“Just a hunch,” Ben said, cutting his eyes to the stocky ex-Navy SEAL. “I swear, Ike, you’re looking more like a basketball every time I see you.”
“Hell, I’ve dropped ten pounds, Ben!”
“Drop ten more,” Dan, the ex-English SAS man suggested with a smile.
Ike and Dan exchanged insults all the way back to the CP. At the CP, Ben wandered off, waiting until all the batt coms arrived to start the meeting.
Cecil Jefferys, second in command of all Rebel troops, and administrator of the huge Base Camp One, flew in just behind Georgi and Rebet. Ben greeted his old friend warmly.
“What’s the skinny on this, Ben?” Cecil asked.
“Big trouble, I’m afraid, Cec. And to make matters worse, it’s been happening right under our noses. I want to brief everyone together. Go rest up for a time.”
Ben had pulled Cecil out of the field after a series of heart attacks and open-heart surgery. Cecil had objected, but not too strongly. He knew that Ben was right. The ex-Special Forces man realized his days in the field were, for the most part, over.
A runner found Ben and handed him a folded piece of paper. Standing alone, Ben read the message and then crushed the paper in one big hand. It was another report from the scouts who had parachuted into the Adirondacks.
Ben delayed the meeting until the next morning. He wanted confirmation from another patrol in the New York mountains. He was hoping it would not come, but it did, followed by a third, then a fourth confirmation.
“Son of a bitch!” Ben said.
* * *
Ben sat on the teacher’s desk in a classroom of the old school building and looked at his batt coms. They were a tired-looking bunch. The week’s stand-down had just not been enough. Most of these people had been in sustained combat for years, and it was telling on them all—even Ben, he reluctantly admitted.
But there damn sure was no end in sight.
Ben sighed and said, “The American flag will be hoisted tomorrow morning in a small town in New York State. The town will be proclaimed as the new capital of the United States of America.”
The men and women in the room looked at him as if he had lost his mind.
Ben continued. “The first item of business will be the formal declaration of war between the United States and the Rebels.”
“What?” Ike blurted.
“The country is once more in the hands of President Blanton.”
“Oh, shit!” Ned Hawkins, commander of the New Texas Rangers, said.
“Who is vice president?” Cecil asked.
“Harriet Hooter.”
Cecil laid his head down on the desk. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
Thermopolis, the hippie turned warrior, stood up and said, “Now wait a minute, Ben. Just hold on. This is a paper government, that’s all. How can they declare war on us without an army to back it up?”
“They’ve got an army,” Ben stunned the group into silence. “With most of it in place, all around us.”
“I’m confused,” Greenwalt, commander of 11 Battalion said.
“It gets worse,” Ben assured them. “For the past two or three years, that pack of hanky-stomping liberals have been recruiting and training an army up in Canada. Three full divisions of combat-ready troops, under the command of General Paul Revere.”
“Paul Revere?” Dan Gray blurted. “My word!”
“I don’t think the original has returned from the grave,” Ben said with a laugh. “But that is not the worst of it.”
“Three full combat divisions is not the worst of it?” West, commander of 4 Battalion blurted. “When we’re down by thirty-five percent. What the hell is the worst of it, Ben?”
“I believe they have also recruited many of the roaming gangs of thugs and punks, and also the Night People.”
No one said a word for a full minute. Cecil raised his head from the desk and said, “Who are the known senators and representatives, Ben?”
Ben named all that he knew.
“Oh, shit!” Cecil said, and once more put his graying head on the arm of the desk.
Even the Englishman, Dan Gray, the Irishman, Pat O’Shea, the Mexican, Raul Gomez, and the Russian, Georgi Striganov, knew of those individuals.
When the cussing faded out, Tina Raines, commander of 9 Battalion, said, ‘‘I have a suggestion, Dad.”
“What is it?”
“Nuke their asses.”
“You’re not serious, kiddo?”
“The hell I’m not!”
“Let’s take a vote,” Buddy suggested.
