed the soft
skin of the child, smiling as he did so. Lovely.
Lovely little children. Too bad they had to grow up and
become such bitchy women.

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  His kingdom of followers now numbered almost
fifteen hundred, and was growing daily. Not with the
numbers of the past, but several came straggling in almost
every day. And Emil had found the mutants
responded-in their own peculiar way-to
kindness. Ugly fucking brutes. But they did
make great watch ...
watch what?
Things. That would do. They made their homes on the
fringes of the mountains, some of them actually constructing
shacks of tin and scrap metal and wood. Emil
had found that among the mutants, just as in normal
human beings, there were varying degrees of
intelligence. Some of them, Emil felt, might
even be trained to do menial jobs-if he were so
inclined to do that-which he wasn't.
  A knock on the door of the cabin meant that
Emil's lunch was ready, the tray left by the
door. Honey-bread and fruit and nuts and raw
vegetables.
  Yuk!
  Emil desperately longed for a thick, juicy
steak, but that would have appalled his followers, all
vegetarians, and he had too good a thing going
to screw up this late in the game.
  Jumping Jesus Christ, some of the people out there were
real fruitcakes. They had built him a throne from
where he held an audience twice a week. Emil
had to sit very patiently, listening to his followers
heap long, boring speeches of love and
adulation upon him. And
  he would smile and nod his head and make the sign
of the cross and look pleased while the yo-yos
ranted and raved and groveled at his feet.
  And Emil had to read his Bible daily, darkly
reshaping the passages to suit his own twisted mind and
perverted desires.
  He sighed, thinking: I shouldn't complain about it.
He had it made. Steady tight pussy from young
girls and tight assholes from young boys. Love and
servants and people to wash him and shave him and rub his
feet and back. So he had to preach a couple of
times each week.

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  Sure beat the hell out of selling used cars in
Chattanooga, Tennessee.
  The young black woman fought the hard hands that
gripped her arms, dragging her to the van parked on a
side street in the small Iowa town. She fought the
men, but her efforts were fruitless. One of the men could not
resist this opportunity to squeeze the woman's
breasts, causing her to scream in pain as he gripped
them brutally. The other men laughed at this.
  "You can't do this to me!" she screamed. "I'm a
human being, not an animal!" She cut her eyes
to the few people standing on the Uttered main
street of the town. "For God's sake!" she
screamed at them. "Please help me."
  The men and women looked away, not wanting to meet
the woman's eyes. But they could not close their ears
to her panic-filled cries for help.
  She screamed as the doors of the van were pulled
open. Her eyes rolled in fear and desperation as she
  spied the banks of medical equipment and the straps
on the narrow, white-sheeted table inside the van.
A man and woman stood inside the van, both of
them dressed in white. They smiled at her.
  She fought even harder. "My baby!" she
screamed, hoping against hope someone would find the
courage to help her. "My baby!"
  She was four months pregnant.
  "It won't hurt," the white-jacketed woman
inside the medical van told her. "I promise
you you will get the best medical care. We really
don't want to hurt you. But you are going to hurt
yourself if you persist in this struggling."
  "Please don't do this to me!" she wailed. "You
have no right to do this!"
  "You are impure," the blond woman told her.
"Although that is not your fault, you are imperfect. As
with the mother, so goes the child."
  The young black woman began cursing the people as they
forced her into the van.
  She was screaming as she was lifted into the van and
placed on the narrow table. Leather straps were
tightened on her ankles and wrists. She felt her
dress being cut from her. Cool air fanned her

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naked flesh. She was suddenly immobile.
 "Look at the pussy on this one," a man said.
"God, what a bush."
 The young woman opened her eyes, looking into the
hard, pale eyes of the blond woman standing over
her. The woman licked her lips.
 The young woman felt the weight of a man covering
her, his hardness pushing against her dryness. He
grunted his way inside her.
 She was raped four times within an hour.
 "Enough," she heard the blond woman say.
 The man on top of her climaxed and withdrew.
 Coolness of alcohol touched the young woman's
arm, followed by the tiny, brief lash of a needle.
 "That's just to put you under for a time, miss," a
man's voice spoke. "We promise you as little
pain as possible. We're not savages, you know."
 Laughter followed that remark.
 She felt herself falling, falling. She
fought the blackness that promised soothing, inky arms.
Lights spun in her head, pinwheels whirled and
sparkled. Blackness overtook her and she sank
into midnight. There was some pain through her
unconsciousness, but the young woman did not
recognize it as such. She could feel herself falling
deeper.
 The midnight darkness began to be tinted with light.
When she opened her eyes, she was in a hospital
bed, in a clean, white, sterile room. An older
black woman was standing over her, looking down. The
woman smiled.
 "How do you feel?"
 "Shitty."
 The black face smiled. "So did I. It was
a forced miscarriage, honey. And I'll tell you
straight out: You will never have any children."
 "They?" She could not bring herself to speak the awful
words.
 "Yes," the older woman said. "It just takes
one shot to destroy everything that God gave us women.
The same with men. I don't know what's in that shot,
but it's a devil's mixture, for sure."
 The young woman turned her face to the pillow and

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  wept hard, uncontrollably, the
tears savage, soaking into the pillow.
  "Hell, sister, that won't help none. I know.
Was you raped, too?"
  "Yes," she sobbed.
  "I was raped so many times I don't know how many
men took me. Look, honey, I thought I'd
kill myself after... after they give me that shot. But
then I got to thinking-why? Then I thought some more, and
came up with a better idea."
  The young woman looked up at her through a mist of
tears. "What?"
  "Keep on livin' and think of more ways to stop these
Russian bastards."
  "That won't help my baby." She turned her
face away from the woman.
  "You right, it sure won't. But nothing on this earth
will. Listen, we can help save some others from what was
done to us. Honey, this is just one of a dozen or more
hospitals the IPF has set up-and this one, like
all the others, is jam-packed full. This place
is full of blacks, Jews, Hispanics.
Anybody that don't have fair skin is in trouble with
these Russian honk bastards, let me tell you that
for a fact, honey, and you'd damn well better
believe it."
  Through her pain, the mental anguish much more severe
than the physical, the young black woman asked,
"What can we do?"
  "That's more like it." The older woman smiled.
"All right, we don't do nothin' "til you get
to feelin" better. Right now, though, we can talk.
It'll help some, believe me. What's your name?"
  "Peggy. Peggy Jones."
  "I'm Lois Peters. The IPF put me in
here after I was ... was worked on," she spat out the
last. "Made me kind of a den mother, you might say.
I'll tell you this: Be careful who you talk to,
"cause they's some black women copped out,
agreed to breed with light-skins, anything to stay
fertile. I thought about it some-rejected it. You?"
  "They didn't even ask me that. I ran and hid
for several weeks, but they finally ran me down and

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caught me. Lois, I'm not going to take this.
Someway, somehow, I'm going to fight."
  "Good girl. That's the spirit. You gonna make it
now, talkin" like that. All right, what do you know about
guns?"
  "Nothing. I was born in New York City."
  Lois shrugged. "Ever'body has their faults,
I suppose." She smiled. "That's a
joke, honey. Well, we can teach you about guns.
OK. Now then, you ever heard of a man named Ben
Raines?"
  "Are you kidding! Sure, I have. General,
president. That's the man who broke away from the
union to form his own country. Why?"
  "Word I get is he met with the commander of the
IPF, a guy name of General Georgi
Striganov. That man is, so I hear, one bad
dude."
  "Sounds like something you'd eat."
  Lois laughed softly. "Son of a bitch stick
it in my mouth, hell pull out a nub. Talk is
General Raines put the evil eye on the
Russian, gave him a double whammy. Said he was
gonna fight him, stop him and his IPF from doing
this-like what was done to you and me."
  "Anybody can," Peggy said, "General Raines
is the man'll do it."
  "Damn right. That's the way I feel, too. You
get better, honey. It won't take long. And you
be careful who you talk to "round here. Soon as
you're up and about, we'll talk some more."
  "You'll teach me how to shoot a gun?"
  "Somebody will, don't worry. We
ain't got all that many guns, now, but we're
gettin" some."
  "The people in that little town where the IPF finally caught
up with me, they just stood and watched them take me
away. I couldn't believe it. They just watched,
didn't do anything."
  "Most of them couldn't do nothing. The IPF come
around, gatherin' up all the guns. You too young
to remember the way it was back in the mid-eighties,
honey. The goddamn government of the United

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States passed laws that gave the Feds the right
to take all the privately owned pistols. That was the
worst law Congress ever passed. Ain't no son
of a bitch
ever
gonna take no gun of mine-not ever again. I'll
die first; but I'll go out shootin'. Believe it.
  "Some of the white folks are in favor of what the
IPF is doin'. A lot of them hate it. White
folks is just like black folks: No two think
alike "bout ever'thing. But General Raines got
all kinds of folks in his new Tri-States, so
I hear. EverTsody works together. No hate, no
KKK, nothing like that white-trash group of people.
God! Just think how wonderful that must be."
  "Maybe we can link up with General Raines's
people."
  "Could be. It's a dream to sleep well on."
  "Anything we plan on doing, Lois," Peggy
said, a new firmness to her voice. "It can't be
passive resistance."
  "Lord no, child. Them days is gone forever. Let
me tell you something else t greater-than out this
General Striganov: He's got folks testin'
other folks' intelligence. Lot of fancy
machines and words. He's weedin' out what he calls
the mental defectives. Anyone under a certain
IQ is in bad trouble. They just been disappearin'.
The IPF is takin' it slow and easy and quiet
on that, not wantin' to stir up a bunch of people. But
they're collectin' folks and takin' them away.
Where is up for grabs. Nobody ever sees them again
after they're taken, so you can guess what is
happenin' to them.
  "Something else: That evil Sam Hartline was in
here this mornin'. Just after you come out of the operating
room. I heard him tell one of the orderlies that
after you got all better, he wants you in his stable."
  Peggy looked at the older woman. "Just what in
the hell does that mean?"
  "You a beautiful woman, Peggy. Young,
light-skinned. You could pass, you know that?"
  "I've thought about it."

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  "Sure you have. Don't blame you. But Hartline
wants you for one of his women. He's an evil
he-goat, honey. Likes to hurt women. And
he's built up real bad, if you know what I
mean.
  "Son of a bitch will never get me!"
  "Just settle on down, now. Think about it. You be
the first black gal he's put his evil eyes on.
Be nice to have someone reportin' back to us on
ever'thing he says."
  Peggy could not believe what she was hearing. "You
actually want me to prostitute myself?"
  Lois smiled. "A stiff cock never killed
no one I ever
  heard of, honey, and women been spreadin' their
legs to get information out of men for centuries. My
grandmother told me that her grandmother told her that back
in the olden days they was called house niggers.
Kept them down in the quarters informed as to what was
goin' on in the big house. You get my drift?"
  Peggy nodded.
  was "Sides, once a man gets it
up and hard and in you, you got him in a damn good
position to slide a knife 'tween his ribs. You
follow me, girl?"
  Peggy's smile was grim. "I can dig it,
honey."
  "I'll talk to you later. For right now, you beside"
get some rest."
  "How?" The question was bitter.
  "Just close your eyes, girl. It'll come. You
may think it's the end of the world, but give it some
time-it'll heal."
  "Yeah," the young woman said. "Just give it time."
She closed her eyes as the door to her room
hissed open and closed. Peggy was asleep in five
minutes. But her sleep was restless and troubled. She
dreamt she was hearing a baby screaming. Tears
rolled from sleeping eyes to dampen the pillow.
  Refugees from the IPF'S brutal tactics
began drifting into the only known safe havens in the
country: Juan Solis's southwest, Ben
Raines's Tri-States and Al Maiden's New

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Africa. The stories they told were horror
stories.
  And in the three areas of freedom, the commanders
pushed their troops hard during training. The
people, of all races, all religions, realized the
urgency of the
  training. No one complained.
  As summer began to wane, Al Maiden
grudgingly began to realize Ben Raines was not a
bigot or a racist, and that if any type of
democratic government was to survive, the three
leaders had best work together. They maintained daily
radio contact, using a scrambler network of
codes.
  "I was wrong about Maiden," Ben told
Cecil. "He's not a bad sort."
  "I was even further off base with my thinking,"
Cecil said. "He's coming around. It's the damnedest
metamorphosis I have ever witnessed."
  "I wish to hell ya'll would speak American,"
Ike said with a smile. "I'm a Mississippi
boy, "member? We ain't used to them big words."
  Cecil groaned and Ben laughed. They both
knew Ike was one of the most intelligent people in
Tri-States; he just liked to act the redneck part.
And did a very convincing job of it.
  "I've got over two thousand in here," Juan
informed Ben. "I spoke with Mark and Al yesterday.
Al said close to that number have drifted
into his territory. How about you?"
  "Just about the same, Juan. Most of them in
pretty sad shape, both mentally and physically.
I've found very few fighters among my group."
  "Same here," Juan told him. "And Al
reports the same."
  "Well... it seems General Striganov is
stepping up his moves, and getting rough with it. I've
heard some grim stories."
  "Same here. There are some pockets of resistance
in Wisconsin, but Hartline and his boys are
brutal. No
  prisoners, except for women, and then they're
used pretty badly."

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  "My LETTERRP'S say Striganov is staying
above the line, Juan. What do your patrols
report?"
  "Same thing. But, Ben-we can't allow this
to continue. My wife has just about stopped speaking
to me, and Al said Mark's wife has closed the
door on him, if you know what I mean. I think
that's next with me. How about you?"
  Ben knew exactly what he meant. Gale had
turned decidedly cold. But Ben could live with that;
he understood-or thought he did-how she
felt. This was the 1930's and "40's all over.
  Ben felt sick every time he thought about the IPF and
their selective breeding program. But he was
realist enough to know even with the three forces combined, they were
not strong enough to smash Striganov's people, not without
committing all free forces in an all-out war. And
if they did that, leaving only a token force behind, the
Russian could-for he had enough people-pull an end-around
their flanks and come up from behind, putting them all in a
box with no exit.
  But Ben knew the free forces had to do something. The
time for waiting was over.
  "Juan, you know how I feel. Whatever you and
Mark decide is OK with me."
  "We've got to talk, Ben. Nose to nose."
  "To keep Al happy, let's meet in South
Carolina. You fly in here and we'll fly east
together."
  "Done. When?"
  "Next week. How about ... Friday, August
second?"
  "I'll see you then, compadre."
  "Tri-States, out."
  Ben turned to Ike. "Feel like traveling?"
  The ex-Navy SEAL nodded. "We've
got to do something, El Presidente, even if it
means running the risk of destroying everything we're
attempting to build. My wife says she's sick
and tired of me pacing the floor at night. And
Gale says you're getting hard to live with."
  "Yeah," Ben said. "I keep remembering
pictures I saw of Dachau and Auschwitz and

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Buchenwald."
  "Yeah, I've seen those same pictures. And
it's going to come to that, isn't it, Ben?"
  "If it hasn't already and we just don't know about
it."
  "I thought about that, too."
  "The survivors are telling us that Striganov and
Hartline have instituted a new program of I.d.
papers. Person doesn't have papers is in serious
trouble."
  Ben nodded. "Yeah, I heard that, too. How
about the young people who returned?"
  "You were close on that, Ben. Close enough to scare
me. "Bout sixty-five percent made it back.
But those who died saved the lives of several thousand."
  "I wonder how many died hard?"
  Ike shrugged. "And how many just quit."
  Again, Ben nodded. "Denise?"
  "She made it out. She's all right. Reminds you
of Jerre, don't she?"
  "In a way." Ben stood up, stretched.
"What is the mood of the people?"
  "Ready to go, Ben."
  "They understand this could destroy everything we
  have managed to build?"
  "Yes."
  "They understand we are going to take heavy
losses?"
  "Yes. But they love freedom that much, Ben.
They know Striganov has to be stopped-whatever the
cost. And you know every man, woman and child in this area would
follow you up to and through the gates of hell."
  Ben did not have to be reminded of that. He sometimes
had to fight to push it from his mind. "I'll leave
logistics to you, Ike. Whatever you're doing, drop
it. I want a complete rundown on equipment:
tanks, APC'S, howitzers, weapons, ammo-the
whole bag, Ike, from pencils to panties."
  Ike waggled his eyebrows. "Do I get
to inspect the latter on the hoof?"
  "How would you like me to call Sally and tell her
what you said?"
  "Lord deliver me from that!"

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  "You get in touch with Juan and Mark, have them do the
same with their equipment. I'll get Colonel
Gray to wind up training. It's too late now if
the new people didn't learn the first time. I'll get with
Cec, find out how many people we're going to have to leave
behind as a rear guard. I hate to do it, but we're
going to have to leave the older ones behind to shore up our
rear."
  "They'll handle it, Ben."
  "I know it. I just hate to ask them to do it." He
sighed heavily. "Looks like we drop the plows and
pick up the guns-again."
  "It has to be, Ben."
  "Maybe after this, we can all settle down and
try to pull together."
  Ike nodded his head but looked dubious. "It's
a nice thought, Ben."
CHAPTER NINE
  Hartline hurt her every time she was chosen to be his
woman for the night, but it was a hurt curiously
mixed with pleasure. She hated herself when she began
to respond to him. And she fought her responsiveness
until it broke like a dam within her. She knew she
had to win his trust and his confidence, but nevertheless, her
pleasure made her feel like a whore.
  She knew she was small; nothing could change that.
And Sam Hartline was built like a bull in the sex
department. She thought those men were only found in porn
movies. He groaned and cursed and had to force his
way inside her. And she hated herself for loving it.
Even when she became wet and willing, he still
complimented her on what a nice, tight pussy she
had.
  First nigger he'd ever kissed, too, he had
informed her.
  He had, at first, been angry when in the heat of
passion Peggy had pulled his mouth to hers and slipped
her tongue between his lips. He had pulled back and
almost out of her. She thought for a moment he was
  going to hit her. Then he had looked at her, in
the soft light from the night stand and smiled.
  Supporting his weight on his elbows, he asked,
"How much white you got in you, honey?"

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  The question was not new to her, having been asked by both
white and black men and women many times in her life.
"None."
  "Bullshit," Hartline said. "You ain't full
nigger, baby. No way. I figure you're about
half white. At least a third. Your mammy must
have done some stepping over the back fence a
time or two." He grinned at her.
  "I rather doubt it," she replied, an edge to her
voice. Her parents had both been professional
people, very religious and believing strongly in the bonds
of marriage. Her husband had likewise been a
good person. They had been married only four
months before he was gunned down by the IPF.
  Hartline laughed. "Tell me how you love this
cock of mine, baby."
  It was a game they played. Hartline was proud of
his manhood, and liked to be reminded how much man
he was.
  She told him, profanely and lewdly, the words
ugly on her tongue, but nevertheless containing more than a
modicum of truth.
  "Well, good," Hartline said, a strange glow
to his eyes.
  Then he brutally shoved himself deep within her.
  Peggy screamed in shock and pain.
  Hartline ravaged her, with no feeling, no
compassion in him, merely taking her as an animal
might.
  He wiped himself clean with a pillowcase and then
  tossed it on the bed beside the sobbing woman. There
had been no pleasure for Peggy this night.
  Hartline said, "For a jigaboo, you got the
tightest cunt I ever seen. You must not have done much
fucking around as a kid. I thought all you niggers
started fucking when you were about ten."
  Peggy refused to answer.
  "Well, since the cat's got your tongue, I
got an idea. Next time you can suck me off."
  Then he proceeded to tell her, in the most
profane and ugly manner possible, what would
happen to her if she bit him. His voice and harsh,
ugly words made her sick to her stomach.

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 But she had absolutely no doubts as to his
sincerity.
 All that had been weeks ago. Now, Sam
visited Peggy more than any other woman in his
stable. He seemed loose and relaxed around her,
even kind to her at times, in his own peculiar
manner. She acted as a docile servant,
completely devoted to Sam's every whim and need. And
Sam talked a bit more each time he came to her;
whatever he said, Peggy reported back to Lois,
and Lois to the underground.
 On this night, just moments before Hartline was due
to arrive at Peggy's small home, provided for
her by Hartline, Lois had sent word that
Ben Raines was gathering his forces to march against the
IPF, along with Juan Solis from the Southwest,
and Al Maiden's black troops from the Southeast.
Peggy was to find out how much Hartline knew about the
upcoming invasion.
 But how?
 "Baby," Hartline said, a very slight and somehow
strange smile playing across his lips, "you're not
yourself tonight. What's wrong?"
 Something in his voice caused her to turn around and
look at him as he lounged in an easy chair. His
smile was filled with sarcasm. And suddenly she
knew-
knew-
he had been playing her for a fool. She had
underestimated the man from the beginning. Everything he had
told her, and she had told Lois, had been
false information. Those people from the local resistance, those
people who had been picked up ...
 Her fault.
 "You goddamn son of a bitch!" she cussed him.
 He laughed at her. "Whatever in the world is the
matter, sweetmeat?"
 "Bastard!"
 He rose from his chair with the fluid motion
of a man in superb physical condition, and Hartline
was all of that. He walked toward her. "Honey,
don't you think I know what a house nigger is?
My grandpappy came from Alabama. All us

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Hartlines fought for the Gray way back then.
Seems like you coons would wise up after a time. You
shines blew it, baby. Everything that's coming at you
jungle bunnies, you folks did to yourselves."
  Peggy could not believe her ears, could not believe
what Hartline was saying.
  "History proves you niggers aren't as good as
white people. And history is seldom wrong. That's
what's the matter with the world, why it got in the shape
it's in. Folks just refused to study the mistakes
of the past. They just kept repeating them." He grinned
at her. It was not a pleasant sight. "Strip,
baby."
  "W-what?"
  "You heard me, sweetmeat: strip! Get
bare-assed. Shuck your clothes. Do it."
  Hartline was overpowering to almost all who met him.
He was big and tough and quick and mean. He was powerful,
immensely strong. And he enjoyed hurting people.
Peggy had heard stories about his methods of
torture.
  "Dealing with male prisoners," Hartline began
his lecture to a group of government agents, "is quite
different from dealing with female prisoners. Man is
and has been traditionally the protector of the home,
the strong one. You must handle the male roughly-right from
the beginning. You must assault his male pride, his
virility, his manhood, his penis power. You take
the clothes from him by force and leave him naked and feeling
defenseless before you. He will immediately lose much of his
arrogant pride.
  "With a woman it is quite different. Use
physical force with a woman only as a last
resort. You order her to remove her own clothing.
You demand it. Make her disrobe. By doing that her
dignity has, from the beginning, rotted. That is a very
important first step in dealing with a woman
prisoner.
  "Don't allow them sleep. Interrupt a
prisoner every few moments while they are trying to rest
in their cell. They will be imagining all sorts of
dire and exotic tortures lying in wait for them.
Lack of sleep disturbs the brain

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patterns-disrupts the norm, so to speak.
  "I will give you gentlemen an example."
Hartline motioned toward a man standing by a
closed door.
  The door opened and two of Hartline's men pushed
a young man out into the large meeting room. The man was
in his mid-twenties, unshaven, red and bleary-eyed.
He was pushed onto the small stage.
  "Good morning, Victor," Hartline said
cheerfully. "Did you sleep well?"
  Victor said nothing.
  "Remove your clothing, Victor."
  "Fuck you."
  Hartline laughed and motioned toward the two burly
men. They wrestled the young man to the floor and ripped
his clothing from him. They pulled him to his feet to stand
naked, facing the roomful of strangers.
  "You see, Victor," Hartline said, "you are a
baby. I can do anything I wish with you, anytime I
choose to do so. Remember that, Victor, it might
save you-or someone you love-a lot of pain. Now
then, Victor, who is the leader of your cell?"
  Victor refused to reply.
  Hartline shook his head and clucked his tongue in
a scolding manner. "Victor, why are you doing this?
You know you're going to tell me-sooner or later."
  "If you're going to torture me," the young man
said, "get it over with."
  Hartline laughed, exposing strong, white, even
teeth. "Oh, Victor! I'm not going to torture
you,
my boy. Oh my, no." He cut his eyes to the
man waiting by the closed door.
  The door opened and a young woman was dragged into the
room. Both Victor and the young woman had the same
pale eyes, delicate features and skin
coloration.
  They were brother and sister.
  "Rebecca!" Victor yelled. He tried
to get to her. Strong hands held him firm. "You
son of a bitch!" he cursed Hartline.
  The mercenary laughed at him. "Tie him into that
chair over there," he said, pointing. "Hands behind the

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back, ankles to the legs."
  Hartline looked at the woman. Something evil and
perverted touched his eyes. "Now, my dear, you may
disrobe."
  "No, I won't," she said defiantly,
holding her chin high.
  Hartline chuckled. "Oh, I think you shall,
Rebecca. Yes, I believe you shall."
  He picked up a small cattle-prod and
adjusted the level of voltage. He
walked to Victor's side, then lifted his eyes
to the woman. "Take off your clothing, dear."
  "No," she whispered.
  Hartline touched the battery-operated prod
to Victor's bare arm. The young man jerked and
screamed in pain.
  "Don't do it, sis," he yelled. "I can stand
it."
  Hartline laughed and touched the prod to Victor's
penis. The man screamed in agony and thrashed against
his bonds, his jerking toppling over the chair.
  "All right," Rebecca said. "Don't hurt
him. I'll do what you say."
  "Good girl," Hartline told her.
  As she disrobed, Hartline walked around her,
commenting on her figure: the slender shapeliness of her
legs, the firmness of her breasts, the jutting
nipples, and finally the mat of pubic hair.
  The agents in the room whistled and made lewd
remarks. Hartline smiled. "You see, boys.
There are benefits to be reaped from all this. Or should
I say raped?"
  The men laughed.
  Hartline ran his hands over the young woman's
naked flesh, lingering between her legs, his
middle finger busy. He laughed at her
embarrassment as his finger penetrated her. He
glanced at Victor, now righted in his chair. "The
name of your cell leader, young man. For I assure
you, game time is over."
  Rebecca urged her brother not to tell him.
"We're not worth anything to him dead, Victor."
  "How astute of you, dear," Hartline said. "But

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sometimes death is preferable to living."
  Doubt sprang into her eyes.
  "Oh yes, my dear. I have seen human beings
reduced to madmen, every inch of skin stripped from them-and
still they lived, begging and praying to die. I have seen,
ah, I do so hate to be crude ... various
objects forced into a man's anus, including rather
large penises. I have seen what happens to a man
when a thin, hollow tube of glass is inserted into the
penis and tapped lightly with a club. The pain is quite
excruciating-so I'm told."
  She spat in his face.
  Hartline wiped the spittle from his cheek and chin.
"You'll pay for that." He looked at Victor.
"Talk to me, Victor baby."
  Victor shook his head.
  Hartline leaned down and kissed one
nipple, running his tongue around the nipple,
thoroughly wetting it. He straightened and placed the
cattle prod on
  Rebecca's breast. "One of you will," he said.
  The rape had been going on for more than two
hours. Victor watched as the tenth man mounted his
sister as if she were a dog. He could no longer
tolerate her screaming. She was bleeding from vagina and
anus.
  "All right," the young man said. "I'll tell you
what you want to know."
  Late that night, a man's front door was
kicked in and the man dragged from his bed. Later, the
man faced Sam Hartline in an old office
building. Somewhere in the dark building, a woman was
screaming in pain.
  "Mr. Samuelson," Hartline said, "you have
certain information I wish you to share with me."
  Samuelson shook his head.
  "Don't be too hasty with your reply, sir,"
Hartline said. "Before you make any rash statements,
perhaps you should visit your daughter. She's just down the
hall, entertaining some of my men." He listened as the
woman wailed in pain. "She is, ah, obviously
not getting into the spirit of things, is she?"
  "I don't believe you," Samuelson said.

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  He was taken down the hall. The screaming grew
louder. He was halted in front of a closed door.
  "Believe, Mr. Samuelson," Hartline said
with a smile. He pushed open the door, exposing the
hideous torture of the man's daughter.
"Believe."
  Peggy pushed those stories from her, but fear kept
  them faintly in her mind. Slowly,
reluctantly, she began removing her clothing.
"Ben Raines will stop you," she suddenly blurted.
  Surprisingly, Hartline did not lose his
temper or hit her. "Could be," he said. "He's
a tough bastard. And those people with him are fanatics.
But Raines can't do it alone. Hell, sweetmeat,
everybody knows niggers can't fight worth a shit, and
greasers can't fight any better. Only chance
Raines has is to beef up his own forces with white
folks. And he doesn't have the time or the people to do
that."
  Hartline cupped a breast, smiling as he
squeezed. He pinched the nipple between thumb and
forefinger, enjoying the look of pain that registered on the
woman's face.
  "General Raines has a lot of
nationalities under his command. Lots of minorities in
Tri-States-so I'm told," she reminded him,
relief on her face as he removed his hand from her
breast.
  "Yeah," Hartline once more agreed, "that's
true. I think what he did, though, was gather up
the cream of the crop."
  Hartline slid his hand downward, caressing her
satin belly, his fingers dipping into the crispness of
pubic hair. "Get down on your knees, yellow
gal. Start working that mouth and tongue of yours. Get
me wet."
  She knelt down, afraid to do otherwise.
  "Get me ready for the back door," he concluded
with a smile.
  She looked up from her naked, kneeling position
on the floor. Cold fear touched her with a chilling
hand., "Hartline-don't, please. I can't take
you there. You'll kill me."

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  "I never heard of anybody dying from it,"
Hartline told her with a grin. "But I sure have
made more than my share holler, though. You got to be
taught a lesson, honey, for your lies. And both
of us might as well get some pleasure for it."
  Pleasure? she thought. No way. She
unzippered his trousers and removed his thickening
penis, already massive. It was at that moment she
made up her mind. She opened her mouth, worked her
lips over the head, took it as deeply as
possible, and bit down hard.
  Hartline screamed from the white-hot pain and tried
to jerk away, but Peggy held on with the determination
of a bulldog, with Hartline literally dragging her
across the carpet.
  He slammed a hard fist against her head and she
saw bright lights and shooting stars. Releasing him from
her strong teeth, she grabbed his ankles and jerked.
His feet flew out from under him and his head banged against
the floor. He groaned once and then was still.
  She searched him for the key to the dead-bolt locks
on the house, locks that had kept her a prisoner,
and located the keys. She dressed hurriedly and
then kicked Hartline on the side of the head, insuring
he would stay out for a few moments longer. She prowled
the house, in hopes he had brought some sort of gun
with him, but she could find no weapon. She peeked out
the drapes and saw the street was dark and deserted.
  Peggy Jones slipped out the back door and
melted into the night.
  "How many personnel can we field?"
Ben asked.
  "I've got two thousand," Al Maiden said.
"And that isn't leaving many at home."
  "Don't spread yourself too thin," Ike
cautioned. "The Russian might try to flank us and
then come up from behind."
  "Yes," Al said. "There is that danger."
  Al Maiden seemed a bit more human each time
Ben met the man-more likable. And Ben found that he
did indeed like the man. He had found a sense of
humor that heretofore had been kept hidden.
  Al sighed and rubbed his face with his hands. "If

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we don't stop this ... this madness, this horror, and
stop it right now, there won't be much point of having a
home to return to."
  All agreed on that.
  "I can field about twenty-five hundred,"
Juan said.
  Ben nodded. "By stretching it, I can put three
thousand in the field. But I'm wondering if all that
force at once is the way to go."
  Ike perked up. "You thinkin" guerrilla
action, Ben?" That was getting to Ike's liking.
  "Yes. Hit and run. Neutralize one town,
then move on quickly. But we're going to have
to arm the people. And then have the worry of wondering if
they'll fight after we do arm them."
  "There is a hitch to that, Ben," Juan said.
"How about the people who
like
what General Striganov is doing? Those that
actually support his policies? What about them?"
  "That is one fly in the ointment," Ben said. "There
are partisans working up there, right?"
  "Yes." Mark Terry spoke up. "A
mixture of black and white and Hispanic. But
they are poorly organized and even worse off when
it comes to arms. Radio contact with them is spotty,
at best."
  Ben could understand that. "And I'd bet they are
infiltrated."
  "Yes," Al replied. "We're sure of that."
  "Name one you can trust."
  "Lois Peters," Mark said. "She's put
herself on the line dozens of times. She runs an
underground railway out of that area. Lot of the people who
came to us got there with her help."
  "Has she secure communications?"
  Both Mark and Al shrugged. "Doubt it," Mark
said.
  Ben glanced at Ike. "Get a few people
infiltrated up there. Tell them to get in, get
to Lois-if possible-plant the radio, and then stay
low until they hear from us. I don't want any
heroics, Ike. It's too early in the game for

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that."
  "Got it." Ike left the room.
  Ben looked at each man. "How many of your people have
training in a regular military unit?"
  "Quite a few, Ben," Juan said.
  "I have several hundred," Mark said.
  "All right. Start forming them into teams of ten.
Juan, on my signal, you'll send your people in from the
west." The Mexican nodded. "Mark and Al, your
people will go in from the east. My people will go straight up.
I'll contact those people we met up in Iowa and tell
them to hunt a hole if they're staying, or pull out
now."
  Ben rose from the table to pace the floor. "People, you
are not going to like what I'm about to say, but it
  has to be this way, or not at all. This is the
way the operation is going to be run: no
prisoners."
  Juan, Al and Mark stirred in silence.
  "I'll return to a 1950's slogan
that was pretty popular until our government lost
its guts: If you're Red, you're dead."
  "Ben ..." Juan began.
  "No! Any person willing to switch sides that
easily is not to be trusted again. That is something that
has been proven time and time over. Those of us who were
in actual combat-most of us-whether it was World War
II, Korea, or especially Southeast Asia
could never understand why those people who attempted to destroy
or undermine the war effort were not branded traitors and
shot. A person cannot have it both ways; one is either
against communism or for it. Against liberty, or one
hundred percent for it. You can't be wishy-washy on
the subject."
  Ben's smile was grim as he looked at Al
Maiden. "Al, you want all the bigots that
support Striganov over in New Africa?"
"Hell, no!"
  "Well, I don't want them either. Juan, how
about you?"
  "You have got to be kidding, Ben. A macabre
joke, but I get your point." He met Ben's
eyes. "My people have traditionally loved life, Ben.

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If we have a flaw, and that could be called a flaw,
that is it. It is going to be very difficult
for them to kill wantonly."
  "They won't be killing wantonly, Juan-not
at all. They will be killing to preserve liberty, as
strange as that sounds."
  "Yes, there is something dreadfully wrong with that
  statement," the Hispanic said, shaking his head.
"But, again, I see your point."
  "If they can't cut it, Juan, let me have it
all up front."
  "They will do what I tell them to do," Juan
replied, just a touch of stiffness in his tone. "They
might not like it, but they will do it."
  Ben shifted his eyes to Al and Mark. Al met
his gaze with a hard stare. "I will personally hand-pick
the people that go in, Ben. I can assure you, they will not
hesitate to kill a bigot."
  "That's what I like to hear, Al," Ben said with a
grim smile.
  "You're a cold-blooded son of a bitch, you know
that, General?" the black said. He said it with a
smile, meaning no offense.
  Ben took no umbrage. "I sure am, bro.
I damn sure am."
"Pax vobiscum,"
Emil Hite said to each of his followers
at that morning's service.
"Pax vobiscum
and
absit omen"
He didn't have the foggiest notion what either term
meant, but they sounded good.
  His followers returned his smiles and the love they
felt for him shone through their eyes. Those that weren't so
stoned they couldn't smile, that is. Or wired.
"Pinxit obiter dictum
and whop bop a loo bop a lop bam boom!"
Emil proudly announced. He was a little high
himself. Damn good grass they grew in these mountains.
Shit hit you like a bomb. It was as good as Maui
Wowie used to be, back in the good old days
  when Emil was selling grass along with well-used

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cars in Tennessee.
  "Be bop a lula," Emil said.
  One of his flock gave him a curious glance,
shook her head and hurried out. She had to prepare
her twelve-year-old daughter for Emil's
attentions that afternoon. And that was quite an honor. She
wondered if she had really heard what she thought she
heard the Master say.
  No matter, she decided. Gods
sometimes meant one thing while saying quite another.
Maybe it was the pot. Or the speed. Or the
coke. But regardless, everyone knew Emil the
Master was a god. There could be no doubt about that.
  And there was no doubt Emil had probably saved
a few of the men, women and kids that had drifted into and
were now residing in his camp. They had straggled in,
half-starved, some of them beaten and sick. And Emil
had cared for them.
  But early on another thought had come to Emil:
What was he getting out of all this good will on his part?
The answer was: nothing. The next day he had
discarded all manner of conventional dress and had
appeared in a robe. Actually, it was a wool army
blanket that itched like hell, but it had slits for his
arms and head and looked pretty damn good.
  He had held out his arms and announced to the few
hundred or so men and women that he had just had a
vision while praying, and he wanted to share it with them.
  Emil had not prayed since he was a child in a
local Holy Roller church (actually it was a
tent) back in rural Tennessee. But he
remembered vividly how that
  lay preacher could work the folks into a wild
frenzy, with many of the churchgoers jumping up
and down and staggering around the pews, babbling in the
unknown tongue.
  And Emil had watched more than one so-called
preacher squeezing a goodly number of tits and
asses while spreading the word, folks. And Emil
figured that ol' boy was probably getting more than
his share of pussy, too.
  So Emil thought he'd give that act a whirl
here, see if it worked with these folks.

