Hatred in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  That part of North America still called the USA was recovering very slowly from years of internal political struggle and anarchy. There were some factories operating, but not many. There were some farms producing crops, but not nearly enough. Trains and planes were rolling and flying, but not very efficiently, and almost never on time.

  Ben’s people who dealt in such matters, working out of ‘Think Tanks’ in the SUSA, estimated that the USA was operating at about thirty-five to forty percent of its potential. That meant that millions of people were out of work. This wasn’t entirely the fault of the people . . . not really. Much of the blame for the lack of progress in the nation could be placed on the government. When what was left of the battered USA began once more to stagger to its feet, the government came roaring in with rules and regulations. The government sent ‘experts’ all over the nation to assess the situation and make recommendations . . . but only after four committees, eight sub-committees, and sixteen sub-sub-committees studied the proposals and recommendations. When the rebuilding could finally begin—under government supervision, of course—a certain percentage of the workers had to be comprised of various minorities, a certain number had to be women. Work could not begin until and unless those numbers were met. And no ant mound, birds nest, fish pond, squirrel den, or three-warted, purple-crested, four-toed titty-varmint could be disturbed. Another committee had to be formed to oversee all those rules and regulations. When all that was settled, it was often determined that not enough transvestite cross-dressers were being employed. And if some man dared to mention to one of the women that she looked nice that day, the woman immediately filed a lawsuit for sexual harassment.

  Conditions were improving outside the SUSA, but only at a snail’s pace.

  The citizens of the SUSA began preparations for a prolonged civil war. Factories operated around the clock, seven days a week, producing everything from bullets to canned beans. Underground storage facilities—which were located all over the SUSA—were inspected and restocked. Millions of rounds of ammunition were distributed throughout the SUSA, along with cases of emergency rations and sealed, five gallon cans of water. The citizens of the SUSA were preparing to fight to the death for their homeland.

  Personal weapons were checked out very carefully and kept within arm’s reach. Vehicles were checked out, and fuel tanks kept full at all times. No one drove anywhere without checking to make sure the trunks of cars and the beds of trucks were stocked with emergency gear.

  Harlan Millard and Madame President Claire Osterman did not fully understand just how dedicated the men and women of the SUSA were to preserving their way of life.

  But they damn sure were about to find out.

  “Another couple of weeks and we’ll be as ready as we can ever be,” Ben reported to Cecil and various other heads of government in the SUSA.

  Ten days had passed since Rebel patrols along the borders of the SUSA had first been involved in skirmishes with troops of the USA. There had been no more gunshots exchanged across the borders, but the numbers of those malcontents massing at the borders facing the Rebels and the home guard were increasing daily.

  “You really think this will turn into a full-blown civil war, Ben?” Secretary of State Blanton asked.

  “Yes, I do, Mister Secretary. And then into a bloody, nasty guerrilla type action that will continue for years. It was heading toward the latter in the months just before the Great War came along and hammered us all into a long period of submission and confusion.”

  “There are good, decent people in Osterman’s administration,” the former President of the United States said softly. “I know many of them.”

  “Of course there are,” Ben was quick to agree. “But they’ve fallen in lockstep with the party line. As usual. Nothing ever changes. Not even a war that came very close to wiping out civilization could change it. And I find that disgusting. It was disgusting a decade ago, it’s disgusting now . . . even more so.”

  Homer Blanton smiled. “You never did fully understand all the machinations of politics, did you, Ben?”

  “I hope I never do, Homer. Because—as Anna would put it—politics sucks.”

  Blanton laughed and pushed back his chair. Standing up, he said, “There are times when I would certainly agree with her assessment, Ben. Well, I’ve got to get back to the office for another meeting. See you, Cecil, Ben.”

  “Who are you meeting with now?” Cecil asked.

  “Some official from what is left of the Mexican government. They want our help in restabilizing their country. They’re having trouble with their neighbors to the south.”

  “Hell, we can’t even get along with our own neighbors,” Ben said. “Wish them good luck, and maybe sometime in the future we can give them some help.”

  “I wasn’t prepared to give them even that much hope,” Homer said.

  “That is probably the best way to go,” Cecil said. “This civil war we’re facing could last for a long time.”

  The Secretary of State looked at Ben. “You feel that way also, Ben?”

  “Yes, Homer, I do. This conflict we’re facing could go on for years . . . in one form or another.”

  “You’re not very encouraging, Ben.”

  “No, not at all. This is a civil war looking us smack in the face. American against American. I hate the very thought of it.”

  The Secretary of State nodded his head in agreement. “I know, Ben. I know.” He checked his watch. “Well, I’m late for my meeting. I’ll talk to you both later on today.”

  One of Cecil’s aides entered the office just as Homer was leaving. “There’s a reporter here to see you, Mister President. From The Capital Review. His name is Thomas Manning. He doesn’t have an appointment.”

  “How the hell did he get across our borders?” Cecil asked. “They’ve been closed for days.”

  “I didn’t ask, sir.”

  Cecil and Ben exchanged glances. Ben said, “I’ve heard of this Manning person. Read some of his articles. He’s pretty much middle of the road in his reporting. He’s one member of the press I’d trust . . . I think,” Ben added.

