“I know that, too. But we’re going to have to fight Revere no matter what.”
“Ben,” Ike said. “Let’s meet on this matter. There are things I have to say that need to be said face to face, like standing out in the middle of a field.”
He didn’t want to say anything over the air. “All right, Ike. When you have a spot picked out, bump me on scramble.”
The bump came in by flattened out burst transmission a few minutes later.
“So we meet in an Indiana corn field,” Ben said with smile.
“A corn field?” Jersey blurted.
“Well, sort of,” Ben said with a wink. “We’ll be flying in, Corrie. Arrange it, please.”
“Wonder what General Ike’s got on his mind?” Cooper asked.
“Strong suspicions of a set-up,” Ben said, and then walked out of the comm truck. He paused at the door and turned around. “But then, I feel the same way.”
EIGHT
Ben had all battalion commanders flown in, and had General Cecil Jefferys, administrator of Base Camp One, now soon to be called the Southern United States of America, flown up.
They were meeting by a lake near the old Hoosier National Forest. Ike had already sent people in to secure the area, and security was tight.
Ike didn’t waste any time in speaking his mind. “Blanton is using us, Ben. His military advisers have informed him that we’ll take a lot of losses tangling with Revere’s people. We’ll be weak in personnel and low on everything after the fight. He also knows this fight will take months and he’ll be using that time to train and beef up his own army, and probably sending spies and sappers into our home base.”
“I’m in agreement with all that, Ike. That’s the first thing I thought of. So what would you have me do?” He looked around at all the batt coms. “I want input from everybody on this.”
“To hell with Blanton,” Greenwalt, commander of 11 Batt said. “We don’t owe him a damn thing.”
“I’ll go along with Greenie,” Tina Raines, commander of 9 Batt, said.
Buddy Raines, commander of all the special ops people, said, “I’ve got to go along with Tina on this, Dad.”
“You know where I stand, Ben,” Ike said.
Mike Richards, head of the Rebels’ intelligence network, said, “There are other things to consider here. If we do nothing, once Revere has whipped Blanton’s forces—and he will do that—the whiners, losers, and complainers in Blanton’s army—which make up about fifty percent of his entire force—will immediately switch sides and join Revere. He’ll promise them pie in the sky and everything else those types of I-demand-this and you-owe-me-that people want to hear, and they’ll rush to join him. Then we could conceivably be overwhelmed by sheer numbers. There would be so many of them it would be impossible to protect front, rear, and flanks.”
“I concur,” West, commander of 4 Batt, said.
“Reluctantly, I agree,” the Russian, Striganov, commander of 5 Batt, rumbled.
“I reckon I’m with Georgi,” Jim Peters, commander of 15 Batt, called the New Texas Rangers, said.
“I know what it’s like to be involved in a civil war,” Pat O’Shea, the wild Irishman in command of 10 Batt, spoke up. “Uncle fighting nephew, brother fighting brother. Sister against mum. It’s horrible.” He looked at Dan Gray. “Do you agree, Dan?”
“Yes,” Dan Gray, the former SAS man and commander of 3 Batt, spoke softly.
Jackie Malone, commander of 12 Batt, looked at the faces around her. “Does this problem even have a workable solution?”
“None to my liking,” Cecil Jefferys said. “Thermopolis?”
The hippie-turned-warrior, in charge of seeing that everything the Rebels in the field needed got to them, and keeping track of where every unit was, shook his shaggy head. “We’re damned if we do and damned if we don’t. And we’re going to be hurt badly either way we go.”
Ben said, “How badly, Therm?”
“My people figure that if we manage to whip both armies, that is Revere and Blanton, we will suffer at least a sixty percent loss and perhaps higher than that. We’re going to have a thousand-mile plus supply line that will be very vulnerable to attack.”
“In short, we’re fucked!” Tina Raines said bluntly.