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  It did.
  He told them God had spoken to him. He
told them God had ordered Emil to look after the
survivors and to take care of them, to open his arms and
give him succor. (and lots of stiff cock, but
Emil kept that thought to himself.) He told them God
said if they were to survive, they must band together and live
in a commune and follow Emil's orders.
  Emil prayed long and hard, with that fucking wool
blanket about to drive him nuts. He whipped the people
verbally, causing many of them to weep
uncontrollably. Emil went to each member and
laid on hands, and really poured on the B.s. He
hadn't been named the best damned used-car
salesman in Chattanooga for nothing. All that
morning and well into the afternoon, Emil prayed
and preached and led the people in songs. Then he began
waving his arms and shouting, babbling, inventing a
language he would later tell them only he and
God knew how to interpret.
  Actually, what he was doing was speaking in carny.
Many carnival and circus workers of years back
used to converse in pig Latin when they did not wish the
  townies to know what they were saying. But too many
citizens could understand pig Latin. So someone-it is
not known who-invented carny talk. It was not that
difficult to learn. Take the sound of "ease" and
put it behind the first letter of each syllable. Thus
Bill comes out sounding Beaseill. Number would be
neaseum-beaser. One can become surprisingly
fluent in carny in only a short time. And to someone
who has never heard the language, it sounds like a
snake attempting to talk.
  After a time, one can vary the position of syllables
and still be understood by those who speak the language.
  lease ceasean seasepeak ceasearneasey.
  Most of the people in the camp were, by this time, ready
to believe and accept anything. They had survived a
nuclear and germ attack; they had seen subhuman
mutants and rats as big as dogs. They had been
starved, beaten, many of them tortured and
robbed and chased, many of the women sexually assaulted
(and some of the men) and brutalized. Only a very few

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walked out when Emil began his pitch. The rest
stayed and became believers. Soon the word went out and
every nut and goofball and wacko and banana cream
pie in a three-state area was drifting in, eager
to join.
  And Emil had it made.
  He had been a corpsman in the navy, and knew
something about medicine. He began visiting deserted
towns nearby, grabbing up every book he could find on
the subject of doctoring. He studied herbal
medicine, and really became pretty good at healing-as
long as it wasn't anything too serious. If the
medical problem was beyond his rather limited realm of
  knowledge, Emil would pray, babbling in his personal
unknown tongue. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it
didn't. When it didn't work, and the patient died,
Emil would simply say it was God's will.
  And anyone who was dumb enough to join a cult in the
first place would believe it.
  But, Emil mused on this day, all that was
secondary to this communist thing that was shaping up in a rather
nasty fashion up north. Emil did not want the
communists in this area. Ben Raines was bad
enough. Emil was scared to death of Ben Raines. But
the communists would really frown on his little scam. They
would take away his robes and sandals and steady
pussy.
  And he would have to go to work. Just the thought of that was
appalling.
  What to do?
  Emil didn't know what to do. But one thing was
certain: His little kingdom of wackos would come crashing
down around his ankles if the commies ever took over.
  Emil thought and pondered and schemed and connived and
finally decided he might have to take the problem to his
followers and place it at their feet. But that was
risky, for Emil was supposed to be the head Pooh
Bah, Lord of the Beasts, direct communicator with the
Almighty, Master of the Multitudes, and all that
happy shit.
  Emil sighed and scratched his head. He just
didn't know what the hell to do.
  "What we have to do," Peggy Jones said, "is

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get it
  together and fight."
  "Child-was Lois looked at her-"we gonna
fight." She shook her head. "But we need guns
and bullets and training. We don't none
of us know nothin' much about that sort of thing. We got
a few shotguns and rifles and pistols-and that's
all. I
know
General Striganov has spies among us, but I
don't know who they are. What you're sayin' is
all well and good, honey, but we got to keep our
wits about us, too."
  "You just told me General Ben Raines is
sending people in here to help us, right?"
  "That's the word I get, yes."
  "When and how?"
  "That, child," Lois said with a smile, "is something you
beside' not know-not at this date. Believe me, it's for the
good of everybody you not know."
  "Don't you trust me?"
  "With all my heart, honey-you know that. But Sam
Hartline is an expert at torture. He gets
his hands on you, Peggy, you'll tell everything you know
and even make up stuff, just to get the pain to stop."
  Peggy started to protest, but the older woman
waved her still. "Peggy ... listen to me. You wouldn't
want to tell, but you would. Ever'body has their
breaking point, you, me ever'body. Sam Hartline
would get it out of you or me or anybody."
  Peggy nodded her head in agreement. She was very
frightened of Hartline. "When will the people from General
Raines's camp be here?"
  "Soon. I don't know just when, and that's the
truth. For now, you stay in this basement and don't you
stick your head out for
nothin'.
Sam Hartline has said when he finds you, girl,
he's going to torture you for days
  until you're beggin' him to let you die. And he
means it, honey." She smiled. was "Cause you
shore did a number on that white man's cock.
You didn't bite it off, but you shore skin it up

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good."
  "I tried to bite it off."
  Lois laughed softly, the sound muted in the
semi-darkened basement of the old farmhouse. "I
shore would have liked to seen it. I really would have. I
don't know if I'd've had the courage to do what you
done."
  "I'm afraid of that man, Lois. I will
admit I am scared to death of him. He's ...
twisted all up in his mind. He's ... he's
..."
  "Evil," the older woman finished it.
  "Where is Peggy Jones?" Hartline asked the
tortured man.
  "I don't know." The man gasped the reply.
He spat out a mouthful of blood.
  Hartline looked at another man in the room and
nodded his head. "Pull out another tooth."
  The tortured man screamed and fought the leather
straps that held him. At a silent signal from the
husky man wearing a blood-splattered butcher's
apron, the victim's mouth was pried open.
  A man wielding pliers leaned forward, a smile
of satisfaction on his thick, wet lips. His
crotch bulged from sexual arousal. The screaming in
the small room became hideous.
  Sam Hartline left the room, disgust obvious
on his face when the tortured man passed out from the
intense pain. He walked down the hall to another
room and opened the door.
  A dark-haired young woman was strapped to a table;
the table was bolted to the floor. The woman was naked.
She was strapped belly-down on the table, her legs
spread wide and her ankles attached to straps run
through thick metal rings bolted to the floor. Her
eyes were dull from the pain and humiliation. She had
been beaten, raped and sodomized. Vivid
marks crisscrossed her flesh from the savage
lashings with leather belts and whips.
  Hartline looked at her through cold, emotionless
green eyes. "Are you ready to cooperate with us now,
Miss Brinkerhoff?"
  Tears dropped from the young woman's eyes. They

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splashed on the cold metal of the table. "I don't
know anything." She choked out the words.
  A man, naked from the waist down, with a huge
erection in his hand, stepped behind the woman. He
penetrated her anally with one brutal lunge. She
screamed in pain as he worked his way deeper.
  "I don't know anything!" she cried.
  She was telling the truth. She did not know the
whereabouts of Peggy Jones. She had never even heard
of Peggy Jones prior to Hartline's mentioning her
name. She did not know anything about any resistance
movement. She was a newcomer to this area. She knew
nothing about any upcoming confrontation between Ben
Raines's troops and the IPF.
  Her attacker's hairy belly slapped against
her buttocks. She screamed in pain and
degradation.
  Hartline and the other men in the room smiled. All
were sexually aroused by the sight and sounds of the
attack.
  It would have been much easier had Hartline simply
  given her a polygraph or PSE test; he
could have used any of a number of truth serums at his
disposal. But Hartline and the group of questioners-men and
women-enjoyed seeing people tortured, enjoyed listening
to them scream and beg and pray and promise anything and
everything if only the pain would stop.
  Hartline became sexually aroused when that happened.
Hartline and his group of interrogators shared a great
deal in common with Hitler's SS and Gestapo
agents. Many SS and Gestapo agents used
to enjoy slowly strangling young men to death. Just before the
final death throes, the naked victims would usually
gain an erection followed by their final climax. The
SS or Gestapo agents so inclined could then take
the penis in their mouths.
  So much for the master race.
  Sam Hartline would have been at his dubious
glory as an SS or Gestapo officer.
  He would have experienced shivers of ecstasy had he
been commandant of a concentration camp during Hitler's
reign of terror.
  Hartline would have been the perfect mate for the

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Bitch of Buchenwald, that lady (referring
only to her anatomical gender) who made lamp
shades out of human skin taken from her victims
while they were still alive and conscious. Said she just
loved tattoos.
  Hartline pulled the man away from the woman's
buttocks. Blood dripped to the floor from her
mangled anus. He picked up a small whip from
a rack and began beating her back and buttocks,
smiling at her screams.
  He beat her for a few moments, dropping her almost
to unconsciousness. He ordered a bucket of
  water to be thrown on her, reviving her.
  Smiling as he spoke, Hartline said, when he was
certain the woman was conscious enough to understand, "If she
hasn't talked in twenty-four hours, take her
down into Missouri where the mutants gather. Strip
her and tie her to a tree. They'll find her."
  "No!" she screamed. She had seen the mutants
before.
  Hartline tossed the short whip to the floor and
turned his back to the woman. He walked out of the
room. Her screaming intensified as the perversion
gained new heights.
  Gen. Georgi Striganov knew of
Hartline's inclination toward torture.
One of the reasons he wanted the man on his team.
Striganov was not opposed to torture, he just did
not personally want to be a party to it. He had found,
years before, when he worked for the KGB, that drugs were
much more effective and a great deal neater. And one did
not have to listen to the shrieking and yelling or put up with the
vomiting and all that other disagreeable mess that was
associated with physical torture.
  Georgi had known many men and women who enjoyed
administering torture. He had closely observed
them during the act: the quickened breathing, the glazed
eyes, the sexual aspects of the torture act
itself. He did not want to become one of those perverted
types of people.
  Besides, physical torture made him ill.
  The Russian compartmentalized the issues before him,
and took from one section of the mind the matter

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  of Ben Raines, placing the matter of Sam
Hartline in another niche. A darker corner of the
mind, where the mercenary could squat and pick at himself.
  Ben Raines worried the Russian. Georgi
knew the man was going to make a military move
against him. He had placed informants in the ranks of
Raines's civilians and Emil Hite's idiot
grouping months back-but their information was
sketchy, at best. And nothing of any use had come
out of the camp of Emil Hite. Which was, according to the
Russian's way of thinking, perfectly understandable.
In his mind, Georgi had already written off Hite
and his foolish band. They might be of some limited
use at a future date, but the Russian could not
possibly think of how that might come to pass.
  What kind of move was Ben Raines planning?
When would it take place? And how would Raines go
about it?
  He didn't know.
  He did know his IPF personnel were much stronger
in number than anything Raines or Solis or
Maiden could put together, and they were better trained and
equipped, for the most part. So Raines was probably
contemplating some sort of guerrilla action. He
knew Raines and the ex-Seal, McGowen, were both
trained in guerrilla warfare and highly decorated
during the Vietnam war. And Raines was an
ex-mercenary to boot.
  Guerrilla warfare. That was what the Russian
feared the most from Raines, for that would mean his IPF
forces would have to be spread all over three or four
states, and his selective breeding program would have
to be placed on the back burner for the
duration.
  Things had been coming along so very
splendidly-especially that new program his
doctors had suggested.
  "Goddamn it!" he cursed, slamming a fist
on his desk top. "Goddamn Ben Raines."
  He picked up the phone on his desk and punched
savagely at the buttons. He snarled, "Get
me Colonel Fechnor-quickly."
  The first intelligence reports back

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to Tri-States were grim and very much to the point:
  "Tell General Raines the IPF is mounting
up, getting ready for what looks to be a big
push-south."
  Ben read the copied message. "Damn!" he
said. He turned in his chair and looked at Ike.
"Now we don't have a choice in the matter, buddy.
It's been decided for us."
  Ike nodded. "Well have to meet them head-on."
There was a grimness to his voice. "And they'll have us
out-gunned and out-manned."
  "But we can't stay boxed in here," Cecil said.
Like Ike, the black man was spoiling for a good
fight. An ex-Green Beret, he had earned his
CIB in Vietnam. "They'd sit off
our borders and lob heavy artillery in on us, and
eventually kill us all."
  "Give me your votes," Ben said, looking at
Colonel Gray, the only person present who
had yet to speak.
  "Take the fight to them, General," the
Englishman said. "If we are going to die, then
let us prepare to die for liberty."
  Ben smiled. He knew without asking that would be the
reply of all his people. He looked at Ike.
  "I'm with him," Ike said, jerking his thumb toward
  Dan. "I just can't say it as pretty."
  "That line came, in part," Dan said, "from a
Rom-berg opera. When the street rabble were preparing
to do battle for King Louis against the crown of
Burgundy. They were ultimately successful in
their efforts."
  "Do tell," Ike said.
  "Cretin," Dan said with a smile.
  "Smart-ass," Ike responded.
  Laughing, Ben glanced at Cecil.
  "Take the fight to them, Ben. Let's kick their
asses all the way back to Iceland."
  "All right, that's it. Pull back your people from
Iowa. Those that were meeting with Lois
Peters. I hate to leave what resistance there is
up there defenseless, but I can't risk losing
anybody at this stage of the game,

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 "Gear up. I want the people mobilized and moving
within forty-eight hours. Contact Juan and Al and have
them get their troops moving-en masse. Right now.
Juan will take his people in from the west, Al from the east;
we'll go straight up and in.
 "Let's do it people."
CHAPTER TEN
 "No!" Ben said. "And that is final, Gale.
You are
not
going north with the column."
 Out came the chin. "I'd by God like to know why the
hell not?"
 "Because this is war, Gale. War. Full-scale
warfare. You have no idea what war is like. It's
dirty, bloody, awful, dangerous. Can you get that
through your head?"
 She glared at him. Rose to her full height.
All five feet.
 "Can you, Gale?"
 He towered over her; she glowered up at him.
 "When do we pull out, Ben?"
"Goddamn!"
 "I better get us packed."
"Jesus Christ!"
 "Do you want me to pack any long underwear for
you?"
 Ben stalked from the house, muttering. He was still
muttering as he walked up the street. Tina pulled
in next to the curb, motioning him into the Jeep.
 Ben kissed his adopted daughter and smiled at
her. He
 had not seen her in several months and had missed
her. "When'd you get in?"
 "Late last night. I stayed with friends."
 Father and daughter looked at each other. Tina
touched her father's face with her finger tips.
 "I've missed you, kiddo," Ben said.
 "How much?" She initiated the game they had
played when she was young.
 "Oodles and gobs."
 "Good. Well... I thought it was best if I
stayed away for a time. Dad, I have something to tell

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you."
  Ben knew what it was. And he thought Tina
probably knew he did. Very little escaped Ben's
attention in Tri-States.
  "Oh?"
  "I met this real nice fellow."
  "He better be a nice fellow," Ben said
jokingly. He knew the young man was. He knew
all about the young man.
  "His name is Robert Graham. Bob.
We're farming down in Louisiana."
"We're
farming?"
  "Yes. I... Dad, I live with him."
  Ben had never objected to that. With the world having
taken such a beating, marriage was getting rare.
Sometimes a few words were spoken, but oftentimes not, they
were spoken by a friend of the couple, and not a minister.
  Varying religions were now almost non-existent,
especially in Tri-States. Baptist,
Christian, Methodist, Catholic, Lutheran,
Jew, all the others, now were, at least in
Tri-States, combined. No longer was there the
arrogance of one church maintaining that if one did not
belong to
  that particular church, one was doomed to suffer the
fires of the pits of hell.
  It had taken a worldwide nuclear and germ
holocaust to bring the factions together.
  Ben smiled. "Thinking about getting married,
maybe?"
  "Could be. Just as soon as this mission is
concluded."
  Ben stiffened beside her. He had lost his wife,
Salina, and their son, Jack, back in the battle
for the old Tri-States. He did not want to lose
Tina. For a few seconds, he was flung back in
time.
  Just seconds after Salina had kissed him and
told him goodbye, she had been bayoneted in the
stomach by a paratrooper. Ben had killed the young
soldier and then knelt down beside Salina's side.
She had smiled up at him, then died.

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  Moments later, Jack had been killed by a
machine gun burst. Tina had lobbed a hand grenade
into the machine gun emplacement, killing the gunners.
  "What are you thinking, Dad?" Tina brought him
  back to the moment. "Salina. Your brother,
Jack." "That's what I thought. Did you love
her, Dad?" "No. No, I didn't. But I
cared a great deal for her and
  was always faithful to her." "Have you ever truly been
in love, Dad?" "I don't believe I have,
honey. Maybe someday." He
  did not feel any guilt about having said that, for
Gale
  knew that thought there was a closeness between them,
  physical as well as emotional, Ben did not
love her.
  She touched his hand, this man she loved as her own
father.
  "Anyway," Ben said, "who said you were going on the
mission?"
  She squeezed his hand. "I'm a Rebel,
Dad. You taught me to be a soldier. You taught
me to love liberty and freedom, to know the difference
between right and wrong without having courts to tell you the
difference. Everything I value, I learned from you.
This is as much my fight as it is yours. Now you
want to make something out of that?"
  Ben laughed at her stubbornness. "Don't get
uppity with the old man, kid," he said jokingly.
  "The way you were stalking about a few minutes ago,
you looked like you had your back up about something. Want
to talk about it?"
  Ben shrugged. "I'll never understand women."
  "What a sexist remark."
  Ben's smile was wry. "You and Gale will get
along fine, I'm thinking. And that spelling
is G-A-L-E."
  Tina laughed aloud. "Does she live up
to it?"
  "Damn well better believe it."
  "I'd very much like to meet her."
  "Well, so what are you waiting for? Welcome
home, honey."

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  "Well split up into three columns," Ben
told his senior officers. "Ike, your brigade will
take Highway 79 out of here to Memphis, then
get on Interstate 55 and head north. Angle
slightly west and stop at Warrenton. We'll be
in radio contact at all times-everything on
scramble.
  "Colonel Ramos, you'll move up Highway
65 all the way to Interstate 70. Wait there for
me. I'm going to connect with Highway 63 in
North Arkansas and stay with it all the way
to Columbia. Well bivouac and wait until
Al and Juan get their people in position, then well
hit the IPF with everything we've got. I don't
like to think about slugging it out nose to nose, but we
don't have a choice this time around, boys. All right,
we move out at dawn."
  The scene resembled a miniature
replay of the staging areas of D-day, back in
1944. Hundreds of vehicles of all types:
Jeeps, trucks, APC'S, cargo carriers. Just
over three thousand men and women, a thousand to a
brigade, milling about, creating what would look to the
untrained eyes to be mass total confusion. It was
anything but. The men and women of Ben Raines's
Rebels had been trained well; each person
knew his job and would give it one hundred percent.
But any staging area sounds chaotic.
  Whistles and shouted commands and the sounds of hundreds
of boots on gravel and concrete filled the early
morning air. Quiet conversations between husbands and
wives and kids softened the din as men and women told
each other goodbye-perhaps for the last time. One more stolen
kiss, a touch, a caress, an embrace.
  "Keep your head down, Sid, and we'll be
thinking of you."
  ""You remember to pack extra socks?"
  "This one will be the last one, Mary. Well kick
the ass off the Russians and then we can all
settle down to live out our lives in peace."
  "I'll be back in plenty of time for the harvest.
Crops are sure lookin" good."
  And then it was time.

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  "Second platoon, Able Company, first
battalion-over here! Group around me."
  "Goddamnit, Lewis, if you can't keep that
steel pot on your pinhead, tie the son of a bitch
to your pack."
  "Fuck you, Sergeant."
  "Where in the hell is Sergeant Ward?"
  "Right here."
  "Your wife just called. You forgot to take your
allergy pills."
  "Shit!"
  "Harrison, what in the hell are you doing with that
goddamn chicken?"
  "It's our mascot, Captain."
"A chicken?"
  "First platoon, Dog Company, third
battalion-get over
here,
damnit!"
  Since many of the roads throughout the nation were in sad
condition-with many of them having had no maintenance in almost
fifteen years-the battle tanks would not be
transported on trucks. The heavy tanks would have
to be driven as is, overland. The harsh rumble of the
big engines firing into life added to the din.
Ben was throwing everything under his command at the IPF, and
he knew if he failed (and that was a distinct
possibility) General Striganov and his forces would
then have much more than just a toe hold in America.
  81mm mortar carriers were made ready to roll.
155mm howitzers, M60A2 tanks,
M48A3 main battle tanks, and
M60A1 main battle tanks, each weighing
between fifty-two and fifty-seven tons were cranked
up, the huge V-12 diesel engines rumbling and
snorting to
  life in the cool predawn darkness.
  Tactical and support vehicles, Jeeps and
deuce-and-a-halves, pickup trucks and
APC'S roared into life. M548 cargo carriers
wheeled on their tracks, pointing their stubby
bulldog noses to the north, preparing to move out at
Ben's signal.

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  On the tarmac of the airport, Jim Slater and
Paul Green and a dozen other pilots checked out
their planes one final time, once more went over
flight plans and looked over their personal arms and
equipment. They knew this was not to be an air war.
Although their prop-driven planes were armed, they were not
fighter planes. They were cargo and spotter
planes.
  Ben did have three old PU!'S, of the
Vietnam era, each plane filled with
electronically fired modern-day Gatlin guns.
Each PUFF was capable of killing anything and
everything in an area the size of a football field.
But they were slow planes, and very susceptible
to attack from ground-to-air missiles. One
infantryman, armed with a Dragon, an XMBLEDG
guided missile, could bring down a PUFF.
  Suddenly, as if on silent cue, the area
quieted down. Engines idled quietly, conversation
ceased as dawn began gently touching the east, gray
fingers slowly opening from a dark fist to cast silver
pockets of new light over the land, bringing another
day to this part of the ravaged world.
  Ben spoke into a walkie-talkie. "Spotter
planes up. Go, boys."
  Moments later, the planes were airborne, their
running lights blinking in the silver gray of early
dawn.
  "Dan?" Ben spoke into the walkie-talkie.
  "Here, sir," Colonel Gray called in from
miles up the road.
  "Scouts out," Ben said quietly.
  Miles north, with Col. Dan Gray in the
lead Jeep, the scouts moved out.
  "Are we in contact with the teams of LETTERRP'S?"
Ben asked.
  "Yes, sir," a young woman replied. "They
are on the south side of Interstate 70, in
place, waiting for your order to cross."
  "Send them across," Ben ordered. "Have them link
up with Gray's scouts already in the area."
  "Yes, sir." She spoke to a radio
operator and a state and a half straight north,

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teams of Long Range Recon Patrol moved out
on their lonely, dangerous and dirty job. They would
be the eyes and the ears of Gen. Ben Raines.
  Ben was handed a steaming mug of coffee. He
sipped the hot, strong brew, mostly chicory, and
walked the long lines of men and women and machines of
war. He knew them all, faces if not names.
  "How you doing this morning, Hector?" he asked
Colonel Ramos, the CO. of the third brigade
of Raines's Rebels.
  "Ready, sir," came the reply from the swarthy
Hector.
  "Viv raise much hell about being left behind?"
"A "sangrey fuego."
  "And that means?"
  "Fire and sword, Ben."
  "But wasn't making up fun?" Ben grinned.
  The Spaniard rolled his dark eyes and said,
"Si-por cierto!"
  Ben laughed and punched his friend lightly on the
shoulder.
  Ben walked on up the line. He came to a
stunned and silent halt at a familiar figure.
  The two men stood for a full minute, glaring at
each other.
  Ben shook his head and said, "Lamar, you are just
too damned old for this trip."
  Lamar Chase, ex-navy doctor, was in his
seventy-first year. Ben stood for a moment, looking
at his friend, remembering the first time he laid eyes
on the man.
  He had been traveling alone, seeing what
remained of the nation, talking to the survivors-those that
would talk to him. Many ran in fear upon sighting him.
He had driven into Colorado, the malamute,
Juno, by his side in the cab of the pickup. Ben
looked at the ruins of Denver, the sight of the
once-beautiful city almost making him sick.
  "Damn shame, isn't it?" came a
voice from behind Ben.
  Ben spun, the 9mm pistol in his hand. Juno
had been off taking a pee.
  "Whoa!" The man had held out empty hands.

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"I'm friendly, boy."
  The man wore a pistol on his hip, but it was
covered with the leather of a military-type holster.
USN on the side of the flap.
  Ben holstered his 9mm. "Navy?"
  "For twenty-four years. Captain when the war
broke out. Chase is my name, Lamar Chase."
  The men shook hands. "Ben Raines. What
happened here in Denver?"
  "Enemy saboteurs hit the base and hit it
hard. For
  some reason, spite probably, they also placed
firebombs in the city, in very strategic locations.
Gas mains blew. The winds were just right. And Denver
is no more. I was home on leave at that time.
Took my wife up the mountains and sat it out."
  "I used to have a lot of fun in Denver. I
was... I took some training up at Camp
Hale."
  Chase smiled. "Ex-Hell-Hound, Ben?"
  "That unit never existed, Captain-you
know that."
  "Shit!"
  Both men laughed. Ben took a closer look
at the flap on Chase's holster. USNMC. "You
a doctor?"
  "Yes. You look like the survivor type, Ben.
Let's sit and talk."
  The men talked for several hours.
  "What do you think about our president, Ben?"
  "I used to fuck his wife."
  Doctor Chase laughed so hard tears rolled from
his eyes. "Beautiful," he finally said. "I needed
a good laugh. Come on home with me, Ben
Raines-meet my wife and eat a home-cooked
meal. I've got something to discuss with you, if you're
the Ben Raines I think you are."
  He was, and the doctor's ideas were very nearly the
same as Ben's.
  The men had agreed that the concept of Tri-States
could work. And it did work for more than a decade.
  "I'd like to see you try to stop me from running my
combat hospital, Raines." The old doctor

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stuck out his chin.
  "Look, Lamar, be reasonable. Can't I at
least appeal to your common sense?"
  "If I had any common sense, you crazy
gun-soldier, would I be a part of anything you
planned? Huh? Got you there, Raines."
  "Old goat!"
  The troops stood back and listened in silence.
They had heard it all many times from the general and the
doctor.
  "You should talk, President-General," he said
sarcastically. "I'm beginning to think you plan on
repopulating the world single-handedly. Why don't you
try keeping it in your pants every now and then? Now go
tend to your business while I give my doctors and
corpsmen some last-minute instructions on how
to patch up people."
  "Damned hard-headed old crustacean," Ben
fired back at him.
  "Oh, butt out, Raines."
  "That should be corpspersons," Gale spoke from the
silvery background.
  "Ye gods!" Chase roared. "Is she coming
along? Raines, can't you control that woman?"
  "You're a male chauvinist pig, Lamar
Chase," Gale said with a smile.
  "Damn right I am, sweetie. And proud of
it." Lamar stalked off, roaring and bellowing
for his doctors and corpsmen to get off the dime and
get their asses to their assigned places in this
goddamned circus parade.
  Ben took Gale's hand and together they walked on
up the line.
  Ben spoke to his Rebels: a word, a
greeting, a sentence, a smile. He was very much
aware of the fact that every man and woman present would
follow him into hell, and he loved them all for that.
  He wondered again-as he had many times since he
had made up his mind to commit his people-how many would die
because ofandfor him?
  He pushed that from his mind. As far away as he
could.
  "Ike," Ben stopped and spoke to his long-time

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friend and buddy.
  "Ben."
  Ben looked over Ike's brigade. He
spotted Jerre and her husband, Matt. He
smiled and nodded at them and they returned the silent
greeting. Ben always wondered what went on in
Matt's head, the young man knowing the children he was
raising had been fathered by Ben.
  He swung his gaze and spotted his daughter,
Tina. A tall young man stood beside her.
He smiled at them.
  He looked again at Ike and noticed the gray in
his friend's close-cropped hair.
  And the thought came to him: We are not young. Do we have
the years left us to see this war-torn nation rise from
the ashes?
  I hope so.
  "Kick-ass time, Ben?" Ike asked with a gin.
  The Medal of Honor winner was spoiling for a
fight.
  "You ready, sailor?" Ben returned the grin.
  "Cast off, mate."
  "Then get them mounted up and moved out, Ike,"
Ben spoke the words that would again shake the nation
into warfare. "I'll see you in a few days."
  "Let's go!" Ike shouted. "Go-go-go!"
  Juan's Solis's troops had rolled out of
Arizona thirty-six hours before Ben's column
headed north. Al Maiden
  and Mark Terry moved their people in conjunction with
Solis. Almost seven thousand fighting men and women were
rolling slowly but steadily toward the most hideous
threat to humankind since Hitler's nightmarish
dreams of a master race.
  And all knew that madman's ravings could
not, must not, be allowed to again rear its ugly head.
  Juan knew it. Al and Mark knew it. Ben
knew it. All the troops knew it. Troops of
every race and nationality: blacks, whites,
Hispanics, Jews, Orientals, Indians,
both East and West Indians. If this nation was ever
to climb out of the ashes of war and destruction and disease
and hunger and lack of faith and hope, it would have to be

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done without bigotry adding to the seemingly insurmountable
task facing those who believe in democracy over
slavery, justice over lynch mobs, fairness over
prejudice.
  This violent confrontation just had to be. The
participants had no choice in the matter.
  This might very well be their only chance.
  The world's last chance.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
  The convoys had to move slowly, for the big tanks
had a top speed of only thirty mph, and it was
essential that the tanks be a part of any assault,
for the M60A2 tank not only had a 152mm
gun launcher, but also carried thirteen Shillelagh
missiles, a .50-caliber commander's machine
gun, and coaxially mounted 7.62-caliber machine
guns. It was fifty-seven tons of
awesomeness, twelve feet wide, almost eleven
feet high, and twenty-four feet long. Ben had
thirty M60A2 tanks. Ten in each
brigade.
  The M60A1 battle tank was just slightly
lighter, weighing fifty-two-and-a-half tons,
carrying a 105mm cannon, plus .50-caliber
and 7.62-caliber machine guns. Ben had thirty
of them. Ten per brigade.
  The M48A3 main battle tank carried the
same type of machine guns, but with a 90mm
cannon. It was a half ton lighter than the
M60A1, but could fire ten rounds a minute from
its cannon, and was more maneuverable. Ben also had
thirty of them. Ten in each column.
  The scant intelligence reports Ben had received
had indicated the IPF had no tanks, but did have
rolling howitzers and mortars.
  Ben smiled a secret smile as he drove in
his pickup, Gale sitting by his side.
Occasionally she would rest her hand on his thigh. He
knew he had the IPF outgunned with his
M109A1 155mm self-propelled
howitzers. The big bastards, with a crew of six,
could sit back and lob shells a distance of
eighteen thousand meters, which was close to eight

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miles. Nothing the IPF had could get close
to them. Ben had twelve of them. Four per
brigade.
  Ninety tanks, twelve self-propelled
howitzers. Ben had 320 people tied up in armor
alone. He had 250 people as drivers and relief
drivers. That left him with just over 2500 ground
combat troops.
  Gale glanced at him, taking note of the secret
smile on his lips. She matched it until
curiosity got the best of her.
  "What are you smiling about, Ben?"
  He shook his head. "I shouldn't be smiling. I
was thinking that we have the IPF outgunned. But they have us
outnumbered."
  "Are we going to win, Ben?"
  "No way for me to answer that, Gale."
  "Humor me."
  "The odds are not good," Ben told it like it was.
"I won't lie to you about that."
  "Where is that famous Raines confidence?" she
asked. "That chutzpa that carried you all the way from
trashy book writer to president?"
  Ben fixed her with a jaundiced look.
"Trashy
book writer?"
  "Well?"
  "Oh, I still have confidence, Gale. And I
won't harp on this subject, but I do wish you had
stayed at home."
  "I have a personal stake in this, Ben."
  "Oh?" Ben glanced at her from out of the corner of
his eye.
  "Yeah. I'm a Jew."
  "Really? I hadn't noticed."
  She called him a perfectly filthy name.
  If they could make 175 miles per day, they were
doing well, even though the tank commanders were pushing the
behemoth machines at max speed. Ben's column
spent the first night on the road at the junction of
Highways 67 and 63, in a small town in
Arkansas called Hoxie. It was yet another
lifeless town, the bones of the dead scattered by wind and

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animals, bleached ghostly white by the past summer's
sun. No one among the Rebels paid much attention
to the bones. It was a sight they had long grown
accustomed to seeing.
 But the smaller skeletons still bothered most of the
men and women. They would not speak of that
emotion, but they would avert their eyes and swallow
hard, perhaps thinking of their own lost children, or of their
brothers or sisters.
 That first night, when the troops had been fed and
bedded down, the guards posted, Ben rolled a
cigarette-one of the few he allowed himself daily-then
slipped into the blankets beside Gale. She turned,
coming into his arms.
 "Hey, Ben?" she softly whispered.
 They were sleeping outside, under a sky that seemed
alive with dead worlds, millions of miles away,
a black velvet background softening the luster,
making the diamond glow seem much more intimate,
making the two seem much more alone.
 "Yes, Ms. Roth?"
 "I'm glad it was you that came along, Ben-up in
Missouri, I mean."
 "Aren't you afraid people will snicker and point at
us?" he kidded her. It was a game they sometimes
played. "Maybe they'll think you're my daughter.
Or maybe they'll think you're a wanton woman.
Or maybe that I'm a dirty old man."
 "The latter I'll agree with. Come on, Ben.
Don't joke-I'm serious."
 "OK. No more jokes."
 "I've been thinking about what you said today. We're
in trouble, aren't we? I mean ... what is left
of the country?"
 "Yes."
 "About those odds you mentioned."
 "They aren't good, Gale. But I can't be certain
of that because I can't get accurate intelligence
readings out of the areas the IPF control. Maybe the
LETTERRP'S will report back some good news."
 "Yeah, maybe. I hate to be a harbinger of
doom, but have you thought about what might happen if
you-we-can't whip these people?"

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  "Plenty of thought. North Georgia, for one.
That area looks good."
  "North Georgia? You got a thing about the
South, don't you? Is the Klan strong there?" There
was open skepticism in her voice.
  Ben chuckled. "You remind me of a girl I
knew years ago. She-was
  "Was she Jewish?" Gale interrupted.
  "Yes."
  "I don't want to hear about her."
  "We were friends, Gale, not lovers."
  "You believe if you painted wings on a pig it
would fly?"
  "What kind of a stupid question is that?"
  "About as stupid as you telling me you were friends with a
woman. Raines, you have never been just
friends
with any woman you thought you could screw."
  "I think I'll go to sleep on that."
  She rudely poked him in the ribs with a finger.
"So tell me about her."
  "I thought you didn't want to hear."
  "I changed my mind already."
  "She wouldn't visit the South because she thought she
would find blazing crosses in every soybean and cotton
field."
  Gale waited. "Is that it? Is that all? You
got me all worked up for that?"
  "I thought it amusing."
  "You would. Did she?"
  "Did she what?"
  "Visit the damn South?"
  "How the hell do I know? I haven't seen her
in years."
  Gale was silent for a moment. "Was she
pretty?"
  "Positively the most beautiful woman I have
ever met."
  "Raines..."
  "You were asking, I believe, about north
Georgia."
  "So proceed." Definitely a touch of
irritation.

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  "I thought we might settle there, win or lose.
Right under the Chattahoochee National Forest. I've
checked it out. It would be very difficult for anyone
to dislodge a sizable force from that area. I've sent a
team into that country; they're in there now, nosing around."
  She stirred in his arms. "I'll forgive you for
making out with that girl."
"1 never made-
his
  "Then you don't think we have much chance of beating these
... the IPF?"
  Ben sighed. "If all the troops we are
committing, Gale-if they all were my people, trained
by me, yes, we would have a chance."
  "Would you please explain that?"
  "I'm not putting down Juan's people, or Al's
people-I don't want you to think that at all. They are
all good people, I'm sure of that. But they aren't
professional fighters. A great many of the people in my
command are combat veterans, Gale
Every
person in my command is highly trained and disciplined.
They are probably the best trained people now under one
command-anywhere in the world. With the possible exception of
Striganov's IPF.
  "But the problem, Gale, is not with the courage or
the loyalty of the troops under Juan or Al. That
isn't it at all. They just aren't trained. And if
something totally unexpected or unpredictable is
thrown at them, I don't know how they're going
to react. Neither Al nor Mark nor Juan ever
pulled any military time. They are going to throw their
people into this without any of
  them having any experience in tactics or
logistics." Ben sighed heavily. "Maybe we can
pull it off, Gale. I just don't know."
  She snuggled closer to him. "Please hold me,
Ben," she whispered.
  "My pleasure."
  Long moments passed before Gale asked, "What
was her name, Ben?"
  Ben pretended to be asleep. But seeking fingers
soon found a part of him that proved sleep to be

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impossible.
  It began to rain the morning of the second
day out, a slow, leaden dropping from the clouds, with
thick pockets of fog lying heavy over the land. It
only added to the desolation of the ravaged countryside.
The rain and fog slowed the column down to no more than
a crawl.
  The Rebels saw no people. Not one living soul.
And no animals. But they did find several
carcasses of cows and pigs. Something had been eating
on them, something with super strength and a fanged mouth.
  "I didn't know they had gorillas in this part of the
country," Gale said, shuddering at the sight of the
mutilated animals.
  "They don't," Ben said grimly. "Just
mutants."
  "Thanks," she replied. "I really needed that just
after breakfast. If you want to call that slop we
had breakfast."
  "C-rations."
  "What's the C stand for: crap?"
  "Get in the truck, Gale."
  "Whatever the master wishes."
  The column stopped at Thayer, in Missouri.
The town was deserted. They slowly made their way
to West Plains-also deserted. Willow Springs
looked as though it had been torn apart
by angry, petulant teenagers. With the scouts
reporting back to them they felt as if eyes were on
them.
  "Don't dismount!" Ben quickly radioed back.
"Keep on rolling through the town. Get on through and
wait for us a few miles northwest of there."
  Ben halted the convoy in Willow Springs. When
he spoke to Gale, something in his voice told her
not to argue with him.
  "Stay here," he told her. "And do
not
leave the truck unless and until I tell you to."
  She nodded.
  Ben looked at her to see if she was feeling
well.
  Ben motioned for a team to begin moving up both

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sides of the street, weapons at combat ready. A
thick, almost tangible odor hung over the small
town. It resembled a scene from a grade B war
movie: the sweaty faces of the troops; the hands
clutching M-16's, AK-47'S, CAR-15'S
and numerous other weapons of violence and death.
  The thirty tanks in Ben's column rumbled
quietly on both ends of the town, their noise adding
to the idling sounds of the APC'S and
self-propelled howitzers and heavy trucks.
  "Shut them down!" Ben yelled. The order was
relayed up and down the street.
  The dead town suddenly grew silent, the ticking
of cooling metal like out-of-sync clocks.
  Ben walked the littered streets, his old
Thompson at the ready, on full auto.
  "Sinister," Ben heard one young Rebel mutter,
his voice rising above the heavy silence. "And eerie,
to boot."
  "Possibly," Ben replied, not turning his head
toward the source of the words. "Steady now," he
called softly. "That smell is of mutants-and a
lot of them. Fire only if fired upon. Let them
make the hostile move. Pass the word."
  "There's fresh crap here on the floor,
General," a sergeant called. "Not more than an
hour old-if that old."
  "They're here," Ben said. "I can sense them. But
they're not running away, and they usually run at the
sight of this many humans. Them not doing that bothers
me."
  "They want me," the small voice came from the
top of what had once been a hardware store.
  All heads looked up at the small
figure, looking down at them. Even at that distance,
she looked worn out.
  "Who are you?" Ben called.
  "Nancy Brinkerhoff. Sam Hartline
tortured me, then ordered me taken to where the
mutants gather. They stripped me naked and tied
me to a tree, but I managed to get free. I've
been running and hiding ever since. The mutants
cornered me in this town. They're all around here,

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hiding, watching, waiting." There was a note of
hysteria in her voice.
  "Just calm down, miss," Ben called. "You're
all right, now. You're among friends. Let us handle
the mutants. Come on down."
  "Who are you?" she called.
  "Ben Raines."
  She began weeping and pointing.
  The mutants erupted from the empty stores,
screaming and howling in rage and hate. Many of them
wielded sticks and clubs and crude spears,
sharpened on one end. The stench of them was hideous,
almost as much as their grotesque appearance was
appalling to the stunned Rebels.
  Ben was the first to react.
  Leveling his Thompson, he pulled the
trigger, holding it back. The stream of heavy
.45-caliber slugs knocked the front line of
mutants sprawling, blood and hair and bits of
bone and guts and brain splattered against the brick
of the buildings.
  The Rebels reacted just a split-second after
Ben fired. The fire-fight was very short, with only
one Rebel wounded. He took a spear in his leg.
Dead and dying mutants littered the sidewalk and
street. Blood pumped from their deformed bodies and
leaked into the gutters, clogged from years of leaves and
rags.
  "Let them rot," Ben ordered the Rebels, his
voice strong in the shocked silence that always follows
heavy gunfire. "Get Miss Brinkerhoff and
let's get the hell out of here."
  The brigade was stopped for the night in Cabool,
Missouri, some sixteen miles northwest of
Willow Springs. Nancy had been bathed and fed and
dressed in clean clothing; Doctor Chase had
examined her and cleaned and bandaged her cuts. She
told her story.
  She spoke of what Sam Hartline and his men had
done to her. She was blunt, leaving nothing out.
  "Those people are perverted beyond imagination,"
she said. "I suppose I'm-was-very naive. But
I can assure you-all of you-that was tortured out of

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me."
  "Where are you from?" Ben asked.
  "Chicago, originally," Nancy said. The marks
of torture were still very evident on her face and arms.
"But my family pulled out of there just after the bombings
of 1988." She looked square at Ben. "You know
why, General?"
  "Yes," Ben said, "I know only too well.
My brother was a part of that... madness."
  "You later killed your brother, did you not,
General?" she asked.
  "Yes," Ben said softly, "I did. Back in
Tri-States."
  How hated Ben's system of government was did not
come home to the people of the three states until late
fall of the first year. Ben had stepped outside of his
home for a breath of the cold, clean air of night.
Juno went with him, and together they walked from the house
around to the front yard. When Juno growled low in his
throat, Ben went into a crouch, and that saved his
life. Automatic-weapon fire spider-webbed the
windshield of his pickup, the slugs hitting and
ricocheting off the metal, sparking the
night. Ben jerked open the door of the truck,
punched open the glove box, and grabbed a pistol.
He fired at a dark figure running across the
yard, then at another. Both went down, screaming in
pain.
  A man stepped from the shadows of the house and opened
fire just as Ben hit the ground. Lights were popping
on up and down the street, men with rifles in
  their hands appearing on the lawns.
  Ben rose to one knee and felt a slug slam
into his hip, knocking him to one side, spinning him
around, the lead traveling down his leg, exiting just
above his knee. He pulled himself up and leveled the
9mm, pumping three rounds into the dark shape by the
side of the house. The man went down, the rifle
dropping from his hands.
  Ben pulled himself up, his leg and hip throbbing from
the shock of the wounds. He leaned against the truck just as
help reached him.
  "Call the medics!" a neighbor shouted.

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"Governor's been hit."
  "Help me over to that man," Ben said. "He
looks familiar."
  Standing over the fallen man, Ben could see where his
shots had gone: two in the stomach, one in
the chest. The man was blood-splattered and dying.
He coughed and spat at Ben.
  "Goddamned nigger-lovin" scum," the dying
man said. He closed his eyes, shivering in the
convulsions of pain; then he died.
  "God, Governor!" a man asked, "who is
he?"
  Salina came to Ben, putting her arms around him
as the wailing of ambulances grew louder. "Do you know
him, Ben?" she asked.
  "I used to," Ben's reply was sad. "He was
my brother."
  "That's horrible, Ben," Gale said. "Your own
brother hated you enough to want to kill you?" "He was part
of Jeb Fargo's Nazi establishment outside
  of Chicago," Ben explained. "To this day, I
don't know why or how he changed so radically in his
thinking." He looked at Nancy. "You want
to continue?"
  "Yes," she said. "My father took us-my mother,
my sister, my brother-and went west, into Iowa. We
settled in Waterloo. We survived," she said it
flatly. "But it sure wasn't any fun doing so.
Never enough to eat, cold and tired most of the time that first
year or so. But it gradually got better
as things began to settle down. My mother died in
'93, my father died a year later. My older
sister raised my brother and me. We lived through
Logan's ... reign in office. My older
sister always talked about heading out to Tri-States, but
somehow we never did get around to doing that. Then
Tri-States fell and after that the country seemed
to fall apart. I was seventeen when ... the troops
invaded Tri-States.
  "We got through the horror of Al Cody and
VP Lowry and all that... awfulness, all the hate
and the discontent. Somehow.
  "One day my sister and my brother went out to look

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for food. I was sick and they didn't want me to go
"cause the weather was bad and I was just beginning to get
better. I had pneumonia." She sighed. "That was
last year. They never came back. Then one day the
rats came. I never saw anything-up to that point-so
... so horrible in all my life. And I thought after
having lived through the bombings and the roaming gangs of
thugs and all that, I could handle anything. I must have
a mental block about the rats, because I really can't
recall much about them. I know I panicked. I
ran. I ran blindly. I don't know how I
survived, but I did. In a manner of
speaking."
  Tears ran down the young woman's face and
Gale reached out to take her hand and hold it.
  "I can't ever have children. The IPF doctors ...
gave me a shot. Me, and hundreds-maybe
thousands-of other women, and men, too. Orientals,
Hispanics, blacks, Jews, Indians." She
wiped her eyes and shook her head. "There is some
sort of armed resistance movement north of
Interstate 70, General. That was why they were
torturing me. Or so they said. I think those people just like
to torture people. I know they do. I heard some of them
say so. I saw ... I saw several of the men
masturbating while they watched me being tortured.
They ... they would stand in front of me, where I was
strapped down, and ... ejaculate in my face."
  When Gale looked at Ben, the rage of five
thousand years was printed invisibly across her face.
It seemed to say: Five thousand years of
persecution is enough. This time, stop it forever.
  "All right," Ben said.
  The other men and women gathered around looked at
each other in confusion, not understanding what had just
silently transpired between the man and woman.
  Ben swung his eyes from Gale,
returning them to Nancy as he saw her rub her
arm. His arm picked up the numbers tattooed on
her forearm. J-1107.
  "The J stands for Jew?" Gale asked, a
husky quality to her voice.
  "Yes," Nancy replied. "B for black.

