Into those states Ben would send his Rebels to train new people.
* * * *
June 10, 1999
Hartline's Base Camp, Virginia
The four women and one man had been sexually attacked numerous times as a prelude to their questioning concerning other cells on the east coast sympathetic to Ben Raines's Rebels.
A Mrs. Linda Ford was then taken into one of the interrogation rooms. The soles of her feet were beaten with billy clubs as were her buttocks and thighs. The beating continued all afternoon and into the night. She was thrown into a basement cell that had several inches of stagnant water covering the floor. Her feet were broken and her toenails were missing. She would die of pneumonia after a month. She would not be allowed a doctor's care.
A Robin Lewis was sodomized and then tortured with jolts of electricity to her feet. The wires were then clamped to her lips and the electricity turned on. So severe were the jolts she broke her teeth grinding them against the charges of electricity and the waves of pain. The voltage was increased to such a level Ms. Lewis suffered severe brain damage.
Riva Madison was burned with cigarette and cigar butts. All her fingers were broken and her knees shattered with club blows.
Paul Murray was hanged by his wrists, his feet a foot off the floor. He was beaten and tortured by electric shock applied to his genitals. He would lose both hands due to gangrene.
Claire Boiling was repeatedly raped and subjected to every imaginable type of sexual abuse, including electrical current passed through and into her vagina by usage of a metal dildo. A procedure allegedly perfected by the SAVAK in Iran in the 1970s. Claire would live, but she would be unable to bear children.
Neither Mrs. Ford, Robin Lewis, Riva Madison, Paul Murray, or Ms. Boiling was able to tell their interrogators anything but the truth.
And the truth was ... they did not know anything concerning the operation of other cells.
* * * *
On July 1, Ben began traveling from state to state, meeting with his commanders. It was dangerous, but something that had to be done. By the end of August, his field commanders had recruited 7,200 men and women. Ben and his commanders knew there were government informers among them, but did nothing about it until the 7,200 had been broken up into small training groups and sent to various bases in the mountains, the deserts, the plains, the swamps.
It was then the government agents and spies learned the hard truth of infiltrating anything Ben Raines set up.
Each unit had several men and women trained in the use of Psychological Stress Evaluators, polygraph machines, and truth serums such as thiopental, scopoline, and other drugs which induce truth under hypnosis.
There, each volunteer was tested thoroughly and rigorously. Nothing was left to chance. They were hanged and buried in unmarked graves. Nothing was released to the government. Let them think their people were still alive, Ben told his Rebels.
It was frustrating to the federal police and the FBI and Hartline's men. The silence from the agents supposed to be sending back data on the Rebels’ training bases infuriated Al Cody. The man was too vain and too sure of his people to even consider the possibility his people had been caught and killed.
Not all forty of them. Impossible.
Once the original seventy-two companies of one hundred new Rebels was set, it was very difficult to join Ben's Rebels. Any new applicant was held in a safe house or spot for two to three weeks. The applicant was subjected to severe testing and questioning the entire time. Shortly the very best of the volunteers got into the actual fighting field units of the new Rebels.
There were ugly rumors circulating around the nation's capital concerning the military's alleged policy of total noninvolvement in any upcoming confrontation between the Rebels and the police. These were rumors that amused President Addison and Senator Carson; rumors that infuriated VP Lowry and Director Cody.
Then, on the first Sunday in August, 1999, violence erupted in the Great Smoky Mountains, one of the major training bases for Ben's Rebels. President Addison was at the presidential retreat and could not be reached for comment, so VP Lowry, with Cody by his side, called a special meeting at the VP's home outside Richmond.
Seated around the VP and Cody were: General Rimel of the Air Force; General Preston of the Army; Admiral Calland of the Navy; General Franklin of the Marine Corps; and Admiral Barstow of the Coast Guard. The Joint Chiefs of Staff.