  Cecil shrugged his shoulders. “All right, then. Show the gentleman in, Don. I don’t have anything else in my appointment book until this afternoon.”

  Ben stood up and pulled his beret from his pocket. Cecil held up a hand. “No. You stay, Ben. Please? I know you don’t like reporters. But this might well be our last chance to get our points of view out to those living beyond our borders.”

  “All right, Cece.” Ben continued to stand while Don showed the reporter in.

  Manning was a young man, clean-cut in appearance. Ben and Cecil guessed him to be in his late twenties to early thirties. That meant he would have at least some very vivid memories of the hard years after the collapse of the world’s governments.

  Manning pulled up short for a moment at the sight of Ben Raines. He had studied the life and viewpoints of President Jefferys, and believed him to be a fair man. General Ben Raines was quite another story. Manning had listened to other members of the press discuss Ben Raines many times—cuss him, mostly—and Thomas had never heard anybody say anything good about the general.

  To his credit, Manning had done his best to research the life of General Raines, both during his years in college and since becoming a journalist. That had proved almost impossible, since nearly all records had been destroyed in the chaos that followed the collapse of government. He had found copies of some of Ben’s old books and read and studied them. He was able to pick out some threads of Ben’s philosophy from his writing. Adding that to what he had heard about the man from members of the press who did not openly despise him, Thomas had a pretty good idea that Ben believed in a small government, not the bloated intrusive bureaucracy the US government had been before the collapse. Manning tried his best to be a good and fair reporter, but he was very much aware that writing anything good about President Jefferys, the SUSA, and especially Ben Raines could get him investiga
ted by federal agents. He had been warned to “knock off” writing that Jefferson, of the founding fathers, had believed in a very small, weak government.

  Manning introduced himself to Cecil, and the men shook hands. “Do you know General Raines, Thomas?” Cecil asked.

  “No, sir. We’ve never met.” To tell the truth, the sight of Ben Raines just about scared the crap out of Thomas. The general had the coldest eyes Thomas had ever seen. Ben Raines was middle-aged, he guessed, with a lot of gray in his hair. He appeared to be in excellent physical shape, his face deeply tanned. Big hands and thick wrists. “Sir,” Manning said, shaking hands with Ben.

  Ben nodded his head and pointed to a chair in front of Cecil’s desk. Manning promptly sat. Hell, he was afraid not to.

  “Relax, Thomas,” Cecil said with a smile. “We don’t bite . . . I promise you we don’t.”

  “Yes, sir,” the young reporter said. “I mean . . . I’m sure you don’t. Won’t.” Thomas got flustered, and felt his face grow hot. Cecil laughed and Ben smiled . . . sort of.

  “How about a cup of coffee, Thomas?” Cecil asked.

  “Yes, sir. That would be very nice. Black with one sugar.”

  “Coming right up.”

  Thomas was aware that Ben was studying him closely through those cold, expressionless eyes. It was disconcerting. He tried to keep his gaze on President Jefferys, but he could not keep his eyes from shifting over to meet Ben’s.

  Damn! Didn’t the man ever blink? It was like staring into the eyes of a big timber wolf.

  Thomas almost jumped when Ben suddenly asked, “How did you get across the border, Thomas?”

  “I . . . well, I just drove across, General.”

  “Where?”

  “From Kentucky into East Tennessee. I crossed over on a county road. It looked as though it hadn’t been used in a long time. It was a gravel and dirt road. It would probably be impassable during a heavy rain.”

  “Before you leave, show us exactly where you crossed,” Ben said. “If you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all, sir. I’ll be glad to.”

  An aide came in with a pot of fresh coffee. Cups were filled and the aide quietly left the room, closing the door behind him.

  “Has your traveling through the SUSA surprised you in any way?” Cecil asked.

  “Very much so, sir. I was astonished, to tell the truth. Everything is so neat and clean, and the people are so friendly.”

  “Now that you’re here,” Ben said, “what can we do for you?”

  “Talk to me, General. Tell me what it would take to avoid a civil war.”

  “That’s easy, Manning—”

  “Call me, Tom . . . please.”

  “All right, Tom. All Claire Osterman and Harlan Millard have to do is back off and leave us alone. It’s that easy.”

  “They are determined to reunite this country, General.”

  “It won’t happen,” Cecil stepped in. “Were a free and sovereign nation, recognized as such by dozens of nations around the world.”

  “You don’t know Osterman and Millard.”

  “Oh, I do, Tom,” Ben said. “They both started out as liberal Democrats—well—meaning but misguided . . . to my way of thinking. Then something changed them, and that something was power. It can happen to any member of any political party. They begin to think of themselves as gods, all-knowing and above error and human frailties. They feel this need to dictate to others, to intrude in the lives of other people. It gets worse . . . do you want me to continue?”

  Manning smiled. “No, General. I’ve done my homework on your philosophy of government and your opinion of liberals—just one of the reasons I was more than a bit apprehensive about entering the SUSA.”

  “No reason to be apprehensive, Tom,” Cecil told him. “You’re safer in the SUSA than in any other place on earth.”

