“...once said was so sexy-looking.” VP Lowry laughed. “I bet you she could give you head you'd never forget, Al. You know, Al—we go back a long ways, don't we, ol’ friend? We know the American people have to be controlled, just like the press. Reviewing history, say, oh, from the early ‘60s on ... well, I think—believe—that if the press had been muzzled and the people controlled a bit more firmly, none of this tragedy would have occurred. I sure do believe that, Al. Yes, sir, Al, you know as well as I, it's all for the..."
...good of the country.
“...good of the country."
* * * *
“What kind of game are you playing, Miss Hickman?” Ben asked her.
They were seated outside, a cool but not unpleasant breeze fanning them. Roanna had seen Dawn and the two women embraced and chatted for a few moments. Dawn now sat beside her on one side of the camp table, facing Ben and Ike and Cecil.
“No game, General,” Roanna said firmly. “Game time is all over. We're all putting our lives on the line this go-around. For the women, our asses, literally."
She brought the men up to date on what Hartline was doing, and had done.
“If this is true,” Cecil said, “and for the moment we shall accept it as fact, Ms. Olivier is playing a very dangerous game."
“And you, as well,” Ike added.
“More than you know,” Roanna said bitterly. “Sabra's husband said if she saw Hartline again, he was leaving. She couldn't explain what she was doing, for fear Hartline would torture the truth out of Ed—that's her husband. He walked out day before yesterday. Took the boy, left the daughter behind. I wish it had been reversed. Sabra's told me Hartline is looking at Nancy ... you know what I mean."
“How old is the girl?” Ike asked.
“Fifteen. Takes after her mother, too. Gorgeous."
Ben studied the woman for a few seconds. “You mind taking a PSE test?"
“Not at all,” Roanna replied. Then she smiled, and her cynical reporter's eyes changed. She was, Ben thought, really a very pretty lady. “What's the matter, General; am I too liberal for your tastes?"
“Liberals are, taken as a whole, just too far out of touch with reality to suit me,” Ben said. He softened that with a smile.
“I'd like to debate that with you sometime, General. Yes, that might be the way to go with this interview. Hard-line conservative views against a liberal view."
“I'm not a hard-line conservative, Miss Hickman,” Ben told her. “How could I be a hard-line conservative and believe in abortion, women's rights, the welfare of children and elderly ... and everything else we did in the Tri-States?"
“You also shot and hanged people there,” she fired back at him.
“We sure did,” Ben's reply was breezy, given with a smile of satisfaction. “And we proved that crime does not have to exist in a society."
“I seem to recall you ordered the hanging of a sixteen-year-old boy, General."
“I damn sure did, Miss Hickman."
* * * *
“You all know where we stand on issues. The people have voted on them, all over this three-state area. We've been holding town meetings since early last winter on the issues and laws we'll live with and under,” Ben said. “Now, ninety-one percent of the people agreed to our system of law. The rest left. And that's the way it's going to be or you all can take this governorship—that I didn't want in the first place—and I'll go back to writing my journal."
“Ben—” Doctor Chase said.
“No!” Ben had stood firm. “I came into this office this morning and there was a damned paper on my desk asking me to reconsider the death penalty for that goddamned punk over in Missoula."
“He's sixteen years old, Governor,” an aide said.
“That's his problem. His IQ is one twenty-eight. The shrink says he knows right from wrong and is healthy, mentally and physically. He is perfectly normal. He stole a car, got drunk, and drove a hundred fucking miles an hour down the main street. He ran over and killed two elderly people whose only crime was attempting to cross a street ... in compliance with the existing traffic lights. He admitted what he did. He is not remorseful. I would reconsider if he was sorry for what he'd done. But he isn't. And tests bear that out. He has admitted his true feelings; said the old people didn't have much time left them anyway, so what the hell was everybody getting so upset about? Well, piss on him! He's a punk. That's all he would ever be—if I let him live—which I have no intention of doing. If he puts so little emphasis on the lives of others, then he shouldn't mind terribly if I snuff out his."
