She looked at him and blinked. “What about Herr Hoffman? What Nazis?”
Ben sugared his coffee and smiled. “Just like I thought. He kept that news from the troops. I would imagine he hoped that Hoffman would defeat us and kill me. He better be glad that didn’t happen. Hoffman’s people would have shoved a flag pole up his liberal ass and left him to rot.”
Ben brought Denise up to date about the yearlong battle with the New Army of Liberation.
She was appalled at the thought of a massive Nazi army on United States soil. “And your Rebels whipped them?”
“Thoroughly.”
“I swear to you, we knew nothing about that, General.”
“Oh, I believe you. Does that tell you anything about your leaders?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Why do you hate liberals so?”
“Somehow, I can’t believe you are a true liberal, Denise.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“I don’t hate liberals, Denise. I just don’t want to live under their form of government. I’d like for you to see Base Camp One. See how we live.”
“Blanton says it’s a terrible place. There are daily hangings and shootings.”
“Denise, there hasn’t been a hanging or a shooting down there in so long I can’t even remember the last one. A black man, General Cecil Jefferys, a close friend of mine, is administrator of Base Camp One. You’re sitting here amid people of all nationalities, all faiths. Does that tell you anything about how right-wing we’re supposed to be?”
She smiled. “All right, General. So Blanton has exaggerated the situation somewhat.”
“Somewhat! I don’t think the man is playing with a full deck.”
“Would you believe there are those of us who feel the same way?”
“Of course, if you have any sense you couldn’t think otherwise.”
“When he was elected to the White House, Homer Blanton was a good, decent man who only wanted to do the right thing.”
“For everybody, which isn’t possible. He also was and probably still is a liar and a coward. Did the strain get to him, Denise?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen the man in person. He stays in that huge resort hotel in New York State and . . .” She bit back the words. “I guess I’ve given away his location, right?”
“No. There are lots of resort hotels in that area. Oh, hell, Denise. We know where he is. I could send a K-team in anytime I want to.”
“K-team?”
“Kill-team.”
“Are you going to?”
“I have no plans to do so . . . at the present time,” he added. “Finish your supper. I want you to hear something.”
“Indoctrination speech?” she asked with a smile.
“No. I assure you, we don’t give those. A person has to work to join us, Denise. It’s like respect. It can’t be handed out like candy. It has to be earned.”
“Your right-wing philosophy is showing, General Raines.”
“I do let it boil over occasionally.”
Back at the CP, Corrie got General Tom Thomas on the horn.
“Tom? Ben Raines here.”
“‘Lo, Ben. It’s been a long time.”
“Quite a few years. Tom, give this up. You’re not going to beat me.”
“I don’t like your politics, Ben. You’re too far to the right for my tastes.”
“Like them or not, Tom, you’re still not going to beat me. All you’re going to do is spill a lot of blood—most of it on your side—and kill a lot of men and women—most of them your people. Blanton is a sick man, Tom. The strain got to him. My God, look at the people he’s surrounded himself with: the most liberal people that ever sat in the house and senate. Is that what you want for the nation?”
“Not necessarily, Ben. All that can be worked out later.”
“I hope you don’t believe that, Tom. You know from past history that if you give a liberal an inch, that inch soon turns into a mile. Look what happened with gun control.”
“It’s no use, Ben. You’ve divided this nation and a divided nation cannot stand. You know that. You’ve got some good things going on down there at Base Camp One, but many of your ideas are just too radical. Even for an old soldier like me.”
“All right, Tom. If that’s the way you see it. Answer this, if you will: who in the hell is Paul Revere?”
“I think he’s a South African, Ben. I’m just not sure. But he’s a top soldier.”
“Thank you. Will you at least think about what I said?”
“You have to be stopped, Ben. This nation must be united.”
“With Blanton at the helm? And all those crybabies with him? No way, Tom. No way.”
Static greeted his words. General Thomas had broken off.
Ben looked at Denise. “I tried. At least I can say I tried.”
The next day, Major Wilson and three men were allowed to return to their units. Denise and three others elected to stay with the Rebels.
“You should have shot them,” Jersey told Ben sourly. Ben laughed and walked back inside his CP.
Denise cut her eyes to the petite young woman with the hard, dark eyes. “You believe that strongly in what you’re doing?”
“Yeah. I sure do.”
“Because of General Raines?”
Jersey thought about that for a moment. “He’s part of it. Sure. It used to be, most people thought, that if something happened to the general, the movement would fall apart. But that was tested a few months ago, and the movement just got stronger and more determined to survive, and to win. The Rebel movement will never be defeated. I’ve seen Rebels crawl through their own blood, holding their guts in with one hand and a gun in the other, just to kill one more of the enemy before they died. Do Blanton’s people have that kind of dedication?”
Denise smiled and shook her head. “No. They don’t.”
“You know why?”
“No.”
Several dozen Rebels had gathered around, including those with Denise who had chosen to stay. The Rebels smiled, for they knew that when Jersey elected to voice an opinion, she really let the hammer down.