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O for Oriental. H for Hispanic. I for
Indian. M for mental defective. I've seen
other letters but I don't know what they represent."
  Ben felt sick to his stomach.
  Gale was silently weeping.
  Ben looked around at the silent circle, more than
one man had tears in his eyes.
  Nancy resumed her horror story. "Sam
Hartline and his men took me, tried to make me
tell what I knew about the resistance movement. But
I didn't-still don't-know anything about it, other than
that it exists. They ... really had a good time with
me," she said, keeping her eyes downcast. "I
... don't know how many times they raped me or how
many men. And women. The women would strap... would
strap huge penises on and ... rape me. There
is something terribly perverted about many of those
people-maybe all of them. I was raped in every way
possible. Over and over. It got so I
could sometimes block it out.
  "They beat me, shocked me. They attached
wires to my breasts and my ... my genital area.
The voltage was never strong enough to knock me out. It
just hurt so bad. They forced objects up my ...
you know. I know they are doing some kind of experimental
medical work up there in Minnesota and Wisconsin.
Like the Nazis used to do way back then. But I
don't know what kind of experiments. Something to do with the
mutants, I think. Mutants and humans.
  "They kept questioning me, but I think they knew I
was telling the truth. They just wanted to see how much
I could take. I guess I'm stronger than I
thought. What could I tell them? I didn't know
anything. I think I would have told them anything.
Anything to stop the pain and the humiliation. The pain."
She
  shook her head.
  Nancy held up her left hand. All her
fingernails were gone.
  "I'm not a coward, but a human being has
limits," she said. "They finally stopped. Just
quit. I thought I was dreaming. Maybe dead. I
didn't know a person could hurt so much in so many

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places. I don't even remember the
ride down to Missouri. When I woke up tied
to that tree, I was naked and cold and hungry and
sick. They left me with a little reminder of them. The
men, I mean. They had attached a dog collar
around my neck and defecated on me."
  Ben was then conscious of a pain in his right hand. He
had clenched his fingers into a tight fist.
  "I managed to get loose from the tree and found
an old farmhouse and cleaned up. I wrapped up
in an old quilt and walked down the road until
I came to another house. I found some old clothes
there. I found a gun and some bullets on a dead
man and taught myself how to shoot the thing. I'm not very
good at it, but I sure scared the shit out of some
mutants, I know that. I hit a couple of them.
Then they began tracking me."
  She lifted her eyes, looking at Ben.
"They-the mutants-have some kind of intelligence, and
some sort of communications system. They have to have that,
because they were always one jump ahead of me."
  "Interesting," Doctor Chase said. "That
confirms what I thought all along."
  "And that is?" Ben glanced at him.
  "The mutants have leaders, pack leaders, den
leaders, if you will, who possess more
intelligence than the others. And they have organized
them; they have their own form of pecking order."
  "And the males like human women," Gale added.
  "How ghastly," Colonel Gray remarked.
"I believe I could have gotten on quite well without that
knowledge."
  "And me," Gale said. "Gross!"
  "Best to know the type of enemy we are facing," the
doctor said. "And it appears we have more than one
enemy."
  Chase did not look or act his age. His
wife, a woman forty years his junior, could well
attest to that. She had just borne him a child.
  "What can you tell us about the IPF, Nancy?"
Ben asked.
  "Not a whole lot," she admitted. "But I
did hear the men talking some when they weren't

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torturing me. Something about some new people coming in from
Iceland. I kept fading in and out, but I think-no,
I'm sure-they said several battalions." She
looked at Ben. "Does that help any?"
  His smile held no humor. "Well, yes and
no, Nancy. I don't know the size of their
battalions, but we'll call it twenty-five
hundred personnel per battalion.
Let's call several three. That would mean we now
have approximately seventy-five hundred more
troops to contend with."
  "My Lord," Colonel Gray said after a soft
whistle of alarm.
  "Yeah," Ben said. "I hope He is on our
side in this upcoming fight."
  "We've been thinking that for five thousand or more
years," Gale said. "Believe me, sometimes I have
serious reservations."
  "Let's not tempt fate by becoming
sacrilegious at
  this stage of the game," Ben said.
  "For the first time in a long time," Nancy said, "I
feel a little bit of hope for the future. I feel
like I've found a home."
  "Right." Gale once more took her hand.
"Believe me, I need all the help I can get
with this bunch of schlubs."
  "Ben," Doctor Chase said, "have you ever
considered taking a hickory stick to her tush?" He
jerked a thumb toward Gale.
  Gale glared at him. "I didn't know you had
turned to wife-beating, Lamar."
  "Only when she needs it, baby."
Chase grinned at her.
  Nancy laughed at this exchange, her first laugh
in weeks.
  Ben patted her gently on the shoulder. "You're
safe, now, Nancy."
  "Yes," the young woman said. "But I keep
thinking about all those poor people north of here who are
anything but safe."
  "We're going to do our best to stop the
Russians," Ben told her.

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  "I really hope God is on our side,"
Nancy spoke to no one in particular. "I really,
really do."
CHAPTER TWELVE
  The column covered only seventy-five miles
the next day due to numerous equipment breakdowns
and the worsening condition of the roads. The terrible roads
contributed to the mechanical problems. The
mechanics stayed busy, cussing as they worked
frantically, for they realized they had no time
to waste. Each hour meant someone in the
IPF'-CONTROLLED areas was being tortured and
killed.
  Before limping into Rolla, Ben told Colonel
Gray, "Take a full platoon in
there, Dan. If you find any of the IPF or any
civilian who has tossed in with them-kill them."
  The Englishman smiled coldly and knowingly,
saluted and pulled out. The ex-British SAS
officer was one of the most savage fighters in Ben's
command.
  The first thing Colonel Gray observed just
outside of Rolla was the body of a black man.
He had been hanged by the neck and his features were
horribly disfigured. A crudely lettered cardboard
sign was hanging about his neck: "NIGGERS-STAY IN
  YOUR PLACE."
  Sgt. Mac Cummings, a young black,
swallowed audibly. "My momma used to tell me
they'd be days like this, but she didn't tell me they was
goin" to come in bunches."
  Colonel Gray said, "When-or if-we find
those responsible for this, Mac, you may lead the firing
squad."
  "My pleasure, sir."
  A team lowered the body and a medic inspected the
stiffened corpse. "Colonel," he called, "this
man's been tortured and castrated."
  Sergeant Cummings made a low sound of anger and
spat on the ground.
  "Scouts out," Colonel Gray ordered.
"Heads up and steady on, now, lads."
  "And lassies," Cpl. Anne Lewis

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reminded him with a smile.
  "I could never forget the lassies." Dan
grinned.
  "What do you want us to do with the body?" a medic
asked.
  "Leave it," Dan said tersely. "It will be a
pile of rotting bones in a month."
  Sergeant Cummings's face registered no
emotion. He knew they didn't have the time to bury the
body; and what the hell difference did one more rotting
body make at this stage of the game? But he had
never gotten accustomed to the necessary callousness.
  One mile up the pitted and weed-grown highway
they were stopped by a barricade stretching from shoulder
to shoulder across the highway. A sign on the
blockade read: "NIGGERS SPICS JEWS and
ALL OTHER NON-WHITES STAY OU."
  "I have just about taken all this crap I am going
to tolerate," a young Jewish Rebel said. His words
were laced with venom.
  "Calm yourself," Dan told him. "Les, get
General Raines on the horn and inform him
of this development and ask what he wants us to do about
it."
  The radio operator was back in a moment.
"General Raines says to assess the situation,
sir. If you think we can handle it, proceed."
  "Thank you, son. Sergeant Cummings?
Inspect that barricade for explosives. If it
is not touchy, please remove it."
  "You put your black hands on that blockade,
nigger, and you'll die!" A hard voice shouted the
warning from the woods alongside the highway.
  A shot cracked in the morning calm. The sounds
of a body hitting the forest floor drifted out. One
of Colonel Gray's scouts stepped from the
timber, a smoking pistol in his hand.
  "I found another one back in the woods always,"
the young man said. "I cut his throat."
  "Thank you, Jimmy," Dan replied, as if
thanking a waiter for a fresh cup of tea. "Well
done. I take it the timber is secure?"
  "Yes, sir."

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 "Good."
 Dan's walkie-talkie barked. He listened as
the message spewed forth. "We got a fight on
our hands, Colonel," the forward scout
reported. "The citizens are armed and hostile and
waiting for us. The man who appears to be in charge
says this is as far as we go. No nigger-lovers
welcome in here. Told me to tell you to turn around
and get the hell out."
 "How perfectly inhospitable of him," Dan
muttered. "One would think they were void of manners.
How many people involved?" Dan asked the scout.
 "Couple hundred, sir."
 "Pull back," Dan ordered the LETTERRP'S.
"Take coordinates for the mortar teams."
 "Roger, sir."
 "Tell
me
to get the hell out!" Dan muttered. "Halfwits
probably never even heard of Lord Byron."
 Col. Dan Gray had come to Ben after serving first
with the British Special Air Service and then,
after the bombings of 1988, with the American
Special Forces. His small company of Rebels
were known as Gray's Scouts. They could aptly be
compared to a cross between Tasmanian devils and
French foreign legionnaires, with a little bit of
spitting cobra tossed in. They were experts at
behind-the-lines, guerrilla-type action,
experts with the knife, piano wire, brass
knuckles and just plain ol' dirty fighting.
 Tina Raines had trained and seen combat with
Gray's Scouts. And Col. Dan Gray had
given her the highest compliment one soldier could give
another: "That lady," said Colonel Gray, "is
no lady."
 Ben was at the site in half an hour. The
barricade had been torn down. Dan quietly and
succinctly brought the general up to date.
 Ben listened, the anger in him growing as Dan
spoke. "Thank you, Dan." He turned to the young
man who had headed up the LETTERRP'S into Rolla.
"Are

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  the people united in there?" he asked, jerking a thumb
toward the distant town.
  "Yes, sir-all the way. They told us they
wanted a pure race of people, free of color. There
is a Jewish girl hanging by the neck just down the
road. We asked them about it; they admitted doing
it. Said she got uppity with some of their women. We
asked them what they meant by "uppity." Said the
Jewish girl was unhappy about being a servant. So
they hanged her. Real nice people, General."
  "Yes. Just lovely," Ben said. "How
about the minorities that used to live around here?"
  "They were either handed over to the IPF, run out or
killed."
  "I see."
  "General," the young LETTERRP said. "They, ah, the
men in there-they took turns raping the girl before they
hanged her."
  "They told you that?"
  "Yes, sir. Seemed proud of it. Said she had
real good pussy."
  Ben was profoundly glad that Gale was not present
during this conversation. He turned to his artillery
officer. "Shell it," he told the man. "Shell
and burn it. Blow the goddamned town off the map."
  "Yes, sir," the officer said. He began
speaking into his headset.
  Down the highway, the rumble of tanks and mortar
carriers getting into position reached the men by the
once-barricaded highway. First to whistle and part the
air overhead were the 152mm and 155mm cannon
shells. 81mm mortars joined the barrage, the
projectiles humming overhead. Ben's big
self-propelled howitzers
  began pounding the small city with HE and incendiary
rounds. The earth began to shake as the
explosions ripped the town. Unit commanders began
synchronizing the attack; there was not one full
second free of the blasts of artillery, not one
full second when an explosion was not rocking and
pounding and burning and destroying the coordinated areas.
  The limited skyline of the small city was now
reduced to burning skeletons of buildings. After

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five minutes, Ben shouted the order to cease firing.
  "Tanks in," he ordered, his voice quiet in
the shocked hush after the rolling thunder. "Infantry
behind. Roll it."
  Gale and Nancy stood beside Ben's pickup
truck. Neither of them had ever heard anything to match
what they had just experienced. War movies were OK,
but this had been the real thing. Both their hearts were
pounding furiously. Their mouths were dry. Nancy was
the first to speak.
  "He doesn't believe very much in diplomacy,
does he?"
  "Only the final kind," Gale replied,
removing her fingers from her ears.
  "I'm certain there were probably young children in that
town."
  "Probably so."
  "That doesn't bother you?"
  "Sam Hartline was once a child."
  Nancy closed her mouth.
  Heavy tanks rumbling past them stopped any
further conversation for a time. Soon the rattle of
automatic weapons drifted through the still air as the
mopping up began.
  Gale took this time to observe Ben, something she
did often, and enjoyed doing. The man was as calm as
a professional gambler with a royal flush in a
high-stakes poker game. Nothing ever seemed
to rattle him. Ben sipped at a cup of
coffee-or what now passed for coffee-and munched on
a biscuit. He seemed so relaxed he could be
watching a croquet match on the greens in England.
  Black, ugly smoke from the fires set by the
incendiary rounds began pouring into the sky, the flames
licking close behind the clouds. With no fire
department, the town would soon burn itself out, destroying
the ugliness the IPF had spawned.
  After an hour, the gunfire had ceased, the tanks
had rumbled back to position within the convoy. Far up
the highway, Rebels were walking prisoners back
to face Ben Raines.
  The prisoners did not look overjoyed at that
prospect.

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  They were a beaten and sullen bunch, with no fight
left in them. They faced Ben-twenty of them-with
downcast eyes. Their hands were behind their necks, fingers
interlaced. There was one woman with them, a rather
attractive woman. She looked at Ben with
frank eyes.
  "I give great head, General," she said.
"Let me live and I'll do anything you want. I
like it up the ass, too."
  "Shut your fucking mouth," Ben told her.
  "You dirty whore!" snarled the man beside her.
"This is one time your pussy won't get you out of
trouble."
  She laughed and spat in the man's face.
  "I ought to hang every one of you," Ben told the
  group. "Slowly. If torture was my forte, that
is what you deserve-then I should hang what is
left of you."
  A man lifted very frightened eyes. "General..."
  "Shut up!" Ben roared at him. He turned
to a lieutenant. "How many children were found?"
  "Twenty-two, sir. The rest of the kids are up
at some sort of special school, run by the
IPF."
  "They are being brainwashed," Katrina
spoke. "Depending on the time they have spent there, it
is very probably too late to save them." She
looked at one man who appeared better fed and in
better condition than the others. "How long have the children
been at the school?"
  "Long enough," the man said with a smirk on his
thick, wet lips. "I know you-was he stared at
her-"you was here some months ago."
  "That is correct," Katrina replied.
  "Yeah," the man said. "I heard about you. You're
the turncoat. Sorry goddamn traitor to your
people."
  Katrina lifted her AK-47 and pulled the
trigger once. The single shot took the man in the
center of the chest. He flopped on the ground and died.
  "He was a pig," Katrina said. "He made
some very filthy comments to me one day. Exposed himself
to me and asked me to lick his ... asked me to lick

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it." She looked at Ben. "Am I to be punished
for shooting him?"
  "Hell, no," Ben said.
  "Katrina," Colonel Gray said. "Would you be
interested in joining my little group of men and women?"
  "The scouts and LETTERRP'S?"
  "Indeed."
  "I would be honored."
  Dan smiled. "The little bird has sharp claws,
General."
  "Quite," Ben agreed. "How old are the children you
found?" he asked the scout.
  "Very young. Infants, mostly."
  "Take them back to the convoy. We'll raise
them. I won't have these bigots preaching hate to young
children."
  "You ain't got no right to take our kids." A
man stepped toward Ben.
  Ben butt-stroked the man under the chin with his
Thompson. Teeth and jaw cracked and popped under
the impact. Blood flew from the man's shattered
mouth. He dropped to the ground like a stone and was still.
  Ben looked at Colonel Gray. "I don't
care what you do with them, Dan. I do not wish to ever
see any of them again."
  "Yes, sir." He looked around him.
"Sergeant Cummings?"
  "Sir?"
  "Take care of this little matter, won't you?"
  "Yes, sir," the black sergeant said. "I will
give it my immediate and personal attention."
  "I rather thought you would," Dan said.
  The Jewish Rebel stepped forward. "Like a little
help, Mac?"
  "Join the party," Mac replied.
  "Dan," Ben said. "Roll the convoy on through.
We'll stop up the road at Vienna." He
looked at Sergeant Cummings. "We'll see you
and your squad in about an hour, Mac."
  "Yes, sir."
  "I wonder what is going to happen to those people?"
Nancy whispered to Gale. "Don't even think about
it," she was told.

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  "Hello, sweetmeat," Hartline said to Peggy.
  She whirled around, her eyes wide with fear as she
gazed up the basement steps to the open door.
Hartline's bulk filled the doorway. She
looked around for a weapon-
anything.
But there was nothing. Her heart was pounding so heavily
she thought she might faint.
  "I told you I'd find you, baby," Hartline
said, a cruel smile on his lips.
  "How?" Peggy managed to gasp out the one-word
question.
  "How?" Hartline smiled the question. "How was
easy, sweet pussy. This is how." He
stepped down into the basement and waved his hand. A
human form tumbled down the steps, bouncing
sickeningly on the steps. Lois Peters. Or
what was left of her.
  The woman was naked. Her toenails and
fingernails had been ripped from her. Her fingers had
been broken. Her feet had been burned
black-lumps of seared meat. Her teeth had been
savagely pulled out. Her breasts had been
mutilated. Peggy looked at the woman's pubic
area and was sick at the sight. Lois looked as
though she had been raped by some sort of huge
monster. Blood streaked her thighs.
  She was dead.
  Hartline's eyes were cold and savage-looking.
The smile hadn't left his lips. "Before I'm through
with you, sweetmeat, you'll be begging me to go ahead and
kill you."
  Peggy rose to her full height. She spat in
Hartline's face. "I'll never beg to you, you son
of a bitch."
  "Oh, I think you will, pretty thing. I really
think you will."
  Two years before, Sam Hartline and his men,
backed by FBI agents with warrants charging
several newspeople with treason for refusing
to cooperate with the congressional mandate to submit all
news copy for review and censorship before airing,
entered the Richmond offices of NBC. This was to be

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the test network.
  Hartline, carrying an M-10 SMG, shoved
the elderly security guard away from the doors,
knocking the man sprawling, and marched into the
executive offices. Hartline jerked one startled
VP of programming to his feet and hit him in the
mouth with a leather-gloved right fist. The man slammed
against a chair and fell stunned to the floor.
  A news commentator rushed into the room. "Here
now," he shouted, ""feu can't do that."
  One of Hartline's men socked the man with the butt
of his AK. The man's jaw popped like a
firecracker. He was unconscious before he hit the
carpet, blood pouring from the sudden gaps in his
teeth.
  "Where is the bureau chief?" Hartline said.
"Or whatever you call the boss. Get him in here,
pronto."
  A badly shaken young secretary stammered, "It
isn't a him-it's a her. Ms. Olivier."
  "Well, now." Hartline smiled.
"That's even better. Get her for me, will you,
darling?"
  Before the secretary could turn, a voice, calm
and controlled, spoke from the hall. "What is the
meaning of this?"
  Hartline lifted his eyes, meeting the furious
gaze of Sabra Olivier. He let his eyes
drift over her, from her eyes to her ankles and
back up again. She felt as if she had been
violated. "You're kind of a young cunt to be in
charge of all this, aren't you, honey?" he asked.
  "Get out!" Sabra ordered.
  The words had just left her mouth when Hartline's
open palm popped against her jaw, staggering her. She
stumbled against the door frame, grabbing at the
doorknob for support.
  "Dear," Hartline said,
"you
do not order
me
about. I will tell
you

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what I want, then you will see to it that my orders are
carried out. Is that clear?"
  "You're Sam Hartline," Sabra
said, straightening up, meeting him squarely, no
backup in her. "Vice President Lowry's
pet dog."
  Hartline never lost his cold smile. He faced
the woman, again taking in her physical charms:
black hair, carefully streaked with gray; dark
olive complexion; black eyes, now shimmering with
anger; nice figure; long legs.
  Sabra turned to a man. "Call the police,"
she told him.
  Hartline laughed at her. "Honey, we
are
the police."
  Sabra paled slightly.
  The man on the floor groaned, trying to sit
up, one hand holding his broken and swelling jaw.
  "Get him out of here," Hartline ordered.
"Toss him in the lobby and have that old goat down there
call for an ambulance to come get him." He looked
at Sabra.
  "We can do this easy or hard, lady, it's all
up to you."
  "What do you want?"
  "For you to cooperate with the government censorship
order. And no more taking the Rebels'
side in this insurrection."
  "No way I'll submit to censorship,"
Sabra said.
  "Then you want it hard," Hartline said, the double
meaning not lost on the woman, as he knew it would not
be.
  Her dark eyes murdered the mercenary a dozen
times in a split-second. Her smile was as cold
as his. "I never heard of anyone dying from it,
Hartline."
  "Oh, I have, Sabra baby. I have."
  Hours later, Sabra Olivier's spirit
shattered. "All right," she said to Hartline. "Stop
it-stop your men. I'll cooperate."
  The moaning and the screaming of her female

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employees had finally broken her reserve. As
Hartline had known it would. And he had not touched
Ms. Olivier-yet.
  The students at the University of Virginia,
after hearing of the takeover of the NBC offices and
studios in Richmond, had marched in protest. But
this was not the 1960's and 70's, with constitutional
guarantees protecting civil disobedience. Now
all police were federalized, and the FBI was nothing like
that old and solid organization of the past.
  The students were met with live ammunition and
snarling dogs. Many were killed. Hundreds more were
arrested, and in the process, beaten bloody. VP
Lowry ordered the university closed.
  Hartline smiled and nodded to a man standing by the
door to the office. Within seconds, the screaming and
sobbing ceased.
  "You see." Hartline smiled at her. "That
wasn't so difficult, was it?"
  If looks could kill.
  Sabra watched, a curious look in her eyes,
as a mini-cam was brought into her office, carried by an
agent. She did not understand the smile on
Hartline's lips.
  Hartline pointed to a TV set behind her desk.
"Turn it on," he told her.
  A naked man appeared on the screen. One of
her anchormen. She knew with a sudden start this was
live action, not taped. "What is the meaning of this?"
she demanded. "I told you I'd cooperate."
  "Insurance, Sabra baby," Hartline
replied. He picked up a phone from her desk and
punched a button. "Do it," he ordered. He
looked at Sabra. "Watch, darling."
  She swung reluctant eyes toward the
screen. A cattle prod touched the man's naked
buttocks. His scream chilled her. The prod
touched his thigh, then his genitals.
  "Stop it!" Sabra shouted.
  The man screamed and ground his teeth in pain.
Several teeth broke off, bloodying his mouth.
  "Goddamn you, Hartline!" Sabra yelled.
"Stop it."

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  "You'll cooperate with us?"
  "I said I would, Hartline."
  "Anything I say?"
"Yes!"
  "I have your son ready to perform for us. Would you like
to see that?"
"Goddamn you!"
  Hartline laughed. He spoke to the mini-cam
operator. "Start rolling it." He unzipped his
pants. His flaccid penis hung out. "Come here,
Sabra baby. This one is for VP Lowry. And
if you ever fail to obey an order, if you ever let
any copy air without government approval, this
tape gets played-in its entirety-on the six
o'clock news."
  "You goddamn low-life, miserable son of a
bitch!" Sabra cursed him.
  "Strip, baby. Take it all off while facing
the camera. Let's give Lowry a really good show.
That's it. Play with your puss a little bit. Good,
good, now you're getting into the spirit of things."
  Naked and embarrassed and trembling with anger,
Sabra faced the mercenary.
  He hefted his penis. "In case you have it in
mind to take a bite of me, Sabra baby, bear
in mind your son is now bent over a table just down the
hall. You get kinky with me, he gets
gang-shagged. Understand?"
  She nodded.
  "Kneel down here, baby. On your pretty
dimpled knees. You know what to do. You probably
sucked cocks getting to where you are in the network
anyway."
  She took him as the camera recorded it all.
  Just as Hartline climaxed, the semen splattering
the woman's face, Hartline laughed. "It's just so
fucking easy when you know how. Just so fucking easy."
  The tiny hamlet of Vienna was deserted,
completely void of any type of life, human
or animal. "Strange," Ben muttered, conscious
of Gale's eyes
  on his face. "I don't recall ever
seeing anything like this." He ordered scouts out to give

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the place a quick once-over.
  Gale put her hand on Ben's thigh. "This
place scares me," she admitted.
  Ben, as usual, kept his emotions in close
check. At least outwardly. Inside, he felt a
little shaky. This place was, he concluded, a
place of death-but somehow much different from all the other
towns he had seen.
  A Rebel jogged toward the pickup, his words
breaking into Ben's deep thoughts. "You gotta see
this, General. It's unreal."
  Ben, with Gale in tow, followed the Rebel on
foot to a weather-beaten old frame church. The
church had once been painted white. Now the paint
was almost gone, the wood rotting from years of abuse from
the harsh elements of sun and wind and cold.
  "The door is locked, sir. From the inside. I
looked through the window around here at the side. But you
both better brace yourselves for what you're about to see.
It's tough, sir."
  The scene grabbed at Ben's guts. Fifty or
so people-or the skeletons of what had once been
people-filled the pews. Many of the ladies still had rags
of what had been their Sunday hats perched
on their white, bony skulls. About half of the
worshippers still sat upright, grinning grotesquely
and staring through sightless eyeholes at the bones of a
man who sat in a chair directly behind the rotting
pulpit. He would wait forever to deliver his Sunday
sermon.
  "Look at the watch on that guy's ... wrist,"
the Rebel said, pointing to a nearby skeleton.
  Ben rubbed at the dirty windowpane and stared.
  The watch was a LCD type and was still silently
exhibiting the time in the House of the Lord, to pews
full of bones.
  "What happened, Ben?" Gale asked in no more
than a whisper, almost breathlessly. "I mean, how
could this be?"
  "I can't answer that, honey," Ben said, his eyes
still fixed on the scene before him.
  "I can," Lamar Chase said.
  "Jesus Christ!" the young Rebel blurted,

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jumping about a foot off the ground.
  "Naturally, he can," Ben said dryly, but with a
grin.
  Lamar glanced at the badly shaken young Rebel.
"I warned you about keeping late hours, son. Bad
on the nerves."
  "Yes, sir," the young man said, grinning,
red-faced with embarrassment.
  "It was airborne," Lamar said. "At least some
strains of it."
  "Airborne, Lamar?" Ben said. "The
plague?"
  "What the hell do you think I'm talking about?" the
doctor said. "Gonorrhea? Yes, the plague.
The only answer I can give is there must have been
several strains of it. Very short-lived. What are you
going to do with these ... remains?"
  "Leave them right where they are," Ben told him.
"I can't think of a better resting place than this, can
you?"
  "Yes," Doctor Chase said with a sour grin.
"Don't die."
  "Little sweetmeat," Hartline said, stroking the
unwilling
  flesh of Peggy. His touch made her skin crawl
as if covered with thousands of lice. Somewhere in the old
warehouse-turned-interrogation-center for the IPF, a
human being was wailing in agony. Gender was not
identifiable by the hoarse yowlings.
  Hartline raised his head at the sounds, a smile
on his handsome face.
  "That would be Mr. Linderfelt, I should think,"
he said. "Would you be at all interested in knowing what
is being done to him, sweetmeat?"
  "No. I'm sure it's horrible and perverted.
What are you going to do with me, Hartline?"
  "Oh my, sweetmeat, that does present a
dilemma. Yes, it does. Quite a dilemma. You
see, I just haven't made up my mind as yet.
How about you calling the tune, dear."
  "Your humor is sick, Hartline. Just as sick
as the rest of you." She struggled against the leather
straps that held her to the operating table. She was

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naked, her legs spread wide.
  Hartline's right hand was busy between her legs, his
middle finger working in and out.
  He laughed at her struggles.
  "Let me tell you what is being done with Mr.
Linderfelt, dear."
  She screamed and fought against the straps. She
struggled until her slender body was bathed in
sweat, light bronze shining under the harsh lights that
hung above her. Hartline stood and watched her, a
smile on his lips. She finally ceased her futile
writhings and glared up at the mercenary.
  "You see, my dear Miss Jones,"
he said, returning his hand to its busy work between her
legs, "it was I
  who finally convinced General Striganov he was
making a terrible mistake by sterilizing all the
minorities, inferiors that you are. I said
to Georgi, "Georgi, just think what we can do for the
generations of scientists yet to come. What a
contribution we could make in the field of
genetics.""
  A woman began screaming down the long hall in
the sectioned-off warehouse. The woman was howling in
pain and fright, begging to someone not to do this to her. To kill
her. To please have mercy on her. That this was inhuman.
She just could not...
  Her scream changed in timbre, ending in a
series of heavy, painful grunting sounds.
  "Hartline..."
  "Be quiet, dear. What is happening to ...
whatever
is
that woman's name? It escapes me at the moment.
No matter, as I was saying, it won't happen
to you. You have already been-how to subtly say this-
spayed
like the dog-bitch you are."
  He threw back his head and howled out his laughter.
  Something in the warehouse growled.
  Peggy had heard that sound before. The realization of
what was taking place in the experiment rooms struck
her with all its savagery. "Hartline ... you

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didn't! I mean, you can't be serious?"
  "Oh, but we are serious, sweetmeat. Really.
Look at it this way: We are making real
contributions in the field of genetics. It is as
I told Georgi: Take the inferior races and
start a program of breeding them to the beasts. Male
mutant to female human inferior. Female
to male human inferior."
  "That is what is currently happening to our Mr.
Linderfelt and to Miss, ah, yes, Llado. That
is that
  greaser's name. We have to give the human males
large injections of aphrodisiac in order for them
to cooperate-large doses of Valium work wonders
in many cases-and it is really working out well, I
believe. Our doctors don't, as yet, know the
gestation period for the female mutants, but it is very
fast, we believe. It should produce some interesting
offspring, don't you think, my dear Miss
Jones?"
  "You're savages!" Peggy whispered. "Nothing
but dirty, filthy monsters."
  Hartline looked hurt. "Oh, not true, not
true. If everything works out as planned, we shall have a
race of beings with some degree of intelligence, able
to perform menial jobs, thus freeing the more
intelligent for other work. It's science, my dear,
that's all."
  He freed her from her bonds and forced her to a low
table, strapping her on her belly, legs spread
wide, her bare feet on the cold floor, her
buttocks elevated. She knew what was in store
for her.
  "I believe, my dear," Hartline said,
removing his trousers, carefully folding them and
hanging them on the back of a chair, "we were in the
process of doing something when you turned savage on
me. were we not?"
  He was naked from the waist down, his penis already
swelling in anticipation of the assault.
  Peggy did not reply.
  She felt grease or oil being spread between the
cheeks of her buttocks.

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  "Yes, we were," Hartline said, positioning
himself.
  Peggy began screaming.
  By maintaining daily radio contact, Ben learned
that Ike's and Hector's columns were having as much
equipment trouble as his own. Ike had been forced
to halt at St. Genevieve in Missouri for
major repairs. He reported to Ben that the city
contained survivors, but they had, so far, shown no
interest or inclination in fighting General
Striganov. They would take whatever form of
government happened along.
  Ben resisted an impulse to tell Ike to shoot
them.
  Hector's column was bogged down in Warsaw,
Missouri while his mechanics worked frantically
on the engines and transmissions.
  The troops from North and South Carolina had
been halted in Illinois.
  Juan was the only one to have reached his objective
and was digging in for the fight.
  But the IPF was having no problems.
  The rumble of Jeeps and heavy trucks grew
louder to the small team of LETTERRP'S hidden by the
side of the road in central Iowa. The column of
IPF forces stretched for miles.
  "Must be four or five battalions,"
a LETTERRP said to his buddy.
  "At least that. And they've got more heavy guns
than we first thought. We got them outgunned, all
right, but they've got us out-manned." The LETTERRP
picked up his mic and called in, speaking softly.
  "At least five battalions of infantry
heading south in trucks. We counted forty of the
six-bys pulling cannon. 105's."
  "Tanks?"
  "Negative on tanks. Here comes another
convoy. Hang on."
  The LETTERRP'S counted the heavily loaded
trucks-those loaded with men and those loaded with
equipment. They radioed back to Ben's HQ.
  "Three more battalions rolling south."
  "Acknowledged. Maintain your positions and stay

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low."
  "If I got any lower my buttons would be in
the way."
  The radio operator took the bad news to Ben.
  "Seven or eight battalions," Ben read
aloud the hastily scrawled message. "Damn!
General Striganov knows he's got to defeat us;
once that is done, he's home free. Get me
Ike."
  Colonel McGowen on the horn, Ben said,
"Ike-we've got six thousand troops coming at us,
buddy. They're in central Iowa now. Whatever you
have that will roll, get the wheels turning north and
assume your positions. Get ready for hell,
partner. We've got to have time to dig in, so move
them out
now!
The clock is ticking. Interstate 70 is the
stopping point for the Russians. We've got
to hold them. The personnel you leave behind can catch
up ASAP. I'll be talking with Hector in a
moment. Roll it, Ike... and God go with you."
  "Ten-four, Ben. Luck to you, ol" buddy."
  Ben spoke briefly with Colonel Ramos,
telling him to move out and dig in. No sooner had
he released the talk button than Mark Terry was
on the horn.
  "We are engaging the IPF in central
Illinois, Ben. And we are meeting heavy
resistance. We are holding."
  "Dig in and slug it out, Mark. Don't let
those people break through and come up behind me. I can't spread
  my people out any thinner. General Striganov is
throwing some six thousand troops in my
direction."
  "Jesus," Mark said. When he again spoke, his
voice was calm, the sounds of gunfire heavy in the
background. "I have instructed my people not to surrender,
Ben. I can only hope they will obey to the last
man. Good luck to you."
  "The same to you, Mark."
  The connection was broken.
  Ben turned to tell the radio operator to get

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him Juan Solis on the horn when the
Mexican's voice came through the speaker.
  "We are looking at some two to three thousand
troops, Ben. We have the Missouri River to our
backs and we are not going to surrender. It's up
to you, Ben. Good luck."
  His company commanders, platoon leaders and squad
leaders had gathered around the communications van. They
looked at Ben in silence.
  Why is it always up to me? Ben thought. Why me?
All I ever wanted was to be left alone and to live
out my remaining years in peace.
  Why me?
  "Move out," Ben told his people. "We've got
to stop the advance of the IPF. Good luck."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Lord God of Hosts, be we us yet,
Lest we forget-lest we forget.
  -Kipling
  The bridges crossing the river at St. Louis
were long gone, and Ike had left personnel at
Memphis, Caruthersville, Cairo, Cape
Girardeau and Chester, with orders to blow the bridges
if any IPF forces attempted to cross and come
up from behind. Ike began spreading troops from St.
Peters, Missouri west to Warrenton. Ben would
spread his personnel from Warrenton to Columbia,
and Hector would cover the area from Sweet Springs
east to Ben.
  They were all spread thin, with very few troops
left in reserve. It would be a tiring campaign,
with little time for the troops to rest. And they would be
outnumbered almost three to one.
  But Ben's Rebels had something going for them the
IPF personnel had never known in all their
lives: a belief in God Almighty and
freedom.
  When Ben's column reached the outskirts of
Columbia, he met with Colonel Gray. After
the two men shook hands, Dan brought Ben up
to date on the latest developments his
scouts and LETTERRP'S had radioed in. Ben said,
"I want to meet with General Striganov one more

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time, Dan, even though it will probably do no more
than buy us time. When I am doing that, you take your
scouts and LETTERRP'S and circle behind the IPF people;
begin a guerrilla campaign against them. No
holds barred, Dan, I want as much blood and
terror and demoralization as possible. I don't have
to tell you how to play dirty."
  The Englishman's grin was decidedly nasty.
Now the game was getting to his liking. The men once
more shook hands. "Good luck to you, General, and
Godspeed."
  "To us both, Dan," Ben said.
  Ben turned to his commanders. His message was
brief.
  "Dig in."
  The thin line of defense of democracy stretched
some 140 miles-and it was stretched thin. Much too
thin, Ben knew. But Striganov knew, too, that
to punch one hole in the line of defenders would
accomplish very little, for Ben would simply order his people
to tighten up, swing ends around, and then trap the
  Russian's spearheaders in a box.
  No, the Russian would be careful, very
careful, for he had read every book Ben Raines had
ever written-read them many times-and had teams of
psychiatrists study the writings and give
personality profiles on the man. Georgi had
reached the conclusion that Ben Raines was a madman.
A man who would fight to the death for a mere
principle. That, to the Russian's way of thinking,
certainly and irrevocably constituted insanity.
  And Ben Raines did not like to lose. Ever. He
was-if his major characters were any indication of the
author's true personality, and Striganov knew
that to be true in most cases-the type of man who
would resort to any tactics to win, if it took him
a lifetime to do so.
  So Striganov concluded this battle was to be of the
classic style, the classic-fought duel between
armies, the two forces slugging it out, wearing the other
down, with Interstate 70 the no man's land.
  But the Russian knew, too, that it was only a
matter of time for the Rebels. He felt sure and

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confident in that, for he had Ben Raines's Rebels
out-manned. Yes, he knew the mission would be
costly in human life and limb. But his perfect people
were not being thrown into this battle; they were safely
tucked away back in Minnesota, back
at the warm and comfortable breeding farm.
  Striganov smiled as he sat in the cushioned
back seat in his armor-plated and bullet-proofed
car in the center of the convoy heading south to Interstate
70 and Gen. Ben Raines and his foolish,
idealistic Rebels. He was proud of what he and
his people had accomplished in so short a time. They had
sterilized several
  thousand inferiors, had disposed of several hundred
mental defectives, and were coming along splendidly
with their breeding programs. But just look what he had
to work with: those lovely people of his command, the cream of
perfection. The women were so fair and blond and
beautiful and intelligent; the men so tall and fair
and blond and handsome and intelligent-both genders
pale-eyed, of course.
  All families of the perfect people had been
researched carefully for flaws. And so far, the children
born to the IPF over the past decade ...
perfect. Not one defective. All beautiful.
Selective breeding would work, even that idiot
Hitler had known that.
  Striganov stirred restlessly in the back seat.
He poured a glass of wine and dipped a cracker
into black caviar, chewing slowly, savoring
each bite.
  But that fool Hitler had almost destroyed any
hope of the revival of a
Mactep Paca,
a
Meister Rasse.
It was one thing to let a race die out naturally-more
or less-but to destroy them with ovens and gas and
starvation ...
  That was unthinkable. Barbaric. Savage. It
served no useful medical purpose. For even
defectives could be used in experiments. True,
Hitler did once have a few experiments going, but

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his were not on the grand scale of the IPF.
  Striganov really never thought that what he was doing
was just as terrible and barbaric and horrible-perhaps even more
so. The Russian actually believed-had convinced
himself-he was doing humankind a service, not a
disservice. What he was now putting into effect had
been his lifelong dream, ever since as a child he had
read and absorbed the rantings and
  ravings of that only-sometimes-lucid little paper
hanger.
  Yes, the little man had had-at times-some good ideas
and thoughts. But Striganov was so very glad the
man had not succeeded. For his own theories and ideas were
so very much better.
  A master race, a fully workable caste
system-that was the ultimate achievement. A world whose
leaders and thinkers and breeders at the top level would
all be fair-skinned and blue-eyed and handsome and
intelligent.
  How could anyone wish for more than that?
  But suddenly a frown crossed the handsome features
of the Russian. For there was only one flaw in an
otherwise perfect master plan.
  Ben Raines.
  "Ben, do we send troops in to help Juan and
Mark?" Lieutenant Macklin posed the question at a
briefing before the battle. "They won't have a prayer
without some support from trained combat troops."
  "No." Ben stood firm in one of the most
agonized-over decisions he had ever had to make.
"That is what Striganov is hoping I'll do.
Hoping I'll further weaken this thin line we're
maintaining."
  "Do they know this, Ben?" Hector asked.
  "Yes. The leaders do. And I'm sure most of the
line troops sense it as well."
  "It could backfire, ol' buddy,"
Ike reminded Ben.
  "I know it-only too well," Ben admitted the
weakness in the plan. "Unless we can defeat the
IPF here, those on the west side might punch through
and come
  in under us with so much force we couldn't close the

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pincers on them. I know that. It's going to be a
slugging match, people. We'll be taking and losing and
retaking the same ground-on both sides of the
line-twenty times before we're through. I think
Striganov knows-just as I know-this is going to be the
stand-up-and-slug-it-out type of battle. And he
knows, as I know, we are going to both inflict and
take heavy losses."
  But Ben was worried as he glanced at Ike, and
Ike knew it. Knew what Ben was thinking: neither
ex-Seal nor ex-Hell-Hound was an expert in
this type of fighting. Both of them were trained-and
highly so-in the art of guerrilla warfare: that
dirty cut-slash-run type of unconventional
warfare. The men had defended the original
Tri-States in the West, and done it well but they
had been forced out. Not because of lack of courage,
simply because of superior manpower thrown at them
by forces of the United States government,
when Hilton Logan was president and his hate for
Ben Raines had finally erupted into bloody
warfare.*
  And it was superior manpower they were again about
to face.
  Ben rose, signaling the meeting was over. He
shook Ike's hand, then Hector's. "Showdown
time, gang. Let's win it and get the hell back
home. We got crops to harvest in a few
weeks."
  Ike and Hector and Mary smiled, nodded and
walked away. Mary was part of Ben's HQ'S
company.
"See
Out Of The Ashes.
  Ike went to the east, Hector to the west.
  To war.
  But only one of the two men would return from the
final battle.
PART TWO
CHAPTER ONE
  Gen. Georgi Striganov, in full battle
dress, stood on the north side of Interstate
70. Ben Raines, in full battle gear, stood

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facing the Russian from the south side of the
concrete strip. As if on silent command, the men
walked across their two lanes of concrete to face
each other, median strip separating them. Each man
had requested this one final meeting before they began
man's most awesome means of settling disputes:
war.
 "You're looking disgustingly fit and well,
General Raines," Striganov said. "It pays for
men our age to keep in shape,
da?"
 "I will agree with that, General."
 "Nice to know we can agree on something, General
Raines." His eyes drifted to Ben's old
Thompson SMG. "My word, General. Where did
you ever find that antiquated weapon?"
 "I've had it a long time, General," Ben
replied. "It's an old friend."
 "Friends can sometimes disappoint a person,
General-let one down, so to speak. If one
depends
 upon them too much."
 "It hasn't yet."
 "Pray that it doesn't." Striganov smiled.
"My people are, to use one of your quaint Western
expressions, kicking ass to the west and the
east. I think you sacrificed those people, General
Raines, and I think you know you did."
 "Perhaps. But in war, no one is indispensable. Not
you, not me."
 "You don't believe the latter any more than you
believe a mule can fly, General. General? This
does not have to be. Join me and let us work together."
 "Toward a master race?"
 "But of course, General Raines. Why not?"
 "Because I believe what you are doing is more than
evil, it's monstrous."
 The Russian shrugged that off. "Yes, I keep
forgetting you were once married to a half-black wench,
weren't you?"
 Ben said nothing.
 "And now a Jewess shares your bed."
 Ben remained silent, thinking: He's got people in

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Tri-States, and he just gave that fact away. I
wonder why? Slip of the tongue? "That is
correct, General. But I don't think of people in
race categories. They are just human beings."
  The Russian spat contemptuously on the
ground. "What a noble thought," he said, his voice
full of open scorn. "Fortunately for me, I do
not share your misguided philosophical
meanderings. I saw some time back that the pure white
race is the master race, the most intelligent of
all the races-by far. And General, you are, I
believe, too intelligent a man not to see that.
  You are just idealistic at a time when that is a
luxury that you cannot afford."
  "I will admit to being somewhat of an idealist,"
Ben said. "Personally, I think it is an
admirable trait to possess-if one keeps it in
perspective."
  The Russian studied the American. He should have
ordered snipers to accompany him and shoot Ben
Raines. That would have solved a great many problems.
But Striganov had always prided himself on being an
honorable man, and he fully believed he was just that.
  A great many people would have cheerfully called him
anything but honorable.
  Striganov shrugged his muscular shoulders.
"Perhaps. I am sorry it has to be this way,
President-General Ben Raines, for I think in
many ways we are quite alike. But..." Again he
shrugged.
  Ben stood tall and silent, watching the
Russian study him.
  "I shall conduct myself and my troops as
gentlemen during our upcoming confrontation, General
Raines, carefully observing all the articles of
war."
  "I won't," Ben bluntly informed him.
  The Russian laughed heartily, with good humor.
"Ah, I fully expected that of you, General. But
you see, there is a method behind my plans."
  "You are hoping, if there is someone around to write
it, that history will treat you much more kindly than it shall
treat me."

