Cody stopped on the tarmac and ran blunt fingers through his hair. He turned his cold expressionless blue eyes on a senior agent who waited by his car.
“Get Ben Raines. Break the back of the Rebels. I don't care how you do it or how many men it takes—just do it."
“Some of the men are swearing dire revenge about this,” the agent jerked a thumb toward the plane. “They're talking about anything goes, sir. They're saying find the Rebel sympathizers and break them, any way we can."
Cody fought against his inner feelings. He felt revulsion at the thought of torture. It cut against the grain of his Christian upbringing. But ... these were trying times. These Rebels were no better than those damned Irish IRA men and women—terrorists, murderers.
“Do it,” Cody spoke through clenched teeth.
“But Senator Carson and the president ...?"
“We'll keep silent and maintain a low profile on this for as long as possible. If any reports get out, we deny them—right down the line. President Addison is a weak sister; Senator Carson is getting old. Don't worry about them. I think now we must fight fire with fire. Get Sam Hartline. Have him meet you tomorrow and lay it out for him. Tell him to get his boys rolling."
“Jeb Fargo and his bunch tried their hand against Ben Raines,” the senior agent reminded his boss. “You know where that got them. Dead."
“And Kenny Parr,” Cody recalled. He sighed. “They are terrorists, Tommy. That's how we have to look at the Rebels. Break them, Tommy. Just do it."
Al Cody got in his car, tapped the driver on the shoulder, and drove away into the still-rainy night.
“Yes, sir,” Tommy Levant said softly. “But I don't have to like it."
* * * *
The FBI of the late 1990s bore no resemblance to the crime-fighting Bureau of old. They were more an anti-guerrilla unit than an anti-crime organization. Organized crime, per se, was practically nonexistent; the bombings of 1988 had seen to that—worldwide.
The Bureau had men and women working on cases involving murder and rape and extortion and government-related criminal cases, but by and large they were pitted against Ben Raines and his Rebels.
And the men and women who made up the new FBI were not the highly educated and dedicated personnel of old. The bombings had not only changed the face of the United States, but had drastically altered the lifestyles of its remaining citizens. Factories and shops were once more rolling and producing, yes, but life was still a struggle for many of the survivors. Just putting bread and meat and potatoes on the table was an effort for many citizens ... not just in the United States but worldwide.
The government, in the eyes of many, was failing the citizens. Ben Raines, on the other hand, had carved a working, workable, enjoyable, and productive society out of nothing and had done it in practically no time.
Why? asked the citizens. Why can't this government do the same?
But government chose not to answer that—not to the satisfaction of the questioners. For if the government were to reply truthfully, that would reveal to the citizens that big government really didn't work—and had not in years. One senator had glumly stated that Ben Raines's form of government was so simple it was complex...
* * * *
In Tri-States, the people were pulled together for many reasons: to conserve energy, to stabilize government, for easier care, and to afford more land for the production of crops, as well as to afford better protection for the people in health care, police, fire, and social services.
The elderly, for the first time in their lives, were looked after with care and concern and respect. They were not grouped together and forgotten and ignored. Careful planning went into the population centers of Tri-States. People of all age groups were carefully grouped together in housing and apartments. The elderly who wished to work and could work, were encouraged to do so. They could work until they tired, then they went home. Nothing was said whether they worked one hour or eight. No children's games were played among the adults; no needling or pushing. There was nothing to prove. The knowledge of older citizens is vast and valuable; older citizens can teach so many things—if only the younger people would listen. In Tri-States they listened.
In order for this to work the pace must be slowed, the grind eased, the honor system restored; the work ethic, in both labor and management, renewed. It was.
In Tri-States, there was no such thing as the three-martini lunch and an hour's nap. In Tri-States, management worked just as hard as labor, or they got out. Permanently.