Ben glared at the roomful of silent men. “So, Mr. Garrett,”—he looked at a uniformed man standing quietly across the room—“at six o'clock day after tomorrow, dawn, you will personally escort young Mr. Randolph Green to the designated place of execution and you will see to it that he is hanged by the neck until he is dead. The day of the punk ... is over."
“Yes, sir,” Garrett said. “It's about time some backbone was shoved into the law.” He left the room.
Ben looked around him. “Any further questions as to how the law is going to work?"
No one had anything further to say.
* * * *
“And you felt that was the right and just thing to do?” Roanna asked.
“I did and do."
“And that is the type of justice you plan to prescribe for the entire nation? If you are victorious against Lowry and Hartline?"
“Oh, we'll be victorious, Miss Hickman. I have no doubts about that. But as to your question, no, that is not the type of justice I plan for the entire nation."
“But your Tri-States..."
“Was for the people who chose to live under those laws. Not for everybody. No, Miss, once the battle is over, my people will return to the site of the old Tri-States—or wherever they choose to set up, and there we shall live out our lives, under our system of law, all the while paying a fair share of taxes to whatever central government you people happen to set up."
Reporter studied soldier. Roanna slowly nodded her head in understanding. “You could set up your ... Tri-States right now, couldn't you? You don't have to do this thing—this battle, do you?"
“No, Miss Hickman, we don't. It's just that ... I believe that a people should live as freely as possible, and not under a dictatorship, such as the one Lowry and Cody and Hartline now seem to have."
“General, you are not ... you have ideals and, I guess, a certain amount of compassion that was not reported about you when you opened your borders a couple of years ago."
Ben shrugged. “I've always maintained, Miss Hickman, the press doesn't always report the truth, or do it fairly. They report what they perceive as the truth.” He looked at Ike. “Ike, would you take Miss Hickman and have her tested?"
Roanna looked at Ben. “General, what happens if I fail the test?"
“You will then be questioned under drug-induced hypnosis."
“And if I fail that?"
Ben's smile held no humor. “Why ... you won't wake up, Miss Hickman."
The reporter shuddered.
* * * *
“VP Lowry's got the hots for you, baby,” Hartline told Sabra. “I showed him the film of you going down on me and it got him all worked up."
They lay on tangled sheets in Hartline's Richmond townhouse. Sabra had not asked what had happened to the occupants of the townhouse. She felt she knew. She fought back a shudder and lit a cigarette. Even after all these years since the world blew up, the cigarettes still tasted like shit. “And what did you tell him?"
“Nothing, yet, baby.” The mercenary's fingers were busy between her legs.
Respond—respond! she told herself. Get into the act and make it good. She closed her eyes and pictured her husband, Ed, making love to her. She felt a warmth begin to spread down her belly. “Do I make brownie points by fucking the VP?"
Hartline laughed. “You're all right, baby, you know that? I never miss with gals. I can peg ‘em right fir
st time, every time. I knew you fucked your way to the top."
I got there by hard work, you son of a bitch! Sabra silently cursed him. “You're very astute, Sam. But you didn't answer my question."
“Sure, you get brownie points, baby. What the hell! You ever seen Lowry's wife? Jesus,” he shuddered. “What a bag. Tell me,” he asked offhand, “what have you heard from little Roanna?"
“Nothing."
Quicker than a strike of a snake, Hartline cupped a breast and brutally squeezed it. Sabra screamed in pain.
“Don't lie to me, baby—I don't really trust you; not yet. But don't ever lie to me."
“I wasn't lying to you!” Sabra gasped the reply.
“Oh, I know it,” Hartline said, shifting into another personality. “That was just a little reminder not to ever lie to me."
He raised up on an elbow and kissed the bruised breast.
Sabra waited for the pain to subside and said, “Have you given any thought to my doing the story on you?"