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  "I knew you were an intelligent man, Ben
Raines. "Yes, of course that is it. Quite
correct and very astute of you. You will have that despicable
Englishman, Gray, and his people moving about behind my
lines,
  slitting throats and blowing things up and engaging in
all sorts of subhuman guerrilla tactics.
But I and my people shall be gentlemen at all times. So
I believe history shall paint you as the savage, not
I."
  Ben had to laugh at the Russian's sincerity.
"Do you really believe all that shit, General?"
  Striganov looked amused that Ben should doubt it.
"But of course! Not only for a gentlemen's war, but
in the fact I am purifying the white
race. Surely you will be big enough to admit a great
many people support what I am doing?"
  "A much greater number find it appalling and
disgusting," Ben countered. "And kindly include me
among them, and everyone who fights alongside me."
  "Then I must conclude they are short-sighted or
misguided people," the Russian said with a smile. "And
since I really don't believe you are
short-sighted, President-General Raines, you
must fall in the latter category."
  Ben laughed at him, the laughter bouncing off the
Russian.
  "I shall give you a few more hours to mull over your
reluctance, General Raines. If you have not seen the
error of your decision, 0600 tomorrow shall be the beginning of
your Armageddon."
  Ben smiled. "A very interesting choice of
characterization, General Striganov. Armageddon. Of
course, you represent the evil?"
  The Russian did not take offense. "If that
is how you choose to view it, President-General.
But I believe history will view me in a much
gentler light."
  "If you win, General Striganov, history
probably will view you in that manner-a
lie, of course-since
  there will be only your
Herrenvolk

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to write it."
  Again, the Russian laughed. "But of course. You
see, Ben Raines, I planned well, did I
not?"
  Ben had to grudgingly admit the Russian had
indeed planned very well. But he'd be goddamned
if he would compliment the bastard for doing so.
  "When I take you as my prisoner-of-war,
General Raines, I give you my word you will be
treated with the respect due a man of your position."
  Ben's reply was very much to the point. "When I
take you as my prisoner of war, General
Striganov, I'm personally going to shoot you."
  The Russian threw back his head and laughed
loudly, uproariously. "Oh, I do like you, Ben
Raines. It is such a pity that we cannot be good and
close friends. There are so few truly intelligent
men left to converse with on matters of importance.
So, Ben Raines, do be sure and give your
Jewess a great big kiss for me,
da?
Good morning, sir."
  He turned his back to Ben and walked across the
two lanes of concrete and onto the shoulder of the
interstate. He was soon down in the ditch and then
lost from view as he entered the woods.
  Ben returned to his troops. Gale breathed a
huge sigh of relief upon sighting Ben. "I just
don't trust that bastard, Ben."
  "He said to give you a great big kiss from him."
Ben grinned.
  Gale spat very unladylike on the ground. She
fixed Ben with a dark, angry glare. "How would you like
a fat lip, Raines?"
  "I think I'll pass," Ben said with a laugh.
  He sobered as he looked at his personal
contingent
  of Rebels. He knew them all from the hard
days. Captain Seymour. Lamar Chase. Jane
Dolbeau, the blond Canadian who everyone knew
was in love with Ben-everyone that is but Ben. Steve
Mailer and Judith Sparkman. James
Riverson. Carla Allen. Lynne Hoffman.

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Judy Fowler. The survivors. Men and women who
had followed Ben through it all, who believe in him.
  He could not let them down.
  He saw Roanna Hickman watching
him as he walked away. She hurried to catch up
with him.
  "Just had to deal yourself a hand in this battle, eh,
Roanna?" Ben said.
  "I'm still a reporter, General. There may not be
any networks left, or any big daily
newspapers, but I'm still going to ply my
craft-someday, somebody will read it."
  "I hope so, Miss Hickman. You were a very
good reporter."
  She smiled. "Coming from you, General, that's as good
as receiving the Pulitzer."
  And for a moment, both of them were caught up briefly
in the grips of memory.
  Sabra Olivier had called Roanna into her
office*, intercepting the reporter outside the
door and leading her to the washroom. As she had seen
in countless TV
*See
Fire in the Ashes.
  shows and movies, Sabra turned on the water in
the sink to cover any noises of conversation.
  Knowing Sam Hartline as she did, Sabra would
not put it past the man to bug the ladies' room.
  "Roanna, you know all about Hartline.
I've never pulled any punches with any of you. But
what do you
really
think of him?"
  "I'd like to cut the bastard's cock off and stuff
it down his throat," Roanna replied without a
second's hesitation.
  Sabra was mildly shocked. She had never heard
Roanna be so crude. "He got to you,
Roanna?"
  "Oh, yes." The brunette's smile was more of a
grimace. "From behind. Said he'd been watching and
listening to my stories for a long time, didn't like what
I'd done about mercenaries. Wanted to give me

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something to remember him by. He did. I walked
funny for three days. The son of a bitch."
 "How many other women?"
 "Sabra, it's not just the women. Some of his men are
twisted sexually-really bent all out of shape in the
head. I don't know what you're planning, but be
careful, you're dealing with a maniac in Hartline.
He's a master of torture. He's got most of the
people in the networks frightened out of their wits; men and
women-old, hard-line, tough reporters tremble at
just the mention of his name. All of us wonder
how it got this far out of line so quickly."
 "Yes, I was wondering the same thing a few
moments ago. Roanna, look, I've got to get
someone in Ben Raines's camp, and I've got you
in mind. I think I can convince Hartline it's for the
best. You do a story on Raines; I'll do one
on Hartline. I'll make him look like
 the coming of Christ. We'll do little three-minute
segments each week, but they'll be coded with
messages for Raines."
 "Sabra..."
 "No! It's something I believe we've got
to do. I'll accept some responsibility for what's
happening-what has happened to this nation; it's partly
our fault. Hartline ... visits me twice a
week. Lately I've been accepting his visits
as something I have no control over. He thinks I'm
enjoying them. He's an egomaniac; I can play
on that. Really build him up. It's amazing what
a man will say when he's in bed with a woman.
We'll work out some sort of code to let Raines
know what is going on, or what is about to happen.
Are you game?"
 "You know what will happen to both of us if Hartline
discovers what we're doing?"
 "Yes. Very well."
 "All right," Roanna said. "Let's do it."
 "What kind of game are you playing, Miss
Hick-man?" Ben asked her.
 They were seated outside, a cool but not
unpleasant breeze fanning them. Roanna sat
beside Dawn-the two women had known each other for

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years-the women facing Ben and Cecil and Ike.
  "No game, General," Roanna said firmly.
"Game time is all over. We're putting our
lives on the line this go-round. For the women, our
asses, literally."
  She brought them all up to date on what
Hartline was doing and had done.
  "If this is true," Cecil said, "and for the moment,
we shall accept it as fact, Ms. Olivier is
playing a very dangerous game."
  "And you, as well," Ike looked at Roanna.
  "More than you know," Roanna's reply was filled
with bitterness. "Sabra's husband said if she saw
Hartline again, he was leaving. She couldn't explain
what she was doing, for fear Hartline would torture the
truth out of Ed-that's her husband. Ed walked out the
day before yesterday, took the little boy, left the
daughter behind. I wish it had been
reversed. Sabra's told me Hartline is
looking at Nancy ... you know what I mean."
  "How old is the girl?" Ike asked.
  "Fifteen. Takes after her mother. She's
beautiful."
  "Hartline is, ah, somewhat perverted, is he
not?" Dawn asked.
  Roanna snorted in disgust. "To put it quite
bluntly, Dawn, he's got a cock like a
horse and doesn't care which hole he sticks it
in."
  "Jesus Christ, lady!" Even Ike was
shocked, and to shock a Navy SEAL takes some
doing.
  Ben resisted a smile and said, after looking at the
reporter for a moment, "You have any objections
to taking a PSE test, Miss Hickman?"
  "Not at all," Roanna replied. Then she
smiled, and her cynical reporter's eyes
changed. She was, Ben thought, really a very pretty
lady. "What's the matter, General, am I too
liberal for your tastes?"
  "Liberals are, taken as a whole, just too far
out of touch with reality to suit me," Ben said, softening
that with a smile.

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  "I'd like to debate that with you someday, General.
Yes," she mused, "that might be the way to go with the
interviews. Hard-line conservative against liberal
views."
  "I'm not a total hard-line conservative,
Miss Hick-man," Ben informed her. "Although many
have branded me as that: unfeeling and all that other
garbage. How could I have been a hard-line
conservative and advocated women's rights, abortion,
the welfare of the elderly and children... and everything else
we did in Tri-States?"
  "Yes," Roanna said. "There is all that
to take into consideration. But you did shoot and hang people
there." She fired the reporter's question at him.
  "We sure did." Ben's reply was breezy,
given with a smile of satisfaction. "And we proved
that crime does not have to exist in a society."
  "But not to the satisfaction of everyone, General."
  "But to ours, Miss Hickman, and that was all that
mattered."
  "Still miss the hustle and bustle of big-city
living and reporting, Roanna?" Ben brought them
both back to the present.
  "Yes, and I'm looking forward to the day when it will
return."
  "It will never return, Roanna." Ben dashed
her dreams with a splash of hard reality.
"Civilization, as we have known it, is over."
  "I have running chills up and down my spine when
you say that, General."
  "It's truth time, Roanna-and I have spoken the
hard truth."
  "But you can't know that for certain, General. That must
be a personal opinion, nothing more."
  "It's over, Roanna. From this moment on, either
learn to adapt or die."
  "I believe I shall continue to cling to my dreams,
General."
  Ben's smile was sad. "Your option, Roanna.
But while you're clinging to them, use the other hand to cling
to a gun."
  "Goddamn jungle bunnies fight better
than I thought they were capable of," Sam Hartline

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remarked to one of his field commanders. "I just didn't
believe the niggers had it in them."
  The men stood on a bluff overlooking the scene
of two days of very fierce fighting between Al and
Mark's troops and the IPF and Sam's
mercenaries. The IPF and Hartline's mercenaries
had been unable to punch through the black
troops dug in on a far ridge, a small
valley between the opposing forces.
  "For a fact," the young mercenary replied. "For a
sure fact. The niggers got more guts in them than
I figured."
  Hartline suddenly laughed, an idea shaping
into solid form in his twisted mind. "I got an
idea," he said. "Oh hell, yes-a damn good
one, too. Max!" he called. His X.o.
walked over.
  "Yeah, Sam?"
  "Get on a plane and go back to Wisconsin,
with a side trip to Minnesota. I want you to bring
me fifty of the best-looking coon gals we
got-including Peggy Jones. Then round up about
fifty or seventy-five old niggers, the older the
better."
  The executive officer looked at Hartline, a
curious glint in his eyes. "What have you got
cookin' in that brain of yours, Sam?"
  Hartline laughed. "Just a damn good idea,
Max-a
  sure-fire way to shorten this little action. I'm
going to strip the nigger gals buck-assed naked and
tie them on the front of the APC'S full
of our troops. We'll mix in the old niggers with
our troops coming up withand behind the APC'S. I just
don't believe the coons on that ridge over there will
shoot their own kind. I think we can drive right through
them and put them all to rout. Yes, indeed. Be fun
to see the expression on their monkey faces,
too." He turned to another mere. "Pat, I
want you to go back with Max. Round up fifty or
so good-lookin' senoritas and about seventy-five or
so old greasers. Take them all over to the west
front to Colonel Fechnor; tell him what

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I'm planning but to wait for my signal, and don't
tell Striganov. He'd nix the plan. We'll
coordinate this. I think, by God, we can shorten this
fight considerably."
  "I like it, Sam," the X.o. said. "Oh yeah,
I like the hell out of it."
  "I seen me a spic gal last week," Pat
said. "Must have been about thirteen or fourteen. She
looked prime. Little titties just bu.in' out.
Nipple just a-stickin' out of the raggedy blouse. You
mind if I get me a taste of that pussy "fore
I send her west?"
  "Hell, Pat, I don't care. I imagine
she's been spayed, don't you?"
  "Probably so. She sure looked old enough
to bleed to me."
  "Sure, go ahead. Make her suck your cock
before you fuck her. Those little spic gals can suck a
cock best I ever seen."
  Staying south of the interstate, using state and county
roads, Ben made one final inspection of his
  troops on the eve of the battle. They were
stretched far too thin. But it was the best Ben could do.
Two things his troops were not short on were ammunition
and weapons. Stretched out all along the 140 mile
battle front were .50-caliber machine guns
mixed in with M-60 machine guns. Each squad
had two of the big .50's and all the ammo they could
use.
  Working around the clock, they had fortified their
positions, digging bunkers and sandbagged foxholes;
mine fields were carefully laid, using thousands of the
deadly Claymores. Mortar pits were dug,
sandbagged and camouflaged. Supplies were brought up
and cached.
  The Rebels had done all any of them knew
to do. They were ready. Now came the hardest part: the
waiting.
  Cecil was commanding a battalion that was
dug in Columbia. Ben knew there would be some
wicked street fighting there, much of it hand to hand. Ben
had tried to talk Cecil out of taking command, but the
black man would not be deterred from the job.

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  "You're too damned old for this job, Cecil,"
Ben told him. "Let a younger man have it and back
me up at HQ. I guarantee you, you'll see
all the combat you'll want to see there."
  "I seem to recall I did a pretty damned
good job at this in "Nam," Cecil responded.
  "Goddamn it, Cec, that was almost thirty years
ago! Tell me about it, man-I was there too, you
know?"
  Cecil looked around him, his beret placed
properly on his head, like the Green Beret Cecil
had been. It was worn unlike Ben's black
beret, which he still wore in Ranger fashion:
cocky.
  "Ben, some of these kids weren't even born when you
and I did our thing in 'nam. Damn, Ben. No,
they're going to need a calm head here."
  "A calm
gray
head," Ben said sarcastically.
  Cecil smiled. "I matured early for
my age."
  Ben laughed, knowing he was not going to sway his old
friend, and moved on down the line of Rebels.
  He received the thumbs-up signal from each squad
or platoon or company he passed. They were
ready. These men and women nicknamed Raines's
Rebels by the press years back. They were ready
for a good fight. They knew the odds were hard against them,
knew casualties would be high and that many would die.
They knew only too well the price of freedom
came high-it never came cheaply.
  They were ready to die for freedom. Theirs and
anyone else's that might be threatened.
  Ready.
  Back at HQ, Ben told Gale, "You will
stay with Chase at the hospital. You're a
nurse, and that is where you'll be needed. And I will not
have any static from you about it. Is that clear?"
  She smiled sweetly at him. Very sweetly.
Too sweetly. "I have already made arrangements
to do just that, General, sir. And I didn't need you
to tell me about it. Thanks just the same."

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  That night, on the eve of the battle that would, although
neither the Russian nor the American knew it,
forever split the nation and plunge the ravaged
country into a sickening slide toward barbarism,
ignorance and tribal law, Ben and Gale engaged
in the gentlest and most deeply satisfying
love-making of their relationship. And Gale sensed
with a woman's insight on such
  matters that she became pregnant.
  And she knew she wanted this child more than anything
else in the world.
  When Ben was asleep (she could never understand how the
man could quietly drop off when faced with such a
monumental task as that which lay before him) she rose from
their blankets to stand some distance away from Ben's
sleeping form, to stand looking up at the cloudless
star-filled heavens. She spoke to and asked questions of
her god, and seemed satisfied with the silent words that
filled her head. As she turned to return to Ben's
side, she was startled to see a figure standing by a
huge tree, gazing at her. She looked around her,
curious to see if anyone else had noticed the
man.
  No one had, although the guards were plainly in sight
all around the encampment-and that really piqued her
curiosity.
  Gale walked to the shadowy umbrella created by the
huge limbs of the old tree and stood
facing the man. She had, she concluded, never seen
anything quite like him.
  She studied him in silence, as he was silently
studying her. "How did you get in this area without being
shot?" she asked.
  The old man smiled. His smile seemed to light
the area around them. "You would not understand if I chose
to tell you."
  "Oh yeah?" Gale looked more closely at the
old man. He wore robes and sandals and carried
a big stick. A staff, the word popped into her
brain. His beard was long and very white. He looked
older than God. "What do you want?"
  The man looked at her more closely; his eyes
seemed amused, then sad, or so it appeared

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to Gale. Finally, he said. "No, you are not the one.
But you will help the man in his struggles. That will be
seen to. You have my word."
  "What!" Gale reached the conclusion that this guy was
not playing with a full deck of cards.
  Ben and Ike and Cecil had told her about the many
cults that were springing up around the torn nation. She
had seen some with her own eyes during her wanderings
prior to meeting Ben. This nutso had to be one of
them-what else?
  "I am known as the Prophet."
  "Swell," she said dryly. "And I'm Mary.
Man, you'd better be careful when you leave here.
Someone could shoot you."
  His smile was gentle and knowing, and rather, Gale
thought, condescending. "I have no fear of death, child."
  "That's nice, 'cause frankly, it scares the
hell out of me."
  The old man chuckled, a deep sound from his
massive chest. "You have a sense of humor. Good,
you'll need it." The old man glanced up at the
sky, as if he had suddenly received some silent
message.
  Gale looked up, feeling rather foolish as she
did so.
  "As wars go," the old man said, "this one will be
small in magnitude. But it will be enormous in its
ramifications. What follows will be the beginning."
  "Beginning of what?"
  "The beginning, child."
  Gale was now one hundred percent certain the old
boy was at least three bricks shy of a load.
Best humor him. "Right."
  "The strugglings you will all endure will be, of
course, right and just and moral, but they will, I
must tell you, appear futile."
  Gale shook her head. Maybe the guy had found
some old acid and was tripping the light fantastic in
his woolly head. "Hadn't you best be getting on
back to the ward?"
  The old man smiled indulgently. "I must now
tell you goodbye, child."
  On impulse, she put out her hand to touch his arm,

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but her hand seemed to freeze in midair. She fought
to move her hand. It seemed stuck.
  "No," he said gently. "That is not permitted."
  "Are you the reincarnation of Houdini?"
  "I am the reincarnation of no one, child. But I
am, I can assure you of that."
  "Ah, eh, you're what?"
  But he was gone.
  Gale's arm fell to her side. She lifted it,
looked at it. She shook her head. Looked around
her. The old boy was nowhere to be seen.
  "It was a dream," she muttered. "Had to be,
I'm dreaming, sleepwalking. Couldn't be anything
else."
  She returned to the warmth of the blankets and the
soled and comforting shape of Ben. When the first shell from
the IPF exploded at 0600 the next
morning, Gale forgot all about the man who called
himself the Prophet.
  For a time.
CHAPTER
TWO
  It was an artillery duel for the first two days of the
battle, with the combatants never catching sight of each
other. For the most part, the infantry troops had little
to do except stay alive and maintain their sanity under
the almost-constant pounding of the big shells.
  For those who had never experienced shelling, it was a
frightening, numbing experience. The ground seemed
to shake constantly, and it appeared that anyplace one
sought in safety was the wrong place.
  Both the Rebels and the IPF had to constantly
shift the positions of their artillery, with the exception
of Ben's big self-propelled 155's, which could
sit back miles from the front and lob destruction
and terror into the IPP'S positions with terrifying
pinpoint accuracy. Ben was no gentleman at war;
he used chemicals, anti-personnel, high
explosive, incendiary, and beehive rounds.
  Ben kept his tanks in reserve, carefully
concealed and camouflaged, even though the crews and
commanders were chafing to get into the fight. Ben
  wanted something with which to fall back on when the

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situation began to deteriorate, as he knew it would.
That, he knew, was only a matter of time.
  The third, fourth and fifth days were ground troops
days, with the infantry troops slugging it out, taking,
losing, regaining and losing the same ground a dozen
times.
  On the sixth day, the IPF attempted to cross
the interstate at six locations, sending huge
numbers of troops across the concrete in what
appeared to be a kamikaze-style rush of bodies.
  Five sectors of the Rebels held, but the
IPF broke through one line, allowing more troops
to pour through and set up positions west, east and south,
in the form of an open-ended box. Hector
Ramos's troops were cut off, battling lopsided
odds, fighting for their lives.
  In western Iowa and central Illinois, the
dawning of the new day brought a fresh horror to the men
and women of Juan Solis's and Al Maiden's
troops.
  A man's scream brought Mark Terry on a
flat run from his bunker, running hard up the hill
to the first line of defense. A man squatted behind
sandbags, his face mirroring his horror and
revulsion. He seemed unable to speak. He could but
point to the valley.
  Hartline's men had been unusually silent for
several days, with no attempt to push past their
battle lines. There had been only sporadic
sniper fire from the west to keep the troops from New
Africa alert-a lead reminder that Hartline's
mercs and the IPF had not forgotten them.
  The sentry found his voice as he handed Mark
binoculars and pointed to the valley. "Nobody could
be that low," he said, his voice choked with anger and
frustration.
  Mark felt his guts churn and his breakfast fight
to lunge from his stomach as he lifted the long-range
glasses to his eyes. Like the sentry, he was,
for a moment, speechless. He felt the blood rush from
his head, and for a moment, thought he would pass out from the
sheer horror of the sight in the valley below.
  "The dirty

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bastard!"
he
finally found his voice.
  Al had joined him on the ridge, pulling field
glasses to his eyes. "Oh, my God!" he
blurted. "Oh, my God, no!"
  The IPF and Hartline's troops were on the
march, moving up behind armored personnel carriers.
On the front of each APC, strapped to the sloping
front of the carrier, a naked woman was positioned,
her legs spread wide, ankles and feet secured
to the lugs near the base of the Ml13. Her arms were
out-flung, wrists tied to the headlight brackets.
The machine gun mounted to the front of the APC was
only inches from each woman's head, guaranteeing a
savage muzzle-blast burn to the side of the
woman's head.
  When the troops on the ridges saw what was coming
up behind the APC'S, to a man, they openly,
unashamedly wept.
  A hundred or so old people were being herded in front
of and mixed with the mercenaries and the troops from the IPF.
  The elderly black men and women were crying from fear
and humiliation as they stumbled along, prodded by the
rifle barrels of the mercs and the IPF troops.
  The elderly men and women had been stripped naked
and were barefooted.
  The IPF troops and Hartline's men were moving
ever closer, and so far no shots had been fired from the
troops on the ridges. All eyes were fixed
unbelievingly on the scene before them.
Weapons had been forgotten, hanging loose in their
hands.
  "They have to be stopped." Mark was the first to speak,
his words hoarse-sounding, pushed from his tight throat.
"We have to stop them; there is no one else to do the
job."
  Up and down the thin and battle-weary line of
defenders of liberty, the troops looked first at
each other, and then to Al and Mark for orders. But for
many, the decision had already been made in their minds.
  From the lead APC, still much too far away to be
heard by any of the resistance fighters, Peggy Jones

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was screaming.
  "Fire!" she screamed. "Shoot your guns! For
God's sake-
shoot!"
  The IPF troops in the APC laughed at her
words.
  "I can't fire on those people," a man said, tears
in his eyes. "I can't shoot, I might hit some
of the old people or the women. I can't do it."
  "Fire!" Mark screamed the command.
"Goddamnit, people, they have to be stopped regardless
of the cost. Fire, goddamn you!"
  The enemy moved closer.
  Now the troops on the ridges could hear
Peggy's screaming, very faint, but audible.
  "Shoot," she screamed. "For God's sake,
shoot!"
  The machine guns on the front of the APC'S
began singing their lethal songs, spitting out lead.
One woman's
  hair caught fire from the fierce heat of the
muzzle; her screaming was hideous.
  "Pick your targets," Al yelled to a rifle
squad. "Shoot around the old people."
  The snipers tried, but the troops in the APC'S
were crouched low, and almost impossible to hit.
Bullets struck one naked young woman in the
stomach; she cried out in pain. Several old people were
struck by the lead from the men on the ridges. They
fell to the earth, screaming in pain and confusion. A
Jeep ran over one; an APC crushed the legs
of another. Yet another elderly man tried
to grab the rear of a Jeep. He was dragged over the
rocky ground for several hundred feet until
life and strength left him.
  Most of the guns on the high ground fell silent.
They could not be blamed for that.
  "Fall back!" Mark yelled, knowing his
position was nearly hopeless. "First and second
companies regroup. First company to the right flank,
second company to the left, come in behind them."
  But it was too late; Hartline's men and the IPF
were too close. They had already begun executing an

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end-around sweep. The defenders on the ridges were
cut off.
  "Goddamn you!" Peggy yelled her rage at the
men on the ridges. She tried to anger them
into firing. "Can't you niggers do anything right? You have
to leave everything up to whitey?"
  Hartline's mercs thought that hysterically amusing.
  The APC'S and Jeeps were roaring up the small
inclines, the ring-mounted .50's on the Jeeps and
APC'S spitting and hammering out death.
  Al Maiden lifted his M-16 and shot one
machine
  gunner in the face. A second later a hard
burst from an M-60 spun him around and tore his
chest open. He danced grotesquely and then fell
to the cool earth, his blood soaking into the ground.
  The mercenaries and the IPF troops crested the
ridges and were over the top as the troops who had
pulled the flanking maneuver sealed off much of the rear
escape route. The black troops fought
well and bravely, but the better-fed,
better-trained and better-equipped IPF and mercs
soon overwhelmed the small force on the ridges.
  Mark Terry shot the driver of one APC in the
head and dropped a grenade into the carrier. The
grenade exploded, sending bits of human flesh and
brains flying out of the APC. He slashed at
Peggy's ropes, freeing her. He jerked her
toward a Jeep, bodily picking her up and throwing
her into the back seat. A bullet slammed into the
fleshy part of his shoulder, spinning him around and
dropping him to the ground. He pulled himself into the
driver's seat with his good arm and jerked the Jeep
into gear, racing back to the main encampment, to his
command post. But Hartline's flankers were well
ahead of him, and he could see the battle was almost
over. Hartline's men were shooting the wounded in the
head.
  Cursing, Mark floor-boarded the Jeep and
headed for the timber. Driving deep into a forest, away
from the battleground, he pulled over, off the old
dirt road, and switched off the engine.
  Mark removed his field jacket and gave it

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to Peggy. He could see that the woman had been beaten
and tortured. Despite that, she was still
beautiful.
  Mark poured raw alcohol onto his shoulder wound
  and bandaged it hurriedly. Peggy crawled into the
front seat beside him.
  "We're beaten," she said flatly.
  "Not yet," Mark said grimly. He slammed the
heel of his hand against the steering wheel.
"Goddamnit!" he cursed. "I just didn't count
on Hartline doing anything like that."
  Her bitter laugh lifted his eyes toward her.
"You can count on Hartline doing almost anything," she
told him. "He is brilliantly insane and
perversely twisted; and so are a great number of his
men."
  "You sound like you know him well."
  The sounds of battle were coming to a close, with only
an occasional shot being fired far in the distance. Mark
felt like a traitor for running out on his men. But
there was still a chance he could regroup some of his people. But it
was a slim one and Mark knew it. And he didn't
know if he wanted to see those who refused to fire.
He thought he might try to kill them.
  The taste of defeat was brass-bitter on his
tongue. The word coward kept coming to him.
  But Mark knew he was no coward; he
had faced too much adversity in his life to be a
coward. He just wished he could have done more.
  As if reading his thoughts, Peggy said, "That
battle was lost before it began back there, and Sam
Hartline knew it. Said as much. There was nothing you
could have done to change any of it. What is your name?"
  "Mark. Mark Terry."
  "I'm Peggy Jones. Yeah, I know Sam
Hartline." The words rolled harshly from her tongue.
"I was his ... house nigger for a time, reporting
back to Lois Peters, and she to the resistance. But
he knew what I was doing
  all along and the information he gave me was
deliberately false. I ... got away from
him-don't ask me how-but he finally tortured
Lois until she gave away where I was hiding.

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I can't blame her for that. He tortured her
to death. It was ... terrible what he did to her. I
will never get that picture of her out of my mind.
  "Then," she sighed, "he had a high old time with
me. I... really don't want to say what he
did to me. It was sexual, most of the time. I will
never be able to bear children. The IPF people... fixed
me." She lifted her arm and pulled back the
sleeve of the field jacket, showing Mark
the tattoo on her arm. "Hartline and a lot of his
men and the IPF people as well are perverted. They enjoy
inflicting pain, and Hartline likes to do it in a
sexual manner. And that is all I'm going to say
about that."
  Mark touched her hand. "You don't have to say
anything, Peggy. Some of the refugees that came
into our area told us a lot about Hartline. What the
women said was ... sickening."
  Her eyes, filled with the horror of what had been
done to her, touched his eyes. "We need to get to a
safer place, Mark, and I need to fix up that
shoulder of yours."
  Something deep within Mark, something very soft and
gentle, moved slightly, touching him in a manner
he had never known before. He was unsure of the origin
or the meaning. "Yeah," he said softly. "Right. And
... Peggy?"
  He looked at him. "Yes?"
  "People do adopt kids, you know."
  He put his good arm around her and she put her
  ace against his chest and wept.
  "Holy Mother of God!" Juan whispered. "That
isn't warfare-that's
evil.
his
  He stood gazing in disbelief and shocked horror
at the line of APC'S coming at them, naked women and
naked young boys and girls roped to the front of the
carriers.
  "Take a look at what is coming up behind them,"
a soldier said, his voice hushed with shock in the
early morning.
  Juan lifted his binoculars to his eyes. After

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a moment, he lowered them and began cursing, long and
passionately, in his mother tongue.
  "What do we do, Juan?" The question came out of the
knot of company commanders standing behind him. It was a question
Juan did not want to hear, but one he knew had
to be answered.
  After a moment that seemed like an eternity to Juan,
he said, "We stop them; we have no choice in the
matter." There was a deathlike quality to his
reply.
  "Juan, we can't-was
  "Yes, we can!" Juan whirled around, his face
tight with anger as he recalled Ben's words: "If
they can't cut it, Juan, let me have it all up
front." And Juan's reply now returned
to haunt him: "They will do what I tell
them to do. They might not like it, but they will do it."
  God, Juan silently implored the
Almighty, let my people have the courage to do this awful
thing.
  "We have to stop them!" Juan shouted the words.
  A company commander lowered his binoculars,
  tears streaming from his eyes, rolling in rivers down
his cheeks. "The little ones are all crying," he said,
his voice breaking under the strain. "The-was
  "Stop it!" Juan shouted.
  "... Old people are naked and barefooted. Must be
two-was
  "Goddamn it, fire!" Juan screamed. He
looked up and down the line of the first defense.
"Fire on them, goddamn you!"
  "...Or three hundred of the old people." The man
appeared to be in shock.
  Juan slapped the man, the force of his open-handed
blow rocking the man's head back, bringing blood
to his lips.
  Juan jerked up a rifle, firing at the
mercenaries, the IPF, the young and the old. A few more
defenders joined him. But most did not. They could not.
  The forces, under the command of Colonel Fechnor,
drew closer.
  Juan's men began backing off the small
ridge, bucking under the awfulness of what lay before

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them, growing nearer with the screams and cries of the young and the
old.
 "You have no place to back up
to!"
Juan shouted at his men.
 Over the rumble of the APC'S and Jeeps, the
sounds of the children's weeping drifted to the men on the
hill. About a third of Juan's first line of
defense stayed by his side, fighting at his orders.
The others drifted back, not out of cowardice, but because
they loved life so much they could not bear to fire on the
very young and the very old.
"Cobardes!"
Juan screamed at the backs of his men.
"Chacals!"
But he knew those men were not cowards or jackals.
They simply could not bring themselves to fire on helpless
old people and babies.
 "Fall back to the river!" Juan yelled to those
men who elected to remain by his side. Far in the
distance he could see trucks rolling toward the
bridge at Blair. He turned to his radio
operator. "Order them to stop," he told
the woman.
 She shook her head. "I have them now, sir. They
say they are not defeated or running away. They
say they will defend our homelands, but they will not kill
women and babies and old people."
 Alvaro, Juan's brother, hurried to his
side. "Juan, we have about one minute before we
meet eternity."
 The screaming and the crying of the children lashed to the front
of the APC'S was now very clear. The old people were
stumbling, almost down from exhaustion. They were being
prodded forward by rifle barrels.
 The taste of the defeat was ugly on Juan's
tongue. He gave the order he knew must he must
give to save at least some of his forces. "Fall
back!" he shouted.
 As Juan rode in the Jeep, crossing the
bridge over the Missouri River, he muttered,
"God help Ben Raines."
CHAPTER THREE

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  Ben listened grimly to the reports from the
Rebel's LETTERRP'S. He stood in his command
bunker and cursed. When he ran out of
obscenities, he looked at the woman manning the
radio.
  "Sorry about that," he apologized.
  She grinned. "I haven't heard such cussing
since the time my daddy caught me in a hayloft with a
kid from down the road."
  Ben felt some of the anger leave him and he grinned
at her. "I bet that was quite a moment."
  Her grin widened. "It was worth it."
  Ben laughed. "OK. Get on the horn and
tell Colonel McGowen to cut and run. Head
south. Instruct Colonel Ramos to break through his
south lines and do the same. Order all forward
units to hunt holes and get in them and keep their
heads down until they receive orders from me to resume
guerrilla activities. No last-ditch stands for
any unit. No heroics out of anybody. Pull
back. We'll regroup along Highway 60 in
southern Missouri, from Springfield to Poplar
Bluff. Pull back with all speed."
  "We're retreating, sir?"
  "No," Ben told her. "We are executing
what the marines used to call a strategic
withdrawal. Get to it, Sergeant."
  "This isn't as much fun as the hayloft," she said.
  Chase walked into the battle-scarred bunker.
"I've got badly wounded people, Ben.
To move them at this time would be endangering their
lives."
  "Move them," Ben said. "It can't be avoided,
La-mar. We don't have a choice."
  The doctor looked at the man for a long moment.
Then he nodded his head. "All right, Ben. I'll
start pulling them out now." He turned to leave.
  "Lamar?"
  The doctor turned around.
  "I'm sorry, Lamar."
  "I know, Ben. I'm sorry, too."
  Gen. Georgi Striganov was furious. The
deaths of the old people, the young women and the children did not

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bother him as much as what it had done to his
self-image. The Russian perceived himself as a
fair and just person. History might well paint
him as an evil person for condoning something like this. That
bothered him more than anything.
  "I gave no orders to do anything this monstrous!"
Striganov raged at Sam Hartline and
Colonel Fechnor. "Killing old people and little
children."
  "Only a few old niggers died," Hartline
said. "One nigger woman took a round in the guts
and one got her brain cooked when her hair
caught fire. There were a
  few greasers killed over in Iowa. No big
deal. Anyway, if you have to yell at somebody,
yell at me," Hartline told him. The deaths of the
young and old bothered him about as much as swatting a
fly. "Colonel Fechnor was assigned to my command
and he was only obeying orders like any good
soldier."
  Col. Valeska Fechnor breathed a silent
sigh of relief. He would have to think of some way
to repay Hartline for getting him off tenterhooks.
This could have turned into a very ugly scene.
  General Striganov calmed himself slowly by taking
deep breaths and clenching and unclenching his fists. He
turned away and gazed out the front of the open tent.
He would have to tell his historians that it was the
mercenary who ordered the old and the young used in such a
horrible manner; let future generations know that he,
personally, had nothing to do with anything so monstrous.
  "Anyway," Hartline said with a smile, "we
won, didn't we? Raines is pulling his people
back, turning tail and running. So the victory
is ours."
  "Ben Raines is most definitely

turning tail and running," the Russian told the
mercenary. "He is merely executing a perfectly
logical military option. I would do the same if
the situation was reversed. One battle does not win
the war. And do
not

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attempt to do with Ben Raines what you succeeded in
doing with the inferior minorities. General Raines
would not hesitate to shoot. He would not like it, he
might weep while giving the order, but he would
shoot. Don't ever think otherwise."
  "Yeah," Hartline agreed. "You're right about that,
I guess."
  Striganov withered him silent with a cold look.
"I am almost
always
correct, Sam. And never again do anything of today's
magnitude without first consulting me. Is that clear?"
  "Clear as rain," the mercenary said, the scolding
bouncing off him. Hartline had a hide of iron.
  "Yes, sir," Fechnor said crisply.
  "Very well," Striganov said. "The matter is
closed. We shall count our dead, give them a proper
soldiers" burial, then map out strategy for the
upcoming campaign against General
Raines. And it will not be an easy one. Do not-either of
you-delude yourselves into believing otherwise. Unless we
are lucky enough to kill Ben Raines-
in combat-
his people will fight forever, constantly a thorn in our
sides."
  "Have some of your people down in Tri-States ambush
him," Hartline suggested.
  "No," Striganov said. "I will not stoop
to Raines's level of fighting. Not yet, at least.
Besides, you can bet Raines will ferret those people out when
he gets back. If he gets back. I was
arrogantly wrong when I admitted to him I was
aware of his Jewess bed-partner. My mistake.
I shall be big enough to admit it. All right, now then,
how great were the losses of the black people?"
  "Fifty to sixty percent," Hartline told
him. "Maybe seven to eight hundred got away.
Certainly no more than that."
  "Their leaders?"
  "Al Maiden is dead. Mark Terry got
away. Took Peggy with him and cut out."
  "Peggy?" Striganov questioned. "Who is
Peggy?"

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  "No one of any importance."
Hartline waved the question aside.
  "The Mexicans?" The Russian glanced at
Colonel Fechnor.
  "They fared a bit better. My men have counted some
five hundred dead. We took less than two
hundred prisoners. The rest ran away like
cowards."
  "Pursuit?"
  "None. My men stopped at the Missouri
River. As you ordered."
  "Good. Very good, Colonel. I commend you." He
walked to the tent opening. "Now, gentlemen, let us
honor our gallant dead."
  Ike was furious when he met with Ben. Ben let
the ex-Seal blow his tanks until he wound down.
Ben then waved his friend to a seat.
  "I was plenty pissed too, Ike. But then I
got the whole picture from a survivor out of
Maiden's command." He told Ike what the IPF
and Hartline's mercs had done.
  Ike sat in horrified silence for a few
seconds. "Ben ... that's the worst goddamned thing
I ever heard of. Jesus Christ! Kids and old
people." He shuddered his revulsion. "I will admit my
guys pulled some pretty raunchy shit in
"Nam, but nothing like that."
  "It's low, buddy, I'll sure go along with that.
Well, it's done, and nothing we can do about it.
Let's get down to hard facts, buddy: How many
people did you lose?"
  "Too goddamn many. I lost just about
twenty-five percent. Another ten percent wounded so
badly they're out of action for weeks-maybe
months.
  Equipment fared a lot better. We got
ninety-five percent of our howitzers and armor out."
  "Thirty-five percent of your command, then?" Ben
questioned, a deep and very personal sense of loss touching
him. He knew every man and woman in every unit.
  "At least."
  "Don't feel too badly, Ike. My
figures are just about the same as yours. Cecil's

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bunch took one hell of a pounding, too. He lost
almost forty percent. And I hate to see Hector's
losses when he comes in."
  "I know he took a beating. When Hec's left
flank caved in-wrong choice of words-was
overrun-he lost an entire company right there. Last
radio contact I had with him, he told me he
took some heavy losses. Striganov
really threw some people at him. Hec told me he was
outnumbered four, five to one."
  "I've sent out scrambled messages for any
survivor to the east to come across at Cairo. That's
why I asked you to leave people there. I got a hunch
they'll be in pretty bad shape. Chase is sending
medical teams over there to assist."
  "You heard Maiden's dead?"
  "No. I hate that. We were beginning to be friends.
Mark Terry?"
  "I just heard he was wounded, but managed to get out.
He rescued one young woman from the front of an
APC."
  "They'll be drifting in pretty soon, I
imagine. I hope so. We're going to need all the
warm, breathing bodies we can muster."
  "Plans?"
  Ben shook his head. "I don't know what we're
going
  to do, Ike. I want a fully attended meeting
of the minds as soon as everybody gets in."
  "I wonder if the Russian knows how really
weak we are?"
  "I doubt it. And he must not find out. If he
threw everything he had at us right now, he'd
hammer us into the ground."
  It was a downhearted and beaten group of men and
women that straggled southward toward Cairo,
Illinois. Although they did not speak of the horror,
the picture of the naked women lashed to the front of the
APC'S and the old people stumbling along, frightened and
humiliated, was a mental scene none could erase from
their minds.
  And for many, the thought nagged at them: Was I acting
cowardly by refusing to shoot?