“Now wait just a minute,” Ben protested.
“You set the rules up yourself, Ben,” Doctor Chase reminded him. “You can’t vote and neither can I. But the rules clearly state that your decisions can be overridden by voice vote.”
“I haven’t made any decisions, Lamar,” Ben said. “But if a vote is what my batt coms want, it’s fine with me, and I’ll adhere to that decision.”
It was seven for and nine against nuking the new government of the United States.
Several of the batt coms exchanged a few heated words, but as always, in the end, the vote stood with no hard feelings.
“That’s why, on the way in yesterday, you made that comment about ‘a group of people slightly out of step with the norm,’ isn’t it, Ben?” Dan asked.
“Yes. Blanton and his ilk would eagerly embrace the Night People. They’d shake hands with the devil to get rid of us. I’m going to open a line of communications with Blanton. I am going to tell that bastard in no uncertain terms, that if he sends troops against Base Camp One or Thermopolis’s HQ in Arkansas, I will use either nuclear or germ weapons against him. Let’s have a vote on that.”
It was unanimously in favor.
Thermopolis raised his hand. “I’d like for my HQ Company to be pulled back into Base Camp One, Ben. For safety’s sake. And I’d like to give the order for them to start packing up and pulling out today.”
“Granted,” Ben said. “Good idea. Everything will be consolidated.”
Thermopolis left for the radio shack just as Corrie entered the room. “President Blanton on the horn, General. He wants to talk to you.”
“Good,” Ben said. “We’ll get a few things settled right off the mark.”
“Raines,” President Blanton’s voice rolled out of the speaker. “This is your president speaking. Are you there?”
“You’re not my president,” Ben told him. “I sure as hell didn’t vote for you.”
“Oh, I simply despise that man!” Harriet Hooter said, looking at the startled expression on Blanton’s face.
“He’s such a brute,” Blush Lightheart said.
“Now you listen to me, Raines,” Blanton blustered, as best he could, which wasn’t all that well.
“No, you listen to me,” Ben said. “You put Mister, Ben, or General in front of that name. You got all that?”
“Order the man killed,” Senator Benidict burped, looking around him. He couldn’t remember where he’d put that quart jar of moonshine.
“I concur,” Senator Tutwilder said, still looking very much like a drunken TV evangelist about to stick his hand up the dress of a fallen angel.
“I’ll have you shot?” Blanton screamed into the mic. “You, you . . . ol’ pooter!”
“Who pooted?” Senator Benidict asked. “It wasn’t me.”
Ben cocked his head and looked at the speaker for a moment. He blinked, shook his head, looked back at Ike. “Did he say what I think he said?”
“I think he called you an ol’ pooter,” Ike said, scarcely able to contain his laughter.
Jersey got so tickled she had to turn her back and walk away. But not before her muffled giggling got to about half the batt coms.
“General Pooter!” Tina blurted, then bent over in laughter, holding her sides.
Ben knew he’d be a long time living this down. He keyed the mic. “Blanton? Are you still there?”
“I’m h
ere, Raines.”
“Well? What the hell do you want? You called me, remember? Get to it. I don’t have the time to waste listening to you blather.”
“I demand your unconditional surrender, Raines.”
Ben thought about that for a moment. Then he lifted the mic. “Go fuck yourself, Blanton.”
A sort of choking noise came over the speaker. Then a racket that sort of sounded like bodies hitting a floor. It was an accurate guess. Blush Light-heart and Harriet Hooter had fainted.
The news had spread like an unchecked forest fire around the Rebel encampments, all over the nation. General Raines had told the re-emerging President of the United States to go fuck himself.
But the humor was going to be short-lived, for General Paul Revere and his divisions were on the move out of Canada.
“We’ve got time to get ready,” Ben told his batt coms. “Scouts report they’re coming in by truck convoy.”
“So they have no planes,” Dan Gray remarked with a smile.