Here, for the first time in decades, there was no welfare, no ADC, no WIC, no food stamps, no unemployment; but what took its place was jobs for all, and all adults worked. Those who would not because they felt the job was beneath their dignity, or because of laziness, apathy, and/or indifference, were escorted to the nearest border and given a good boot in the butt. They were told not to come back. If minor children were involved, the kids were taken from their parents and immediately adopted by a family in Tri-States.
Harsh treatment? Yes. Totally unconstitutional by American standards? Yes.
But it worked.
Two
“Al Cody will never sit still for this,” Ben told his personal contingent of Rebels two days after the ambush of FBI agents. “We've got to move and do it quickly."
Doctor Chase stood on the fringe of the group, glaring disapprovingly at Ben. The old doctor muttered something about Ben's ancestry and walked away. “Man ought to be flat out on his back in bed,” Chase growled.
Ben said, “Order all units to shift positions immediately. They know the drill. We're moving out of here now! Clear the camp. We're moving to the Wyoming base. Move it, people!"
Jerre touched his arm. “Ben ... you're not strong enough for this trip. You..."
“I have to be, Jerre. We've got to move. This may be all it takes to push Cody off the deep end. You know what our intelligence people are reporting."
Ike McGowen took it from there. “Torture, rape, physical humiliation; those are words right out of the last report we received, Jerre.” The ex-Navy SEAL chewed reflectively on a blade of grass.
“I can't believe President Addison would go along with anything like that,” she said. “He's ... hell he's a liberal. He was heavily into human rights in South America back in the early ‘80's—so I'm told,” she blushed.
“Mere child,” Ike grinned.
The Medal of Honor-winning SEAL had been with Ben for a decade; one of the men who helped form Tri-States.
Ben grinned at him.
“What are you grinning about, El Presidente?” Ike asked.
“Remembering the first day I met you."
“Long time back, partner."
* * * *
Ben had been traveling down the coast of Florida, spinning the dial on his truck radio when the music rolled from the speaker. The voice followed. Startled, Ben pulled off the highway onto a shoulder and listened.
“Bright beautiful day here in the city with the titties,” the voice said. “Temperature in the mid-seventies and you're listening to the SEAL with the feel, Ike McGowen."
Ben drove on, looking for a radio tower. He spotted what had to be the shakiest tower he'd ever seen, leaning precariously by an oceanside house. Ben, accompanied by Juno, a malamute who had adopted him outside of Jessup, Georgia, walked up to the house. They were met by a gaggle of scantily clad females, all carrying automatic weapons.
Ike's radio station, Ben learned, was KUNT.
Ben wintered with Ike and his female companions. Not only did he winter with them, he married Ike and Megan Ann Green. The ceremony might not have been legal, but it was the best any of them could do at the time.
And Ike, Ben found, had been part of the Rebels long before the bombings of ‘88. Part of the group under the command of Ben's old CO in Vietnam, Bull Dean.
Ben had heard of the Rebel movement—had been approached by a member of the group in ‘84—but had discounted the movement; laughed it off.
But as he traveled the country, he saw billboards reading: BEN RAINES—CONTACT US 39.2. When he finally did contact the mysterious party at frequency 39.2, he was astonished to learn that he had been placed in charge of all the Rebels.
Ben refused it.
Then Ike had told him, “Go on, General. Hell, I'm not going to push you. Travel the country. Your duty will come to you after a time."
After the group in Florida broke up, each going their own way, Ben traveled many more miles, but the signs kept popping up: BEN RAINES—CONTACT US 39.2.
Ben finally “saw his duty."
* * * *
“Any individual found supporting the Rebels, actively or passively,” the network commentator intoned, “will be charged with treason. Highly placed sources within the Justice Department have told our reporters this move is necessary to stem the flow of arms and equipment to the Rebel movement currently operating in the United States. Ben Raines, the commanding officer of the Rebels has been placed at the top of the FBI's most wanted list. The..."
President Addison clicked off the TV set and punched a button on his desk.