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  It was a question that many would never resolve to any
degree of satisfaction.
  Mark and Peggy encountered the first group of troops
from New Africa at Du Quion, Illinois.
Mark, his resentment toward them still a hot fire within
him, at first would not acknowledge their presence. He
drove past them without speaking, waving or even
looking directly at them. Outside of the deserted
town, he pulled over, conscious of Peggy's
unwavering stare on his face.
  He parked on the shoulder, sighed and then cut off
the engine. He turned to face her. "What is it you
want me to do, Peggy?"
  "I want you to go back and rally your people. The fight
isn't over, Mark. The fight can't ever be
over until
  the Russian and Hartline are both dead and the
dream of... of the master race is dead with them."
  "Those people back there are cowards," Mark said,
jerking his thumb in the direction from which they had just come.
  "Oh, Mark, they aren't any more a coward than you
are. And in your heart you know that's true. They're
confused and troubled and I'm sure they feel they let
you down."
  "Let me down? Hell, they did let me
down! And not just me. They let Ben Raines down.
And there is something else, Peggy. I keep
replaying that awful scene in my mind, over and over.
And I keep asking myself this: If those people lashed to the
front of those APC'S, those people being herded in front
of the troops, if those people had been white instead of
black, would my troops have stood their ground and
fired?"
  "Oh, Mark! How could you even think such a thing?
That's-was
  "No, Peggy, let me finish. This is
something-what I'm about to say-I argued and debated with
Al many times. And I think, I believe, the
events of the day before yesterday prove me right. There
is still a lot of hate among the races in
this country; and it is not one-sided as Al used
to preach. I'm sorry he was killed; he was coming
around, getting his head on straight. The nation, if

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there is to be a nation, cannot exist the way we were going.
I mean, Hispanics in one part of the country,
blacks in another, whites in yet another. Damn
it, Peggy, that isn't democracy. Our young people
aren't-weren't-getting an accurate picture of
life. I'm not African-I'm an
American.
I don't speak Swahili-I speak English.
Al could never understand,
  I could never make him see, that I didn't
give two hoots in hell about the internal
politics of Uganda. I was too concerned about what
was happening in
this
nation. I don't want to wear tribal robes and
stick a bone in my nose. Jesus Christ. That was
part of the problem with many whites refusing to accept
blacks.
  "Look at Cecil Jefferys; he's never had
any problem in his entire life being
accepted-anywhere. And do you know why? I'll tell you
why: He dressed well; he spoke
proper English and insisted his kids do the same.
He didn't try to excuse bad grammar by saying
it was part of the black culture. He knew, just as
I know, that is pure bullshit. Bad grammar is
bad grammar. Period. I cannot for the life of me
conjure up any image of Vice President
Jefferys doing any shuckin" and jivin'."
  Peggy laughed aloud at the expression on
Mark's face.
  "You mean Mr. Jefferys calls a spade a
spade?" she said with a grin.
  "I'll have to remember that one," Mark said,
returning her smile. "Cecil will get a kick out
of that. Yes, that's true, Peggy. He calls a
spade a spade. Cecil, as does Ben
Raines, knows there are classes of people: just as there are
bigoted, ignorant rednecks in the white race,
there are ignorant, bigoted niggers in the black
race." He smiled at her. "Sorry,
Peggy-I didn't mean to preach at you."
  "No, it's all right. I like what you've said. Go

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on."
  "All right, I'll lay it all out for you. I'm
linking up with Ben Raines. I think that's what we
have to do if any of us are going to make out of
this situation. Those people back there-was he jerked his
thumb-"if
  they want to live under those rules, those conditions,
those ideas that Ben and Ike and Cecil put
forward-then fine, that's what we'll do. I'll put
what happened on the ridges out of my mind,
forgive, if not forget, and we'll join Ben Raines
and try to beat this IPF thing. Those that want to go on
back to New Africa and stick a goddamn bone
in their noses ... well, to hell with them."
  Her dark, serious eyes never left his face.
"You must think Ben Raines hung the moon and the stars
in the heavens, Mark."
  He shook his head. "No, I don't think that
at all, Peggy. Ben Raines is just a man, with
faults like all the rest of us. And I don't
agree with all he says. As a matter of fact,
I hated him at first. Until I began to wise
up to what he was saying: no free rides. And then
he began to make sense to me. His Tri-States
worked, Peggy. It really worked. All races lived
there, honey.
All races.
And Ben Raines did it. He made it work."
  "I've never met the man. But I have
seen his picture."
  "He's ..." Mark paused, searching for the
correct words. "Ben Raines is impressive.
He ... exudes power and confidence. And something
else, you may as well hear it from me: A lot of
people believe Ben Raines sits awfully close to a
higher power."
  Disbelief sprang into her eyes. "And what do you
believe, Mark?"
  Mark sighed, many different emotions surging through his
mind. "I... don't know. I don't want
to believe that. But I've heard so many stories about
him. And I know that many of them are fact. Peggy, the
man's been shot two dozen times; he's been

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stabbed,
  blown up, shot off mountains and fallen God
knows how far. Name it, and it's happened to Ben
Raines. But he
won't die."
A
frightened look replaced the doubtful look in her
eyes. She again searched his face. "Mark, are you
sure of what you're saying?"
  "Yes." His reply came quickly and quietly and
surely. "I am positive."
  "Then I think we should join your Mr. Raines."
  And the legend of Ben Raines surged forward.
  Mark and Peggy stood by the side of the road and
waited for the troops to reach them. When they drew
close, Mark stepped into the center of the weed-filled,
cracked old road. He held up his hand.
  The convoy stopped and the troops got out to face
Mark.
  Some four hundred men and women stood facing him;
many would not meet his hard eyes.
  "Here it is," Mark spoke firmly. "As far
as I am concerned, New Africa is no more."
He noticed only a few stirring at his words.
"Those pf you who wish to follow me, you're
welcome. Personally, I am linking up with Ben
Raines and his people. If he will have me, I will live
where he lives, and live under his rules. Do not think
that Ben Raines would have behaved as I did a few
days ago. If Ben Raines had ordered you
to shoot, and you refused, you would not be standing on this
highway this day, for Ben Raines would have personally
shot you for disobeying an order. I'm not that hard; I
should have done that, but I couldn't. Ben Raines would have
done it without blinking, and so will I if it ever occurs
again. You will never disgrace my command again-and
live to speak of it. Ben Raines is
  hard; that's why he is a survivor and you people are
slinking along the road with your tails tucked between your
legs like whipped dogs. And if you're not afraid
to fight, if you think you can obey orders, and if you
love freedom and liberty, follow me. I'll
take you to Ben Raines."

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  Juan Solis, his brother, Alvaro, and several
hundred followers pulled into Ben's new command post
and base camp six days after their defeat. Juan
walked up to Ben and the two men shook hands.
  "These are all I could convince to join me, Ben,"
Juan said. "When my troops witnessed that ...
awfulness, it seemed to take the fight out of many of my
men. I told them they were making a mistake."
  "Don't they know that eventually General
Striganov will move against them?"
  Alvaro shook his head and said, "We tried
to tell them, General Raines. Both of us. But they
were too numbed by what happened for it to sink in. I
am afraid that for many of them, when if finally does
sink in, it will be too late."
  "Mark Terry pulled in yesterday with about five
hundred troops," Ben said. "He told me if
I'd have them, they want to join us, not
temporarily, but on a full-time basis. New
Africa is, according to Mark, no more. He gave quite a
speech to his people, so I hear. Said we were
wrong-all of us-in living the way we were. You and
I have spoken of that, Juan."
  The Mexican shook his head. "Yes, and to a
point I agree with Mark. I am very disappointed in
my people, Ben. I can understand what they did-their
refusal
  to fire-but I cannot forgive it. I simply cannot.
So, Ben Raines, we are here. I will not return
to lead a people whose men have lost their
cojones.
I, and these hundred who follow me, now wish
to pledge our loyalties to you, General. You lead;
we shall follow and obey."
  And again, Ben asked the silent question to which he had
yet to receive a reply: Why me?
CHAPTER FOUR
  The IPF had not come out of the battle with
Raines's Rebels smelling like the proverbial
rose. They had lost more men than all three
brigades fighting against them combined. But Striganov
could better afford the heavy loss of personnel and
equipment, for he had fresh troops coming in

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from Iceland, and still more behind those in reserve. If he
chose to go in that direction.
  But the Russian general who dreamed of a master
race did not choose to go that route. He knew,
now, the fierceness of President-General Ben
Raines. He knew, now, that those who followed Ben
Raines would follow him and fight to the death. And he
knew, from scouts' reports, contingents from the
Mexican and black brigades had once more linked
up with Raines, and those racially inferior people had also
pledged to fight to the death alongside Raines's
Rebels.
  Well, Striganov mused, let them fight and
let them die. Their struggles would be in vain. The
Russian had
  no doubts about that; nothing clouded his mind; nothing
within the Russian suggested that his dream of a master
race would be unsuccessful. He felt, from studying
history, that if Hitler had not committed so many
troops to the Russian front, the little paper
hanger would have won the war and chased the Allies right
back into the English Channel.
  But Striganov was no Hitler. The Russian
knew he was not insane, and would make no such costly
errors in judgment.
  He gave his orders. "Prepare to move out.
We move in two days. Leave only a token
force behind to guard our perfect people and the other breeding
stock. This time we throw it all at General
Raines."
  They met in Ben's suite of rooms at a
motel in Poplar Bluff. Cecil, Ike,
Hector, Juan and Mark.
  "All right, boys," Ben got the ball rolling.
"I'm open for suggestions as to our next move.
Let's toss it around and see what we come up with."
  "Looks like to me," Ike said, "we're damned
if we do and damned if we don't. Any move
we make is going to cost us in blood."
  "Yes," Mark said. "I agree. If we
elect to cut and run, try to set up a stable
government anywhere, Striganov will just find us and
we'll still have to fight."

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  "Root hog or die," Juan mused aloud.
"I believe we are in this to the death. I cannot see
any other way." He looked at Cecil.
  Cecil sighed and then nodded his head in agreement.
"Even if we could make some sort of peace
arrangement with the Russian, none of us would be able
  to live with our conscience, not knowing what was
taking place with so many people. I think it would drive
me insane knowing Striganov was putting his master
race plan into operation, with all the horrors therewith,
and we were sitting back safe, allowing it to happen."
  "I felt physically ill when I first saw that
tattoo on Peggy's arm," Mark spoke softly.
"I believe that hit me harder than seeing the young
women and the old people that day on the ridge. It... it
drove it all home to me."
  Ike drummed his finger tips on the meeting table.
"What bugs me is that we can't get an accurate
picture of just how many troops Striganov has.
If we knew that, then we could make some firm
plans."
  "No way yet of really knowing that," Ben said.
"But I'll wager he's got two divisions
to back him up-at least."
  "Felt like he was throwing that at me," Hector
said with a very slight smile. "But I know he
wasn't."
  Hector had been wounded in the side and in the arm,
but his wounds were more painful than serious.
  What was more agonizing to Colonel Ramos was the
fact he had taken such awful casualties: Almost
seventy-five percent of his troops were either
dead or wounded, with many of the wounded not expected
to live.
  "They were tryin' to flank you, Hec," Ike said.
"Come up under us. Their intelligence was bad; they
thought you had the smallest force, when in reality, Ben
had the smallest troop contingent." He looked at
Ben.
"Two divisions,
Ben?"
  "Yes. But I don't believe they are all
stateside; I

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  think they're still coming in from Iceland. And there is this
to consider: Russian divisions have always been
smaller than American divisions. But even with that
knowledge, I'd make a guess Striganov has between
eighteen and twenty thousand troops. After all, people,
Striganov's had better than a decade to work this
out."
  He expelled his breath and rubbed a hand across his
face, as if trying to erase the worry he felt.
"I think we're back to plan one, boys. We just
don't have the people to stand up and slug it out with the
Russians."
  Colonel Gray stepped into the room. "Sorry
I am late, gentlemen," the Englishman
said. "But I wanted to debrief the last group of
LETTERRP'S that came in. General, they report the
Russian is gearing up to throw it all at us the
next go-round. And the rumors they heard, plus some
actual radio transmissions our intelligence people
decoded, clearly state the massive push coming at
us very soon."
  Ben nodded. The news did not surprise him.
It was what he would do if he stood in the
Russian's boots.
  Colonel Gray poured himself a cup of coffee,
tasted it, grimaced and said, "My word."
  The men laughed and Cecil said, "Ben, you said
back to plan one. What did you mean?"
  "I believe we're too small a force to stand
up and do anymore nose-to-nose slugging it out with the
IPF. Add the fact that we've taken
substantial losses in troops-it wouldn't take
Striganov long to overrun and destroy us. That's
my belief. So ... I think we've got to go to a
guerrilla-type operation: hit and run, and I mean
hit hard. Cut and slash and demoralize. If it
can be mined, mine it; if it can be blown, blow it up.
  We've got snipers who can knock the eye out
of a squirrel at three hundred
meters-use them as long-distance shooters. Give me
your thoughts on those ideas."
  "I don't see that we have a choice," Ike
said.

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  The rest of the men agreed.
  Ben spoke to Cecil. "Order the heavy
howitzers into hiding with the main battle tanks. Send
the PU!'S into hiding. We can't risk losing any
of them and with this type of operation, we'll have to depend
on speed to survive. I want
them
to come to
us
this time. This is perfect country for ambushes and
throat-cuttings: rolling hills and lots of brush.
  "Gentlemen, start breaking your commands into small,
highly movable teams. I want destruction and
terror and confusion. Ike, get word back
to Tri-States that I want all the Claymores,
C-4, mines and dynamite we have in storage
sent up here ASAP. Go over the use of high
explosives with all your people. Hec, get your people
to cleaning up the airport here at Poplar
Bluff-we'll use that strip.
  "Colonel Gray, send fresh teams
of scouts and LETTERRP'S back north with all the
equipment they can carry. Tell them to start cutting
throats. Have them determine which route the IPF will be
taking and mine those bridges. We've got some good
electronics people with us; they can rig those
explosives so our LETTERRP'S can lay back two,
three miles and blow the bridges, with maximum
killing effects and less danger to themselves.
  "I want fresh teams on the way to replace
weary teams at all times. I don't have to tell you
men what a strain guerrilla warfare is; you all
know a man tires
  mentally and physically very quickly. And I don't
want any heroics." He looked each man
square in the eyes. "I mean that. For a number of
reasons. Just being a part of any guerrilla action
is heroic enough. And you all know that for an
iron-clad fact.
  "We've got the edge over the IPF in this type
of action, even though we're heavily outnumbered.
Most of our people have been fighting, in one way or
another, for years. This is our type of war. But

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tell your people if they think they can't cut it-no pun
intended," Ben said with a smile, and the men all laughed
in rough soldier humor, "to step forward
now. Don't endanger their buddies' lives.
  "We will neutralize our zones of operation. If
the people are IPF supporters-kill them. We went
over this before, but I feel it best to hash it out again.
The people will either be one hundred percent for what we are
attempting to do, or one hundred percent against us.
There will be no middle ground. We don't have the time
or the personnel for a political debate.
Anyone could turn our teams in. If you're Red,
you're dead. That's the way it has to be, and that's the
way it is going to be from this moment on. Do I make
myself clear?"
  "Perfectly, General," Colonel Gray
said. He smiled. "Put quite forcefully, I should
say."
  Ben looked around the table. There were no questions from
any man.
  "All right, boys," Ben said. "I want the first
teams equipped and moving north by late this afternoon.
That's it, people, let's move it and shake it."
  Cecil held up a hand, signaling that the meeting
was not yet over. "Ben, I have to ask the question that is
on all our minds."
  Ben looked at him.
  "Your part in all this guerrilla action will
be to oversee the project and direct from this base-is
that correct?"
  "Not necessarily." Ben braced himself, for he
knew what was coming. And he was going to have no part of it.
  "Whoa, now, partner." Ike swung his eyes
to Ben. "Like it or not, someone has to run things from this
side of the battle line. You know that and you know who that
person is."
  Colonel Gray sat without entering the conversation.
He knew very well no one would be able to keep
General Raines out of the field. The man had
entirely too much old war-horse in him for that.
Middle-aged or not.
  Juan looked horrified. "General Raines,
you can't be serious. I mean, you can't be thinking of

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leading a team into the field."
  Even Mark was upset, his face registering that
discomposure. "General, your place is here. That
you would even consider-was
  Ben silenced them with a look and wave of his hand.
"My place, gentlemen, shall be wherever I'm needed
and can do the most good. If I feel the need to go into the
field, I shall do just that." He stood up. "And that
settles the matter. Do we have any further questions
concerning this operation?"
  There were questions by the score on each man's tongue,
but they checked any vocal arguments. They all
knew better than to cross Ben when his mind was
made up.
  "Tina is well-trained in this business of
guerrilla warfare," Colonel Gray asked the
question without it being put as such. "I know, I helped
train her."
  "Then by all means, use her," Ben said, no
expression on his face. "No one among us is
indispensable."
  Only one man, the thought jumped into the brain of the
men who sat looking up at Ben Raines.
  But no one spoke the name aloud.
  "Move out, gentlemen," Ben said softly. "And
good luck to you all."
CHAPTER FIVE
I
have passed the Rubicon; swim or sink, live or
die, survive or perish with my country-that is my
unalterable determination.
  -John Adams
  "It ain't our fight," the burly man told the
young captain from Raines's Rebels.
  "Mister-was the captain stood his ground,
the ground in this case being just below the Great Smoky
Mountains National Park in north Georgia-"if
you think it isn't your fight, if you think the IPF
won't be in here after you and your family, you'd better
think again."
  The man spat tobacco juice on the ground.
"When or if this Russian and his troops get here,
we'll fight. But not before."

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  "By then it may well be too late," he was
told.
  "Mayhaps you be right in that," the man replied in
the peculiar mountain dialect that many families still
used after centuries. "But me and mine been gettin'
by
  in these mountains for more years than there was a nation,
sonny boy. The Russians come in here and they'll
find us to be not so hospitable as we is to you and your
soldiers ... sonny boy."
  The young captain met the mountain man's stony
gaze with a look just as unflinching and unyielding.
"Mister, you call me sonny boy one more time, and
you're going to be eating on the butt of this
AK-47. And after I butt-stroke you, I am
going to stomp your fucking guts clear out."
  "He looks and acts like he might just be
able to do it, Abe," a man called from the porch.
  Good-humored laughter broke from the knot of men
gathered around the troops.
  Humor touched the burly mountain man's eyes.
"I do believe you'd try your best to whup me,
wouldn't you...Captain?"
  A grin touched the corners of Capt. Roger
Rayle's mouth. "Yes, sir, I sure would."
  The mountain man laughed and shook his shaggy head.
"All right, Captain. Come on up to the porch.
Folks been a-bringin' in food all morning. We
eat and talk about this thing. We don't get much
outside news "round here. Be nice to find out
what's happenin" in the world and with these Russians!"
  Abe stopped dead in his tracks and slowly
turned around when Captain Rayle said, "A
resurgence of Nazism, sir."
  Abe stared at him for a long moment. He blinked.
"Resurgence. Good word. I believe that means-and you
tell me if I'm wrong-these Russian people, the
IPF, they doing the same thing that Hitler feller
done back in the thirties and forties to the Jews.
  Am I right?"
  "Yes, sir. You are exactly right. And they must
be stopped."
  By now the crowd around the stone and wood house had

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grown to more than a hundred men and women. They stood
silently.
  Abe said, "My daddy was a paratrooper in that
war. He helped liberate a concentration camp.
Don't rightly recall just where it was. He told
me he had seen some ugly sights in his life,
during the war. Hadn't never seen nothing to compare with
that. Said them people was the poorest lookin' bunch he'd
ever seen. Made him sick, so he said. Couldn't
keep nothing on his stomach for a week or better.
  "Now, as for me, I don't know many Jew
folks. Them I have known, I didn't much care for.
Too pushy for my tastes. But my personal
opinions don't matter much when it comes to another
man doing a deliberate hurt to a human being
"cause of race or religion. I just don't
hold with that. What is this IPF bunch doin"
to folks?"
  "They are taking everyone not of a pure white
race-blacks, Hispanics, Asians, Jews,
Indians-and operating on them so they cannot reproduce
offspring. They are tattooing I.d. numbers on
them. They are torturing them and conducting medical
experiments on them. If a person does
not have a high enough I.q., regardless of race, he
is being disposed of."
  "Killed, you mean?"
  "Yes, sir."
  The man spat another stream of tobacco juice
on the ground. "All this is fact?"
  "Yes, sir."
  A long, lean, lanky man set his coffee cup
on the porch railing and stood up. "Abe," he
said, "don't you be startin' no meetin' "til I
get back here, now, you hear?"
  "Where you be goin"?"
  "To get my kin and my gun."
  Raines's Rebels got in the first bloody,
savage lick of the newly declared guerrilla war.
The column of IPF troops and equipment was on
a bridge in south central Iowa, crossing the
Des Moines River when hundreds of pounds of
carefully hidden high explosives were

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electronically detonated. One full company of
troops was killed when their trucks plunged
nose-first into the cold, dark waters of the river.
Fifty were killed when the bridge exploded,
hurling men and equipment and assorted arms and legs
high into the air, to plunge and sink into the
river.
  The LETTERRP teams had allowed several IPF
trucks to cross the bridge before activating the
charges, cutting them off from the main convoy. The
IPF troops were chopped to bloody rags of flesh
and splintered shards of bone by mortar and heavy machine
gunfire from the Rebels hidden in the thick brush that
now grew alongside the roads and interstates of the
once-most-powerful nation in the world.
  By the time the IPF could backtrack and cross the
river, coming up to the point of ambush, the Rebels were
long gone, fading silently and quickly into the
countryside, their gruesome jobs efficiently and
effectively done.
  Colonel Fechnor, who was commanding the troops
spearheading the assault south, smiled a humorless
grimace of grudging respect for the men and women of the
scouts and LETTERRP'S, and for Gen. Ben Raines.
  This one action-even if there were no more, and Fechnor
knew there would be many more-had succeeded in its initial
objective: slowing down the advance of the IPF.
Now every bridge, no matter how small, would have
to be inspected and inspected very carefully. Fechnor
knew
the Rebels would have ambush teams at every
bridge and overpass along the way. If just one out
of every five teams Fechnor sent out returned, he
would consider that good odds.
  No, Fechnor mused, this President-General
Ben Raines was not going to roll over like a whipped
puppy and give up. If Raines went down at
all, it would be with a snarling, biting, savage action.
  For the first time-the very first time-Colonel Fechnor
felt that just maybe the International Peace Force had
bitten off more than they could chew or swallow
safely.
  But, Colonel Fechnor thought, mentally shaking

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off the thought of defeat, he could not think that-that was
treason. He was a soldier, and as a soldier he
obeyed orders. He did not question whether they were right
or wrong. He simply obeyed. Fechnor was the
epitome of the universal soldier.
  A type found in all armies. The type without which
no army could exist or function. Without them, there could
be no wars.
  Fechnor ordered his dead buried. He stood with
an impassive soldier's face as this was done.
  Then the colonel made his second mistake of
that day.
  "What do our scouts report on the
conditions in Ottumwa?" he asked an aide.
  "The city is deserted, sir. They say it is a
ghost town. They don't know where the people went. First
reports of several weeks ago stated the city had
several hundred residents."
  They probably left to join Ben Raines, the
colonel said to himself, and he was right in that assumption.
"Very well. No need to change course. Drive
right on through the city."
  Ottumwa was anything but a ghost town.
  Colonel Gray's people had sealed the bypass
around the city with old semi-rigs, carefully placed
so it looked as though there had been a terrible accident
months before and the wreckage never cleared.
  There was about to be just that. But what was about to occur
to Col. Valeska Fechnor's IPF troops was
to be anything but an accident.
  The old highway ran through the center of the
once-thriving little city, and on both sides of the main
drag of town, waiting behind dusty and broken windows,
crouched on rooftops and hidden in ground-level old
stores, were the trained troops of Gray's
Scouts. They waited, hands gripping weapons, their
only movement the shifting and blinking of eyes.
  "Convoy approaching the city limits,
sir," a forward-placed LETTERRP radioed back
to Dan Gray.
  "Received," Colonel Gray's aide radioed
back. She turned to Dan. "Convoy coming in,
sir. And it's a big one.

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  "Good, good." Dan smiled and rubbed his hands
together. "Excellent, dear. Now we shall teach the
bloody arrogant bastards a hard lesson about
life. Or," he laughed, "the loss of it."
  She returned the soft yet hard laughter of the
professional fighter.
  The lead scout APC cautiously turned the
corner and swung onto the main street.
  "Hold your fire," Dan whispered into a
walkie-talkie. "Let them get clear; our
lads south of the main area will bloody their knives
on the scouts."
  Colonel Fechnor felt it first. An
experienced soldier, he felt that anticipatory
tingle on the short hairs of his neck. He looked
around him. His entire convoy stretched out behind him on
the main street of town.
  Where were the dogs? he thought. There should be mangy
dogs slinking about. Birds, too. But the street was
void of all life.
  Suddenly, Fechnor knew he had been
suckered.
  Sitting ducks! he thought. "Floorboard it!"
he yelled, startling his young driver. "Get the hell
off this street and out of town." He grabbed up his
mic. "Ambush!" he shouted. "Ambush!"
  The driver jammed the pedal to the floorboards and the
car shot forward just as a building exploded
to Fechnor's right. A second later the building
on the opposite side of the street blew, just as
two buildings far down the street erupted in
rubble-filled fury, effectively blocking both
ends of the street and sealing the IPF column.
  Fechnor's armored car just barely escaped the
carnage only heartbeats away.
  "Cut to the right!" Colonel Fechnor screamed.
  "Head to the west."
  The frightened young man obeyed instantly as the sound
of automatic weapon fire and grenades reached their
ears.
  The taste in Colonel Fechnor's mouth was sour
and ugly as his frightened young driver found Highway
34 and roared toward the west. Toward safety, the

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young man feverishly hoped.
  On the main street of Ottumwa, the
troops of the IPF were being brutally slaughtered, many
of them taken by such surprise they were unable to fire
their weapons before slugs chopped them to death.
  Using M-16's, M-16A2's,
.50-caliber and M-60 machine guns,
AK-47'S, anti-tank rockets and grenades,
the Rebels cut and slashed at the IPF
personnel. Screams from the frightened and the wounded and the
dying echoed off the buildings, mingling with the yammer of
rapid fire and the booming of grenades and rockets.
The air was filled with gun smoke and concrete dust
from the shattered buildings. Small fires had
broken out, the smoke adding to the confusion of the ambushed
IPF troops.
  The fire-fight was over in five minutes. Those
men and women from the IPF who had managed to jump from
the trucks and run inside the buildings, seeking
safety there, were riddled with bullets from the Rebels
waiting for just such an action.
  Col. Dan Gray's Scouts and LETTERRP'S
took no prisoners. Teams went to each fallen
IPF member to deliver the
coup de grace:
a bullet to the back of the head.
  "Gather up all the weapons and
equipment," Colonel Gray instructed his people.
"Every piece of equipment
  that is workable, every vehicle that will run, anything we
can possibly find some use for, take it. We'll
head south and cache it."
  The smell of blood and urine and relaxed bowels
from the dead that littered the shattered streets was foul in
the air.
  And the dogs had returned, warily, sniffing at the
dead.
  "What about the bodies, Colonel?"
  Colonel Gray looked at the dogs, then
carefully smoothed his trimmed moustache with a finger
tip. "Leave them. The dogs appear hungry."
  The sounds of the long, blacksnake whip cutting
into flesh was followed by the cries and screams of the man

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being beaten and the sobs of the naked woman who was being
forced to watch. The woman was held by two men:
occasionally one or the other of the men would carelessly reach
out to fondle some part of her nakedness. She had
resigned herself to this humiliation and no longer struggled
when one of them touched her. In the background, a
huge wooden cross had been erected, its butt
jammed into a hole in the ground and secured. It was
blazing, sending shimmering waves of heat
into the coolness of the autumn air.
  Tears streaked the woman's face. "Please
stop," she implored the men. "You're killing him.
For the love of God-stop it."
  "Naw, we ain't neither," a white-robed man
casually informed her, not taking his eyes from the naked
man being beaten. "We jist mar kin' him up some;
teach him a lesson furst, then we'll get to you,
seein' as how you
  lak' niggers so much." He laughed. "Yeah, we
got a right nice treat in store for you, missy."
  The long, leather whip whistled and sang its painful
tune as it hummed on its way to impacting with bare
flesh. The impact was a cracking slap, blood
leaping from the cut. The young man screamed as the pain
tore through his body. He sagged against the post where he
was bound. His crotch rubbed against the rough wood of the
post.
  "Lookee there!" another white-robed man
called as he laughed. "Nigger-lover looks lak'
he a-tryin' to fuck that there post. Hunch agin' it,
boy!"
  The woman averted her eyes from the sight of her
husband.
  "OF Henry there is an expert with the
blacksnake," one of the men holding her said. He
reached across and pinched a nipple. The woman bit
her lip to keep from crying out. The man grinned at
this. "For a nigger-fucker, missy, you got nice
titties. Yep, I seen ol' Henry make a
whuppin' las' for near'bouts three hours once.
I believe that were back in ninety-six. "Course
hit were a nigger buck we was whuppin" then-bigger and
some tougher than your little man. Built up better,

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too. I can see why you like nigger meat so much; your
man ain't got no cock on him at all. Never
could make that nigger beg. So after we whupped him
rawer "an a skinned pig, we strung him up."
He pointed to a tree. "Rat over there. We
choked him to death. Took 'bout a hour. That was
fun, watchin" that nigger dance. We lowered him a
dozen times, let him suck air. Man was lak'
an animal." He grinned lewdly. "Had him a
cock lak' a horse. Way you lak' nigger meat,
missy, you'd have cummed jist a-lookin' at that
nigger's whork."
 The woman shook her head and sobbed out her
reply. "I have never had sex with a black man.
Only with my husband."
 "You a lie!" another man told her,
walking up to the nude woman. His robes were satin,
much more ornate than any of the others. "You nothin' but
white trash, woman. We caught you travelin' with
niggers."
 "We were only helping them escape!" the woman
screamed. "I've told you people that. Why don't you
believe us?"
 was "Cause you a lie, 'at's why." The man
turned away from her. He looked for a moment at the
beating, then called," 'At's enuff, Henry.
Don't want to kill the boy. Cut him down.
You, Richie, you go get that nigger buck, drag his
monkey ass out to the circle."
 A slender black man was dragged into the circle
of robed men and women. He was naked. His eyes were
blazing with fury and shame. "You people had no right to do
this," he told the Klansmen. "This man and woman
were merely helping me and my wife to escape from the
IPF."
 That got him a crack across the mouth from the Klan
spokesman. "Shut your nigger mouth, boy. "You
stay in your place, you hear? "Round here, boy,
niggers talk when spoken to."
 The horsewhipped man was cut from the whipping post
and dragged into the center of the circle.
"Dump some water on his ass," the spokesman
said. "We want him to watch this."

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  A bucket of creek water was poured on the
sobbing, bleeding man. He struggled to sit up on
ground and at the same time cover his nakedness.
  "You wastin" your time a-tryin' to cover that little
  thing of yourn," a man leered at him. "You must have
to stick it up your wife's asshole afore she even
knows you got anything in her."
  That brought hoots of laughter from the circle of men
and women. More than one Klan woman had her eyes
on the genital area of the naked black man.
  was "At there's not a bad idea," the
spokesman said. "Luther, you go get Big Jim
and brang him over here. We'll have us a show 'fore
we let the nigger buck and the white bitch have at it."
  Within moments a huge white man entered into the
circle of the white-robes. That the man was mentally
deficient was obvious at first glance. His eyes were
dull and his face wore the slackness of the
near-insane.
  "Big Jim," the spokesman said. "I want
you to shuck outta your pants. Now, you go on and do
'er now, boy, show us all your equipment."
  Big Jim dropped his ragged jeans to the
dirt. He wore no underwear. Many of the Klan
women licked their lips at the sight of his enormous
penis.
  "Go git the nigger's wife," a man was ordered.
  A well-shaped and pretty light-skinned woman
was dragged naked and weeping into the circle.
  "That 'un got more'n her share of white blood
in her," Henry said. "Big Jim gonna have him a
high ol" time with her, awright."
  "Missy," the spokesman told the white
woman. "You crawl over there and jack off Big
Jim; git him up good and hard."
  She refused at first. Several hard slaps across
her face changed her mind. Reluctantly and with
revulsion on her face, she complied.
  Big Jim soon became more than enormous.
He was
  deformed. The woman released him and was dragged
back to the hard hands that held her.
  "Tear that nigger gal's pussy up, Big

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Jim," the spokesman said with a laugh.
  The young black woman's screaming soon echoed
around the circle gathered around the burning cross.
When Big Jim left the woman, she was huddled in
a ball of hurt on the dirt. The grinning
man was pointed out of the circle. He left carrying
his pants.
  "Position the nigger-lover," the spokesman
ordered the men holding the woman.
  She was forced to her hands and knees. The black
man was told, "Git it up, shine. We gonna
watch and see what you got that this nigger-lover laks
so much."
  "I will not!" the black man said.
  The Klansman grinned. "How'd you lak' for me
to call Big Jim back in here and have him fuck your
wife unnormally?"
  The man hissed his revulsion at the thought.
  "Will you let us go after we... do that?" the naked
white woman asked. "If we ... have sex, will you
promise to let us go?"
  "Well let you go alive. Shore we will."
  "Do it, Jimmy," she told him, all
resistance gone from her. She sagged in defeat. The
cries of the black woman were still very much in sound and
fury. The woman was bleeding. "Do it, Jimmy,"
she repeated. "If you don't, they'll torture and
kill us all."
  "You beside' listen to the woman, nigger."
  "Why are you doing this to us?" Jimmy
asked, anguish in his voice. "We havent done a
thing to you people. Why?"
  "You be a nigger, boy, and that there is reason
enuff.
  This area is pure "round here-for miles and
miles. Pure white. No nigger, no greasers,
no spies, no wops, no Jews, or nobody
else lak" "at 'round here-and they ain't never
gonna be neither. Now don't none of us know nothin"
"bout this Russian ya'll keep flappin" your
gums about, and I don't really care. But it sounds
lak'-if they is such a feller-he's on the right
track with his thinkin'. Now you get that cock of yourn

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up hard and dog-fuck this white bitch. Then ya'll
can leave here. When you do git gone, pass the word:
No niggers allowed in here."
  "I ... can't get an erection under these
circumstances," Jimmy said.
  The Klansman kicked the white man in the
side. He fell to his back and screamed in pain.
  "White boy, you lak' niggers so much, you crawl
over here and suck this black bastard hard. And you either
do it, or I'll have your balls cut off."
  His wife's tears dropped to the dusty ground.
  Jimmy stood trembling in rage and
humiliation and helplessness.
  His wife sobbed on the ground.
  The bloody young man crawled toward the black
man.
  The circle of robed men and women began laughing.
CHAPTER SIX
  "We're going to have trouble in central Illinois,
Ben," Cecil said. "We're getting more reports
stating a strong Klan resurgence in that area. And
they are getting nasty with it."
  Main Command Post, Poplar Bluff,
Missouri. Ben sighed and looked up from a map.
  "How many and how strong?"
  "Field reports show the IPF is sending in
teams to talk about an alliance with the Klan, and the
Klan is buying their garbage."
  "Shit!" Ben spat the word. "God, that's all
we need at this time."
  "Lots of hate, Ben. I think even more so than
back in eighty-eight.
  Ben rubbed his face with his hands. He blew out a
long, sighing breath. "It's time for some good news,
Cec. What's the word out of north Georgia?"
  "Hostile at first. But Captain Rayle said in
his last report the people are getting stirred
up about the IPF. Most are willing to see us come
in. Captain Rayle says
  they'll work with us."
  "Good. I want those mountain people on our side.
I just can't help remembering the reception I got
in the Smokies back in eighty-nine."

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  "Oh?"
  The first of May, 1989 found Ben in the middle
of the Great Smoky Mountains, sitting in a motel
room in a deserted town, eating a cold, canned
meal.
  These mountain people, he concluded, were weird. He
couldn't get close enough to any of them to say a word.
At a little town just south of Bryson City, a man
made the mistake of taking a shot at Ben. Ben
had reacted instinctively and spent the next few,
long hours watching the man die from a stomach wound.
  "Why did you shoot at me?" Ben asked. "I
wasn't doing a thing."
  "Outsider," the man had gasped. "Got no
business being here. We'll get you."
  "Why? Why do you want to "get me"?"
  But the man had lost consciousness and Ben never
learned the answer to his question-at least not from the man
he'd shot.
  Sitting in the motel room, Ben was filled with
doubts and questions. Where had all the people gone? The people of
Atlanta? What was the use of spending years
writing something ... his
  His head jerked up as Juno growled softly,
rising to his feet, muzzle toward the door.
  "We don't mean you any harm, mister," a
boy's voice said. "But if that big dog jumps
at me, I'm gonna shoot it."
  Ben put a hand on Juno's big head and told
him to relax. He clicked on the recorder. "So
come on in and sit," he invited.
  A boy and girl, in their mid-teens, appeared in
the door. They looked to be brother and sister. Ben
pointed to a couple of chairs.
  The boy shook his head. "Well stand, thank you,
though."
  "What can I do for you?" Ben asked.
  "It ain't what you can do for us," the girl said.
"It's what we can do for you."
  "All right."
  "Git your kit together and git on outta here," the
boy said. "They's comin' to git you tonight."
  "Who is coming to get me-and why?"

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  "Our people," the girl told him. She was
a very pretty girl, but already the signs of ignorance
and poverty were taking their toll, affecting her speech
and features.
  The poverty and ignorance of her parents, Ben
thought.
  Root cause-in the home, passed from generation
to generation, parent to child.
  When will we ever learn? But... is it too late
now? He thought not.
  "I've done nothing to your people," Ben said.
  "You kilt our uncle," the boy said. "Ain't that
doin' somethang?"
  "Your uncle shot at me for no reason. All
I was trying to do was catch some fish for my supper."
  "Our roads, our mountains, our fish," the girl
said.
  "I see," Ben's reply was soft. "And you
don't want any outsiders here?"
  "That's it, mister."
  "If you feel that strongly, why are you warning
me?"
  The question seemed to confuse the pair. The boy shook
his head." 'Cause we don't want no more
killin" around here. And if you'll leave, there
won't be no more."
  "Do you agree with your people's way of life?"
  "It ain't up to us to agree or disagree," the
boy said. "The word's done been passed down from
Corning. And if you stay here, mister, you gonna
die."
  "Who or what is a Corning?"
  "The leader."
  "Ah, yes." Ben smiled, but was careful not
to offend the young people, or rib their manner of speaking or
thinking. "Let me guess: This Corning is the
biggest and the strongest among you all. He is a
religious man-or so he says-and he has a
great, powerful voice and spouts the Bible a lot.
Am I right?"
  "Mister"-the girl's voice was soft with
awe-"how'd you know all that?"
  Ben looked at her. She was pretty and shapely

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and ripe for picking. "And I'll bet this
Corning-I'll bet he likes you a lot, right?"
  She nodded her head. "He's taken a shine
to me, yeah."
  "No doubt." Ben's reply was dry. How
quickly some of us revert, he thought. Tribal
chieftain. He stood up and the kids quickly backed
away, toward the open door. "Take it
easy. I won't hurt you. Are you going to get
into trouble for coming here, warning me?"
  The girl shook her head. "We come the back
trails. We know where the lookouts is. "You
leavin'?"
  "Yes, I'll be gone in half an hour."
  She stood gazing at him. "We're not bad people,
mister. We jist don't want no more of your world,
that's all. Why cain't ever'body just live the way
they want to live, and then ever'body would git
along?"
  Why indeed? Ben thought, and once again, the
Rebels entered his mind. He felt compelled to say
something profound. Instead he said, "Because, dear, then
we wouldn't have a nation, would we?"
  She blinked. "But we ain't got one now, have
we?"
  Then they were gone.
  "Wonder what happened to that cult?" Cecil
asked.
  "Died out, hopefully. Maybe someone bigger and
stronger than Corning came along and killed him.
That's the way it usually happens, I guess."
He stood up and stretched. "Any word from Dan?"
  Cecil grinned a warrior' smile of
satisfaction over hearing of an enemy's defeat.
"Not since yesterday. That is one randy Englishman.
His bunch completely destroyed a full column of
IPF troops. Wiped them out to a person."
  "For a fact, Cec, Dan does not like to be
bothered with prisoners. Those SAS boys were randy as
hell." Ben grinned. "Besides wiping out an entire
column, they demoralized the hell out of a bunch of
other IPF troops." Ben's grin grew wider.
"I can't help but wonder what happened to that

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colonel who was commanding the unit."
  "Dan said he turned tail and ran."
  "Well, he got his tit in the wringer for that,
I'm betting."
  Cecil gave Ben a mock grimace. "God,
Ben! I'm
  glad Gale isn't here to hear that crack." Ben
laughed. "Me, too."
  General Striganov at first could not believe his
ears. He stared at Colonel Fechnor for a full
moment. "The entire battalion!" the general finally
roared. He rose from his chair to face a
still-badly-shaken Fechnor. "I can't believe this.
You lost an entire battalion?"
  Colonel Fechnor's driver stood
by the colonel's side. The young man was trembling from
fear and exhaustion: fear at General
Striganov's rage, and exhaustion from the long and
sometimes-harrowing drive north, all the while
imagining all sorts of dire repercussions from the
general. Much to his regret, what he envisioned was
coming true.
  Fechnor stood at full attention, no give in
him at his general's rage. "Yes, sir," he
replied. "First a bridge blew, then we were forced
to wait and regroup. Then we were ambushed in
Ottumwa. I-was
  "I am not interested in excuses!" Striganov
roared. His face was red with fury. "Excuses are
a weak man's forte. You are not a weak man,
Fechnor. Fechnor-was he visibly calmed
himself-"you are a trained, experienced combat veteran.
You were decorated for your work in Afghanistan, for
bravery as well as for common sense. We've been
together since you were a mere lieutenant. What in the
name of everything we hold sacred has happened to your
courage?"
  "There is nothing the matter with my courage,
General," Fechnor flared, forgetting to hold his
tongue. "My scouts reported the town
deserted. I am forced to accept their findings-as any
field commander must.
  We approached the city with all due caution.