Everybody knew what he was smiling about. Immediately after the Great War, as soon as the Rebels were organized, they swept the nation, taking everything that wasn’t nailed down. What planes they couldn’t fly to storage in the desert, they crippled. In all of North America, Raines’s Rebels had the only air force . . . such as it was.
After Blanton had gotten over his shock at Ben’s remark, he had radioed back and Ben had laid it all out for the man, in very blunt, no nonsense terms.
“He’s bluffing!” Senator Hanrahan puffed up. “He wouldn’t dare use nuclear or germ weapons.”
Despite what the nation came to think of the man, Blanton was far from being stupid. He just didn’t have a hell of a lot of common sense. He shook his now entirely gray head. “No. Ben Raines is not bluffing. I despise the man, but I’ve studied him extensively. He is a brilliant tactician, a warrior unequalled, and he does not bluff.” He looked at his liaison between he and General Revere. “Stay out of what is called Base Camp One. Under no circumstances enter Mississippi or Louisiana.”
“But he hasn’t claimed all of that yet!” Rita Rivers complained.
“He will,” Blanton said.
And Ben did. Not only did he claim all of Louisiana and Mississippi as Rebel controlled territory, he also claimed Alabama and Texas and began shifting missiles around. He knew he surely had spies among some of his civilian people, so Ben openly relocated the missiles.
Blanton and his hanky-stompers got the message—loud and clear.
“Ol’ pooter” just didn’t seem strong enough to describe the president’s feelings toward Ben Raines. “That son of a bitch!” he muttered.
The president ordered Paul Revere to halt and hold his position until he worked out a new plan of battle.
“He’s going to work out a battle plan?” one of Revere’s aides questioned.
“It appears that way. Relax. There’s no rush. We have all the time in the world.”
Revere had considered just killing Blanton and his people and taking over, but had quickly rejected that. About half of his ranks—including some top commanders—were filled with Blanton fanatics. Any move against Blanton would bring on a bloody and self-defeating mutiny within his divisions.
Those people amused Revere and he felt scorn toward them. And yet in a strange way—amid all the hate he felt toward the man—he admired Ben Raines. The Blanton supporters were avowed liberals, totally opposed to violence and professing a terrible aversion to guns. Yet here they were, all hot to kill Ben Raines and wipe the Rebels from the face of the earth.
At least Ben Raines knew what he was and didn’t change philosophies every time he changed his underwear.
While Revere’s legions were held up several thousand miles away from Ben’s Rebels, those in Base Camp One were working around the clock in the producing of instruments of death and destruction. The Rebels had literally billions of rounds of small arms ammunition. Teams flew all over the nation burying hidden caches of ammunition, grenades, mortar rounds, food, water, and clothing. They stockpiled fuel and hid vehicles amid the ruins of small towns.
Blanton would soon learn that he had made a terrible mistake in throwing down the glove to Ben Raines. Blanton’s forces outnumbered the Rebels; but the Rebels were long accustomed to fighting overwhelming odds—and winning.
Blanton knew little of war. The Rebels were experts at it. Probably the best fighters in all the world. Blanton was fighting to resurrect a dream, an ideal, that recent past history had proven to be disastrous as well as totally unworkable. The Rebels were fighting to preserve a form of government that worked for them. And they weren’t about to roll over and give it up.
Not as long as there was just one Rebel left alive.
That was something that the Blanton’s of the world had yet to learn. But they were about to.
The hard way.
ELEVEN
The Rebels were waiting. They were ready. Spring had turned to summer and the Rebels were now fully rested and wondering what the holdup was.
The holdup was simple: President Blanton didn’t know jack-crap about military tactics, and neither did any of his staff or any of the senators and representatives that made up the new government of the United States.
After weeks of laboring over writing tablets—the lined kind—President Blanton finally said to hell with it and radioed General Revere. “Attack!”
General Forrest, commander of Division One, looked at the one word battle plan and said, “That’s it? Attack?”
General Holtz, Commander of Division Two, shook his head. He was speechless.
