Chaos in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  “No!” Altman shouted. “Hell, no. Just . . . wait a minute. Let me think.”

  After a moment, Ben keyed the mic. “I have another suggestion.”

  “I hope it’s better than the first one.”

  “We can’t stay here and guard the prisoners. That’s out. What we can do is transport them to the edge of the NUSA and run them over into Simon Border’s territory. Let him take care of them.”

  “Won’t they just return and continue a life of crime?”

  “Sure. Then we shoot them.”

  Hundreds of miles south of Ben’s location, President Altman looked at Cecil. “Is he kidding?”

  “I assure you he is not.”

  Altman sighed. “I suppose I have no choice but to turn them loose in Border’s territory. What does Ben plan on doing with Detroit when he’s finished with those damn cannibals?”

  “Destroy what is left of it. As much as possible.”

  “He’s not leaving me with much,” Altman said wistfully.

  “Better than what you had before the Great War,” Cecil said drily, and that got him a very startled look from President Altman.

  Ben walked the long line of prisoners. There was no hooting or cat-calling or derisive remarks from the ranks of captives. They knew to a person that Ben Raines would not hesitate to shoot them. And most of the prisoners knew, too, whether they would admit it or not, that if Ben Raines, or someone like him, had been in power, laying down the law before the Great War, more than likely none of them would have turned to a life of crime.

  The prisoners had all been photographed, and blood had been drawn for DNA testing.

  Ben’s speech to them was short and not very sweet. “We’re going to transport you all to Simon Border’s WUSA eastern boundaries and shove you across. Let him deal with you. But I give you this warning—if you ever come east of the Mississippi River again, you’re dead men.” Ben looked at a Rebel sergeant. “Get them out of here.”

  Ten minutes later, Ben was busy pouring over maps of Detroit, the prisoners forgotten.

  The Rebels threw a noose around the ruins of Detroit. They stretched out east to west along Highway 102, north to south along Highway 39 to the river. The creepies were in a box, with absolutely no place left to run.

  The Rebels began retaking the city, block by block, and as they went the combat engineers began leveling the city with explosives. When the creeps went underground to their tunnels and bunkers and basements, the combat engineers sealed them in their stinking lairs forever by bringing tons of rubble down on them, blocking entrances and exits.

  It would have taken years to blow every building left standing in the city, but the Rebels knew what signs to look for to determine where the Night People lived . . . usually by the foul odor of their unwashed bodies. A few creeps did try to escape; they were shot by Rebel snipers positioned on the roofs of buildings purposely left standing for that use.

  By the first day of September, Detroit was declared a dead city—if the many square miles of rubble could be called a city.

  And as was their custom, the Rebels took everything that could be used, cleaned it up, loaded it on trucks and shipped it back to Base Camp One. Commodes, sinks, bathtubs, cooper tubing, vehicle parts, bricks . . . anything that might later be put to use.

  Buddy, Rebet, and Danjou had linked up with the militia and Northern Michigan was declared clean and free of criminals and creeps.

  The battle for Michigan was over and another state could be added to the growing list of President Altman’s NUSA.

  Simon Border’s aides and advisors came to see him, and from the expressions on their faces, he knew what it was all about. Simon waited behind his desk.

  “You had better start thinking about some sort of peace agreement with Ben Raines,” his senior advisor told him. “Some sort of written co-existence plan. It is our unanimous opinion that there is no force on the face of the earth that can stop Raines and his Rebels.”

  Simon sighed and leaned back in his chair. “I remember when Ben Raines and the Rebels first surfaced,” he said, almost in a whisper. “Immediately after the Great War. No one took them seriously. They were considered to be just another right-wing nut group. What a mistake that was. Draw up the plan,” he said very softly. “I’ll sign the damn thing.”

  Not all the people who were part of Issac Africa’s inner circle were extremists or kooks. Many of them were rational, educated, reasonable men and women, and they could all clearly read the writing on the wall. The message they read was decidedly grim.