“’Cause you were with a bunch of losers, that’s why. Blanton put together a lot of mercenaries to form the core of his army. But ninety percent of the others are those types of people who, back when the world was whole, wanted something for nothing. Give me this and give me that and I got a right to do this, that, and the other thing. I demand this, that, and the other thing. Without having to work for it. Blanton’s shit, he’s surrounded himself with advisors who are full of shit, and he’s got shit for an army. Revere’s attacked twice and lost several thousand people and a lot of equipment. We haven’t even had one Rebel wounded. That ought to tell you something about the quality of men and women who support Ben Raines. Oh, we’ll lose people before it’s over. We might lose half our force, or more. But we will never surrender. And as long as there is just one man or woman willing to pick up a gun and fight, the Rebel movement will never die. Never!”
The fight had turned into a stalemate, with Revere reluctant to commit his forces past the line they had established until the gangs of thugs and punks and street slime Blanton had recruited could get into place behind the Rebels. What he and Blanton seemed unable to realize was that the Rebels had no intention of allowing anything like that to happen.
Helicopter gunships and PUFFs were roaming the skies miles behind the lines. Whenever groups were spotted, they were challenged by ground troops or radio. If they turned out to be hostile, they were wiped out to the last person. It was brutal, ruthless, merciless. It was Rebel warfare. No gentleman’s rules, no Geneva convention. The only rules were those of Ben Raines, and they were simple: Kill the enemy.
Even Revere was shaken by the coldness of the Rebels in dealing with their enemies. Nine battalions of Rebels had stopped three full divisions cold.
Blanton and those with him were sickened by the field reports. None of them had any exp
erience with war. They did not realize the callousness needed to win battles.
Not even Revere and his top soldiers were as ruthless in war as Ben Raines.
Contrary to what Ben believed, Homer Blanton was not suffering from any type of mental illness. He was a smart man, and a good man in his own right. He was just about three bricks shy of a load when it came to common sense.
While Ben Raines realized fully that the philosophies of the Rebels would not work for a large percentage of the American people, Homer Blanton came into office convinced that his philosophies would and should work for all. And even after a great world war and the collapse of every government around the globe, he still believed that.
Homer Blanton was about to come face to face with reality, in the form of Ben Raines.
“General Raines on the radio, sir,” a Blanton aide came rushing into the room. “He wants to speak to you.”
“I have nothing to say to that war-mongering bastard,” Blanton pouted. Blanton was a real good pouter. And ‘Ol’ pooter’ had been replaced by saltier descriptions.
“Is that what you want me to tell him, sir?” the aide was very nervous about the prospect of having to call General Ben Raines a bastard.
“No,” Blanton’s better judgment took control. “I’ll speak with him.” He walked to his communications room and took the mic. “President Blanton here.”
“You want to sit down and talk with me, Blanton?” Ben asked.
“It’s a trick!” Vice President Harriet Hooter squalled. “Those savages will come here and rape and ravage us all.”
“Horrors!” Rita Rivers bellowed. “A fate worse than death!” This from a woman who’d once taken on an entire platoon of Marines from San Diego. For ten dollars each.
The president glanced at the two women, both of whom looked as though they’d recently been thoroughly whipped with an ugly stick. “Not likely,” he muttered under his breath. He lifted the mic. “Are you serious, Raines?”
“As serious as a crutch, Blanton.”
“He’s losing the war!” Blanton shouted to the room full of people. “He’s losing the war and wants to make a deal. My God, I’ll show him how tough I can be.” To Ben: “No deals, Raines. You’re finished and you know it. I will accept your unconditional surrender, however.”
Twenty-five hundred miles away, Ben looked at the speaker as if not believing what he’d just heard. He slowly shook his head and keyed the mic. “Blanton, what the hell are you talking about?”
“Your surrender, you ninny!”
“Blanton, listen to me, I have no intention whatsoever of surrendering to you or to anybody else. Now once and for all, is that understood?”
“Then why did you radio me? I’m confused.”
Ben had a dandy comeback for that last remark but decided to let it slide. “Would you like for us, that is you and I, or is it you and me? Never mind. Would you like to sit down together, like gentlemen, and talk for a couple of hours?”
“About what?”
Ben laid down the mic and rubbed his temples with his fingertips. He was getting a headache. He sighed and picked up the mic. “About ways to end this fighting.”
“Ah-hah! So you are losing the war!”
“No, Blanton,” Ben said wearily, “I am not losing the war. You’re losing the war. You are getting men and women killed needlessly. Listen to me, Blanton. Twice your troops have assaulted our lines. Twice we have thrown them back and inflicted heavy losses upon them, both in personnel and equipment. Your army hasn’t gained an inch of ground that we occupy. Don’t you read the reports sent in by your field commanders?”
“Of course, I do!” Blanton snapped. “But I don’t think the situation is as bad as you, or they, profess it to be. The generals may have exaggerated somewhat. Generals do that, you know?”
“Do you want to talk or not, Blanton?”
“I don’t believe I have anything further to discuss with you, Raines.”
“You are a goddamn fool,” Ben muttered. He keyed the mic. “I gave you your chance, Blanton.” He smiled and tossed the mic to Corrie. “I think in a few hours the Pres is going to change his mind. Get your field equipment together. We’re going head-hunting.”