“Yeah. But I haven't made up my mind yet. And I don't look for little Roanna to come back."
“She'll be back."
“Maybe, and maybe all this is some sort of little tricky game you cooked up inside that pretty head. We'll see about it. Right now, you get me hard. You know how I like it."
Sabra shifted positions without hesitation and took the mercenary orally. Her breast still hurt from the squeezing of Hartline's hard hand. There were too many lives at stake for her to slip now. She was committed. But had she known what Hartline was thinking while she performed fellatio on him, Sabra would have cheerfully bitten his cock off.
* * * *
“How are we receiving these from Levant?” Ben asked, after reading the first secret communiqué from the senior FBI agent.
“Scrambled radio messages on an old military frequency,” Cecil told him. “The man's taking a hell of a chance doing this. Got to admire his courage."
“So Lowry got to all these top senators and representatives through fear."
“And rape,” Ike said. “These others,” he pointed to the second row of names, “are the ones President Addison can trust. The only ones who would vote aye on anything Addison proposed."
“But not enough of them to make any difference,” Ben noted.
“Yeah. Lowry's slick, no doubt about it. But this other message, right down there, interests me more."
The message read:
Lowry might be unstable. Showing signs of slight mental deterioration. Believed the VP about to ask Hartline to set up liaison with NBC chief in Richmond, Sabra Olivier. Has video tape of lady with Hartline; watches it daily. Must warn you if lady is playing games, she is playing in the big leagues, way out of her field. If aforementioned lady is working with you people, ease her out. Hartline is insane, but brilliantly so. If he discovers the game—if any—the lady will die hard.
“You know what this tells me?” Cecil said.
Ben and Ike glanced at the black educator-turned-Rebel.
“The Secret Service is not happy with Lowry either. Levant has some of them on his side, as well."
“Yeah,” Ike slowly nodded his head in agreement. “No other way he could have gotten this without their help. Or at least it would have been very difficult.” He glanced at Ben; but the man appeared deep in thought. “Ben?"
“Maybe we can do this without a lot of bloodshed,” Ben finally spoke. “Maybe we can pull a Banana Republic coup d'etat."
“Assassination?” Cecil asked.
"If the Secret Service has people loyal to Addison who will go along with it."
“Those guys aren't exactly your average hit-type person,” Ike reminded him. “They're a pretty true-blue bunch of men and women. You know what I mean."
Ben grinned at his friend. “Not like us old Hell Hounds and SEALs, eh, Ike?"
Ike returned his grin, the gesture taking years off the Mississippi-born Medal of Honor-winner. “Yeah. They ain't been trained with piano wire and K-Bars. I mean, don't get me wrong; I'm not questioning their courage. They'd die for the people they're protecting—that's one of the risks of the job. But to cold-bloodedly kill ... I don't know, Ben."
“It's worth a shot,” Cecil injected. “If there is a chance we can stop any further mass bloodshed; any way to get this country out from under Cody and Lowry and Hartline ... it's worth it."
“All right, let's see if Levant goes along with it,” Ben said. “All he can do is tell us no; he can't say any more than that without exposing his own position."
“I wish there was some way to help the Olivier girl, Nancy,” Ike said. “Fifteen is a rough age to be initiated into the kinkiness of a noodle like Hartline."
“I prefer not to think about it,” Ben said. “But I must admit, I haven't been successful since Miss Hickman mentioned it. And speaking of Miss Hickman...” Ben cut his eyes.
The reporter was walking along a path with Dawn. Roanna had been in the camp for less than twenty-four hours, had successfully passed her PSE testing, and then, to Ben's surprise, had voluntarily requested the hypnosis testing. She looked a little shaky, with Dawn holding on to her elbow.
“Doctor Harris said she fought the drug,” Cecil said. “Seems she had some ... events in her past she was reluctant to bring under the light of memory, to use his words."
“Oh?” Ben looked at him.
“Nothing to do with us,” Cecil assured him. “Childhood matters—before the big war of ‘88."