  “You’d better start talking peace with Ben Raines, President Altman, and Simon Border,” they urged Issac. “And do it very quickly. We’re in a box with no way out. We are completely surrounded with little brushfire wars all over the state. We cannot last.”

  Issac’s generals immediately disagreed, of course, but for once, Issac waved them silent. He had given it much thought. He supposed he might be able to take his people say, oh, up to Maine and make his dream work. He shuddered at just the thought. But Maine! Good God, who wanted to spend the rest of their life in Maine?

  “All right,” Issac said softly. “So far, this year has been a disaster. We plant one field, the damn guerrillas burn two more. It’s obvious we can’t continue like we have. Perhaps we were fools to even think we could make this work.”

  “Are we just going to give up?” General Mobutomomba asked, defiance in his eyes and tone.

  “We can’t win,” Issac said, resignation behind his words. “In a year’s time, Raines will have control of very port and every major highway east of the Mississippi River. Even if we could manage to produce a crop or enough manufactured goods to sell, he wouldn’t let us through.”

  “We could kill the son-of-a-bitch!” General Cugumba suggested.

  Issac smiled. “That’s something that a lot of people have tried over the years. No one has ever succeeded—obviously. And should we try that, Raines’ Rebels would invade this state and when they were through, none of us would be alive, or any of our followers. The Rebels would annihilate us down to the last person. Put killing Ben Raines out of your mind.”

  Colonel Zandar, and Generals Cugumba and Mobutomamba, exchanged glances and nods, then rose as one. Zandar said, “We’re pulling our people out. We will never surrender to Ben Raines.”

  “Ben Raines is not asking for our surrender,” Issac corrected. “Just that we not have a closed, racist society. And before any of you start spouting a lot of words that are false, let me stop it before it begins. The SUSA is neither closed nor racist, and you all know that. Now, I don’t like Ben Raines. As a matter of fact, I hate the bastard! But I won’t accuse him of being something he isn’t.”

  “We’re leaving, Issac,” Cugumba insisted.

  “Then leave,” Issac replied with a shrug of his shoulders. “But if you’re leaving to wage war against the Rebels, you’re going to lose.”

  “We have thirty thousand men under arms,” General Mobutomamba boasted.

  Issac smiled. “And no planes, and not much in the way of supplies, except what you can carry with you. You will have no supply lines. For every tank you have, Ben Raines has thirty. For every Howitzer you have, Ben Raines has fifty. For every bullet you have, Ben Raines has a million. You can’t beat him. I urge you all to reconsider. Just think rationally for a moment. That’s something I hadn’t done for a long time until quite recently and I assure you, it’s refreshing. Think about this—if we sign a pact with the SUSA, we’ll have markets for our goods, we’ll have the strongest ally in the world beside us, and we can stand down at least half our army and live like normal people.” He shook his head. “I listened to that idiot Rita Rivers and her nitwit cohorts for too long. They poisoned my mind. I have more years behind me than I have in front of me. I’d like to live them in relative peace.”

  “We’re taking our people out and fight Ben Raines,” Zandar said.

  Issac lifted a hand in farewell. “Take those idiot twins, Yah
oo and Yazoo, with you. And don’t come back here begging for assistance or sanctuary,” he warned. “Once you leave, you’re on your own.”

  “We could just take over this state, you know,” Colonel Zandar said with a smile.

  “Try it,” Issac’s voice turned very cold and menacing.

  Cugumba put a restraining hand on Zandar’s arm. “Stop that kind of talk.” He looked into Issac’s eyes. “When we return, we shall come back as victors, Issac.”

  Issac shook his head. “Not when, General. If.”

  SIX

  “Cecil just touched base,” Corrie told Ben. “Both Simon Border and Issac Africa want to talk peace with us.”

  Ben looked up and smiled.

  “That’s the good news,” Corrie said. “Now comes the bad.”

  Ben’s smile faded.

  “Three of Issac’s commanding officers have broken with him and left the state to fight us. Cugumba, Mobutomamba, and Zandar. They have officially declared war against the Rebels. They have approximately thirty thousand men and women under arms.”

  “Are they moving toward the SUSA?”