“I should wash your mouth out with soap,” Doctor Lamar Chase, Chief of Medicine, said. “However, I concur with your very brief and profane summation. Ben, providing medical treatment will be a nightmare. And we’re only just now starting to replenish our supplies. Stay out of this conflict.”
“Blanton has nerve gas and plans to use it against us,” Mike Richards chilled the group.
“You know that for a fact?” Ben challenged. “You have people that close to the man?”
“Yes, to both your questions. During the affair at the old resort I managed to get one of my people into Blanton’s army and he’s now in G2.”
Ben’s face turned hard as marble. “Mike, I want a constant update on Blanton’s whereabouts. Cecil, when you get back to Base Camp One, I want some of our nuclear warheads reprogrammed for a Doomsday Strike. And I want Blanton to know all about it. If he uses nerve gas against us, the nukes fly when he surfaces. And let that lying son of a bitch know that one will be programmed to impact with his nose.”
“All right, Ben,” Cecil said.
The Rebel commanders seated around the three old picnic tables were silent, all watching Ben. They knew that when Ben’s face became set with anger and his eyes were like blazing bits of flint, he was unpredictable and could—and had—become terribly savage. Anything that threatened his dream of the Southern United States of America, with true justice and stability and order for all who chose to live there, regardless of race or creed, could turn Ben into an extremely dangerous person.
“There is another alternative that we have not discussed,” Rebet, commander of 6 Batt, said.
Ben looked at him.
“Take out Blanton.”
General Taylor wore a small smile as he walked into President Blanton’s office. He carried a message from General Raines. Rebel communications had finally triangulated Blanton’s position and sent them a message by burst.
“You have a message for me from the Rebels, General?”
“Yes. They say if you value your life you will cease broadcasting from this location. If they can triangulate our position, so can Revere.”
Blanton flushed deeply, but said nothing.
“The second message is from General Raines, personally. He has ordered the recomputing of a number of missiles located at Base Camp One . . . armed with nuclear warheads. In the event you use any type of deadly gas against any of his people, he will, and I am quoting here: ‘Incinerate your ass.’”
Homer jumped to his feet. “He wouldn’t dare!”
“Oh, he’d dare, all right,” General Taylor said, meeting the president eye for eye. Then the general smiled hugely.
“What the hell do you find so funny?” Homer hollered.
“How Raines knew about your plans to use nerve gas.”
Blanton sat down hard. “We’ve been violated!”
“The word is penetrated,” General Taylor said drily.
“Whatever.”
“We know who it is.”
“Shoot him!”
“Can’t. Obviously his work is done. Captain Miller slipped out the back way sometime last night and by now has probably linked up with a Rebel recon patrol.”
“My God, General! Are you telling me Rebels are here?”
“Oh, they’ve been here for about a week. They’re all around us. They aren’t doing anything, just watching the mountain.”
“Why wasn’t I informed?”
“What would you do, Mr. President?”
“Engage them in combat and wipe them out!”
The general gave the president a pitying look. He shook his head and left the office, closing the door softly.
The mighty war machine called the Rebels had shut down moment
arily. Ben was still undecided as to what to do. Revere was making no hostile moves toward Ben or toward where he might suspect the president to be hiding.
Ben had ordered his people up to his location in Indiana, for when he did make up his mind, he would move quickly. Blanton had not responded to Ben’s warning concerning his use of nuclear weapons in retaliation for any nerve gas attack, but Ben knew the man was no fool . . . even if he was a screaming liberal.
His batt coms were fairly evenly split on the issue that faced them. But whatever decision Ben reached, they would follow. That was not in question.
And, as Ben had predicted, the punks and thugs and former street slime that had gathered under Revere’s banner and tried to contain the Rebels along the Mississippi River had once more come together. Not as large a force as before, but so much wiser in the ways of the Rebels. They realized they could not go head to head with the Rebels. Not alone. They had to have help. But where would they get it?