  “Really? What if federal troops launch an attack while I’m here?”

  “You’ll still be reasonably safe,” Cecil assured him. “We could fly you out of here to any place you chose to go.”

  “Will there be any safe place if Osterman orders an attack on you?”

  Ben smiled. “Sure. Outer Mongolia, for one. Diego Garcia, for another. South Africa is reasonably secure now.”

  “But nowhere in America?”

  “That’s about the size of it. If Sugar Babe wants a war, and attempts to invade our nation as she has threatened to, the SUSA will damn sure give her a war. And I’ll make sure it touches every part of the USA.”

  The reporter met Ben’s steady gaze for a few seconds, then averted his eyes. He could not stare into those cold, deadly eyes for very long. He had noticed that Ben’s eyes could hold high humor, but when discussing the fate of the SUSA, those eyes turned cold and mean.

  “We don’t want a war, Tom,” Ben said, softening his tone. But his eyes did not change. “And I mean that. But the old Tri-States philosophy of government will not be destroyed. Not now, not ever. Its time has come, it’s here, and it will endure. As long as there is one person alive who believes in our form of government, those attempting to destroy the concept will have a fight on their hands. Believe it, young man, believe it.”

  Tom did. On his drive through the SUSA, he had talked with dozens of people of all races, creeds, and colors, gently moving the topic to government. The people Tom spoke with were one hundred percent Tri-Staters, and there was not a doubt in Tom’s mind that they would fight to preserve their way of life and form of government.

  “I believe it, General. But what will happen to both nations should war start?”

  “They will probably be devastated. When it’s over perhaps your government will have learned a hard lesson, and then we can both rebuild and live in peace.”

  “Do you think war can be averted?”

  Ben shook his head. “Not with a bunch of damn left wingers running your government. Not a chance. Those bastards and bitches won’t be satisfied until they control the lives of every citizen in the nation.”

  “Can I quote you on that, General?”

  “You sure can, Tom. My comments won’t come as any surprise to Osterman and Millard. They know how I feel.”

  “I’ve never known any other form of government, General. . . except for President Altman’s brief term in office.”

  “Do you have any idea where Altman is?”

  “He’s seriously ill. In the hospital.”

  “And you really believe that?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “No.”

  “Then where is President Altman?”

  “He might be dead, Tom. I hope not. But Millard and Osterman just might have had him killed.”

  Four

  Tom Manning asked a few more questions and then left after agreeing on a time to meet with Cecil the next day. It was clear to Cecil and Ben that Tom did not believe Claire Osterman and Harlan Millard had anything to do with President Altman’s sudden disappearance from the public view.

  “He’s young, Ben,” Cecil said. “He received his higher education in the terrible years just after the collapse. His education was liberal all the way. I’m surprised he turned out as fair thinking as he did.” Cecil stared at Ben for a few seconds. “Are you listening to me, Ben?”

  “Yes, Cece. I just had an idea.” He moved around the desk and picked up the phone, punching out a number.

  Cecil noticed the tight smile on Ben’s face and sighed. His old friend was up to something.

  After a moment, Ben’s son, Buddy, commander of the 508 Brigade, came on the line. Ben put the phone on speaker so Cecil could hear both sides of the conversation.

  “Yes, Father?”

  “Son, get with intelligence and find out where Altman is being held . . . if he’s still alive. Then pick a team and get him out and bring him here. I didn’t say you go, boy. . . pick some of your best people and send them. Is that understood?”

  “Oh, yes, Father. Understood perfectly. Quite clear.”

  “Fine
. Get it done.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Until his promotion to brigade commander, Buddy Raines had been CO of the Scouts—the elite of the elite in the Rebel army: a deadly and highly trained combination of the old Special Forces, SEALs, AF Commandos, Marine Force Recon, and FFL and SAS. They did the difficult immediately. The impossible took just a little more planning and time . . . but it was accomplished.

  After Ben had hung up Cecil said, “You know, of course, that Buddy will lead the team?”

  “Probably. I figure about a week and Altman will be here, providing he’s still alive. And that’s certainly in doubt.”

  “And you plan to do what with Altman, if he’s still alive and the team can bring him back?”

  “Propaganda, Cece. We’ll get him well, if possible, then videotape him live, telling the people what actually happened in the USA’s capital.”

  Cecil chuckled at Ben’s words. “That will certainly irritate Madame President and her coalition.”

  “Yes, indeed it will. They’ll all have a hanky-stomping snit.”

  Cecil laughed loudly at that and at the expression on Ben’s face. Ben’s opinion of liberals was indescribable . . . which was probably for the best. “But will it serve to change the minds of any people living outside the SUSA?”

  Ben shook his head “No. Not many. Certainly not the hard core, left-wing, liberal whiners and weepers, those who want something for nothing, and those who want the government to tell them how and when to do everything. But it will damn sure make me feel a lot better.”

  “And make the war looking us in the face easier to stomach,” Cecil added.

  “That, too, ole’ buddy. Certainly that.” Ben stood up and stretched. “I’m going to take a run out west, Cece, talk with Colonel Conners and surprise him with a promotion while I look over our air force. Want to come along?”