General Thomas, Commander of Division Three, said, “You have to remember, he wasn’t much of a president either. Although I wouldn’t want many of my people to hear me say that.”
“Are those people going to stand and fight, Tom?” Revere asked the career military man.
“Yes. They’re fanatics. Dedicated to the ideals of Blanton. Die for the cause. Take a punk to lunch types.”
Revere nodded his head in agreement and moved to the map on the wall. “There are only a few bridges left over the Mississippi, and Raines has those wired to blow. Start moving the people out, straight west, staying in Canada until you reach Thunder Bay and then cross over into the States. Division One enter there. Division Two will cut south at Winnipeg, Division Three will cross the border south of Regina. And you can bet Raines will be waiting.”
General Revere eyeballed his three top generals for a long moment. “Gentlemen, do not underestimate Ben Raines and the Rebels. Don’t try to second guess him, don’t try to outmaneuver him, and for God’s sake when the Rebels run, do not chase them. They’re masters at guerrilla warfare. They’ve perfected ambush to a fine art. We’re not going to win this one in a short time. Be prepared for that. This war is going to last years. Ben Raines and his Rebels will never surrender. Never! They will fight to the last person and they’ll go down snarling and biting. They have to be wiped out to the last person.”
“That isn’t possible,” General Holtz said softly.
“I know,” Revere acknowledged. “This country will always be at war with some number of people calling themselves Rebels. But we’ve got to cut them down to a manageable size. Right now they’re eagles. We’ve got to reduce them to no more than pesky mosquitoes. And we can do that.”
“What do you estimate our losses will be at the conclusion of this affair?” General Thomas asked.
“About fifty to sixty percent.”
The generals were stunned. Finally, General Forrest managed to say, “You’re saying we are going to lose the equivalent of two divisions, Paul? Two full divisions of men and women.”
“Yes.”
“But how can that be?” General Thomas asked.
“The three of you, and your families, have isolated yourselves from the outside for years. Deep in Canada’s north woods. Hell” he grinned, “it took me a damn year to track you down. You don’t know about Ben Raines the way I do. Look,
living where you have you’re all familiar with the wolverine. You know what they can do; how ferocious they are. Just imagine fifteen battalions of them, their natural skills honed by years of warfare. Warfare in which they were always outnumbered. Yet, always won. Raines’s Rebels are the finest equipped army in the world. They lack for nothing.” He smiled. “No, my friends. This war will not be a short one. Months, at least; probably years.”
“And they know we are on the move,” General Holtz stated.
“Oh, most definitely,” Paul said. “We’ll be watched every mile of the way. Expect to be hit the instant we cross over the border.” He paused, his expression thoughtful. “Or before we cross over the border,” he added. “No one has yet been able to predict what the Rebels will do. And that is something that should be kept in mind.”
* * *
“Speaking as your president, General Raines,” Blanton again radioed Ben. “I command you to lay down your arms and surrender.”
“I do not recognize you as President of the United States,” Ben told the man. “How many times do I have to tell you that?”
“I was elected by the people!”
“You were elected by a minority of the voters and that was years ago. Washington is still hot from a nuke strike. Richmond is a ghost town in ruins. For years now, Base Camp One is and has been the only stable area of government in America. However, I will accept your surrender, Homer.”
“My surrender? My surrender! To hell with you, Raines. You arrogant son of a bitch!”
“That beats an ol’ pooter, I suppose,” Ben replied, then signed off.
“Scouts report massive troop movement westbound along Canadian Highway 11,” Corrie told him. “First column, commanded by a General Forrest, approaching Thunder Bay. About three hundred miles out. They can’t cross at Sault Ste. Marie.”
“They committed to Thunder Bay, then. That would be Matt Forrest. He’s a good, decent man. One of the few military men who supported Blanton back when. Forrest is strictly by-the-book and did not approve of special operations people such as Rangers, SEALs, LRRPs, and so forth. He doesn’t have much imagination. Who is commanding the second division?”
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