“Yes, sir?"
“Tell the vice president I want to see him—now!"
“Right away, sir."
VP Lowry was standing in the Oval Office within five minutes. Weston Lowry could see the rage in Addison's eyes—the man was making no real effort to conceal it. And the VP was making no attempt to conceal his contempt for the president.
The two men disliked each other intensely.
“Whose idea was this treason business for citizens who imply support for Raines?” Addison questioned.
“I don't believe imply was ever mentioned in the..."
“Goddamnit, you know what I mean!” Addison slammed his hand on the desk top. “What in the hell are you people trying to do, start a civil war? We're still struggling to get our balance from the battering we took eleven years ago."
“Mr. President, we sampled the views of Congress—all the key members..."
“I wasn't told of that."
Lowry ignored that. “...and they believe the only way this country will survive is to destroy Ben Raines and his Rebels. They..."
“The British tried that in Northern Ireland for years. It didn't work there, and it won't work here."
“...also believe this threat is so serious as to fully warrant the term treason. If they have to, Mr. President, they have the votes to override any veto should it come to that."
Addison was so angry he was trembling, his cheeks mottled with white flecks in the flush. “Lowry, I am going to call a press conference. During that press conference, I am going to disassociate myself from this scheme and publicly and categorically express my opposition to it."
“That is certainly your privilege, sir.” Lowry maintained his composure.
“That will be all,” Addison said.
“Yes, sir."
Lowry was grinning as he walked out of the office, being careful not to slam the door behind him.
* * * *
The small convoy rolled through the night, speeding past deserted homes and through small empty towns. Ben rode in a car in the center of the armed convoy, asleep, his head on Jerre's shoulder. James Riverson was at the wheel of the car. As so many of the Rebels in Ben's personal contingent, Riverson had been with him for years.
“Don't like it, Miss Jerre,” the huge ex-truck driver from Missouri said, his big hands making the steering wheel appear smaller than normal. Riverson had lost his wife, Belle, in the battle for Tri-States, and their children had been killed by government troops. Riverson hated the central government of the United States, and like so many Rebels, could not understand why Tri-States had been destroyed.
“Don't like what, James?"
“The way all this is shaping up. The people are going to get caught right in the middle."
“I know. So does Ben—he doesn't like it either. He's going to have leaflets printed, advising the people to stand clear."
“You know they won't do it. The majority of citizens don't understand how we could build a workable society so quickly and their own non-elected officials—most of them, anyway—can't seem to do anything. Talk, talk, talk. No action. Or damn little action, anyway."
“Isn't that the way it's always been, James? You're older than I am. Isn't that the way it's always been?"
He slowly nodded his head. “I reckon so, Miss Jerre. From 1980 on, I didn't even bother voting."
“That seems so sad, James."
“It was. But hell, what was the point? Supreme Court and federal judges ran the country. The people didn't have anything to say about it. Not the people who had any goddamn sense, that is.” He grinned in the dim light from the dash. “Excuse me, Miss Jerre. That was selfish of me to say. We all have rights. I just wish they'd have left us alone in Tri-States. We weren't bothering a soul. Just being happy, that's all we were doing."
Ben groaned in his sleep.
“I wonder what the general is thinking of?” James said.
* * * *
He had first met Salina in a motel in Indiana, just off the interstate. At first he thought she was a white woman traveling with a group of blacks. Since he had just come from visiting his brother in Chicago, where the blacks and whites were preparing to do their best to kill each other off, he thought that odd.
But as one member of the group had blurted—a white-hating member—Salina was a zebra.
“What does that mean?” Ben had later asked her, when they were alone.
“Half white, half black. Yes, my parents were married,” she told him.
“I didn't think you were—"
“Pure coon,” she interrupted, but with a smile.