“When?” she asked.
“Right now!”
FIFTEEN
Ben ordered one company from each of the nine battalions on the line to be made up of the most experienced men and women and to make ready for a night excursion into Revere’s territory. It was to be one of the strangest forays yet for the Rebels. Their orders were not to kill unless absolutely necessary, but to capture as many prisoners as possible and return with them to Rebel lines. Ben wanted to send Blanton a message and he felt this was one of the better, and bloodless, ways to do it.
The Rebels were moving moments after full dark, Moving northward like ghosts in the night. The editor of the newspaper at Base Camp One, a former big city editor who had thrown in with the Rebels several years back, had written extensively about the Rebel army. He had ended his article with this: “They are nice men and women. Polite and soft-spoken. After meeting and chatting with them, your first and last impression is that these are the types of people you would want as your neighbors. Many are family men and women; many are deeply religious. But under all of that, this reporter has to conclude that the men and women of the Rebel Army are the best mountain climbers, the best parachutists, the best at surviving in any situation, the best trackers, the best dog-sledders, the best skiers, and in any combat situation, the most murderous ambushers and cut-throats the world has ever seen. I am proud to call them my friends and I hold them in the highest regard.”
Blanton’s troops were about to find out just how accurate that editorial was.
A young FIB sergeant relaxed in his foxhole. He had just finished carefully eyeballing his perimeter and was satisfied no enemy was near. Then a hard hand clamped over his mouth and he felt the coldness of sharpened steel against his throat. A low voice said, “If you move, you’re dead. Don’t try to shake your head. If you do, you won’t have a head.”
Another dark shape took his weapons and quickly fashioned a gag over his mouth. The knife was removed from his throat and the young sergeant almost cried with relief. He had been sure he was going to piss all over himself. In the very dim light he watched a silenced .22 caliber autoloader taken from leather. The Rebel showed him the gun. He nodded his head in understanding.
“You make the slightest noise, you’re dead. You got that?”
The FIB sergeant again nodded his head.
“Move out. South. Stay low and quiet. Go.”
The Rebels worked for several hours, then silently gathered and herded their prisoners south across the designated strip of No Man’s Land and then onto Rebel-held soil.
From Montana to Wisconsin, the Rebels collected over a thousand prisoners that night. The only injury on either side was when a prisoner twisted his ankle. He was left behind, miles south of where he’d been taken prisoner.
By midnight, radio messages began pouring in to CPs from one end of the zone to another. General Paul Revere went into a towering rage. In New York State, President Blanton was awakened and sat in his PJs and robe at his desk. He was too stunned to speak for a moment.
When he finally found his voice, he asked, “And not a shot was fired?”
“Not a shot, sir.”
“And how many troops were taken?”
“Latest reports say well over a thousand.”
Blanton looked at the aide. “Go ahead. I know there is more. Tell me.”
“Ah . . . at each sentry post and CP where personnel were taken, the Rebels left behind a, ah . . . well, a rubber duckie.”
“A what?”
“They left behind a little rubber duckie. You know, the kind you play with in your bathtub.”
“I don’t play with goddamn rubber duckies in my bath, goddamnit!”
“Well, I didn’t mean you, sir. I meant . . .”
“I know what you meant. I . . .”
He was interrupted by a knock on the door. A security guard stepped into the room, his face pale.
“What the hell do you want?” Blanton demanded.
“One of the sentries is here, sir. With a message from General Raines.”
“How the hell did he get a message from General Raines?”
“It was handed to him out in the woods.”
“Ye Gods!” the president yelled. “You mean the Rebels are here?”
“Apparently they’ve been here for some time, sir. Shall I show the guard in?”
“By all means,” Blanton said, rubbing his face.
The soldier was nervous. Very nervous as he stood in front of Blanton’s desk.
“Where is your weapon, soldier?” Blanton asked.
“Ah . . . she took it.”
“She?”
“Yes, sir. It was a woman dressed in cammies, sir. Black beret. She just . . . well, materialized right out of the woods and put me on the ground.”
Blanton sighed. Shook his head. “You are supposed to be one of the best-trained soldiers Revere has. Yet you heard nothing?”
“I didn’t hear a sound, sir. Not until she judoed my ass and put me on the ground. That’s when she gave me the message.”
“What message?”
“Well, sir, part of the message is, ‘General Ben Raines, commander of the Rebel Army, respectfully requests a face to face meeting with President Blanton. Or the next time, it’ll be your butt that gets grabbed.’”
“Meaning me?” Blanton asked.
“I guess so, sir.”
“What else?”
“If you will agree to a cease-fire, General Raines will do the same, and you and the General can work out the details of the meeting.”
The President looked at the wall clock. It was five o’clock in the morning, EST. Three o’clock MST. VP Harriet Hooter came rushing into the room. She wore no makeup and had not brushed her hair. Blanton wondered if she’d parked her broom in the hallway.
“Is it true?” she hollered. “Have the Rebel hordes descended upon us?”
Treason in the Ashes Page 11