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My people fought well. But in vain. As for me-was
  "You ran." Striganov stated the damning fact
flatly, considerable heat in his voice. "You should have
remained there, fighting and dying with your people."
  The colonel met the general's stare, refusing
to back down. "What you say may be true,
General. If so, I am ready to accept and face
whatever punishment you deem necessary, including, of
course, the firing squad. I-was
  Striganov waved him silent. He ordered the
driver to leave the room. The young man almost fell
over his feet in his haste to obey. Both men were forced
to smile at the young man's antics. They both
remembered their own youth, and their fear and awe of
superior officers. The eyes of the two senior
officers of the IPF met and held, and understanding
passed between them in silent messages.
  "Don't be ridiculous, Valeska,"
Striganov said. "I have absolutely no intention
of putting you against a wall. I spoke in haste; you
should not have stayed and died. You are my most experienced
and valuable field officer. I cannot afford
to lose you; you know that. I apologize for losing my
temper. Your scouts are to blame for not thoroughly
checking the city. They should have-as you did-sensed an
ambush." Striganov returned to his chair and
sat down heavily, sighing deeply. He remained
thus for a time, brooding silently. Finally he
looked up, catching Colonel Fechnor staring at
him. The colonel was still standing at attention.
  "Stand at ease, Colonel," Striganov said.
"No," he amended that order. "Relax, make
  yourself comfortable. Have some tea. I insist."
  Colonel Fechnor relaxed and walked to the tea
service, pouring a cup of tea. He sugared and
creamed the beverage and returned to sit in a chair
facing General Striganov's desk, carefully
placing cup and saucer on the desk.
  "Valeska," the general said softly, "do you
believe in any sort of supreme being?"
  The question caught Fechnor off-guard. He thought
for a few seconds, then said, "Why I..." He
paused, not sure how to reply,

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  "Truthfully, now, old friend," Striganov said
with a very slight smile, as if sharing some secret with the
man, a confidence only the two of them knew. "We
have no one listening to report our conversation
back to the Central Party Headquarters."
  Fechnor returned the slight smile. "Yes,"
he said. "One does tend to forget the old ways no
longer apply,
da?"
  "Old habits are difficult to break,"
Striganov agreed.
  "Yes," Fechnor spoke after a time.
"Yes... I do believe there is something ...
something-I don't know what-after death. Good or
bad," he said with a shrug of his shoulders. "Yes-I
simply cannot believe that all the world, with its trees
and flowers and animals and ... beings just evolved. I
have felt that way for a long time. Since maturity."
Colonel Fechnor felt better for having said that.
  "I see." Georgi spoke the words so softly
Valeska had to lean forward and strain to hear them. The
colonel waited for his commander to drop the other
shoe-if he had another shoe to drop. He did.
  "Yes," Striganov said. "I find that
interesting, Valeska. For I, too, have felt for
some time there just might be some truth to the belief in a
higher power. Although I do not profess to know what
type of higher power-I don't believe anyone
does. I ..." He paused, choosing his
words carefully. "But I do believe ... I have this
thought, this theory, that President-General Ben
Raines stands-quite unknowingly, I think-very close
to this... this higher being, there really is some sort of...
supreme being."
  Col. Valeska Fechnor could but stare at his
commander. He could not believe the words his ears had
heard.
  Striganov's smile held more than a touch of
amusement. "Oh yes, Valeska. Your ears have not
deceived you. But I repeat: I do not believe Ben
Raines knows of his ... closeness. If my theory
is correct, that is. However, I do not think Ben
Raines is always viewed in a favorable light

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by-was he grimaced-"by whatever it is that we believe
might exist as some higher power or order."
  Colonel Fechnor sat stunned in his chair, the
excellent tea in front of him forgotten, cooling
its fragrance. "Are ... are you saying, Georgi,
that we are locked in combat with-
God?"
  Georgi lifted his eyes to meet Fechnor's
amazed look. "In a manner of speaking, yes.
If one believes in God. But if there exists such
a person or thing or being-whatever-He is
not known for direct interference or intervention.
Lately I have studied the babblings of the Bible. I
have studied them quite closely, over a period of
months. Of course, it goes without saying I
reject most of the writing as a figment
  of someone's imagination, but... parts of that book
disturb me. The New Testament is quite bland and
uninteresting-it's the Old Testament that intrigues
me, fascinates me. Since you used the word, let
us maintain the usage: Why would
God
interfere so directly and openly in the Old
Testament and not in the New? I find that
contradictory. Very much so." Suddenly his features
hardened. "And the goddamned Jews just persist in
surviving. No matter what happens to them, no
matter five thousand years of attempting to wipe them
out, the bastards manage to survive. Through thousands of
years of persecution-they survive. And now Ben
Raines shares his bed and blankets with a Jew
bitch." He shook his head. "I do not believe it
was an accident."
  Fechnor waited for a moment, then said, "What is
at the base of all this, General? I gather it
centers around the Jewess. What about her?"
  Striganov drummed his finger tips on his desk.
"Kill her," he said.
  "The advance of the IPF has halted in
southwestern Iowa," Cecil reported to Ben, a
puzzled look on his face. "And I don't know
why and neither do any of our intelligence people."
  "Striganov is up to something," Ben replied

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without hesitation.
  "That is our consensus," Cecil said, sitting
down. "Without solid proof, of course. Dan
Gray's LETTERRP'S report the eastern column
stopped at Muscatine and Dan says his people have
reported the center column halted at
Oskaloosa. Everything has stopped dead in
  its tracks."
  Ben looked around him at the roomful of men.
"Anybody care to venture an opinion as to why?"
he asked.
  No one would venture an opinion. The
Russian's action was confusing to all of them.
  Gale took that opportunity to stick her head
into the motel room Ben was using as an office.
  "Give your Jewess a great big kiss for me,
da?" The
words of the Russian popped into Ben's
consciousness. Maybe, he thought.
  But what would Striganov hope to gain by harming
her? Ben silently asked.
  He could find no answer.
  "Come on in, Gale," Ben told her.
  Gale smiled. "Am I intruding on this
all-male gathering?"
  "Honey." Ike returned the smile. "As
pretty as you are, your presence could never be considered
any sort of intrusion."
  "Ike," she said, looking at him, "you are so
full of shit as to be unreal."
  "I do so love a plain-spoken woman," Ike
replied, taking no umbrage at her remark.
Ike could take it as well as dish it out.
  "Ben," Gale said, turning to him, "I just
spoke with some stragglers that wandered into town. They
came from California. They told me about seeing and
talking with some old fellow who called himself the
Prophet."
  Ben nodded his head; he had not thought about the
strange-appearing old man in some time. "A lot of
people have seen that old guy, Gale. I've seen him-
  Ike, a number of others. Why? What about
him?"

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  "Who is he, Ben?"
  As Ben began to talk, telling her what he
knew of the old man, memories flooded him,
taking him back to Little Rock, more than a year before.
  Little Rock was a dead city. Twelve years of
neglect and looting had reduced the once-thriving
city into blackened girders, stark against the backdrop
of blue skies and burned-out buildings. Dead
rats lay in heaps, stinking under the sun, fouling the
air of the dusty streets.
  Ben drove by a high school that somehow looked
familiar. Then he recalled that troops had been
sent to this high school in the 1950's to integrate
it.
  He told Rosita as much, but she did not seem
impressed.
  "Doesn't history interest you, Rosita?" he
asked.
  She shrugged her indifference. "It don't put
pork chops on the table, Ben," she replied with her
usual air. She was one of the few who dared to speak
to Ben in such a manner.
  "What?"
  Her smile was sad. "Ben-I can't read much."
  "Dear God," Ben muttered. He
glanced at her. "You must have been about eight when the
bombs came, right?"
  "Pretty good guess, Ben. I was nine."
  "How much schooling since then?"
  "Lots of lessons in the school of hard
knocks," she replied, going on the defensive.
  "Don't be a smart-ass, short stuff," Ben
said with a grin to soften his words.
  "OK, Ben. I'll play it straight. Not much
schooling. I read very slowly and skip over all the
big words."
  "You don't understand them."
  "That's right."
  "You know anything about nouns, pronouns, adverbs,
sentence construction?"
  "No." Her reply was softly given.
  "Then I will see to it that you learn how to read,
Rosita. It's imperative that everyone know how

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to read."
  "I got by without it." She pouted.
  "What about your children? Damn it, short stuff, this
is what I've been trying to hammer into people's heads.
You people are make or break for civilization. I
don't understand why so many of you can't-or won't-see
that."
  He stopped the truck in a part of the city that
appeared to be relatively free of dead rats.
They got out and walked.
  "So I and my
ninos can
learn to make atomic bombs and again blow up the
world, Ben? So we can read the formulas for making
germs that kill? I-was
  "Heads up, General!" a Rebel called.
  Ben and Rosita turned. Ben heard her sharp
intake of breath.
"Dios mio!"
she hissed.
  A man was approaching them, angling across the
street, stepping around the litter. It was the man in the
dreams Rosita had been having. Bearded and robed
and carrying a long staff.
  The man stopped in the street and Ben looked into the
wildest eyes he had ever seen.
  And the oldest, the thought came to him.
  "My God," someone said. "It's Moses."
  A small patrol started toward the man. He
held up a warning hand. "Stay away, ye
soldiers of a false god."
  "It is Moses," a woman muttered,
only half in jest.
  Ben continued to stare at the man. And be stared at in
return.
  "I hope not," Ben said, and
his
reply was given only half in jest. Something about the
man was disturbing. "Are you all right?" Ben called
to him. "We have food we'll share with you."
  The robed man said, "I want nothing from you."
He stabbed his long staff against the broken concrete
of the street. He swung his dark, piercing eyes to the

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Rebels gathering around Ben, weapons at the ready.
"Your worshipping of a false god is offensive."
He turned and walked away.
 Rosita stood in mild shock, her heart
hammering and racing wildly.
 Gunfire spun them around. Then the radio
crackled with the news a patrol had found a family
unit of mutants and the mutants had attacked them.
The Rebels had killed them all. Ben and his
patrol went to the building that had housed the mutants
and were wondering what to do with the only survivor, a
small mutant child.
 "Here comes nutsy," a Rebel called into the
basement.
 "Who?" Ben looked up, then realized the
Rebel was referring to the old man in robes.
 The old man appeared at the shattered basement
door. "I am called the Prophet," he
spoke.
 He pointed his staff at Ben. "Your life will be
long and strife-filled. You will sire many children, and in
 the end none of your dreams will become reality. I
have spoken with God, and He has sent me to tell you
these things. You are as He to your people, and soon-in your
measurement of time-many more will come to believe it. But
recall His words: No false gods before me." The
old man's eyes seemed to burn into Ben's head.
"It will not be your fault, but it will lie on your
head."
 He turned away, walking back into the street.
 The Rebels stood in silence for a few moments,
until a Rebel from the outside stuck his head into the
doorway.
 "Sure is quiet in here," he said.
 "What did you make of nutsy?" he was asked.
 "Who?"
 "The old guy with the beard and the sandals and the robe and
staff."
 The Rebel had seen no one answering
to that description.
 "Well, where the hell have you been?"
 "I been sittin' outside in the Jeep!" the
guard replied indignantly. "And there ain't been

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nobody wearing robes or sandals and carryin' a
stick come out of this building. What the hell have you people
been doing-smokin' some old left-handed
cigarettes?"
  Later, Ben spoke with Buck Osgood, who
had just pulled in from Arizona. He told Ben he
had seen some old man who called himself the
Prophet.
  "When did you see him, Buck?"
  "Ah, last week."
  "In Arizona?"
  "Yes, sir."
  "What date, Buck?"
  "Ah, the ninth, sir."
  "Time, approximately?"
  was "Bout noon, I reckon."
  "That's the same date and time I saw him," Ben
told the young sergeant.
  Buck looked at the general strangely. "I
didn't know you were in Arizona on the ninth, sir."
  "I wasn't," Ben said. He met the
man's eyes. "I was in Little Rock."
  Gale paled at the telling of the story, one hand
going to her throat. "Ben-I saw him and spoke with
him the night before the IPF shelled the camp
alongside Interstate 70."
  Ben leaned back in his chair and studied her. He
sighed. The mystery man was beginning to disturb him.
Who was he? What did he want? What did he
represent? And why did he keep popping up?
  "What did you two discuss, Gale?"
  She repeated the conversation almost word for word.
  Lamar Chase leaned forward, listening intently.
  Ike and Cecil sat open-mouthed.
  Hector crossed himself.
  When she had finished, Ben said, "I don't
want you to leave this camp, Gale. Not for any
reason-not on your own. I'm going to have guards with you
at all times."
  "Ben, why are you scaring me like this?"
  "I'm not doing it deliberately, Gale,
believe me. I just have this feeling Striganov might
try to grab you or harm you; he might think he could

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get to me that
  way. I want you to be very careful from now on,
Gale. Very careful."
  She sat down, a worried look on her face.
"All right, Ben. From what I've heard about Sam
Hartline, I don't want to fall into his hands."
  "You won't," Ben assured her. "Just do as I
say and don't argue about it."
  "That'll be the day," Lamar said dryly.
  Gale stuck her tongue out at him.
  "The beast is impregnated from the sperm of a
human male," the IPF doctor informed General
Striganov. "And the Mexicans, the blacks, and the
Jew bitches are pregnant from the sperm of the male
mutant. I believe gestation time is going to be very
short."
  Striganov smiled his pleasure and approval.
"Give me an educated guess as to gestation time,"
he pushed the doctor.
  The doctor shrugged and lifted one eyebrow.
While in Iceland he had discovered old George
Sanders movies and had begun emulating the late
actor's mannerisms. "X-rays show the fetus
developing very rapidly. I would say no more than
sixty days, at the outset." He held the
X-ray up to the light and clipped the print in
place.
  General Striganov studied the
picture. The shape of the baby was very clear,
depicting a form more human than animal, but still
clearly showing animal characteristics. The Russian
leader again nodded his pleasure. "Very good, doctor.
Now-cease, at once, all sterilization projects
on the women remaining in our camps. I want them
fertile for the mutant experimentation.
  I will issue orders for teams to fan out, to gather
more women, as many as possible. I believe-if all
works out, and I see no reason for failure-we just
might have stumbled upon a new race of workers,
doctor. I think, doctor, we are going to go down
in history as great men." He smiled and rubbed his
hands together. "Yes indeed, doctor. A pure
master race with subhuman workers at our command. I

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like that concept, don't you?"
  "Very much so, General," the doctor replied, his
smile as large as that creasing the general's face.
"Perhaps the Jews and other inferior minorities have
finally found their true niche in life,
da?
Copulating with mutants!" He laughed.
  Both men found that hysterically amusing. They were
laughing as they walked out of the office and into the hall.
  But to the women who were desperately
attempting to devise a method of aborting the
half-human fetuses they carried in their bodies,
and to the men who had been forced to copulate with the
female mutants, it was anything but amusing. The
women could not put into words their feelings at being
strapped onto specially built tables and
experiencing the horror and pain of the male mutants
jamming their sex organs deep into their bodies. The
hideousness of the sex act was so disgusting, that if given
a choice, all would have chosen death over the mating.
Several women had gone into such deep shock they had
died. Several more had tried to kill themselves. Another
was mauled so badly when the male mutant became
excited during the act, she would carry the physical
scars forever.
  But the women could think of no way to abort
  themselves of the monsters that were forming inside their
bodies-growing, taking shape, at almost
unbelievable speed. The women were under constant
supervision; a member of the IPF medical teams was
at their sides at all times. The women were never
left alone, not even when going to the bathroom. The
chosen women would birth the half-mutant children, and if
the IPF doctors had their way, there would be many of the
half-mutant offspring.
  In selected and carefully padded rooms in what
had become known as the warehouse, the wailing and
screaming of the women being sexually introduced to male
mutants could be heard throughout the day and night.
To keep the big male mutants happy and content,
many of the sterilized women were "given" to the
mutants-always under careful supervision so the big
males would not kill the women when they became

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excited while copulating.
  The screaming seemed to never stop.
  And the human men chosen for the experiment were
experiencing nightmares of such hideous magnitude
many of them had to be sedated before sleep. And to make
matters worse for the men, many of the female mutants
had grown fond of their human sex partners; so much
so the beasts were not content unless they could be with the men at
least part of the day and night, touching and stroking and
caressing them.
  The men and women of the IPF found that most amusing.
  "You do know what fightin" is all about," Abe
Lancer said. He spoke from the ground, where Captain
  Rayle had tossed him during a hand-to-hand
combat session. "I'll be gittin' up now," Abe
said. "Take me a rest. You "bout wore me
plumb out, Captain."
  Captain Rayle extended his hand and grinned. The
mountain man accepted the hand warily, then returned
the smile as he was helped to his feet.
  "All of President Raines's people trained like
you?" the man asked Roger.
  "Quite a number of us. The general insists on his people
being able to take care of themselves."
  Abe rubbed his aching and bruised shoulder and grinned
ruefully. "I would have to say, Captain, you folks
do know that, all right."
  The crowd of mountain people and flat-landers from down in
Georgia had watched in silence and some
disbelief-at first-as the smaller, lighter and much
less powerful Rebel captain had tossed the big
mountain man around like a rag doll, bouncing him off
the ground time after time. Abe had been unable to land
even one blow.
  Captain Rayle and his small contingent of
Rebels had been surprised at the number of
survivors they had discovered in the area, and
delighted at the number who accepted them. Almost a
thousand men and women had volunteered to be trained by the
small detachment of Rebels.
  But the civilians needed no training in
marksmanship, however. There was not a man
among them who could not punch out the center of a Prince

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Albert can at three hundred yards with a rifle.
  All the Rebels had been touched by the
naivet@eof the country people and amused and mildly
shocked by the open frankness of the people. And all had been
  genuinely welcomed into the homes of the people.
  Ben had deliberately mixed the detachment,
including blacks and Jews and Hispanics and
Orientals; he wanted the people to see exactly what
his philosophy was all about.
  "We ain't got nothing agin" black
folks-or anybody else, for that matter," one
man had told Captain Rayle. "We live
side by side with black folks and work ever' day with
"em. Long as a man pulls his weight and don't
want something for nothing and don't try to mess over
another person, anyone is welcome to come here and
live. The one thing we ain't gonna put up with is
no goddamn welfare state. If a man or
woman is able to work, by God they gonna work; they
ain't gonna lay up on their backsides and do
nothing 'cept eat and git fat at somebody
else's labor." That much was the Rebel's
philosophy. "I 'member how it was-how it
got-'fore the big war of eighty-eight:
lazy-assed trashy women of all colors layin"
around and fuckin' and havin' babies that the taxpayers
had to support; goddamned sorry, trashy men
too lazy to work, sayin' a certain kind of job was
beneath "em. Piss on those people. We ain't gonna have
none of them in here. No way. Now they ain't
nobody who is sick gonna go hungry or cold
in this area; we'll look after 'em folk-see to it that
nobody lacks for comfort. But them that can work is
gonna work.
  "It's a small community as communities go.
We all know who is tippy-toein" around,
liftin' what skirt and when. Woman gets in a
family way, the man responsible is gonna
support the child. And we don't give a good
goddamn how much more work the man's gotta do.
He's gonna do "er.
  "I ain't sayin" I hold much with mixed
marriages, but me and mine kinda figure that really

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ain't none of our truck. Man or woman wants
to wake up in the morning time and look at ugly-that's
their business."
  "Had many cases arose where a man refused
to support a child he fathered?"
  "One, to date. Feller admitted he
got his jollies with the lady-said she should have tooken
some measures to don't have no kid. Refused
to help with the child."
  "What happened to him?"
  "He come up shot one night," the man replied
noncommittally. "Dead."
  The Rebel smiled at this very final type of
justice. "Klan strong in this area?"
  The man fixed him with a baleful look. "I
ain't got no use a-tal for that bunch of white
trash. Never did have. Don't know nobody that do.
Wouldn't have "em around me if I did. Don't
know no one that would. That answer your question?"
  The Rebel laughed. "Sure does."
  Captain Rayle radioed back to Ben,
requesting that medical supplies and medics be sent
into the area. Soon trucks began rolling in, some
of them diverted from the battle area. The trucks
brought in not only badly needed medicines, but also a
few doctors and teams of highly trained medics
to beef up the few medical people that had survived the
plague of the previous year. They were welcomed.
  Ben had given Captain Rayle his orders
personally, in a private meeting back in
Tri-States. Roger had the mapped-out
coordinates for what Ben had called the last chance
for his dream, and it was in that area that Captain Rayle
and his people were working,
  fanning out, attempting to make contact with all those
who survived. They began finalizing the boundaries.
The Alabama line would be the western boundary, from
Burke up in Tennessee down to Bowdon in
Georgia, on the Alabama line. The line would
run straight east to Orangeburg in South
Carolina, then take a ninety-degree turn
to Columbia, angling gently northwest, following
Interstate 26 as the guiding line up to Ashville.

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From there, the north boundary would be a line straight
east, connecting with Burke to close the area.
 "Get your defensive positions quietly laid
out," Ben had instructed. "Study what we did in
the old Tri-States back in eighty-nine and
ninety. Use that as a guidebook. When we get
as many of the people out of the areas controlled by the IPF as
possible, we'll be coming in. To stay," he added, with
more than a touch of grimness to his comment. "I
hope."
 There were tears in her eyes, spilling down to roll
in silver rivers over her cheeks as she read the
message, then reread it. Ben sat
quietly and watched her. Gale looked at him through
a blurry mist. She wiped her eyes and threw the
message in a wad onto his desk.
 "That is the most monstrous thing I have ever heard
of, Ben," she said, considerable heat to her comment. Her
dark eyes flashed fire through the mist that tinted them
multicolored.
 She had just read about the IPF'S experimentation
programs with minority men and women. The report
had been sent to Ben by LETTERRP'S and verified by people who
had managed to escape the area controlled by the
IPF.
 "Yes," Ben said.
 "The man is a reincarnation of Hitler!" she
spat out the damning accusation.
 "I concur, Gale."
 "And his doctors and IPF people are no better
than the fucking Gestapo!" she shouted at him.
 "Yes, I agree with that."
 "He has to be stopped, Ben."
 "Yes."
 "Well?"
 "Well, what?" Ben knew what was coming at him
and he dreaded it.
"Stop them, Ben!"
 Ben rose from his chair and took her into his arms,
holding her, touching her, smoothing her hair.
"Gale, I don't have the manpower to do that." For
once she didn't attack the statement as being
sexist. "Striganov has me outgunned and

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out-manned, and in many instances, the American people are
supporting his actions. I-was
  She pulled away from him and glared up at him,
about a hundred pounds of mad. "Don't tell me
that, Ben. Just don't you attempt to hand me that
crap! You're Ben Raines. You
pulled-single-handedly-this nation back together in
eighty-nine. You formed your own government within a
government and made it work. You can do anything, Ben.
Everyone who follows you says you can do anything. And
I believe it. Yes, now I believe it. You're
forgetting, I spoke with the Prophet, and I've
talked with people who were in that mutant basement when he
singled you out, spoke directly to you. You've been
chosen, Ben. You-was
  Ben looked down at her and laughed, a harsh,
sarcastic bark of dark humor. "You, too,
Gale? Come on! Of all the people I thought would
reject the notion that I am something more than a
mortal, I thought you would be that person.
Gale, I'm flesh and blood-nothing more than that.
I cut myself shaving, I stub my toe sometimes, and
cuss when I do. I bang my shin on coffee
tables. I don't sit on the right side of God
Almighty; and I don't receive any special
instructions from him. I-was
  "I'm pregnant," she announced.
  Ben stood for a moment, looking at her. He
blinked a couple of times.
  "Aren't you going to say anything?" she asked.
  "Well... ah..."
  "For a writer, Ben, you sure have a way with the
English language."
  "I can do without your smart-ass remarks,
Gale."
  "Big deal."
  "Ah, are you certain about this?" he asked.
  "I'm certain. I was certain the night it
happened. And it happened the same night I spoke
with the Prophet. It will be twins."
  "Gale... you
can't be
certain about that."

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  "I know."
  Ben shook his head. "You mean you know you
can't be certain?"
  "No. I know I'm certain."
  "Well ..." He hesitated for a moment.
"I'm ... glad."
  "I can see you leaping up and down from joy," she
commented dryly. "Are you going to move against the
IPF?"
  "I am moving against them, Gale. In the best
way I know how."
  She put her hands on her hips and stood her
ground. "It isn't enough."
  Ben fought to keep his patience, but knew whatever
he said was going to be wrong to her ears. And he
didn't want to speak the words. For what was happening
in the IPF'-CONTROLLED territory was sickening
to him, although, he knew, not to the extent it was
to Gale.
  "It's the best I can do, Gale, without launching
a full-scale invasion into IPF territory."
  She hung on with the tenacity of a pit bulldog.
"Then it appears to me that would be what you would have to do.
Now."
  "No, Gale."
  "Why not, Ben?"
  Ben took a deep, calming breath. It
didn't work. "Because it would be too costly in terms
of human life. My people's lives."
  A funny-odd look slipped into her dark
eyes. She smiled. Ben took a step backward.
He had seen that look before. "What are you thinking,
Gale?"
  "Why don't you put it before your people, General
Raines," she challenged him. "Or are you afraid
they'll say go in and fight and stop this horror?"
  "Gale, that is what I want to do. Believe
me. But I have a responsibility to
all
those who follow me."
  She glared up at him. "You talk about human
life, Ben. Human life?" She softened her
tone, coming to him, touching his arm. "Oh, Ben, you

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don't understand what is happening up there." She
waved toward the west. Ben pointed in the right
direction: north. She
  made a face at him. "I don't believe you
really understand. Not at all. Not all the terror and
horror and suffering. Human beings are being used as
lab rats and guinea pigs. They are being
tortured. Horrible, terrible, perverted, disgusting
acts are being perpetrated upon them.
Human life, Ben? How about human suffering?
Rape and degradation and God only knows what
else. I can't believe you can just sit back and
allow this to continue."
  "Gale, honey, listen to me. I don't want
you to misinterpret this, but my group is, I
believe, the last shot civilization has if any
type of democratic social order is
to prevail. Civilization-was
  She spun away from him, her eyes flashing fire
and fury. She balled her hands into small fists and
hit him on the shoulder. "Fuck civilization!" she
screamed the words at him.
"Civilization!
Goddamn it, Ben. Do you think General
Striganov is
civilized?
Do you think what that monster is doing to men and women and
children can be called-by any stretch of the
imagination-civilized? You're living in a dream
world. You're talking about law and order and speaking in
terms of productivity and education. But I'm
talking about
survival!
The God-given right of any race of people
to exist in peace. That's what I'm talking about,
Mr. President-General Raines." She jabbed
a finger against his chest. "And you, sir, and your people, are
the only ones left on the face of this earth-that I
know of-who have the might to uphold and maintain and
guarantee that right. And that is, I believe, your
duty!"
  She stood before him, chest heaving from her fast
speech. The room was still and silent after her outburst.

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  Ben looked at her for a moment. Then he looked
toward the closed motel room door. "All right,
people," he called. "You can all come in. I know
you're out there listening."
  The door swung open slowly and Ike and
Cecil and Doctor Chase stood there, grinning
sheepishly.
  "Cec," Ben said. "Get in touch with the tank
commanders. Tell them to roll the tanks back up here
and get in position to move north. Then get in touch
with the heavy artillery, same orders. Contact
Tri-States. I want every man and woman and
teen-ager that can handle a weapon up here-
pronto!
Those that are too old for actual combat can start
stripping the area clean, loading it up on
trucks, and moving it over to Captain Rayle's
area in Georgia.
  "Ike, move one full combat company over
to Georgia, just in case the Russian figures out
what we're doing and sends people in there. Roll the
convoys day and night, push them hard-I want all
the combat troops up here in thirty-six hours.
  "I don't want any of you people to get your hopes
up too high about this operation. We're not going to beat
Striganov. We are too few against overwhelming
odds. But I think we can hurt him badly enough
to make him stop what he's doing. Or at the very
least give us the time to rescue as many people as possible.
And I want to hurt him badly enough to give us the time
to rebuild over in Georgia, give us the time
to fortify our positions so he'll think a long time
before launching any attack against us. I won't say
we'll never have to move again. We probably will.
History proves that for every group of people who attempt
to start
  some form of orderly society, there is always some
other group or groups that want to destroy it. But
we have to try and try and keep trying. We must never
give up. Never.
  "We are going to take heavy losses in
this campaign; prepare your people for that. That's it,
gang-move out."

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  He looked at Gale. "All right, Gale.
We'll give it our best shot."
  She kissed him on the cheek. "Of course you will,
darling. I knew that all along."
CHAPTER SEVEN
  Jimmy Linfort and his wife, Helen, along with
John Demoss and his wife, Lisa, staggered down
the weed-filled, old two-lane highway. They were
naked, but it was difficult to tell that because all four
of them had been tarred and feathered before the Klansmen
had dragged them to the town limits and kicked them out,
warning them never to come back. And to spread the word:
No niggers or nigger-lovers allowed. Before they had
tarred and feathered the four of them, half a dozen
Klansmen had raped the white woman and assaulted
the black woman anally, forcing their husbands to watch
the humiliation. They had then forced the white man
to rape the black man while the robed circle of
men and women laughed.
  "You sucked his black cock, boy," a
Klansman yelled. "Only fair you git some
brown on that little thing of yourn."
  Then they tarred and feathered the four of them.
  As they staggered away from the city limits sign,
one man said, "They look lak" big, ugly
ducks, don't they, boys?"
  The four of them were heading for the Missouri line on
Highway 54, planning to cross the
Mississippi at Louisiana, Missouri. When
they felt they were far enough away from the Klan-controlled
territory, the four of them stopped at a deserted
old farmhouse, found some gasoline, and began the
job of cleaning up. And that was painful, for a lot of
hide and hair came off with the tar and feathers.
  They primed an old pump until clean water
came gushing out, and bathed. For the first time in days, the
four of them felt some degree of safety as they
dressed in old but clean clothes.
  A slight noise from the back yard spun them
around, fear leaping into their eyes, hearts hammering.
But fear changed to compassion when the saw the source of the
noise: several children, ranging in age from eleven
to fourteen. A black girl, a Spanish girl,

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and a Jewish boy and girl.
  All four children, the adults would soon learn, had
been beaten, tortured and sexually assaulted many
times.
  "We won't hurt you," Helen said,
kneeling down, opening her arms to the kids.
  But the young people were hesitant to come forward, distrust
evident in their eyes.
  "Where are you from?" Jimmy asked.
  The oldest boy looked at the adults for a
moment, then pointed to the north. "We escaped from
IPF country."
  "We found some canned food," Lisa said.
"We'll share it with you. Are you hungry?"
  They all nodded that they were.
  And food broke the barrier of fear and distrust.
  It was only after dinner that evening, in the lamp and
candlelit old farmhouse by the side of the road, that the
young people melted enough to talk. The oldest, Leon,
told the adults of their ordeal.
  "People from the IPF came and got our-was he
indicated his younger sister, "parents. Our mother and father.
Later on that day, a man slipped through the alley
by our house and called out to me to get my sister and
get out-run. I grabbed up some clothes and food and
got Amy and ran, slipped out the back door just
at dark. I later heard that our parents had been
killed when they escaped from the IPF and tried
to organize a resistance force. The same thing
happened to the other kids' parents. We
hid out in old houses and in the woods and stuff like
that. We only traveled after dark. One afternoon I
fell asleep and Amy went walking, looking at
flowers growing wild. Some men grabbed her and raped
her. Did other stuff to her. She was bleeding when I
found her."
  Helen looked at the small child. She seemed so
frail and helpless, clinging to her brother. "How old
are you, Amy?"
  "Twelve," the child whispered, keeping her eyes
downcast.
  "Jesus," Jimmy said.
  "They hurt me," Amy said simply.

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  Her brother swung his gaze to his sister, then
looked back at the adults. "That's the first time
she's spoken of it since it happened. The first words
she's said in months."
  Amy crawled over to Lisa and let the woman
hold her. There were no tears on the child's face, no
emotion
  evident in her eyes. Just a childlike, stoic
acceptance that what had happened could not in any way be
changed.
  "We met a lot of kids on the run," Leon
said. He appeared to be the spokesman for the
young group. "They all had pretty much the same
story. We've been on the run for-was he was thoughtful
for a moment-"I think about five months. We have all
had things done to us that..." For a moment it looked as
though he might weep, then his slender features
hardened as he toughened. "Things that we would all rather
forget ... but I know that none of us ever will. Ever."
He dropped his eyes and was silent.
  "Stay with us," John told them all, going to the
young group, putting his arms around a young girl.
"We're going to arm ourselves. We'll take care of
you. We promise."
  Leon looked gravely at the four adults.
His sudden and small smile was grim. He reached
into his knapsack and pulled out a large revolver.
It seemed too big for his small hand, but he
looked as though he knew how to use it.
"Yesterday," he said, "a man tried to take one
of the girls. He opened his pants and exposed himself
to me. Wanted me to suck him. Said he had some
buddies just down the road he wanted us all
to meet. I knew what kind of men his buddies would
be. He put his hand between Amy's legs and felt
her ... there. Then he tried to fondle me. I
shot him in the face. Right between the eyes.
Killed him. So maybe we'll go with you people-maybe
not. It all depends."
  The adults could not understand the reluctance.
"Depends on what?" Jimmy asked.
  "Which direction you're going. We're going over
to

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  Missouri to find Mr. Ben Raines. If that's
the direction you people are heading, OK, we'll tag
along. But you people better find yourselves some guns, because
it looks like you've all had a bad time of it. And
you'd better not be cowards-none of you. Because if you
are, you won't make it. Somebody will rape you
all-men and women-and then they'll kill you, after they
use you and torture you. You all better remember
that."
  The four adults looked at this frail-appearing
but obviously tough young boy, scarcely into his
teens and already having killed a grown man in
defense of his charges. And ready to kill as many times
as need be. The knapsack was open, and all could
see the haft of a hunting knife. They had no
doubts that Leon would use that knife as well as the
pistol.
  "You are a very tough and capable young man," Helen
observed. She was just a little bit in awe of the
boy.
  "I'm a survivor," Leon cleared it up.
"And so is Mr. Ben Raines-among other things, that
is." He did not attempt to explain that last
bit. "The IPF or anyone else will never take
me or my sister alive-not ever. Some big men
grabbed me ... about four months ago. I heard
them coming and hid Amy. They took me, stripped
me, and used me like a girl. I couldn't walk for
three days. No one will ever do that to me again."
  "We'll start looking for Mr. Ben Raines first
thing in the morning," Jimmy said.
  "All right," Leon said. "We'll look together.
But first we'll find you all some guns. There's
lots of guns around. You just have to know where to look for
them."
  "None of us has ever fired a gun before,"
Jimmy said.
  Leon leveled oldstyoungstwise eyes on the
group of adults. The words that came from his mouth,
rolling from his tongue, were harsh, and older than his young
years. "Then you'd all damn well better learn
how."
  They had gathered in southern South Dakota, some

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three hundred young people, ranging in age from
eight to eighteen. They came from the west side of the
Mississippi River. The youngest to be armed was
twelve. They had all seen horrors through young
eyes; all had experienced some form of sexual
abuse from the perverts that now roamed the land with
impunity, with only slightly more immunity than when
law and order prevailed-or so the myth went before the
great war wiped out all forms of social order,
liberal
and
conservative.
  All the young people had endured and survived
physical abuse. Many had been on their own for
years. All had toughened during this period of
violent upheaval. All were wise to the ways of
survival, these young people, and they had fought off the
cruel advance of perverted men and women many times
during the years of young youth past. Play was something
they knew nothing about. A good time was a full belly
and a warm place to sleep. Happy was being safe for a
few hours. Most did not know the meaning of love.
  On the other side of the river, the east side, in
Indiana, yet another group of youths had gathered,
almost identical to the grouping on the west side of the
Mississippi.
  The two groups had maintained radio contact for
months now, in preparation for war. Now they waited for
word that Ben Raines was moving against the IPF. They
would join Ben Raines in that upcoming fight.
  Both groups were armed with a mishmash of weapons: from
.22-caliber rifles and pistols to AK-47'S
and M-16's and shotguns. Some carried
Molotov cocktails: bottles of gas with a rag
stuffed down the neck-homemade bombs. Others
carried grenades hooked onto web belts. All
carried at least one knife, and they had used the
sharpened blades more than once.
  The thugs and perverts and two-legged slime that are
always lurking in the gutters and who seem to survive
any tragedy had learned to give these bands of young people
a very wide berth. They had learned that very painfully
over the years, leaving dead along the way, stiffening

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reminders of the harsh lessons one must learn in
life's classroom.
  The young people were of all races, all creeds. None
of them paid any attention to whether the boy or girl
next to them was white or black or tan or yellow
or purple with antennae for ears. They were of like
mind: to fight the IPF to the death, for many had lost
brothers and sisters and mothers and fathers to the
cruelty of the IPF. But first they would wait until
Ben Raines started his push north. They all thought
he would, for Ben Raines, so the legend went, was a
Godlike man-and all the young people felt him more God
than man. And they knew Mr. Ben Raines would
win this fight, for gods do not know defeat. The young
wanted to help Ben Raines, and then join his free
society. Wherever Mr. Ben Raines wanted
to settle would be just fine with them.
  For they all worshipped Ben Raines.
  They had first seen and then helped erect shrines
to Ben Raines, wherever they happened to wander throughout the
ravaged land.
  Like their counterparts to the west, the eastern-based young
people also worshipped the legend called Ben Raines.
None had ever seen the man in person, but most
carried small pictures of him, carefully sealed
and protected in plastic.
  And like their counterparts to the west, each young person
had his own personal horror story of sexual
abuse and perversion and torture and hunger and shame
and loneliness.
  A young girl who at age eight had been raped
repeatedly then tossed aside, left to die in a
ditch by the side of the road, but had been
found by other young people and cared for.
  A young boy of ten who had been used as a girl
by older men.
  A young black who had been tortured and then
left for dead ... simply because of the color of his
skin.
  An Indian boy who had been stripped naked and
sexually abused, then beaten and left for dead.
  An Oriental who was found hanging naked by his
ankles from a tree limb, almost dead from being

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whipped, nursed back to health by the caring young.
  The stories were almost the same in their horror.
  But now the young people-a modern-day Orphans'
Brigade, east and west-were organized, armed, and
ready and willing and able to fight. They had all been
bloodied, now they were ready to spill
  someone else's blood ... for the right to live
free.
  They waited. Waited for the man-god they
worshipped.
  Ben Raines.
  In the extreme northern regions of
Michigan, in the deep timber, more than eight
hundred men and women had gathered. They had done so
quietly, attracting no attention to their
congregation. The men and women were all over fifty,
many of them in their seventies, some in their eighties.
  They had gathered together for protection, coming to this area
when word spread through the grapevine of the coming together of the
elderly.
  The men were all armed, and well-armed. Almost all
were veterans of the early days of Vietnam. Some from
the Korean War, a few from the Second World War.
They were ex-marines, ex-Green Berets,
ex-navy, ex-air force and ex-AF Commandoes.
They were ex-Seal's, ex-Rangers, ex-Letterrp,
ex-grunt. All had killed, many with wire and
knife and bare hands.
  "Has President Raines got a chance?" a
man asked.
  "Slim to none," was the reply. It came as no
surprise to any of the men.
  "I don't feel right sitting up here in safety
while Raines and his people take it on the chin for us,"
came another opinion.
  "Who said we were going to do anything like that?" Gen.
Art Tanner (ret.) spoke from the fringe of the
gathering. "Let's gather at the lodge and talk this
out."
  The men gathered in the huge meeting room
of the
  once-famous ski lodge. They waited in
silence as Tanner mounted the stage and spoke through a

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bull-horn.
  "All right, boys," Tanner said with a grin, the
thought of once more seeing action making his blood race
hotly through his veins. "You all know why we came
here. Let's get down to it and map out some hard
reality and plan our strategy. Let's take it from
the top. We're getting old, boys. Hell, we
are old. We're not young bucks anymore, all
full of piss and vinegar and a constant hard-on.
We've all got to face up to the fact that our
legs and lungs aren't what they used to be. Anyone
here want to take off on a twenty-mile forced march
with full pack and combat gear to prove me wrong?"
  No one did, but it galled the men to have to admit
they weren't the men they used to be. No one had to say
a word; it was very evident on every face in the room.
  was "K," General Tanner said. "Now we know
where we stand physically. But on the plus side, we
know things the young bucks don't know. We know
planning and we know patience. We know the weapons
we carry and we are all well aware of our
personal capabilities in the
field-what we can and can't do. That is something that comes
only with age.
  was 'K. There are four hundred and fifty of us
old coots. Well divide up into three short
companies of one hundred and twenty-five each.
Support and HQ will number fifty. The other
twenty-five will act as LETTERRP'S, scouts and
forward observers. Those will be the youngest of us." He
laughed and the meeting room shook with male laughter.
"The youngest here being fifty-three, I believe.
Mere child."
  Again the room rocked with laughter.
  General Tanner waited for the laughter to subside
and finally held up his hand. was 'K. Now then, how
many here have pacemakers?"
  A dozen hands went up, some of them
reluctantly.
  was 'Knowledge," Tanner said. "You people will be part of
HQ'S company. Now then, how many here have bad
backs, arthritis severe enough to limit walking or
running, or any other debilitating illness that would

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keep you out of the field?"
 Another dozen hands went up, some of them gnarled
and twisted from arthritis.
 "You'll join HQ'S company,"
Tanner told them as his eyes swept the room.
He found a man sitting quietly and
unobtrusively, as if attempting to avoid
notice. "Now, goddamn it, Larry!" Tanner
shouted. General Tanner was stone deaf in one ear and
hard of hearing in the other. His normal tone while
speaking was that of a top sergeant addressing troops.
In a hurricane. "You only have one leg. You
got the other one shot off in Laos back in
sixty-two. What the hell good do you think you'd be
in the field?"
 "I'll be as good as any other man," the veteran
said. "I can still do the bop." He stepped out into the
aisle and did just that, ending the dance with a little soft-shoe
routine.
 The men in the room applauded.
 "All that is very commendable, Larry," Tanner
said. "But what if you break that wooden leg?"
 "I'll use my dick!" Larry retorted.
"It's long enough."
 The men exploded with laughter.
 "Yes, Larry," General Tanner said dryly.
"That
 would be one solution to the problem, providing a man
your age could still get it up!"
 It was a full two minutes before the laughter died
away.
 "You got me there, General," Larry shouted, a
grin on his red face. "I'll join your HQ'S
company and shut my mouth."
 "Fine. Step over there with the others." His eyes
found another man. "Jesus Christ, General
Walker!" he roared. "You were with Merrill's
Marauders in Burma during World War II.
You're eighty-five if you're a day."
 "You give me a Springfield, by God," the
old man stood up erect, white-maned head
held proudly, "and I'll show you kids I can still
cut the mustard."