In the group were men and women who would later join Ben in the formation of Tri-States. Cecil Jefferys and his wife, Lila. Jake and his wife, Nora. Clint and Jane. And Ben and Salina would later marry. Salina, heavy with child, had been killed in the woods of Tri-States, during the last hours of the fight for survival.
So many had died for the dream.
* * * *
Sam Hartline looked like the stereotyped Hollywood mercenary. Six feet, two inches, heavily muscled, a deep tan, dark brown hair just graying at the temples, cold green eyes, and a scar on his right cheek. He spoke to the one hundred FBI agents gathered in the old hotel in the deserted Virginia town. He did not have to speak to his own men; they had heard it all before.
“So you boys are gonna spearhead the move to kill Ben Raines, eh?” he grinned. “And you're gonna do it by breaking the civilians who support him, right? Well, you'd all better have strong stomachs.” Again, he grinned. “I expect you do. You boys don't look like that bunch that used to make up the Bureau. You boys look a sight tougher. I'll tell you this: you damn well better be."
He took a sip of water and again looked over the roomful of men. “Dealing with male prisoners prior to the actual interrogation,” he spoke impersonally. “Man ... the protector of the home; the strong one. The techniques are diametrically opposite when dealing with the man as opposed to the woman. You must handle the male roughly—right from the beginning. You assault his male pride, his virility, his manhood, his penis power. You take the clothes from the man by force and leave him naked before you. A naked man feels defenseless. He will lose much of his arrogant pride.
“With a woman it is quite different. Do not use physical force except as a last resort. You order her to remove her clothing. You demand it. Make her disrobe. Thus her dignity has, from the beginning, rotted. A very important first beginning.
“Don't let them sleep. Interrupt them every few minutes while they lie in their cells, imagining all sorts of dire and exotic tortures lying in wait for them. Lack of sleep disturbs the brain patterns; disrupts the norm, so to speak.
“I will give you gentlemen an example.” He motioned toward a man standing by a closed door.
The man opened the door and two of Hartline's men pushed a young man
out into the large meeting room. The man was in his late twenties, unshaven, red and bleary-eyed. He was pushed onto the small stage.
“Good morning, Victor,” Hartline said cheerfully. “Did you sleep well?"
The man said nothing.
“Remove your clothing, Victor,” Hartline said, smiling.
“Fuck you!"
Hartline laughed and motioned toward the two burly men. They wrestled the young man down on the stage and tore his clothing from him, pulling him to his feet to stand nude, facing the roomful of strangers.
“You see, Victor,” Hartline said, “you are a baby. I can do with you anything I choose, at any time I choose. Remember that, Victor. It might save you a lot of pain. Now then, Victor ... who is the leader of your cell?"
Victor stood impassively, with as much dignity as he could muster. The agents in the room all tried to keep their eyes from the young man's groin.
“Victor, Victor,” Hartline said. “Why are you doing this? You know you're going to tell me what I want to know."
“If you're going to torture me,” the young man said, “get it over with."
Hartline laughed, exposed strong, white, even teeth. “Oh, Victor! I'm not going to torture you, my boy. Oh, my, no.” He cut his eyes to the man by the closed door.
The door opened and another pair of men pulled a young woman into the room. That they were closely related was evident by their features. Both Victor and the young woman had the same delicate features and skin coloration, the same pale eyes.
“Rebecca!” Victor shouted, lunging for her. Strong hands grabbed him, halting him in mid-flight. “You son of a bitch!” he cursed Hartline.
The mercenary laughed. “Tie him into that chair over there,” he pointed. “Hands behind the back, ankles to the legs."
Hartline looked at the young woman. Something evil touched his eyes. “Now, my dear, you may disrobe."
“No, I won't,” she said defiantly, holding her chin high.
Hartline chuckled. “Oh, I think you shall, Rebecca, dear. Yes, indeed."
Hartline picked up a small cattle prod and adjusted the level of voltage. He walked to Victor's side. He lifted his eyes to the woman. “Take off your clothes."
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