  She shook her head. “They are moving toward us. Intelligence says they plan to engage us in Ohio.”

  “Why? Why would they declare war against us? We haven’t bothered them.”

  Corrie spread her hands in a “who knows?” gesture.

  “Very well. Get me one of those break-away commanders on the horn. Before I launch any attacks, I want to hear the declaration of war from them.”

  It took only a moment to connect with the breakaway troops. “Colonel Zandar, boss,” Corrie said, handing Ben the mic. “But I think, despite his rank, he runs the whole show.”

  “This is Ben Raines, Colonel Zandar. Why have you declared war against us?”

  “Because you are the enemy,” Zandar responded without hesitation.

  Ben had to think about that for a moment. He keyed the mic. “Why am I your enemy?”

  “Because you refused to recognize our state.”

  “I recognized your state, Colonel. I just said I wouldn’t trade with you as long as your philosophy was based on racial hatred.”

  “Whites are our enemy.”

  “Only if you make them your enemy, Colonel. People of all races live and work together in the SUSA without a problem.”

  “Uncle Toms and Oreos.”

  “Oreos?” Cooper questioned.

  “Black on the outside, white on the inside,” Ben told him, then once more keyed the mic. “Colonel Zandar, don’t tangle with us. It’s a fight you cannot win.”

  “We shall be victorious, Raines. You’re a dead man.”

  “And you’re a fool,” Ben replied, then tossed the mic to Corrie. He looked at Beth. “Fuck him.”

  “No thanks,” Beth said, straight-faced.

  Ben burst out laughing.

  * * *

  0700 hours.

  “Thirty thousand troops make for a very long convoy,” Ben said to his squadron leaders. He pointed to a map. “As of one hour ago, the enemy was here, moving toward us on Interstate 70, in Indiana. You boys and girls see how much grief you can cause this column.”

  Two hours later, the souped-up P-51E’s hit the miles-long column of Cugumba, Mobutomamba, and Zandar with rockets, cannon, bombs, and machine-gun fire. They came in out of the sun at 500 mph, right on the deck, leaving behind them dozens of blown-up, burning, and destroyed vehicles, and hundreds of dead and wounded soldiers.

  Then the planes circled around and hit the column again, catching the soldiers as they were coming out of ditches and timber, heading back to the burning convoy to offer assistance to the wounded.

  When the planes headed back to Ohio, they left behind them a convoy in ruins, and a thoroughly pissed-off Colonel Zandar.

  Generals Cugumba and Mobutomamba were at the rear of the miles-long column, and did not arrive at the front of the convoy until some forty-five minutes after the attack.

  “This was a warning to us,” Mobutomamba said, after looking around and assessing the damage and the deaths, which were both considerable.

  Cugumba nodded his head. “I agree.”

  “So?” Zandar asked belligerently.

  Mobutomamba and Cugamba exchanged glances.

  Zandar picked up on the looks immediately. When he spoke, his tone was contemptuous. “I know you’ve been talking behind my back. And I know what you’ve been saying. You want to quit. You want to go back to New Africa and break up your armies and grovel at the feet of Issac and Kenyata. Well, go on. Leave. Some of your men will return with you. But most will follow me. Our dream of a New Africa will never have a chance as long as Ben Raines is still alive. I am going to kill Ben Raines.”

  The two older men shook their heads. Cugamba said, “You will not kill Ben Raines. You probably will never get close to Ben Raines. And we have not been speaking ill of you, Zandar. You are a brave man. But you are also an angry man; you are a rebel with no cause. Issac saw that Ben Raines is not our enemy. Then Mobutomamba saw it, and finally I realized it.” He waved a hand at the smoking wreckage. “Ben Raines has planes enough to have finished this. Yet he did not. He’s giving us a chance, Zandar. And I for one, as is Mobutomamba, will take his warning and return to a life of peace and productivity. We shall open our borders and live in harmony with men of all colors.”

  “Cowards,” Zandar spat the word. “Both of you.”