They really wanted no part of Revere, for the men who had once more emerged as gang leaders realized that Revere had been using them. With the main force of the Rebels now east of the river, the gang leaders came together for a meeting in Nebraska.
The Rebels were aware of the meeting, but at Ben’s orders, took no action. “I’m certain they’re up to no good,” Ben said. “But I don’t know that for sure. Intel says they’ve harmed no one . . . that they can find. So we’ll leave them alone until they make a hostile move.”
Blanton’s army-in-hiding, although not as large as Revere’s forces, had spent their time training, and were shaping up to be a fairly well-organized force. But they had not yet been bloodied, so only time would tell as to their effectiveness.
The lazy summer days crawled by, with each opposing force growing in numbers, training, seeing to equipment, stockpiling supplies for the mother of all battles that each side knew was coming.
To the west lay the army of malcontents and punks and thugs. They had smartened up considerably. Their leaders had sent out teams to search for weapons, and had found them. What they couldn’t find, they made. They could have used their abilities toward peaceful ends, but they chose not to do that. They chose, instead, to use their intelligence to forward a life of crime and degradation . . . which only proved what Ben Raines had maintained all along: most criminals will remain a criminal, no matter what society tries to do to change that.
Over half of those former thugs and punks that had elected to join ranks with the Rebels over the years had deserted, unable to adjust to a life of order and discipline and respect for the rights of others. Ben’s analysis people had worked out the percentages, and the results were predictable. Three out of four simply would not be rehabilitated into any sort of productive existence.
“So what else is new?” Ben had replied at the conclusion of the study. “I’ve been saying that for years.”
Citizens of the battered and war-torn and ripped-apart country that was once called the United States of America were making hard choices, carefully studying the various factions who were poised at each other’s throats, ready to leap into a war that would, in all probability, last for years.
President Homer Blanton promised pie in the sky and something for everybody. His agents laid out the tired old liberal claptrap that they’d been espousing since the early 1960s . . . but whose programs had managed only to plunge the nation deeper and deeper into debt and dissatisfaction, seen the crime rate soar, and in general accomplish nothing. But still there were those who believed it could work. Among this group were people who in general wanted something for nothing; they wanted cradle to grave security from the federal government (which after the Great War did not exist) but at the same time their left hand never really knew what their right hand was doing.
Revere offered a totalitarian form of government, vaguely along the same lines of the Rebel philosophy. But most people saw Revere as no more than a smooth snake-oil salesman—the man who would be a dictator king.
The hordes of punks and thugs promised nothing except total anarchy . . . and they had their supporters, A surprisingly large number of supporters. Which came as no surprise to Ben. Long before the Great War fire-ballooned the world into turmoil, morals had been taking a terrible beating, public education had turned into an expensive and terribly profane joke, classrooms were out of control and discipline was practically non-existent. Athletic programs seemed to be more important than education. In a vain quest to insure that everybody got the same treatment (something that Ben Raines called the Animal Farm Syndrome), many kids were spending more time being bused halfway around the world than they spent in classrooms. The liberal folly of the seventies, eighties, and nineties left two generations of unhappy, dissatisfied, poorly educated, and confused young people.
Ben Raines and the new Southern United States of America offered those who were willing to work for it, peace, order, education, values, jobs (for those who were qualified), security, and medical care from cradle to grave. Ben’s system was not perfect; certainly it had flaws and he would be the first to admit it. It was not for everyone. The few laws the Rebels had on the books were extremely harsh and enforced to the letter. People with a give-me-something-for-nothing, or you-owe-me-something attitude couldn’t live under the Rebel form of government. Rebels respected the land and the environment and each other’s rights. Those who leaned toward criminal activities soon learned they had no rights. None. The Rebel judicial system was very simple: either you did the crime, or you didn’t do it. There was no double-standard in the administration of justice. The law applied to everybody, regardless of race, religion, sex, wealth, social standing, or lack of it.