VP Lowry cleared his throat, fiddled with his tie, and brushed back a few strands of carefully dyed hair. He said, “Gentlemen, I've heard some very unhappy news. Unsettling, to say the least. Heard it on the TV, read it in the Richmond Post. I can only conclude that at least part of it is true. Now, I'd be the first to concede that we may have a bit of a problem within the borders of our nation. But it's nothing that can't be cleared up if we all cooperate.
“The press is making a bad mistake, gentlemen. They have begun to romanticize Ben Raines's Rebels, calling them Freedom's Rebels and Freedom's Rangers. That pack of off-center screwballs has to be stopped..."
“Are you referring to the Rebels or to the press?” General Rimel asked with a straight face.
VP Lowry's expression grew hard and he started to fire his reply back to the general. Instead, he fought to calm himself. He took a deep breath and drummed his fingertips on the desk.
“General Rimel, I do not believe this is the time for levity—lame as it may be, and certainly in bad taste. You all know where the president stands on this issue. Like Pilate, he has washed his hands of the entire matter. But gentlemen, the majority of both houses of Congress backs my plan to rid the nation of these Rebels—and were I you, I would bear that in mind. Now I want to know where the military stands on this issue."
“The military stands where it always stands,” Admiral Calland said, a flat tone to his voice. “Ready, willing, and able to repel any invaders who threaten our shores."
“Would that it were,” Preston muttered under his breath. It was muttered so only Admiral Calland could hear.
The Navy man fought to hide a smile.
VP Lowry spun in his chair and turned his back to the men gathered around his desk in the study. Lowry looked out the window. It was raining again. Miserable day. He sighed. He had just received word—after hearing it on TV, which irritated him—of the closing of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park in Tennessee and North Carolina. It was estimated that about 1,500 Rebels were located in the more than half million acres of the park. They had taken it over. They had mined the place and stuck trip flares all over the area. Manned machine-gun posts were hidden in well-stocked bunkers, and Tennessee and North Carolina had already lost more than a hundred federal police and highway patrol and they hadn't even gotten close to the main area. They were ambushed every time they turned around. Both states were requesting help from the Army or the National Guard or some goddamned thing.
When Lowry had called President Addison, Aston had laughed at him.
Lowry knew the military would refuse when he asked them for help. The bastards had said, and Lowry's informants had relayed the news to him, that the military would not lift a finger against Raines.
Lowry turned slowly to face the military. “This nation,” he said, “is on the verge of civil war, and you tell me some drivel about repelling foreign invaders. What foreign invaders? There isn't a power on the face of this globe strong enough to even consider the idea of attacking us. Now ... you men listen to me. I want those ... these Rebels stopped, and by God, you people,” he pointed his finger at all the military men, “are going to stop them."
“No, sir,” General Franklin stuck out his chin. “We are not."
Al Cody paled at this, fighting back hot anger welling up inside him. He remained silent.
Lowry sat back in his chair and stared at the Joint Chiefs. He returned his gaze to the Marine. It was very quiet in the room. When the VP spoke, his words were barely audible. “Would one of you men mind clearing that up just a bit?"
Marine Corps looked at Navy, and Navy glanced at Army, Air Force, and Coast Guard, receiving a slight nod from each man. Admiral Calland lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair. “May I speak frankly, Mr. Vice President?"
“By all means, Admiral, please do."
“Mr. Lowry, we are all aware of the feelings that exist between you and the president. We are equally aware of the power play now going on in the capitol. The military had to take control of this nation back in ‘88—I hope to God we won't ever have to do that again. And right now, sir, we have no intention of doing that. But...” he let his words with the implied threat trail off into silence.
The admiral tapped his cigarette ash into the ashtray on Lowry's desk. “Now then, Mr. Lowry, the Rebels have no beef with the military, and we have none with them. We are not attacking any of their bases—even though we know where most are located—and they will not attack any of our bases."
“Then you all have been in communication with the Rebels?” Cody asked, his face flushed with anger.