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 "Fine, General. That's good. I'm sure you can,
too. But I just don't know where I could locate a
Springfield."
 "Well, why the hell not!" the old general
roared. He was as hard of hearing as General
Tanner.
 "Because the army quit using the goddamned things about
sixty fucking years ago!" Tanner returned the
verbal sound and fury.
 "Why the hell did they do that!" Walker roared.
"Oh-yeah. I remember. No matter.
That was still the best weapon the army ever had."
 "General Walker," General Tanner said
patiently. "I would be proud and honored to have you
join my HQ'S company. Your knowledge of tactics is
unsurpassed, and your-was
 "Boy," Walker cut off the
sixty-five-year-old retired general. "If you
get any sweeter, you're going to give the whole
bunch of us diabetes."
 Again the laughter.
 "Speaking of that," Tanner said when the laughter had
faded away.
 A half dozen men stood up and joined the group
that was making up headquarters company.
 was 'Knowledge," Tanner said. "All right, boys.
We've been scrounging and stealing and gathering up
equipment all summer. Get on back to your
billets and pack up your gear. Kiss your wives
and girlfriends goodbye. We move out day after tomorrow.
Scouts out at 0600 in the morning. Dismissed-and
good luck."
 "Ah, sir," Emil Hite walked up to the
wounded Rebel who seemed to be in charge of the loading
of equipment. The Rebel had his left arm in a
sling and the right side of his face was heavily
bandaged. "May I be so presumptuous as
to inquire why you have all these people racing willy-nilly
about, creating all this confusion?"
 The Rebel officer looked at the cult leader.
The contempt he felt for the man was ill-concealed in his
eyes. "What business is it of yours, weirdo?"
 Emil ignored that slur upon his appearance. "Because

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if you people are leaving this area, I would like permission
to move my poor band of followers in here."
  The Rebel laughed at him. "Why, sure," he
said. "I don't see why not. Maybe some of what
we did here will rub off on you. Just as soon as
we're gone, just slide on in."
  Emil looked around him. He took in the neat
fields and gardens, the homes that had been repaired
and
  painted and restored, the neatly trimmed lawns and
carefully maintained sidewalks.
  "I thank you from the bottom of my heart, sir,"
Emil said. "And on behalf of my people, they thank you
for your consideration." Emil's mind was racing. He
thought: Why, with an idyllic setting such as this, he
could attract hundreds, perhaps even thousands more
followers into his fold. Just think of all that new
pussy! Emil hid his smile and resisted
an impulse to rub his hands together in glee. Instead,
with his left hand in one pocket of his robe, he
scratched his crotch.
  "Ughum, bugum, bisco," Emil said.
  The Rebel looked at him. "Flaky son of a
bitch!" he muttered.
  The Rebel began yelling out orders, his grating
voice causing Emil to flinch. The man reminded
him in a very painful manner of his old drill
sergeant. A most disagreeable fellow. Emil
hoped one of the bombs that fell back in
eighty-eight landed right on that bastard's head.
  "Once again," Emil. "I wish to thank you on
behalf of my simple flock of worshippers."
Somehow, Emil thought, that never came out just right.
  The Rebel looked at him and laughed.
  "Juggy, muggy, be bop a lula," Emil said.
  "Joe Cocker to you, too," the Rebel said, then
turned his back and walked away.
  "Fuck you," Emil muttered. "And fuck the
horse you rode in on, too." But he was very careful
not to say that too loudly. The Rebel was huge. And
very mean-looking.
  Emil shuffled away, his robes dragging along the
  ground. He caught the toe of one sandal

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in the hem and almost tripped himself. He ignored the
laughter coming from the wounded Rebels.
  "Bless you, my children," Emil said to them.
  One of them gave him the finger.
  No matter, Emil thought, shuffling away, being more
careful where he put his feet. After this, he would be
even more revered by his people.
  For a very short time.
CHAPTER EIGHT
  "The route has been cleared of all mines?"
Ben asked Colonel Gray.
  "All clear, sir," the Englishman replied.
  Ben turned to Ike. "How about the troops,
Ike-they ready?"
  "Eager to go, Ben."
  Ben looked at Cecil. "How about your people and the
supplies, Cec?"
  "Ready to go, Ben. We have supplies for a
three-month campaign."
  "We'd better get it done a hell of a lot
sooner than that," Ben said grimly. He glanced
at Doctor Chase. "Medical teams ready?"
  "Yes," the doctor replied softly, for once
not retorting with a smart crack.
  To Hector: "I wish you would
reconsider, Hec. You were hit pretty hard and not
that long ago."
  "My command, Ben. Where they go, I go," the
Mexican replied. "Besides, you're forgetting, I
have a personal stake in all this."
  Ben nodded. He glanced around him in the predawn
darkness. A heady feeling of
deja vu
swept over him. He had done this before. God, how
many times? The massive convoy was silent in the
darkness. All motors off. Dew glistened wetly
off the camouflaged metal of Jeeps, tanks,
half-tracks, APC'S, rolling artillery,
mortar carriers, deuce-and-a-halves, tanker
trucks and off the helmets of troops and the metal
of their weapons.
  A messenger walked up to him, a flashlight in
his hand. "Dispatches, sir. I found them to be ...

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well, rather unusual."
  "Read them to me, son," Ben said.
  "Yes, sir. This one is from the north, up in
Michigan. It's from General Tanner and General
Walker."
  "Iron-Legs Walker? Captain March or
Die, from Merrill's Marauders?"
  "Yes, sir."
  "My God. The man must be pushing ninety!"
  "Yes, sir, that's the one. And General Tanner
used to command the Eighty-second down at Bragg."
  "Go on," Ben whispered. He shook his head.
"Jesus God."
  "Mr. President," the Rebel read the first
dispatch under the narrow beam of a flashlight. "Have four
hundred and fifty of us old soldiers moving out this
a.m. in simultaneous advance with your troops. Do
not fear for us. We have lived our lives and lived them
well. We have seen the rise of America, and have
witnessed her downfall, as well as predicted that
downfall. Now it is up to you to put this nation together
once more. We believe you are the only man capable
of doing that monumental feat. But first we must rid
ourselves of General Striganov and his IPF people. We
  will dig in at various spots along the Iowa
line, just as soon as our scouts report the IPF
crossing into Missouri. You will have young people on both your
flanks. If we have any sort of luck, we will have
the IPF in a closed box. I call the young people the
Orphans" Brigade, if you remember that from the
Civil War. It fits them well. They're all
tough little monkeys and they'll more than hold
their own. Don't spend too much time worrying about
them. We will be shoving off at first light. Good luck
and Godspeed, Mr. President."
  "Dear God," Ben said, with more than a touch of
awe in his tone. "Most of those old boys must be in
their sixties and seventies."
  Ike had a large lump in his throat and was
afraid to speak.
  Cecil looked as though he was fighting back
tears.
  Chase cleared his throat several times.

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  Hector was openly weeping.
  The messenger's hands were shaking as he unfolded the
second dispatch. "The next two messages are
almost identical, sir," he said. He read: "There
are three hundred and twenty five of us to the west,
Mr. Raines, and some four hundred to the east. We
will be moving out at 0600. We will try to link up with
your people on the lower west and east borders of the
battleground, putting the IPF in a box when we
do. We have no parents, no homes to return to.
We are now part of your society, Mr. Ben
Raines, and we will follow wherever you choose to lead
us. Good luck, sir."
  Ben fought back tears. His voice
shook when he spoke. "Children, all children. What are
their ages, Sergeant?"
  The sergeant cleared his throat. Had one hell
of a lump building there. "I believe, sir, their
ages range from eight to sixteen or so."
"Eight!"
Ben's reply was almost a shout. "Those are
babies."
  "Yes, sir," the sergeant said.
  Ben shook his head in disbelief and walked away
from the small group just as Juan and Mark walked
up. They had stood in silence as the sergeant read the
messages. They had heard it all.
"Ninos,"
Juan said. "Little children with guns. Brave little boys
and girls."
  "What kind of war is this to be?" Mark pondered
aloud. "Little children facing grown men. It's
shameful."
  Just before Chase walked away to join his medical
teams, he said, "I used to hope I'd make it
to the year 2000. Now I'm not so certain I'm
entirely happy about it."
  Ben found Gale in the lightening darkness and put his
arms around her. "This time, lady, you don't
argue with me. You're assigned to the field
hospitals in the rear."
  "I know, Ben," she said softly. "I won't
argue about it."

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  "We might not see each other for days, Gale,"
he reminded her.
  "I know that, too," she said, pressing against him,
taking comfort from the bulk of the man.
  "If conditions start going from bad to worse," Ben
said, "I'm sending you to Georgia, to Captain
Rayle's command. And I don't want any static
out of you about it."
  "There won't be, Ben." She looked up
into his face. "Ben, I want you to know I think you
are a fine, good man. You could have walked away from
all this, but you didn't."
  "Yeah." He smiled down at her. "But then I
would have had to listen to you bitch about it for the next fifty
years."
  "You got that right, buster."
  He kissed her mouth and then, grinning, patted her
on the butt. She slapped his hand away. "OK,
babe-take off. I'll see you whenever and wherever I
can."
  She returned the kiss and, grinning,
patted him on the butt. She broke free of his
arms and walked away into the dim light of early
morning, the faint silver from the east picking up
pockets of lights in her shortcut, dark hair.
The mist hung about her in the Missouri morning.
  She looked so small and vulnerable.
  Ben walked back to the main column and gave the
orders. "Crank them up," he said.
  The morning was filled with the coughing of powerful engines
fired into sudden life from the cold metal.
  "Colonel Gray?"
  "Sir?"
  "Scouts out?"
  "Yes, sir."
  "Hector?"
  "Sir?"
  Ben held out his hand and the man shook it. "Luck
to you, Hec."
  Hector's teeth flashed white against the olive
of his face. "See you after we kick ass, Ben."
  Ben nodded. Both men knew the odds of them
kicking

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  the ass of the IPF were hard against. He looked at
Cecil, held out his hand.
  "Luck to you, Ben," the black man
said, gripping the hand.
  "Take care, old soldier."
  Cecil walked away to join his command.
  Juan and Mark shook hands with Ben and the two of
them left to link up with their respective commands.
  Ben looked at Ike. The ex-navy SEAL
grinned boyishly. He said, "Here we go again, El
Presidente. Seems like we just got through doing this."
  "I know the feeling," Ben replied. "Ike,
we've got to make the first punch hard enough to knock
them down. Then we've got to stomp them while
they're down. We've got to make this as dirty and
vicious as we know how. And we're going to take a
lot of casualties doing it."
  "It's worth it, Ben-you know that. None of us could
have lived with ourselves if we'd turned our backs
to this."
  "I know. I was only delaying the inevitable."
He held out his hand and the two friends shook hands.
  "Luck to you, old warrior," Ike said.
  "Luck to you, old friend," Ben replied.
  The men walked away in opposite directions.
  Ben stood in the center of Highway 67 just as
dawn hit the horizon, casting his shadow long down
the highway. He looked toward the north and
lifted his hand, pointing a finger straight north.
  "Let's go!" he yelled. "Go, go, go!"
PART THREE
Be ashamed to die unless you have won some victory for
humanity.
  -Horace Mann
CHAPTER ONE
  Thousands of tons of men and machines and instruments
of war and destruction lunged forward from southeast
Missouri. At the same time, young boys and girls
moved forward from South Dakota and Indiana. To the
north, old soldiers were telling their wives and
sweethearts goodbye.
  "You're entirely too old for this nonsense,
Sonny," a woman said, kissing her husband of

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forty years goods-bye. "But I am so proud of you for
doing it."
 The veteran of the early days of Vietnam kissed
his wife and grinned at her. She patted the top of
his bald head as he said, "Honey, I think
civilization will either begin or end within the next few
weeks. That is my firm belief. I can't sit
back and watch it all go down the tube."
 She smiled at him. "I want you to come back
to me, Sonny. But I can't help but
remember what the Spartan mother told her son as he
was leaving for the wars."
 "Either come back behind your shield, or on it," the
husband said.
 "I love you, you crazy old soldier."
"Love you, baby."
 The aging warrior picked up his rifle and walked
away before his wife could begin weeping.
 "Tanner, you old goat," the retired general was
told by his wife, "how many damn times do I have
to tell you goodbye?"
 "Hopefully, this is the last time,
camp-follower," he said with a grin.
 "Yes."
 "You know the drill, lady, should I not return from
this campaign."
 "Up into Canada to the cabins. There the rest of us
old gals will live out our lives in peace," she
repeated in rote, a dry tone to her voice.
 "The cabins are well-stocked. You're no slouch
with a garden. You'll have adequate medical
supplies to last you for years. You all should get by quite
nicely."
 "But I want to get by with you at my side. So
come back to me, Art."
 "I shall certainly try, Becky."
 He kissed her and was gone.
 "Take care of yourself, honey," the man said. "I
shall. And you come back to me." "Do the best I can."
 "Look, old girl, this is something that must be
done, you know that."
 "Of course I do, Lewis. And don't get
amorous, old man," she said with a smile, removing

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his hand from her rump. "We don't have the time for that.
You just do your duty and come back to me."
 "You got your high blood pressure pills,
Bob?"
 "Right here in my pocket, honey."
 "You come back to be me, lover."
 "I'll be back."
 But he would never be back.
 "After thirty-five years in the military," a
wife told her husband, trying her best to maintain
a brave face, "you'd think I'd be used to this."
 "Last time, honey."
 It would be the last time she would ever see him.
 The men moved out.
 "Ben Raines is on the move," Hartline
informed the Russian commander.
 Striganov lifted his head from a
report he'd been studying. Disbelief was evident
in his eyes. "What did you say, Sam?"
 "I said Ben Raines is on the move. Scouts
report columns advancing at full speed,
heading straight at us from the south."
 "His logic escapes me," General
Striganov said, a puzzled look on his face.
"His people took a terrible
 battering at the hands of our troops. What does
he hope to gain by this action?"
 Hartline shrugged his big shoulders. "I haven't
the vaguest idea. But that's moot, isn't it? The
fact is, he's moving."
 "Yes, you are correct. Moot. Mobilize
the forces for a push south. Meet General Raines
head-on. Have those troops I left in southern
Iowa begin marching toward Raines. Engage the
Rebels and hold them until we get there with
reinforcements. This time I intend to finish the matter."
 Hartline started to speak, then hesitated, a
curious look on his face.
 Striganov caught the hesitation. "Is something the
matter, Sam?"
 ""Yes ... I think so. Our intelligence shows
a group-or groups-of armed people moving toward
us not just from the south-that's Raines's bunch of

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Rebels, we know who that is-but also from the west, the
east and from the north."
 "Who could it possibly be?"
 When Hartline explained who it was, the
Russian began laughing. "Children and old men!" he
howled out his mirth, pounding his hands on his desk.
"Little babies and senile old men. I love it.
Hartline, you have made my day. I find this
hysterically amusing. Hysterically!" He sobered as
abruptly as he fell into laughter. "Very well,
our ... enemies," he giggled, "have been
identified. So send two companies to spank the
children, one east and one west, and one company to point the
old men back to their rocking chairs. I don't
want to spare any more men than that."
 "Ah ..." Hartline looked at the Russian,
a strange
 look in his eyes. "I don't know, Georgi.
Don't sell these groups too short; they're all
well-armed and very dedicated."
 "Bah!" Striganov verbally brushed aside the
warning. "Do not concern yourself with trivialities,
Sam. Old men and children are no match for my people. You
have your orders; carry them out and then take
your men south to meet Raines. I'm counting on you
to crush Ben Raines. That will be all, Sam. Good
luck."
 The Russian returned to his paper work.
 Outside the office, Hartline stood for a moment,
his handsome features a study in concentration. He
muttered, "I think you're making a bad, big
mistake, Georgi, but it's your show."
 The members of the forward IPF forces were in a
joking mood as they moved west, north and east
to confront the "children" and the "old men." This would be no more
than a lark for them-a pleasant outing in the fall of the
year. And it would be far easier than fighting Gen.
Ben Raines and his Rebels. Those people fought like
madmen.
 One man stepped away from the parked column in
northern Iowa, close to the North Dakota line,
to relieve himself in the woods. When he did not
return in a few moments, another man was sent in

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to find him. The troops of the IPF waited for the
second man to return. He did not return. The
woods remained still. Silence greeted the troops.
  The IPF section leader, using his hands, ordered
his people to fan out and to search the timber. "Nockopee!"
the section leader whispered hoarsely,
motioning his people to move quickly.
  A shout reached the small group of forward scouts.
In a rush, they ran into the woods. They stopped
abruptly at the sight that lay before them on the
ground.
  Both men who had entered the timber now lay on
their backs, their arms flung wide. Blood
soaked the cool ground under and around them. Both men
had an arrow embedded deeply in their chest.
Weapons and all ammunition and equipment had been
removed from the men. Their boots were gone. One of the
men had a hole in his left sock, the big toe
sticking through.
  The section leader ordered his people back, making no
noise, speaking with motions of his hands. He turned.
An arrow hissed through the air and drove through the
man's skull, the point coming out just above one ear.
He fell silently to the ground without uttering a
sound.
  The still and calm woods began to clatter and roar from
the sounds of gunfire. The IPF found themselves
surrounded, with no place to run, death facing them from
all directions. The men and women of the IPF had
little chance to use their weapons, because there appeared to be
no visible targets.
  The deadly and bloody ambush was completed in
less than one minute. Young people began drifting out
of the deep brush and timber into the blood-soaked
clearing. The young people stripped the bodies of uniforms
and weapons and ammunition. They took all the
equipment they could find.
  The leader of the young people was dressed in buckskins and
jeans, moccasins on his feet. He was tall and
  rangy and well-built, his dark hair hanging
to his shoulders. His name was Wade. He did not
remember what his last name had been. His parents and
his brothers and sister had died in a house fire

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back in ninety. He had been alone, on the
road, since he was eight years old. And he had
survived. His weapon for this day-he was quite
proficient with any type of weapon-was a huge
bow, and he was an expert with the longbow. Wade could not
read or write well, but he could survive.
  "Strip the people of their uniforms," he ordered his young
charges. "Wash them free of blood at the creek.
Dry them well." To another group of young: "Hide
their vehicles. They will be useful when we ambush the
others." He smiled and his smile was savage. "I
think they misjudged our strength and our dedication
to Mr. Ben Raines. I think the IPF
people made a mistake." He laughed. "I
know
they made a mistake."
  He walked to a small clearing and stood in a
narrow beam of sunlight pouring through the thick stand of
timber. Nature had managed to renew what man
had destroyed. Huge stands of timber now flourished
throughout the nation, in lovely contrast to mindless and
short-sighted land developers, greedy farmers and
stupid loggers; for between the factions, they had
managed, in only seventy years, to rape the land,
paying scant attention to the warnings of
environmentalists and, in many cases, common sense.
  Wade laboriously and with much silent lip
movement, studied and read a map taken from the section
leader of the advance party of the IPF. Finally he
looked up, a smile on his lips.
  "We will ambush the main column here," he said,
  thumping the map. With a finger he traced a red line
drawn on the plastic map cover. "They are sending
one company of men. That is approximately two
hundred people. Twenty-five trucks carrying the men
and equipment and several Jeeps for the officers and
senior sergeants." He again consulted the map.
"Yes," he said, "this will be the perfect
spot to catch them in a cross-fire. They are one
day behind their scouts. Let's get ready for them."
  The forward troops of the IPF made camp in
Indiana on their first night toward destroying the force
of the eastern-based "children."

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  Most of the fed and sleeping IPF members would
never wake up from their slumber. Those that did would know
only a few seconds of intense pain before the
bullets of the "children" mangled them into that dark and endless
sleep.
  Just before the first changing of the guards, moonlight
flashed silver on sharpened blades. A very slight
grunt as cold steel slid between ribs on the way
to the heart; a gurgle as a throat was cut, blood
leaping free and thick and steaming in the darkness; a
short gasp as black wire looped around a soft
throat, shutting off the air. Eyes bugged and
tongues turned black and swollen in death.
  Then the camp was once more silent.
  The men who waited to replace the guards slept
on, sleeping through the tap on the shoulder that never
came.
  The "children" positioned themselves.
  "Now!" a young voice called out from the darkness.
  For a full sixty seconds the air
reverberated with the sounds and fury of gunfire. Most
IPF personnel never got a chance to crawl from
sleeping bags and blankets. They were shot to death,
jerking and bleeding rags of flesh and bone,
blood-splattered.
  The young people watched and waited in silence.
Occasionally, a shot would split the air as someone in
the IPF camp moaned and stirred in pain. The shot
would still the moaning.
  The leader of the eastern-based young people, a young man of
eighteen, named Ro, gave the quiet orders
to move into the bloody encampment. Like his counterpart to the
west, whom he had never met but had spoken with
by radio, Ro was dressed in buckskins and jeans,
moccasins on his feet. He was quite good with a bow, but
on this night he used a twelve-gauge shotgun,
loaded with slugs.
  Ro did not know his last name, or even if the name
Ro had been given him by his parents, whom he
did not remember. He was called Ro-that was all the
name he knew. He was a survivor.
  "Take their uniforms," Ro ordered. "And gather
up the weapons and ammunition. Wash the clothing in the

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river and dry it. Hide their vehicles and bring me
any maps you find."
  A ragged young boy of ten scampered down the
embankment and began picking through the gore with others of
approximately his age-although none of the young people really
knew how old they were. The blood and the gore and
stink of relaxed bowels and bladders seemed not
to bother the young boys and girls as they conducted their
grisly search.
  The bodies were stripped down to their underwear
  and left where they had fallen and died. Birds and
animals would eat them.
  "Food here," a young girl called to Ro.
  "We'll eat now," Ro told them.
  The young people had learned what the Indians of
America had known for centuries: Eat when you can,
sleep when you can, drink when you can.
  With the blood of the dead IPF members still soaking
into the cool, grassy earth, the young people sat and
squatted and began to eat among the men sprawled in
grotesque death. All present had been born
into the horror of war and its aftermath, and had lived through
a police state by depending on their guile.
Social amenities were few; the young people gnawed at
their meat and hard biscuits, eating with their fingers.
Their eyes constantly flicked from left to right, much like
an animal when he eats, aware that someone
or something was always waiting to steal the food should guard
be relaxed. When the young boys and girls finished
eating, they wiped their hands on their clothing and one
by one melted back into the deep timber and brush
to seek a place to sleep: a deserted house, a
culvert, a thicket. In the morning they would plan
another ambush.
  The combat company of IPF personnel that rolled
northward to "point the old men back to their rocking
chairs" drove straight into hell. The American
veterans allowed the scouts to pass through the ambush
site, after blocking all other roads in the area,
then wiped out to a person the entire company of the
IPF. They then captured the scouts and hanged them
by the side of the road.
  Just before they hanged the scouts, one of the

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Russians muttered under his breath.
  "What'd that Russian bastard say?" General
Tanner asked.
  "I said," the IPF scout replied in perfect
English, "that the old bee can still sting."
  "Damn right," General Tanner told him.
"Hang them," he ordered.
  Tanner flexed the fingers of his left hand and then
rubbed his aching shoulder. Damned arthritis
was acting up again.
  When the first reports reached the desk of General
Striganov, the Russian could not believe it.
Three full companies destroyed-wiped out to a
person. Not one man had escaped. It was incredible
that children and old men could have done it. Striganov just
did not believe it. It had to be a trick of some
sort. Little children and senile elderly men do not
destroy three companies of highly trained
troops.
  The thought came to him: Perhaps Sam Hartline lied
to him?
  No, he immediately rejected that notion. Hartline
would have no reason to do that; that would be detrimental to the
mercenary's own goals.
  President-General Ben Raines must have
planted the false information about the children and old men and
then had his own Rebels beef up the children and old
men. "Vfes, that was certainly it. Striganov
felt better now that he had worked it out in his mind.
He leaned back in his chair and smiled.
  Well, Striganov pondered the small problem,
no point in mentally berating oneself about it; no point
in flailing one's mind with whips of defeat. It was
done and over and that was that. But the mild
irritation that for the first time his people were in a box nagged at
him. Not a box with a very substantial lid on it,
to be sure, but a box nonetheless.
  And that irritated the general. Striganov liked
for everything to be done neatly and orderly; he did not
like irritation. It was ... well, unsettling.
  But, he thought, putting his hands behind his head,
everything else seemed to be going quite well. No-not
seemed

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to be going well-it was going well. The inferior
minority women who had been forced to breed with the male
mutants were swelling with new life. The mutant
females who had copulated with the inferior minority
men were likewise swelling with pregnancy. The areas
controlled by the IPF were coming along quite well, and the people,
while not content-many of them-were beginning to adjust to the
rule of Hartline and the IPF. True, there were still
pockets of resistance scattered about, but nothing that
Hartline had not been able to contain, and contain it quite
brutally. Fear was the great ruler, and Sam
Hartline was very good at instilling fear.
  Crops had been harvested and winter wheat planted
in those areas suited for farming. Factories were now
open-not too many, but there would be more as time passed.
  Put people to work. That was the great pacifier.
Idle minds and idle hands always meant trouble.
  But for now, Striganov must deal with the problem of
Ben Raines and his Rebels. And the old men. And the
young people.
  "Shit!" General Striganov spat out the
American profanity. All was not progressing as
smoothly as he would have liked.
  But he had no doubts as to his success.
Failure never entered his mind. Never. True, he
would have to shelve his plan to kill the Jew bitch; and
that had been a good plan, Striganov reckoned,
one that would have sucked Ben Raines out into the open,
seeking revenge. Or so Striganov thought. But the
Russian did not know Ben Raines as well as he
thought.
  "Hello, baby." Hartline smiled at
Jerre. "My, you are a fine-looking cunt."
  Jerre remained silent for a moment. She knew
why Hartline had kidnapped her, but she also knew
the mercenary had grossly underestimated Ben Raines
if he thought Ben would drop whatever he was doing and
come to her rescue. She knew Ben was somewhere in
Virginia, moving his Rebels toward Richmond,
to seize the government from President Addison and
Al Cody. Ben had told her several
times: "No one in my command is unexpendable,
Jerre. Person gets taken prisoner, we'll

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come after him if at all possible. But I won't
risk losing a hundred people just to save one."
  And she knew Ben meant it.
  "Where am I?" she asked Hartline.
  He had laughed. "About a hundred miles from
Ben Raines. You're in Virginia, baby.
Didn't you have a nice flight out here?"
  "Not particularly. Some of your men kept feeling
me up. Where are my children?"
  "They got away, so I'm told. Big,
blond fellow took them. Friend of yours, maybe?"
  "Yes. Matt. Good. Then I know that my
babies are safe."
  She seemed satisfied with that.
  Hartline sat looking at her. He seemed
puzzled. He didn't understand these followers of
Raines. Even though he had broken half a
hundred of them with physical torture, and raped and
sodomized a half a hundred more, they always seemed
to look at him as if he were the loser, not them.
  Her smug expression angered the man. He
reached out and slapped her hard across the face. She
slowly brushed back her blond hair and
continued staring at him.
  "What's with you people, anyway?" he demanded. "You
sluts and losers seem to think Raines is some
sort of God. What kind of fucking special
society did you people have, anyway, to make you think
you're so much better than the rest of us?" He was
shouting at her. "Answer me!"
  Jerre realized she was dealing with a psychopath-at
least that. And she had best walk softly in his
presence.
  "We don't think we're better," she
replied. "But we do believe we had a good
society."
  "Perfect one?"
  "No. I don't think that's possible with humans
being the carpenters of that society."
  "Isn't that profound?" Hartline said, his voice
ugly with sarcasm. "Did you make that up in your
pretty little head?"
  "No. Ben Raines did."

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  "I'm sick of his name!" Hartline yelled at
her. "You hear me? I don't want you to say it
around me, you understand that?"
  "Yes."
  He changed as quickly as the flit of a
fly. He was now calm, smiling at her. He
reached out and cupped a breast. "That's nice, Jerre
baby. I bet you could give a guy a ride,
couldn't you?"
  "I ... don't know how you want me to answer
that."
  "You like to fuck?"
  "I like to make love."
  "Tell me about love, baby."
  "Are you serious?" she blurted. Then realized that
was a mistake.
  He slapped her.
  Through her tear-blurred eyes she watched as the
mercenary unzipped his pants and took out his heavy
penis. She was pushed from her chair to the floor, on
her knees.
  "Kiss it, baby," Hartline ordered. "Just
pretend it's a pork chop and lick it. Unless, of
course, you're a Jew. Then you can pretend it's a
bagel."
  He thought that funny and laughed.
  Jerre bent her head.
  With the death of President Addison, and the wounding of
Ben and his appointment to the office of the president,
Ike, Captain Gray, and Matt led
teams into the Midwest to rescue Jerre. Hartline
got out just in time, but his mercenary army had been
routed.
  Jerre and Matt returned to the West Coast, and
Ben
  began the awesome job of rebuilding America from
the ground up.
  Then the rats came, bringing with them the plague.
  A year later came Striganov and the IPR
  General Striganov punched a button set
into his desk top. Seconds later, an aide
stuck her head into the room.
  "Sir?"

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 "Have my equipment laid out and my car made
ready. Tell my guards to prepare for a move
south. This time I shall personally see to it that
President-General Ben Raines is destroyed."
 "Yes, sir," the young woman replied.
 But she was not so certain about the mission of the IPF
as she once had been. So much of what she had heard
about Ben Raines was disturbing. So many of the
Americans believed the man to be a god-and that
disturbed her. She had been taught from birth that the
Christian God did not exist. Now the Russian
woman was beginning to have doubts about the
validity of that philosophy. President-General
Ben Raines had been shot so many times, had been
stabbed and blown up-still he would not die. Or, the thought
chilled her, could not die. He had single-handedly
fought and killed a massive mutant, and had come out
of that fight without a scratch on him. And there was that
story circulating about him having spoken to some sort
of God's messenger. That filled the young woman with
dread. It caused her-and many more of the IPF-TO
suffer bad dreams during her sleep.
 No, the young woman did not look forward
to traveling
 south with General Striganov. She wished the
IPF could have just stayed in Iceland and lived in
peace. But she was more than just an aide to the general.
She was his sex partner upon command. And she was a
soldier, and she had her orders, and she would obey.
Like a good soldier.
CHAPTER
TWO
 To the north, to the west and to the east, the IPF was
running into more trouble than even the most cynical
among them had anticipated. To the north, even though
Striganov had sent four companies of IPF
to fight the "grandfathers," as the Russian had
referred to the old soldiers, the IPF found they could
not punch through the lines of the old men. The "grandfathers"
were holding firm.
 The old soldiers knew warfare and knew it
well. Thousands of hours of actual combat lay
among the men: They were experts in the art of ambush;

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experts in tactics; experts in producing and
deploying explosives; experts in long-range
sniping and experts in guerrilla tactics;
experts in building and camouflaging hidden bunkers.
  As one IPF commander put it, "The old bastards
are there one minute, then they are gone the next. They
just vanish. You never know where they might pop up: behind
you, in front of you, at your flanks, snapping and
biting like a small dog. Then they cut a
  throat or two and disappear. I hate these old
men. I hate this country."
  And the IPF troops, for the very first time, met the
horror of true guerrilla warfare. The men and
women of the IPF became fearful of entering the dark
timber, for they had found the areas mined with
Claymores. And the deep timber and brush contained
deadly swing traps and punji pits.
  On the fourth day of fighting in the north, what was
left of the four companies of the IPF found
themselves in the unenviable position of having themselves
surrounded, with no place to run, no place
to hide, facing either surrender or death.
  To the west and the east, the young people fought just as
cunningly, but with much more savagery. For most of the young
had been on their own for years, and they had learned the
hard facts of postwar: If one is to survive after
a holocaust, one had best learn how
to kill-silently, stealthily, and without mercy or
pity. Most could just barely read and write, but
all-boys and girls-were experts in the art of
survival. Those that did not learn the art of
survival while very young ... usually died.
  The boys and girls were small-due to years of
bad diet-but they were quick, for they had lived their
lives on the fringes of civilization, learning the
savage lessons on how best to avoid the
mutants and the sudden explosion in the population of
bears and wolves and bobcats and mountain lions.
Just as Ben Raines had learned back in
1988....
  I've got to search the town for survivors! the
  thought came to him just before he went to bed. Surely
there will be somebody left alive.

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  The next morning, after shaving and showering and
eating a light breakfast, he took his coffee
outside and stood for a moment by his small house in
the country. He viewed the silent scene that lay before
him. Birds still sang and dogs still barked in the
distance, and that puzzled him. A nuclear war that would
kill humans and leave the animals alive? Not
likely. So it had to have been some type of germ
warfare. He had to find out what happened.
  He went to several stores in search of a worldwide
radio. But the stores had all been looted. He
finally found one at the Radio Shack. He sat
on the curb outside the store and studied the
instructions on the operation of the radio. He turned
it on. No batteries.
  "Wonderful, Ben," he muttered. "Marvelous
presence of mind."
  With fresh batteries in the radio, Ben worked the
dial slowly, going from band to band. Sweat broke out
on his face as he heard a voice from the speakers.
  The voice spoke in French for a time, then went
to German, then to English. Ben listened intently, a
feeling of dread washing over him. "We pieced together
the story," the voice spoke slowly. "The whole
story of what happened. Russian pilot told us
this is what happened-from his side of the pond,
that is. They-the Russians-had developed some
sort of virus that would kill humans, but not harm
animals or plant life. Did this about three
years ago. were going to use it against us this fall.
Easy to figure out why. Then they learned of the double
cross; the Stealth-equipped sub. That shot their
plans all to hell. Everything became all
  confused. If we had tried to talk to them, or they
with us, or the Chinese, maybe all this could have been
prevented. Maybe not. Too late now. Some
survivors worldwide. Have talked with some of them.
Millions dead. Don't know how many. Over a
billion, probably. Maybe more. Ham
operators working. It's bad. God in heaven-it's
bad."
  This message was repeated, over and over, in four
languages.

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  "A goddamned tape recording," Ben said.
  A snarling brought him to his feet, the .45
pistol in his hand. A pack of dogs stood a few
yards away, and they were not at all friendly.
  Ben leaped for the hood of his truck just as a large
German shepherd lunged for him, fangs bared. Ben
scrambled for the roof of the cab as the dog leaped onto
the hood. Ben shot the animal in the head,
the force of the heavy slug knocking the animal
backward to die in the street.
  The dogs remembered gunfire. They ran down
the street, stopping on the corner, turning around,
snarling and growling at the man on the cab of the
truck. Ben emptied his .45 into the pack,
knocking several of the dogs spinning. Ben slapped a
fresh clip in the pistol and climbed down. He
got his .45-caliber Thompson SMG from the
cab.
  "From now on, Ben," he said. "That Thompson
becomes a part of you. Always."
  And now the young of the new century found themselves facing
an animal explosion, with many of the animals
mutant in size and nature. Flesh-eaters. And
  the young, without benefit of parental guidance and
formal education, without adults helping to shape their
minds and lives and actions, and teachers to help shape
the mush of their minds into facts, became even more
savage than the usual child, for without education,
training, discipline and love, we would all be
savages.
  This then was the shaping of the future generations of the world.
The less than auspicious start of the long, slow
drift downhill into ignorance and
barbarism.
  Unless one man could stem the tide, plug the
dam, rejuvenate the fountain of knowledge. And do it all in
time.
  Ben Raines.
  But this tragedy-that was all foreseen and forewarned, from
Orwell to Meade-was not confined to the land that was once
known as America. And to place the brunt of the
blame solely on the young would be grossly
unfair. For the same was occurring worldwide. In the

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once-civilized land called England, home of the
Magna Carta and the birthplace of law, the
Druids were once more flourishing, with the survivors of
that once-beautiful and civilized land now robed and
hooded, gathering at Stonehenge to ponder the mystery
of centuries. And to worship there, all praising and
calling to an unknown god. And to sit in caves,
painting themselves blue with dye from the berries of wild
plants, tracing dark and mysterious lines on their
bodies in some ritual of a religion that until
only a few years ago had been an evil and
unknown memory in the dim reaches of their brains,
only now springing forth to sit and snarl and pick at
themselves
  in the real but confused light of
consciousness.
  In France-or what was left of that germ and
nuclear-torn country-the people had gathered and again
broken off into formations of Burgundy, and Orleans,
and Bourbon and Brittany; and, God save King
Louis, into groups of Celts and Normans and
Chouans and Gaul and Huguenots.
  In Germany, there was not much left, for that country had
taken the brunt of much of the nuclear warheads. But a
few survived, and they raised their heads out of the
rubble and ashes and roaming mutants and thought: There
is no God, not the God we were taught to believe
in and worship and praise. For if God did
exist, He surely would not have permitted this. And
there, as in so many other once-prosperous and
reasonably civilized nations, statues and
man-made Baal-like places and objects of
worship began to spring up throughout the countryside, in
basements and caves and underground burrows now
inhabited by human beings; they would be called the Children
of the Darkness. And they would worship the Prince of
Flies, the King of Beasts, Lord of
Filth-Satan.
  Around the world, in Peru, India, Italy,
Holland, Hawaii, all around the
war-torn globe, many of the survivors began
worshipping a false god, in the mistaken belief
that they had displeased him or her in some manner, and it

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was now time for them to make amends ... in some way.
  In many cases, the amends were of the sacrificial
nature-human beings.
  Civilization was crumbling. Not yet dissolved-many
years would pass before that would happen, many more battles
involving Ben Raines and his
  descendants. Civilization was not finished, but
well on its way if something or someone did not step
forward to take the reins of responsibility in a
firm hand, provide direction and leadership and
replace myth with truth, ignorance with knowledge, hate with
love and compassion and justice. But that man had his
hands full at the moment.
  It was the third full day of fighting. Why the
phrase came to Ben, he could not understand, for he had
no idea yet that the enemy was beaten. But Perry's
message to General Harrison leaped into his mind:
We have met the enemy, and they are ours.
  I hope, Ben silently thought.
  At that moment, a mortar shell burst very close
to Ben's bunker. The ground shook with a fury, sending
bits of dirt and dust floating down into the
hastily dug and sandbagged bunker. Ben did not
flinch. He continued gazing at the battleground through
field glasses.
  Lt. Mary Macklin and Sgt. Buck
Osgood could but look at each other and shake their
heads. Ben Raines's courage was unshakeable and
unbelievable.
  A sniper from the IPF lines began shooting,
several slugs whining through the small opening in the
reinforced sandbags.
  Ben calmly turned and spoke to Mary. "Mary,
have someone neutralize that long-distance shooter, will
you?"
  Mary's hands were shaking as she rang up the mortar
teams and called in the coordinates Buck gave
her.
  Mortar rounds began fluttering overhead as
several
  teams walked the rounds in, both from the north and the
south.
  The sniper was neutralized.