Ben was once asked to explain the Rebel philosophy. He smiled and said, “After all these years, if you have to ask what it is, my advice to you is to stay out of Rebel-controlled territory. Unless you want to be buried there.”
NINE
President Blanton was the first to break the silence of gunfire. Over the loud objections of General Taylor and the general’s staff, Blanton ordered his elite guards to attack and take prisoner the Rebels watching his mountain hideout. Bad mistake. Those Rebels watching the mountain were hand-picked and hand-trained by Dan Gray and Ike McGowan. They were SEAL trained, Ranger trained, Special Forces trained, Marine Force Recon trained, Air Force Commando trained, and SAS trained. They had seen long bitter months (in some cases, years) of brutal warfare, most of them seeing it all around the world, and they weren’t about to be taken by green troops, no matter how well trained.
Blanton’s elite guards never came back.
“Where are they?” Blanton questioned, after twenty-four hours had passed.
“Probably taken prisoner by the Rebels,” Taylor said tightly.
“But those were the best troops I had!”
“Goddamnit!” General Taylor lost his cool. “You’re not fucking around with a bunch of candy-asses out there, Mister President. Those Rebel soldiers are hard-line, well-trained, disciplined, dedicated, tough-assed professionals. They’ve been doing this for years. Just recently, outnumbered ten or so to one, they held off nearly four divisions of Revere’s troops. Four goddamn divisions! If you wage war against the Rebels, they’re going to eat you for lunch, mister!” He paused to take a breath and an aide stuck her head into the room.
“Wonderful news, Mister President! Generals Forrest, Holtz, and Thomas have left Revere and are on the way here. With over a division of troops with them. They are all prepared to swear allegiance to the United States of America and to support you all the way.”
“Thank you, Lord, thank you!” Blanton said earnestly, looking heavenward.
“They won’t be enough,” Taylor said. “Not against the Rebels.”
Blanton slammed a hand on the desk. “That’s it. By God, that’s all. I’ve had enough of you. You are relieved of duty—immediately!”
“That suits me just fine,” Taylor said tightly. “You sanctimonious dipshit!”
General Taylor was gone within the hour, taking two battalions of troops loyal to him with him. On his way out of the mountains, on his way to Ben’s location in Indiana, Taylor was amused to find the entire contingent of Blanton’s elite guard, limping back to the mountain hideout, minus boots and pants and equipment. The only thing hurt about them was their pride.
* * *
The leaving of the generals did not upset Revere; their taking over a division of troops did. But not for long. The division he’d been holding in reserve was ready to go and counting all the small units he had in hiding all over the country, he was confident he had enough men to overwhelm both Raines’s Rebels and Blanton’s FIB. Still, he waited to see what Raines was going to do.
Ben shook hands with General Max Taylor and waved the man to a chair. “Any relation to that other Maxwell Taylor?” Ben asked.
“I don’t think so. Hell of an outfit you’ve got, General.”
“Call me Ben. Yes, it’s a good outfit. General . . .”
“Call me Max.”
“Thank you. I won’t ask you to fight against Blanton’s . . . ah, FIB.”
Taylor laughed. “He never did get it. Never could figure out what we were laughing about. Well . . . Blanton’s not thinking straight. He’s a man obsessed . . . but he’s obsessed with doing what he thinks is right.” He stared hard at Ben. “Like someone else I just met.”
“This nation became too diverse for democracy to work, Max. There were too many dissatisfied taxpayers who felt they had no representation in Washington; and I’m one of them.” He pointed toward his troops. “And thousands more just like me camped right out there. It would have worked if the original meaning of the Constitution had been adhered to. But it wasn’t.”
The career soldier nodded his head. “I know, Ben. I know. I’m no liberal-lover. The left-leaning members of congress did as much to ruin this nation as the Great War.”
The two men were generally in agreement. Ben said, “The troops you brought with you?”
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