“We have."
“Traitors!” the FBI director shouted.
General Franklin looked at the man. “How would you like me to slap your fucking teeth down your throat?"
Cody leaned back in his chair. He not only knew the Marine could, but would do just that. He was somewhat afraid of career soldiers, having never served in the military himself. Old football injury.
“No, Lowry,” Admiral Calland continued, “the Rebels have no beef with us, and we have none with them. Their beef is with you and Cody and Hartline and your high-handed police state and your dictatorial powers..."
“You can't speak to me like that!” Lowry shouted.
“The hell I can't!” the admiral barked. “Now you deck your ass back in that chair and listen to me! You federalized the police without consulting the people. You stripped them of their weapons. You put into effect a no-knock policy that has the citizens terrified in their own homes. You've beefed up the police and hired a goddamn mercenary army. You've sent spies and informants into every state. You've created confusion and suspicion and fear among the people who pay your salary and mine. Everything you and Cody are doing—and much of what was done by Logan—is in direct violation of the constitution. It shouldn't come as any shock that the people support Ben Raines."
General Franklin took it. “Who is running this country, Mr. Vice President, you or Addison?"
“The Congress put Addison in office, now they are disenchanted with him. But he can remain as a figurehead."
“So much for democracy,” Admiral Barstow said.
“These are trying times, gentlemen,” Cody said, speaking in controlled tones. “But we are making strides toward a return to normalcy. I don't have to tell you men why we took the guns from the citizens; but perhaps you do need a reminder: half-baked cults and orders were popping up all over the nation. We did it to hold this Union together..."
“Horseshit!” General Franklin said. “You did it ... and you did it, gentlemen, you and Cody, so you could sit up here in Richmond like some fat cat East Indian potentate and rule the people without fear of them kicking you out."
“I resent that, General,” Lowry said.
“I don't give a shit what you resent,” the Marine replied. “Listen to me, boys—listen to us,” he waved his hand, indicating the other brass. “We will not be a part of any civil war. We will not have our men split apart like the Blue and the Gray.” He looked at his fellow chiefs of staff. They nodded in agreement.
VP Lowry was seething inwardly but he managed to smile at the brass. “All right, gentlemen. We'll crush Ben Raines and his Rebels. It would have been easier with your help, but we'll manage without it. Thank you for your continuing vigilance in guarding our shores. That will be all."
His sarcasm was not lost on the military leaders.
When Lowry was once more alone with Cody, the VP said, “Get with Senator Slate and Representative Tyler. Get a bill through restricting what the press can report. Full censorship, if possible. All material must be cleared by our people. And, Al ... crush the Rebels. I don't care how you and Hartline do it—but do it!"
Four
Dressed in white Levis and matching jacket, and carrying a half-dozen cameras, Dawn Bellever was a respected and experienced photographer. She'd worked all kinds of assignments since she was a kid reporter back in ‘88, just before the bombings blew everything to hell. But this demonstration in Richmond was shaping up to be a real bitch-kitty. Dawn could feel it.
She stood calmly by the police line, snapping away at the police and the protestors.
“Give us back our guns!” a man shouted. “You have no right to seize private property."
Dawn looked around her, trying to see who the man was shouting at. She could see no one. Shouting in general, she supposed.
Many of these people wanted to go back home. Wanted to return to the homes and lands they had been forced to leave during President Logan's relocation efforts back in ‘89. Others wanted their guns returned to them; some wanted jobs, food, clothing.
Only area that ever really recovered was Ben Raines's Tri-States, Dawn thought. She wondered about General Raines. Wondered if maybe he hadn't had the right idea all along.
A federal cop slamming his billy club on a head brought Dawn back to reality. She took a picture of the man, on his knees, blood pouring from a gash in his forehead.
“Watch that cunt with the camera,” a cop said to another officer. “Don't let her out of your sight. We got to get those films."