  Cugumba cut his eyes to Zandar and smiled grimly. He had been a soldier before the Great War. A full bird colonel in the United States Army; an infantry officer. “Watch your mouth, young man,” he warned. “I am no self-appointed officer. I earned my rank the hard way. I was first an enlisted man, then went to OCS and climbed upward on my merits. Don’t you ever call me a coward. I am going back to the state of Missouri, not New Africa—Missouri. And I am going to ask Issac to forgive my rashness. As for you, Zandar, I hope you will find your peace in the grave. For when you attack Ben Raines, that will be your future.”

  The two older men spun around and walked off.

  “About half of Zandar’s people have turned around and headed back west,” Corrie called to Ben. “Eyes in the Sky estimates some fifteen thousand troops have broken up into small units and are heading our way.”

  “They’ll be picking up black punk gangs as they move toward us,” Ben said. “Incorporating them into the ranks . . .” He paused. “Or using them for cannon fodder.”

  “Probably the latter,” Ike said.

  Ben looked at his son, Buddy, commander of 8 Batt, the special operations battalion. “Get your teams together, son. Dan Gray is already forming his people up. Then check with operations and work out where you’ll be. Start harassing Mr. Zandar and his people.”

  The ruggedly handsome and muscular Buddy pulled out a double-edged dagger, held it up, and smiled.

  “Yes,” his father said. “Fear is an excellent motivator.”

  Zandar had split his thousands of people up into company-sized groups and sent them in all directions, with orders to regroup once they reached the Ohio line. It was a bad mistake on Zandar’s part. While the Rebels were a mighty fighting force en masse, they had first begun as down and dirty guerrilla fighters, fighting unbelievable odds . . . and winning. The Rebels had perfected guerrilla fighting down to an art that few people could ever attain. The Rebels were at their best operating in small, highly lethal groups.

  “Forget it, Raines,” Doctor Chase told Ben as he stood in the doorway to Ben’s office, located in a home some twenty-five miles south of Toledo. He had caught Ben pacing the office like a caged animal.

  Ben slowly turned to face his old friend. “Do you now have the ability to get into my mind, Lamar?”

  “No.” The doctor poured a cup of coffee and sat down. “I just know you too well. You want to be out there with Buddy and Dan and all the other special ops people, slithering around on the ground with your face painted and a camo rag around your head, cutting throats.” He pointed a
finger at Ben. “If you try it, Ben, I’ll order you into the hospital, and I mean it.”

  Ben smiled and sat down. He knew Chase meant it. In any army, anywhere, the doctors had the last word, and it made no difference if one was a general or a private. If Chase ordered him into the hospital, Ben would have to go. “Yes, I’d like to be out there, Lamar. But I’m not going. That isn’t to say I couldn’t do a good job. But this time I’ll leave it to younger fellows.”

  “Even that old fire-breathing warhorse Dan Gray is staying back overseeing the operation,” Chase said. “And he’s a few years younger than you.”

  Ben chuckled. “I’ll admit something, Lamar—I really don’t mind being middle-aged. I thought I would hate it, but I don’t. I think because I really haven’t slowed down that much. I’m a step slower. But I’ve learned to compensate for that.”

  “We were a couple of firebrands when we first met those long years ago, weren’t we, Ben?”

  “A couple of revolutionaries with a wild dream and two dozen or so followers.”

  Both men chuckled for a moment, recalling memories that went back over a span of a dozen years.

  Anna stuck her pretty head into the office. “Reports coming in from the field, General Ben. Buddy’s people really raised some hell last night. They killed about a dozen of Zandar’s personal troops, cut off their heads, and stuck them up on poles.”

  “Jesus, Ben!” Chase said.

  Ben shook his head. “You know I didn’t order that done, Lamar.” He looked up as Corrie joined Anna in the doorway. “Are you in contact with Buddy?”

  “Negative. His last transmission said he would be out of pocket for about forty-eight hours.”

  “He planned that well,” Ben remarked sarcastically. “That devious—” He bit that off.

  “I wonder where he got it from?” Lamar questioned drily, getting to his feet and moving to the door. He paused and looked at Ben. “I meant what I said, Ben.”