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  Ben was certainly no coward, though he did know the
taste of fear on his tongue. But also knew that to show
any cowardice in the face of fire would be highly
demoralizing to his people. Therefore, he did
not.
  "Get me heavy artillery on the horn,
Mary," Ben ordered.
  The colonel on the line, Ben spoke into his
headset. "Let's do it again, Bert. And this time
let's give them everything we've got. 105's,
155's, 90mm, 152's, 81mm, and
Shillilaghs. Keep pounding them until the metal
gets so hot rounds are in danger. Keep pounding
them until I give the order to stop. We've
pounded their brains out for two-and-a-half days,
let's give them some more. Commence firing in one
minute."
  It was as if the battered troops of the IPF
knew something hot and heavy and lethal was in the wind,
for the battleground fell strangely silent as
Ben's troops dug in deeper for the barrage.
  The booming began from the rear of Ben's Rebel
lines. Within seconds, the landscape in front of
them was transformed from a peaceful country scene to one
out of the mind of a raging psychopath in the final grips
of destructive madness.
  Huge trees were flung into the air, as if
ripped from the ground and hurled about by a giant child in a
fit of temper. Vehicles and human
beings were ripped apart and thrown high into the air amid
an assortment of arms and tires and legs and fenders
and severed heads and axles.
  "Order all troops to prepare for chemicals,"
Ben spoke into his headset.
  The countryside became quiet, with only the
moaning of the wounded and the smoke to remind anyone of the
battle just past.
  The battle just seconds away would be much
quieter, but much hideous in the pain and suffering it would
wreak.
  "Now," Ben said.
  Moments later, the air was once again filled with the
sounds of incoming death, as chemical warfare began from

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the side of the Rebels. The faint screaming and
shrieking of the IPF troops could be heard as the
acid and mustard and modified nerve gas touched
living tissue and burned and ravaged and destroyed the
flesh and the eyes and the organs of the IPF troops
across the ripped and smoking and wasted no-man's-land.
  "High explosives," Ben ordered. "Every third
round white phosphorous."
  Then the screams of the IPF personnel began in
bone-chilling earnest as the WP rounds began
dropping, the burning shards of phosphorous
searing the flesh and burning to the bone and beyond.
  Then the Shillelaghs began seeking targets, the
missiles destroying anything they were locked onto
during their fiery journey.
  As the bearded, robed old man called the
Prophet had told Gale, "It was not a war of
great magnitude."
  But it was enough for the IPF. With a bitter taste in his
mouth, and an oath on his lips, General
Striganov ordered his people to retreat.
  Just seconds after Ben saw what was happening through
his binoculars, he jerked off his headset and ran out
of the bunker, startling Mary and Buck.
  Ben yelled, "Spearheaders
go-go-Go!"
  With Colonel Gray's Scouts and the LETTERRP'S
leading the way, the Rebels charged across the
no-man's-land, screaming their rage and fury at the
retreating forces of the IPF.
  "Keep the rounds in front of the IPF!" Ben
yelled back to the bunker. "Call it in. Drive
the bastards back to meet us."
  The heavy artillery and mortar crews lifted their
cannon and tubes and adjusted klicks. A
barrage of explosives landed in front
of the retreating IPF troops, forcing them to turn
around and face the advancing Rebels charging toward
them.
  Six thousand troops of Striganov's IPF
had initially faced the men and women of the Rebels on
the four sides of the battleground. Just over three
thousand IPF troops had been killed in the first

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few days of fighting. As the IPF were slowly pushed
and forced into a small valley just north of Highway
136 in northern Missouri where they took the
heaviest casualties to date. The Rebels
closed the pinchers and began the final slaughter of the
master race.
 It was not quite Gen. Georgi Striganov's
Armageddon, but it was to be the last battle for more
than ninety-five percent of the troops facing Ben
Raines's Rebels.
 Many of the surviving IPF troops were already leery
about fighting the Rebels, for they had heard all the
stories about Ben Raines's supposedly
supernatural powers, about him being something of a god,
about his abilities to face death down.
 Of course, outwardly they scoffed and made
jokes about that. But for many, inwardly, they weren't so
certain.
 When the troops of the IPF turned to face the
advancing Rebels, fear sprang into their hearts.
For the "pure master race" of supermen and superwomen
found themselves facing blacks, whites, Indians,
Jews, Hispanics, Orientals and practically
every other race of people known to exist on the face of the
earth.
 And they saw pure hate in the eyes of the
Rebels. They saw the silvery glint of cold
steel affixed to the weapons, the long bayonets
gleaming in the cool fall sunlight. For most of the
IPF troops, that would be the last thing they would ever
see.
 The IPF was forced to fight rage against what they
stood for, love of country and a fierce dedication
to justice and personal liberty, and an almost
fanatical loyalty toward Ben Raines. And the
IPF knew, to a person, they were beaten.
 Miles away, heading back north to safety,
Gen. Georgi Striganov sat slumped in the
cushioned comfortable security of his armored car. He
had tried to direct the operation from the rear, knowing that it
was a mistake, but one he felt he had to make,
one his advisors had practically insisted upon. He
was safe, yes, but his best troops had

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been wiped out.
  His thoughts were as ugly as the bitter taste lying
sour on his tongue.
  Using the radio in his armored car, Striganov
called in to his HQ. "Evacuate west," he
said tersely. "Until I arrive, Colonel
Fechnor is in charge. I want plan B put
into effect at once. Move all personnel and
equipment west into the Oregon, Washington and
Northern California areas. Order all troops
from Iceland to commence their sea journey
to America-utilize the long
  route for safety. Transport the experimental
minorities with care, for the females are not far from
birthing. Put the evacuation plan into effect
immediately."
  The Russian sank back into his seat.
"Goddamn Ben Raines," he cursed.
"Goddamn his soul to the pits of hell!"
  To hell! he thought. To hell? He shook away
the thought of any punishment after death. He didn't
believe in that myth.
  Or... did he?
  "What do you want done with the prisoners,
General?" Colonel Gray asked Ben.
It was a useless question, for the Englishman knew
perfectly well what Ben's reply would be.
  Ben looked at him. His smile was grim: a
slight upturning of one corner of his mouth. His
eyes were bleak. "Shoot them," he said.
  The Englishman nodded and turned away.
  "Gather and inventory all weapons and
equipment," Ben ordered. "We're going to need
it."
  A thin cover of smoke lay over the little valley
of death. Bodies were piled on top of bodies as
the Rebels moved into the carnage, stripping the dead
of anything they might find useful.
  "Tell our engineers to bring earth scrapers in
here," Ben told Lieutenant Macklin. "And
scoop out mass graves for the IPF."
  She walked away, happy to be leaving the immediate
area, for the stink of the dead and mangled bodies was

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ugly to her nostrils.
  Ike appeared at Ben's side. Ben glanced
at him. The
  stocky ex-navy SEAL had come through the fight
unscathed. Ike wore a long face.
  "What's up, Ike?"
  "Hector's dead, Ben. He took a
round right through the head."
  Ben sighed heavily. Another friend lost.
Hector Ramos now joined all the others who had
died to defend liberty. "I'm sorry, Ike.
Hec was a friend of mine, too. Have him buried apart
from those bastards." Ben jerked his thumb toward the
piles of dead IPF troops. Something told him
that Ike was not through with his report. "All right, ol'
buddy. Drop the other shoe."
  "OK, Ben, but it ain't good. Prelims show
we took a thirty percent loss. Another four
hundred too badly hurt to fight. We lost
twenty tanks to suicide teams from the IPF, six
mortar carriers. One long torn completely out of
it, another that will have to have major repairs. One
PUFF was shot down, all aboard dead. Two
spotter planes down-crews still missing, presumed
dead.
  "In other words, we've got about eighteen
hundred troops still able to fight?"
  "That's stretching it, Ben. Make it fifteen
hundred. Be more like it. And some of them are more badly
wounded than they want us to know."
  "Very well," Ben said, mentally tallying up the
troops still able to fight. "So what it
boils down to is this: Pursuit is out of the question."
  "Nil," Cecil said, walking up. He had
commanded the west flank. "The last intelligence
report we received stated that Striganov had at
least another six to eight thousand troops in
reserve-but not all of them on American soil.
We may have the spirit and the
  cause, but Striganov simply and flatly has
us outgunned and out-manned the way we are."
  "Stopped dead in the water," Ben mused. "At
least for a time." He was thoughtful for a moment. "I'm

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betting Striganov and his people won't stay in the
North. I'm betting he's already given orders
to pull out and relocate. But where?"
 "To the west," Juan said. He and his people had just
pulled in from their positions on the west side of the
Mississippi River, just above that area defended
by Ike's Rebels. "Or to the south. I think those
are the only two logical moves left him. You
said some time back, Ben, the Russian would
probably have eyes and ears out and know we are
planning a move to the east. He couldn't move into the
once-heavily-industrialized Northeast, for those
areas-many of them-will be hot for another thousand years.
He certainly would know the work you people did in
the new Tri-States, the building and the cultivation
of crop-lands. He might go there, but I'm
hunch-betting he's pulling out to the west."
 "California, Oregon, Washington areas,
maybe," Ben said, more to himself than to the others.
"Putting as much distance between us as possible, knowing we
would be very much overextended by attacking his people with that much
of a supply gap between us."
 "Yeah," Ike said, spitting a stream of
tobacco juice on the ground. "And with three thousand
miles separating our base camp from the Russian,
we'll be in a hell of a bind as far as supplies
went. You're right, Ben."
 Ben thought of Gale, and how she would take this
news. "Mary?"
 Lieutenant Macklin stepped forward. "Sir?"
She had delivered Ben's orders to the engineers and
returned.
 "Mary, have Colonel Gray send out teams of
LETTERRP'S. Stay well south of the IPF column
but give us daily radio communiqu`es as to their
progress. Juan, radio your people in New
Mexico and Arizona, warn them the IPF is
heading west. Maybe that news will help them find their
courage and get them to fight."
 "Don't count on it, Ben," Juan warned.
 "I'm not. Mary, have Colonel Gray ask for
volunteers for a hit and rescue mission on
Striganov's HQ up north. I want it mounted

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quickly, while the IPF is in a mild state of
panic and confusion, getting ready for a massive
pull-out west. I want them to rescue as many of the
captives as possible.
  "All right, people, here it is. We are going to stay
put for a time. Let Striganov think we're here
to stay in this area. It just might confuse him. I
doubt it, but there is always a chance. Let's get to the
job of burying our dead."
  Ike stood by Ben's side as the others left.
The two men stood side by side, gazing out at the
smoke drifting up from the torn landscape.
  "Kinda reminds you of things past, doesn't it,
Ben?"
  "Yes," Ben replied quietly, his thoughts
flying back over the years. "Yes, it does."
  The battle for Tri-States took
thirty-five days. Just over a month of savage
fighting. Ben's people quickly resorted to guerrilla
tactics and scattered. Ben's Rebels hit hard
and ran, and they booby-trapped everything.
  The government troops who stormed Tri-States
soon learned what hell must be like. Everything they
touched either blew up, shot at them, bit them or
poisoned them.
  Earlier, the medical people in Tri-States had
discovered packs of rabid animals and captured
them, keeping them alive as long as possible,
transferring the infected cultures into the
bloodstreams of every warm-blooded animal they could
find. The day the invasion began, the rabid animals
were turned loose on the government troops. It was
cruel. But isn't war always?
  The government troops began their search and
destroy missions. They entered hospitals and
nursing homes but the patients had been armed. The very
old and the very sick and dying fought just as savagely as the
young and strong and healthy. For those people who chose to live
in Ben Raines's Tri-States wanted only
to be left alone, to live their lives as they saw
fit. And they would fight to the death for that right. And
did.
  Old people, with tubes hanging from their bodies, some

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barely able to crawl, hurled grenades and shot at
the government troops who had invaded them. And the young
men in their jump boots and berets wept as
they killed the old people. Tough marines cried at the
carnage.
 Many of the young government troops threw down their
weapons and walked away, refusing to take part in
any more killing. Not cowardice on their part-these young
men would have fought to the death against any threat to liberty,
but the people of Ben Raines's Tri-States had
threatened no one's liberty. All
 they wanted was the right to live and work and play in
peace and personal freedom-and to govern themselves as
they saw fit, infringing on no law-abiding
citizen's rights.
 Many of the young government troops deserted to join the
Rebels; many were shot by their own officers for refusing
to fight against a group of Americans whom they
believed had done no wrong.
 The universal soldier syndrome came home
to many of the government troops: without us, you can't have a
war.
 And the children of the Rebels, they fought as well and as
bravely as the older, more experienced Rebels.
Some as young as ten and twelve stood with weapons and
fought it out with the government troops ... wondering why,
because they thought
they
were Americans. The children hid with sniper rifles and
had to be hunted down and killed. A battered and
bleeding little girl might just hand a medic a live
grenade and die with him.
 Rightly or wrongly, Ben Raines's decision
to school the young of Tri-States in the tactics of
war had been driven home. They had been taught for
as long as Tri-States stood-nine years-to
defend their country, their beliefs, and that is what they
did.
 The hospital finally had to be blown up with
artillery rounds; it was unsafe to enter because the
patients were armed and ready to die for Ben Raines and
his form of government. Everywhere the U.s. troops
turned, something blew up in their faces. With thousands

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of tons of explosives to work with, the Rebels had
wired everything possible to explode.
  Tri-States began to stink like an open
cesspool. The
  U.s. troops were forced to kill every warm-blooded
animal they saw. There was no way of knowing what
animals had been infected, not in the early stages.
The government troops became very wary about entering
buildings, not only because of the risk of a door being
wired to blow, but because the Rebels had begun
placing rabid animals in houses, locking them
in. A dog or a cat is a terrible thing to witness
leaping at a person, snarling and hissing and foaming from
the jaws.
  U.s. troops could not drink the water in
Tri-States. Doctor Chase had infected it with
everything from cholera to forms of anthrax.
  There were no finely drawn battle lines in this
war, no safe sectors for the U.s. troops. The
Rebels did not retreat in any given direction,
leaving that section clean. They would pull back, then
go left or right and circle around, flanking the
government troops, harassing and confusing them,
slitting a throat along the way. For the Rebels
knew this territory. For nine years they had been
training for this, and they were experts at their jobs.
  The bloody climax came when the government
troops could not even remotely consider taking
prisoners; they could not risk a Rebel, of any
age or sex, getting that close to them.
  Then the directive came down the chain of command,
beginning at the White House, from the mouth of
President Hilton Logan: total
extermination.
  For many, this was the first time for actual
combat. The first time to taste the highs and lows of war.
And there are highs in combat. The first taking of a
human life-all the training in the world will not prepare
a person for that moment.
  Sometimes in combat, the mind will turn off, and a
soldier will do things to survive without realizing he is
doing them or remembering afterward. Rote training
takes over.

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  Fire until you hear the ping or plop of the firing
pin striking nothing. Fresh clip in. Resume
firing, aiming at the thickest part of the enemy's
body. Your weapon is jammed. Clear it, cuss
it, grab one from your dead buddy. Fire through the
tears and the sweat and the dirt.
  Sometimes a soldier will fire his weapon until
it's empty and never reload, so caught up is he
in the heat and horror. He is killing the enemy with
imaginary bullets.
  You can't think. Too much noise. Don't even
try to think. Kill the enemy. An hour becomes a
minute; a minute is forever. God, will it never end.
No! don't let it end. The high is terrific.
Kind of like a woman moaning beneath you, approaching
climax.
  One soon learns the truth: You
didn't cum-you shit your pants.
  And when did it start raining red? Thick red.
  You imagine yourself indestructible.
They
can't kill
you.
Laugh in the face of death. Howl at the Reaper.
A man running for cover is decapitated by a
mortar round. The headless, nonhuman-appearing thing
runs on for twenty more yards, flapping its arms in
a hideous silent ballet, the music provided
by machine guns, the applause the sound of screaming.
In your head. It's you, but you don't know that. Look
at the headless man. Fascinated. It falls down.
St.
  Someone else is trying to stuff yards of guts
back into his belly. He falls down, screams,
dies. Good. At
  least it shut the son of a bitch up. His guts are
steaming in the cool air.
  God, you shot a woman. It's a good hit. The
cunt falls funny, kind of limp and boneless.
  Then the thought comes to you: How long has it been
since you've had any pussy?
  What a time to be thinking of that.
  Turn to speak to your buddy, just a few feet

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away, in a ditch. That red rain you felt? That was his
blood. He's still alive, but just barely. The
blood is really gushing out. No time to worry about the
dying. You've got to concentrate on staying alive.
  Eyes smart and sting from the smoke and dust of
battle. Get it all together, pal, "cause here
come the enemy. Close.
  There is that dude from Bravo Company, the one who
used to brag about all the pussy he got. He
won't be getting any more. Took a slug right between
the eyes. All that yuk leaking out of his head.
  Suddenly, too quickly, you're mixing it up hand
to hand. This is stupid; the enemy looks just like you. His
mouth is open, his eyes are wide with a combination of
fear and excitement, and he is dirty and smells
bad. Your eyes meet. Brains send the
message. Kill.
  You're off your knees. (how did I get on
my knees? What the fuck was I doing, praying?)
Legs support you. You're going to be all right.
  Squeeze the trigger. The enemy is dead. No,
he isn't! The goddamn rifle is empty!
Slam the butt of the M-16 into his balls. He
doubles over, puking. Bring the butt down
on his neck and pray the goddamn plastic stock
doesn't break. If it's from Mattel, it's
swell. Hear the neck pop. He's dead. A
fresh clip in the weapon.
  Shoot him just to be sure.
  Turn in a crouch, trying to suck air into your
lungs, can't get enough air. Another Rebel has
just killed that guy ... what's his name? Third
platoon. You notice the strangest things. The guy
needs a shave. Force your bayonet into the
Rebel's back. (when did you fix the bayonet
on the lug?) Damn-it's not as easy as in the
movies; the guy is screaming and jerking around and
pissing on himself. Oh, shit! The bayonet is
stuck in the guy's back. Blow it free. There it
is.
  Suddenly, you're on the ground, flat on your
back. How'd that happen? Am I hit? Oh,
God! Don't let my balls be gone!

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  "Get up, you yellow son of a bitch!" a
sergeant is yelling.
  Is he yelling at me? Hell, I'm not
yellow. I just killed a couple of Rebs.
Damn, Sarge, I didn't get down here
deliberately, you know. The sergeant
takes a slug in the back. Must have gone right through the
spine. He falls funny. You can't remember his
name.
  Get to your feet to face the enemy. What is this,
a replay? You just did this.
  Some troops have captured a Rebel woman,
pulling the pants off her. Aw, come on, guys!
She's screaming as they mount her. They're hurting
her. That's not right, guys; we're not animals.
  "Want some pussy, Jake?"
  They're talking to you, stupid. "No." Turn
away. Don't have to look at this.
  The woman is really screaming in pain.
  A man is on the ground. A Rebel. Some
government troops are sticking him with bayonets.
  "Beg, you mother-fucker!" they yell at him.
  "Go to hell!" the Rebel shouts his defiance.
  The Old Man said no prisoners. So the Reb
is shot. But they didn't have to shoot him
there.
He's screaming in pain.
  It's quiet. You look around you. Is it over?
Yeah-almost. Holy-Mother-of-God-Jesus-Fucking
-Christ-Almighty! Look at the bodies. All
the blood and stuff. Oh, Lord-the sergeant
is walking around, shooting the wounded Rebels in the
head. Someone tells you that you're now a sergeant.
Battlefield promotion. Somehow it doesn't
seem like such a big deal. You want to scream: "But
I don't want the promotion!" Then suddenly there
is a .45 in your hand an you're stepping through the
gore and the pain and the moaning and the pistol is jumping in
your hand, ending the moaning and the screaming ands the pain.
  No prisoners.
  That was the rule on both sides of the conflict.
  That woman Reb was still screaming. They were
sodomizing her. And calling out crudely as they did

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so.
  You walk away from the sights and sounds of the rape.
You could tell them to stop and they would have to. You're a
sergeant. But you don't want to lose the respect
of your men this early in the game. What the hell?
She's only a Rebel. The enemy.
  All around you the enemy is lying dead on the
ground. And that woman is still screaming. Wish she would
shut up.
  A Rebel is still alive, shot hard in the chest.
He's looking up at you, defiance in his eyes. You
shoot him in the head and try not to look at the wedding
band on his left hand, third finger. Maybe
that was his wife the guys are screwing up the ass.
  Don't think about that.
  Rationalize the situation. Look, you say
silently to the dead man, don't blame me. I'm
just following orders, man.
  The enemy is defeated, most dead, and it's just
too quiet around here. Somebody say something. But
everybody you look at averts their eyes. Guys
are breathing too hard; somebody tosses his
breakfast, puking on the ground. Someone else is
praying. The Lord's Prayer. You feel like laughing.
Man ... you think
God
is listening to this shit?
"It's too goddamned quiet!"
  You spin around. "Who said that?" you demand in a harsh
voice.
  Nobody will answer.
  Our Father which art in Heaven ...
  A Rebel is moaning in pain.
  Hallowed be Thy name...
  You point to the Rebel. "Shoot him!" you order.
  Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done...
Bam!
  The gunshot is so goddamned loud.
  In earth, as it is in Heaven ...
  There is a guy from your platoon, kneeling,
holding a tiny, blue-colored bird in his dirty
hand.
  Give us this day our daily bread ...

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  The bird is dead.
  And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our
debtors...
  Everybody gathered around to look at the bird.
No one speaks. It's quiet.
  And lead us not into temptation ...
  There isn't a mark on the bird. No blood.
Seems
  funny to see something with no blood on it.
Wonder what killed the bird?
  But deliver us from evil...
  "Hey, Sarge?"
  "Yeah?" Your voice sounds funny. Odd.
  For thine is the kingdom, and the power ...
  "You know what, Sarge?"
  And the glory...
  "What?"
  Forever...
  "We won."
  Amen.
CHAPTER THREE
  Gale was silent for a time that evening of the IPF'S
first major defeat on American soil. Then, after
an hour had passed, with Ben leaving her alone to work
it all out in her mind, she came to him.
  She stood looking at him for a moment before speaking.
"We did the best we could, didn't we, Ben? I
mean, the fighting?"
  "Better than I thought we'd do, Gale.
Better than I could ever imagine, in fact."
  "You're not just saying that?"
  "No."
  "Your people-our people, the Rebels-they knew they would
suffer losses, didn't they?"
  "Yes."
  "But still they laid their lives on the line for people they
had never met?"
  "That is correct."
  There were tears in her eyes as she said, "Then I
won't nag you about it again, about doing anything else."
  "It isn't over, Gale. We haven't given
up. I have teams moving to the north right this minute,
to rescue as many people as possible. But what we have to do

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is recoup and rest, plan our next move
carefully. We'll eventually beat
Striganov-I'm sure of that-but we just can't do it
now."
  "We'll always be fighting, won't we, Ben? I
mean, fighting somebody or something?"
  "It looks that way, Gale."
  She wiped her eyes and kissed him. "Well...
least I feel reasonably safe when I'm around
you," she said with a smile, some of her spirit returning.
  He put a big hand on her stomach. "How is
the kid doing?"
  "Kids, Ben," she corrected.
  "Right. Twins."
  "They're fine."
  He smiled at her. "Ever been to the Great
Smoky Mountains?"
  "No."
  "It's lovely. You'll like it."
  "When do we pull out?"
  "In a couple of weeks. We'll let the more
seriously wounded get fit to travel. And we'll
probably be joined by General Tanner's people and by the
kids. Should be interesting."
  "Know what I want to do right now?" she questioned.
There was a smile on her lips and her dark eyes
sparkled with mischief.
  "Play Monopoly?" Ben said with all
innocence.
  "That's one way to describe it. How many times do
you think you could make me pass Go?"
  He thought about that for a moment, then leaned down and
whispered in her ear.
  "Oh my, Ben! Well... if you can do that, then
I'll just have to think of something nice for you. Have any
ideas?"
  He again whispered in her ear.
  She drew back as if in shock. "Pervert!"
she said, but with a smile.
  General Tanner's "grandfathers" pulled into Ben's
base camp. The old warriors were jubilant as
they met with Ben and the others and each congratulated the
other on their shared victory over the IPF.

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  The teams began returning from the north, returning
with men and women who told horror stories about their
treatment at the hands of the IPF. They told of the
mutant breeding farms, of being forced to have sex with the
monsters, and of those women who were heavy with mutant children
having been taken to the west.
  "How many did the teams miss?" Ben asked.
  "About half of us," he was told.
  It sickened Ben, but he was fully
cognizant of the fact there was nothing he could do-not at
this moment.
  "You did all you could, Ben," Gale told him,
and that made him feel better. "Someday, perhaps. But
I've come to realize that you can't shoulder the troubles
of the world alone, honey."
  It made him feel better, but still left him with
an ugly taste in his mouth.
  Standing alone outside his headquarters at dusk,
Ben looked toward the setting sun and murmured,
  "Someday, Striganov, I promise you.
Someday, I'll find you and kill you."
  Behind him, Gale heard the promise and shuddered as
a hard chill of fear shook her. She wondered if
she would be permitted to live that long? She hoped so.
She knew Ben did not love her, knew that for a
fact-her woman's intuition told her that. But she
felt him to be content with her, and she had enough love for the
both of them. Of course, she would never let him know
that, she thought with a smile, as the chill of sudden fear
left her.
  She stood in the shadows of the motel and looked at
the man, so tall and strong as the rays of the setting
sun silhouetted his shape, making his shadow appear
fifty feet long, making the man fit the
image so many thought him to be.
  And did she feel that way as well?
  She didn't know. And she was afraid to question her
mind too closely on the subject.
  She turned and slipped quietly away.
  "Here comes the Orphans" Brigade," Buck
said, sticking his head into Ben's quarters. "General,
you got to see this to believe it."
  "That bad?" Ben questioned, getting up from behind the

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desk. He put on his beret and headed for the open
door.
  The columns of young people were still about a mile away from
the HQ. They were marching steadily. Ragged and dirty
and appearing malnourished, the kids marched with their
heads held high.
  Ben, with Gale by his side, watched the young
  people. One column was marching in from the northwest, the
other from the northeast.
  "Damnedest thing I believe I've ever seen,"
Ben said, his voice not much more than a whisper.
  "Oh, Ben," Gale said, taking his hand. "Some
of them are just children. Babies."
  "Don't you believe it, Miss Roth," Buck
said. "Those kids-most of them, so I hear tell-have
been on their own for years. They're tough
little guys and gals. And the way it was told to me,
most of them would as soon kill you as look at you."
  "Buck, I can't believe that," Gale
replied, her heart going out to the little ones in the
columns.
  "Believe it," Ben told her. "They've had
no schooling, no parental or adult guidance, no
discipline other than what they impose on themselves.
A sort of tribal law, I should imagine. They
have had but one thought all their waking years, and that is
to survive. Yet another sad fact of postwar."
  "They look so helpless," Gale muttered.
  "Bear in mind," Ben said, "those two columns
of kids helped destroy four battalions of
trained IPF personnel. And they took no
prisoners."
  "Colonel Gray mentioned that they looked
helpless," Mary Macklin said, joining the growing
group. "He offered one little girl a candy bar and she
bit his hand to the bone." Mary smiled at the mental
picture. "His LETTERRP'S said the colonel then
became quite ineloquent."
  Gale looked at Mary. "Poor little girl,"
she said.
  "Then that poor little girl grabbed his
rifle, kicked him in the shins, and took off into the
woods with the AK." She said it all with a straight

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face. But there was
  a definite twinkle in her eyes.
  Gale looked shocked at the telling.
  "How old was the girl?" Ben asked.
  "Eight," Mary said.
  Ike walked up and looked at the approaching young
people. The leading edge was only a few yards away.
The young people stopped and were looking at the adults
looking at them.
  "Aw," Ike said, "look at them poor, little
kids. Makes your heart ache, don't it? Me and
Sally got to take in a few of them to raise."
  Ben smiled.
  Ike walked into the street and stood smiling down
at the first few young people. He felt his heart soften as
he looked at the ragged and dirty little kids. The
stocky ex-Seal knelt down beside one little,
dark-haired girl.
  "Howdy, honey," he drawled in his best
Mississippi accent. "My, you sure are
pretty. How'd you like to come live with me and my
wife?"
  The little girl, no more than nine or ten,
pulled a pistol from a holster and pointed it at
Ike. Ike paled in shock. She said, "How'd you
like to eat lead, fatso?"
  Ben had to struggle to keep from laughing at the
expression on Ike's face. It was very difficult
to get anything over on Ike, and Ben knew this
story would fly around the camps of the Rebels. Ike
would never live it down.
  Gale glanced at Ben.
"Ben!"
she hissed. "Damn it, it isn't funny."
  Ben groaned, suppressing a chuckle.
  "Now, darlin"," Ike said, very carefully
getting to his feet. "There just ain't no call for
nothin' like this. I don't mean you no harm."
  "Yeah?" the cute little girl asked
belligerently. "That's what them guys told me
last year, too. I believed "em. You know what
they done to me?"
  "I'd really rather not hear about it, if you don't

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mind," Ike said.
  "I guess you and your wife is gonna love me
and hug me and give me food and pretty clothes and
all that shit?" the little girl demanded Ike answer.
  "Well, ah, yes," Ike said, after
wincing at her language.
  "That's what them men told me, too," the girl
said. "So I believed 'em. They took me to a
house and raped me-all of them. They hurt me real
bad. Then Wade come along and him and his people killed
them men. I believe Wade. I don't know you, so
I don't believe you and I don't trust you. I
got my reasons, mister."
  Ben stepped forward as the HQ appeared to swell
with the arrival of more young people. "You can believe him,
girl," he said. "Ike is sincere in wanting you
to come live with him and his wife. Ike and Sally are
good people."
  The ragged little girl with the pistol in her hand swung
oldstwisestyoung eyes to Ben. She holstered the
.38. "Maybe," she said, suspicion in her
voice. "I don't know you neither, but you look
familiar. Who you is, mister?"
  "Ben Raines."
  The little girl reached into a leather pouch on her
belt and removed a plastic-covered picture.
She compared the picture to the man then turned to face
the large knot of young people, now hundreds strong.
"It's him!" she called.
  The little girl fell to her knees and every
boy and girl in the column followed suit. Ben
stood open-mouthed, astonishment evident on his
tanned, rugged features.
  "What the hell?" Ben muttered.
  Wade crawled toward Ben. Clearly
embarrassed, Ben tried to motion the young man to his
feet. But the young man would have none of that.
  "Get up!" Ben whispered hoarsely. "What
are you doing?"
  With his eyes downcast, Wade called out, "All
praise Ben Raines."
  "What!" Ben whispered, aware that his people were looking
strangely at him.

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 "All praise Ben Raines," the hundreds of
young people echoed.
 Ben lost his temper. "Now just a damn minute!"
he yelled. "Everybody here-off your knees. Get
up and face me."
 Ben handed his Thompson to Ike and the eyes of the young
people all followed the shifting of the old SMG. More
than a few sighed audibly. They now viewed
Ike in a different light.
 Ben motioned the young people up from their prostration,
feeling a bit foolish as he did so.
 Reluctantly, and with fear on their young
faces, the kids rose to their feet.
 "You young people do
not
worship
me!"
Ben said, his voice carrying over the crowd.
"Nobody
worships me. I won't have it. It's silly.
Where in the world did you young folks get such an
idea?"
 "It... it is written," Wade stammered out the
reply. The seemingly fearless young man now seemed
genuinely afraid standing facing Ben.
 Ben looked hard at the young man. "Written?
Where is it written that I am to be worshipped?"
 "An old man told us," Wade said. "I
mean ... he didn't exactly say it like that, but
he talked real funny-old-time like. And he said that
to worship a false god was a sin in the eyes of the
Lord. I told him that maybe that was so, but that there
wasn't but one man I would ever bow down to, and that
was Mister Ben Raines."
 Ben nodded, and to the young people, the nod appeared
sagely. Irritation flashed across Ben's face.
"Was the man's name the Prophet?"
 The crowd of young people drew back, as if much
afraid. They knotted together, touching, seeking comfort
by physical contact.
 "Yes," Wade said, standing his ground, but looking
very much like he would rather cut and run.
 Ben looked at the young spokesman. "What did

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he say or do when you told him that?"
  "He... said that perhaps you... Ben Raines ...
might be the man to do the job at hand. But that on your
head would lie the ... the con-con-was he struggled
with the unfamiliar word-"the consequences should you try but
fail."
  "All right. Now tell me this, young man. What
do you think the old man meant by that?"
  A look of confusion passed over the young man's
face. He finally shrugged his shoulders. "That you are
a god-what else?"
  "He was wrong," Ben said. "And you are wrong in
thinking you should worship me."
  "No, sir." Wade's reply was softly
given, just audible
  to Ben's ear. "No, sir, I don't think so.
Arid none of the people who are with me think so, neither.
Mister Ben Raines, I have traveled all over this
land," Wade stated. "I have been to both
big waters, east to west. I have been from Canada
down to Texas, and I have personally seen with my own
eyes what some people have built in reverence to you."
  Ben stirred. Those rock and stone monuments he
had heard about but never seen. He did not know how
to reply to Wade. A strange emotion moved deep
within him. Stirred, turned, then became still as Ben
took a deep, calming breath.
  Wade said, "You have many, many followers, Mister
Ben Raines. We are but a few of them. You have people
who revere you living in small pockets all over
this nation. But for the most part they are afraid to leave the
safety of their tunnels and caves."
  Tunnels and caves! Ben thought. We have people in this
nation who are living in tunnels and caves? A
society of darkness?
  Wade said, "Those people would join you, sir. But they
are afraid."
  Afraid of whom? Ben thought. Or what? "When
did all this start?" Ben asked.
  Again, Wade shrugged his shoulders. "I ...
don't know, Mister Ben Raines. Right after the war
come to us, I reckon. Long time, judging from the age
of some of the tributes to you."

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 "How did you and your ... group avoid
President Logan's relocation efforts and Al
Cody's agents all these years?"
 Wade smiled. "We know the ways of the mountains
and the deep timber, Mister Ben Raines. We are
as
 much at home in the wilderness as you are in your
house. Have you ever tried to capture sunlight or a
moonbeam and hold it in your hand?"
 Ben returned the smile. He liked this young but very
tough and capable young man. He felt Wade and his people
would be good allies. "No, I haven't attempted
to do that, Wade. I should imagine it would be very
difficult."
 "Yes, Mister Ben Raines. Very difficult."
 "We are going to the east, Wade. Moving over
into Tennessee and Georgia and North Carolina.
Would you and your people care to join us?"
 "That is why we are here, Mister Ben Raines.
And that is why Ro and his people have come."
 "Ro?"
 Wade pointed to the second column of boys and
girls. And to a tall young man who stood at the
forefront. "Ro."
 Ben nodded and stepped toward Ro. He extended
his hand, but the young man backed away,
refusing to accept the gesture of friendship.
 "It is not permitted, Mister Ben Raines,"
Ro told him.
 "What is not permitted?" Ben asked, an edge
to his voice as he became slightly irritated.
 Ro looked at him and smiled a secret
smile. "It is as the old man said: You do not yet
know who you are. But still, it is not permitted."
 He bowed and turned to his people. He said something
Ben could not understand. The language sounded very much like
pidgin English.
 Dear God, Ben thought. Have we reverted
to this-already!
 Ro turned again to Ben. "We accept your
invitation to join your following. We will follow you
wherever you lead. For now, where do you want us to camp?"
 "Bed them down, Buck," Ben said. He looked

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at Wade. "This is Sergeant Osgood. He'll
show you where to bunk and then we get you bathed and fed and
clothed and have our medical people look you over."
  "We are at your command, Mister Ben Raines,"
Wade said. He turned to his group and spoke
to them in the same pidgin English Ro had used. The
young people turned, falling into a loose formation. Ben
stood and watched them march off, following a
clearly embarrassed Buck Osgood.
  "I feel like a damned pied piper," Buck
said.
  The same strange ritual was conducted by Ro,
making Ben feel more set-apart than ever. He
knew, felt a very dangerous precedent being set,
or had already been set on this day. But how to combat
it? He didn't know. But he knew he had to come
up with something very quickly.
  "For a god," Gale said, walking to Ben's
side, "you have some pretty good moves in the sack,
Ben. Did you learn all that on the slopes of
Olympus?"
  Ben almost choked on his cigarette. "Jesus,
Gale! I didn't find it amusing."
  "I didn't either, Ben. What are you going to do
about it?"
  He shook his head. "I don't know."
  "Tunnels and caves, Ben?"
  "That's what the young man said." He looked at
Cecil and Ike and Juan and Mark. "Any of you
people ever hear about a subterranean culture that
worships me?"
  "Nothing, Ben," Cecil said. But Cecil could
never lie worth a damn.
  "Umm," Ben said.
  Chase had joined the group. Ben looked at him.
The doctor, like the others, remained
noncommittal.
  "It's a big country, Ben," Ike said. "It
doesn't surprise me to learn there are groups who
hold you in high regard."
  "Being held in high regard is one thing," Ben
replied. "Being looked upon as possessing some
supernatural power is quite another. And I don't

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like it." He looked hard at his friends. "None of you
gave me an answer to my question, boys-why?"
  "I tried to tell you, Ben," Doctor Chase
said. "Tried on several occasions. But you always
brushed it off as having little or no importance. I
got tired of trying."
  "We have all tried, Ben," Cecil said. "But
you refused to believe it or even discuss it with us.
Now it's coming home, as we all told you-or tried
to tell you-it would."
  "You people are behaving as if the problem is all my
fault," Ben said peevishly.
  "No." Doctor Chase picked up the anger in
Ben. His words were softly spoken. "I think it is
just time for this to occur, Ben. And I warned you
about that, too." The doctor walked away, without
going into more detail. He knew he didn't have to
  "It'll pass," Ben said firmly. "By God,
I'll see to that personally."
  "Good luck, El Presidente," Ike said.
And he got a hard look from Ben for the words. was
'Cause you're sure gonna need it."
  A subterranean society did indeed exist in
what was once known as America, South America,
Central America, Asia Minor, Africa,
Asia-all around the globe. The People of Darkness, as
some called them, spanned the war-torn globe. They
lived in tunnels and caves and underground
repositories and old mines. They came out to work
carefully hidden vegetable gardens and to hunt for
game. They did not venture out before dawn or after
dark. For where they lived-or existed-many of whom
having lived there for more than a decade, the animal
population explosion was very real.
  Some mutants, those more animal than human, had
on occasion bred with bear, and the results were truly
hideous to behold. They were very dangerous. But perhaps the
most dangerous were the offspring of mutants who had
kidnapped and bred with human women. They not only
possessed the strength and fury of the
animal, but also the cunning and intelligence of their
human side.
  The mountain lion now roamed the land, in greater

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numbers than ever before; the wolf had reclaimed his
rightful spot in the scheme of the animal world. As had
all predatory animals. Some, like the mutant
bear, whose genes contained the radiation and germ
contamination, produced monsters in their litters,
bigger and stronger and much more deadly than the pure
species.
  And these stalked the deep timber and deserted
villages and towns at night.
  The people who lived in the caves and tunnels had
long ago given up on modern technology and
weapons
  and what was once considered the acceptable mode of
dress. They wore the skins of animals and the
soles of their feet were as tough as shoe leather. And
they did not worship God.
  Some of them worshipped Satan, with all the
horror that went with that. Some worshipped some form of
higher entity; but for the most part they did not believe
He was all-powerful. No true all-powerful God
would have permitted the world to turn into such as it had now
become.
  No, blind faith was almost universally unacceptable.
  But Ben Raines, now-he was real, and that weapon
he carried was real, and Ben Raines was doing something
to correct all this misery and awfulness. So, many of
them reasoned, Ben Raines must be in touch with some
higher power. And if that was true, then Ben Raines
was the man-god here on earth.
  In a manner of speaking, the older and wiser among
them cautioned.
  So around the fires against the night, in hundreds of
caves and underground mini-communities around the nation
that was once known as America, Land of the Free,
Give Me Your Huddled Masses, and all that
crap, the men and women of the People of Darkness talked of
things past and what they hoped for the future.
  And of Ben Raines.
  "Counting the kids who just came in, Ben,"
Cecil said. "We can put about twenty-four
hundred troops in the field."
  "Against Striganov's ten thousand or so."
  "Yes."

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  "All we can do is wait for the day to come when we
are strong enough to move against the IPF."
  All agreed that to try that now would be suicide.
  "Are you going to marry Katrina and
Roy?" Cecil asked. "That's the talk around
camp."
  "They came to see me. But I'm not a minister,
Cec."
  "You married Ike and Sally back in
eighty-nine."
  "That was a mock ceremony and you know it."
  Cecil shrugged. "Ministers seem to be in short
supply, Ben. And, whether you've noticed, or not,
getting shorter."
  Ben said nothing. But he knew Cecil was working
up to something.
  Cecil said, "And those we've talked with seemed
to have misplaced their faith."
  "Stop dancing around what's on your mind, Cec.
It isn't like you. Come on, let's have it."
  Cecil made up his mind. It might be the wrong
direction to take-might be very bad advice-but
Chase and Ike and Juan and Mark and Colonel
Gray and all the others in positions of authority in
the Rebels had agreed it was worth a shot.
  "Maybe it's up to you to put the faith of the people
back on the track, Ben."
  "You better explain that," Ben said. There was a
deadly quality to his tone.
  Cecil met his angry eyes. "Maybe what the
kids believe isn't such a bad idea."
  "I don't believe I'm hearing this!"
  "Ben..."
  "Goddamn you, Cecil. Stop it!"
  "No, I won't stop. And I won't allow you
to make me angry. People have lost their faith in God.
And a nation cannot exist as such without that faith, and you know
it. Ben, if this nation ever gets whole again, it will be
your doing. And only yours. No one is asking that you
set yourself up as some little tin god on a
make-believe throne. But if a strong belief in you
is what it takes to help repair this country-then so
be it."

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  Ben sat back in his chair. He was stunned
speechless. That this ex-college professor, this
highly educated man, this man he called friend for many
years ... could even dream of such a monstrous
idea. It was inconceivable.
  It was ludicrous.
  "Chase agrees, Ben," Cecil said.
  Ben sat in silence.
  "Ike agrees, Ben."
  Ben looked at the man, not believing what he was
hearing.
  "Juan and Mark and Dan agree, Ben."
  Ben found his voice. "You want me to walk out of
that goddamned door and not come back, Cec?"
  "You know I don't, Ben."
  "Then don't you ever bring this up again, Cec.
By all that's holy-no pun intended-I'll take
Gale and clear out. I mean it."
  "It just may be too late, Ben. I think you have
given that some thought, too. Am I right?"
  He had, but he was not going to give up without a
fight.
  "Sometimes, Ben, an unwilling or reluctant
god is preferable to the people."
  "We won't speak of this again, Cecil. I'll
forget you brought it up."
  Cecil's eyes were sad. "Yes, we'll speak
of it again, Ben. Whether you like it or not, whether you
want to or not. But we will speak of it again."
  Cecil walked from the room.
  Ben had made it clear to Gale the subject was
closed. She respected his wishes and did not speak
of the matter of gods.
  As they stood in the predawn darkness, listening to the
sounds of engines coughing into life, she looked up at
Ben.
  "A new land, Ben? A place where we can live
in peace and raise our children?"
  "I hope so, Gale."
  She knew he was just saying that because it was what she
wanted to hear.
  "Colonel Gray?" Ben called. "Move the
people east."

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  "Yes, sir."
  THE REBEL
  Ben looked to the west, toward the dream of a master
race. "I'll kill you someday, Striganov," he
muttered, as Gale stirred beside him. "Tattoo that
on
your
arm."
  THE RUSSIAN
  Striganov stood with the sun just looming over the
horizon. He stood looking toward the dream of a
free society.
  "I'll kill you some day, Ben Raines," he
said. "That is a promise."
  "Sir?" Colonel Fechnor said.
  Striganov turned. "Yes."
  "The women have begun birthing the half-mutants."
  "Oh? How do they look?"
  Fechnor smiled, the sun gleaming off his steel
teeth. "Magnificent, sir. They are truly a
sight to behold."
  THE PEOPLE
  The ragged and dirty little girl stood holding
onto the hand of her big brother. She was six. He
was nine.
  They stood looking toward the east.
  "Are we going now?" she asked.
  "Yes."
  "To find this man?"
  "Yes. It's a long way, but we'll make
it."
  "And then everything will be all right? We won't be
hungry or cold or afraid anymore?"
  "That's right."
  They started walking down the weed-filled, old
two-lane highway.
  "This man," she said, "he must be somebody really
special."
  Her brother looked at her. "The people back in the
caves said he was."
  "What is he?"
  "They said he was God."
  "I've heard of that person," she

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replied. "I wish we were there now. I'm
hungry."
 "Maybe I can kill us a rabbit and we'll
cook it."
 She wrapped her thin coat around her. "Does
God have a name?"
 "Ben Raines."




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