“Your ass, pig,” Dawn muttered. She smiled at herself for using a word whose popularity had peaked before she was born.
She stepped a few feet closer to the line of boots, belts, badges, helmets, guns, sunglasses, shields, and riot shotguns. She thought it ironic that a small American flag was sewn on the right sleeve of each officer's shirt or jacket.
Aren't these Americans you're beating? she silently questioned.
She snapped away and stepped back, totally disregarding the new censorship order from the Justice Department and the hallowed halls of Congress. She wound the film and darted up to the police line, snapping away. This time she didn't make it. A long arm shot out and snagged her by her long blond hair. She yelped in pain and dropped one camera. Another federal cop standing nearby casually lifted one booted foot and smashed the expensive piece of equipment. Just as his boot came down on the camera, Dawn heard the pop of tear-gas guns. Most of the black-jacketed line of federal police moved out, up the street. Dawn looked up at the cop who'd destroyed her camera and screamed at him.
“You miserable bastard!” she yelled, getting to her feet. She kicked out at him, catching him with a sand-colored boot in the balls. He doubled over, puking, lost his balance, and tumbled forward. His helmet, chin strap loose, fell off and rolled to the street. The cop was a big man, overweight, and when his forehead hit the street, it sounded like an overripe melon struck with a hammer. The cop lay very still.
Dawn heard the sounds of boots on the concrete. Turning, she had time enough to see the cop's right arm raised, a night stick in his hand. He brought the baton down on Dawn's head. Dawn slumped to her knees, stunned. She raised her bleeding head and squalled at the second cop.
“Bastard!” she screamed, tears of pain and rage glistening on her cheeks, the tears just ahead of a bright trail of crimson.
The cop, a burly, red-faced, 200-pounder, grinned at her through his plastic face-shield, raised his baton, and whacked her again. Dawn dropped flat on the street. The cop turned his back to her and watched the action at the other end of the street.
People were screaming, the air choking with gas. Dawn could barely hear the thud of billy clubs on bone and flesh and the snarl of police dogs as they bit through cloth and into flesh. No one paid the fallen blonde any attention.
She did not know how long she had lain in the street. But when she opened her eyes everything was hazy. She waited for her vision to clear. Sho
ts were fired, someone yelled in a hoarse bellow of pain. Dawn turned her head and found herself looking at a nickel-plated pistol. It lay beside the still unmoving mass of the cop she'd booted in the nuts. She crawled a few inches closer to the gun. She could read the printing on the barrel. 357 magnum. The cop who had clubbed her the second time stood with his back to her, watching the fighting and screaming and running at the far end of the street.
Then he ran down the street, leaving her alone.
Dawn picked up the pistol, thinking how heavy it was. As an afterthought, she reached over the still-breathing federal cop and plucked out the bullets from his belt, putting those in her jacket pocket and buttoning the flap.
Unknowingly, Dawn Bellever had just taken the first step toward joining Ben Raines's Rebels.
She knew absolutely nothing of guns. She crawled to her knees and hunkered in the street, the blood still dripping from her head. She reversed the pistol and peered down the barrel. Somebody, somewhere close, opened up with some type of automatic weapon, the narrow street reverberating with the boom of rapid fire. People were running all around her. She heard a woman screaming, looked to her right, and saw the second cop who'd hit her holding a young woman against a building. He was hitting her with his night stick.
“Well,” Dawn said stupidly, “I'm not going to tolerate that."
Something was fuzzy in her head, fouling up her thinking. Dawn shook her head and raised the pistol. Again, she was looking down the barrel. She righted the weapon, gripped it with both hands, just like she'd seen cops do in the movies, took careful aim at the cop's right leg, and pulled the trigger.
She blew half his head off.
The recoil knocked her flat on the street and numbed her hands. But she still gripped the magnum. She got to her knees and looked around her. The young woman the now-dead cop had been hammering on was running toward her, the officer's weapon in her hand.
Fire in the Ashes Page 4