“Abuse?” Ike asked.
“Yes—of the worst kind. When the world exploded, her mother was off on a trip to New York. Roanna was seventeen. Seems her father picked that moment to ... ah ... resume his molestation. Roanna killed him with his own .38. Doctor Harris said she broke down under the drugs and wept for a long time. Said he believes she finally got it out of her system—the memories and the guilt associated with the killing. That must be a terrible thing."
“She looks pretty damn tough to me,” Ike said. “And comes across that way, too. But maybe that's just some kind of act."
“Coping,” Ben said. “Defense coloration.” But his eyes were not on the NBC reporter, but on Dawn. He had seen quite a lot of her in the Penthouse spread on her. Now he would like to see more. Much more. Jerre was fading into the vault of memories. Ben was both happy and sad she had found her ex-boyfriend, and viewed his debut as a father with mixed feelings.
For a moment, he was reminded of his last moments with Salina...
* * * *
In the last days of the mopping up in the Tri-States, only a few thousand men and women had made it out of the Tri-States alive. It had taken the government thirty-five days to crush the dream of Ben Raines and his followers.
Now, in a mountainous, heavily wooded area, west and north of the Tri-States capital, Vista, HQ's company of Tri-States’ Rebels prepared to fight their last fight. Most of them had been together for years. The children with the company should have been gone and safe by now, but they'd been cut off and forced to return to the main body. It was now back to alpha, and omega was just around the corner, waiting for most of them.
There was a way out, but it was a long shot.
Ben sat talking with his adopted twins, Jack and Tina.
“Jack, you've got to look after Salina, now. I'm going to split the company and lead a diversion team. I think it's our only way out. I'll be all right, son; don't worry about me. I'm still an ol’ curly wolf with some tricks up my sleeve."
“Then you'll join us later?” Tina asked, tears running down her face.
“Sure. Count on it.” Ben shook Jack's hand and kissed Tina. “Go on, now, join up with Colonel Elliot. I want to talk with your mother."
Salina came to his side, slipping her hand in his. They were both grimy from gunsmoke and dirt and sweat. Ben thought she had never looked more beautiful than during her pregnancy; she had stood like a dusty Valkyrie by his side, firing an M-16 during the heaviest of fighting.
“We didn't have much time
together, did we, Ben?"
“We have a lot of time left us, babe,” Ben replied gently.
She smiled; a sad smile. “Con the kids, General. Don't try to bullshit me."
“I wish we'd had more time,” Ben said ruefully. He kissed her, very gently, very tenderly, without passion or lust. A man kissing a woman good-bye.
Salina grasped at the moment. “Is there any chance at all?"
“Not much of one.” He leveled with her.
She tried a smile, then suddenly began to weep, softly, almost silently. “I love you, Ben Raines,” she said, kissing him. She smiled through the tears. “Even if you are a honky."
“And I love you, Salina.” He fought back his own tears to return her smile. “Now you step ‘n’ fetch yore ass on outta here, baby."
And together they laughed.
Ben helped her to her feet, gazed at her for a moment, then left her, walking away to join the group he was taking on diversion. Abruptly, without any warning, the silent forest erupted into blood and violence. A platoon of paratroopers, quiet and deadly, came at the Rebels; the peaceful woods turned into hand-to-hand combat.
With his old Thompson on full automatic, Ben burned a clip into the paratroopers, bringing down half a dozen. Salina screamed behind him, Ben spun in time to see her impaled on a bayonet. Her mouth opened and closed in silent agony; her hands slowly crawled snakelike down her stomach to clutch at the rifle barrel, to try to pull the hot pain from her stomach. The bayonet had driven through the unborn baby. Salina screamed as she began miscarrying.
“Jesus Christ!” the trooper yelled, as he saw what he had done. He tried to pull the blade from her belly. The blade was stuck. He pulled the trigger—reflex from hard training—and blew the blade free, sending half a dozen slugs into Salina, throwing her backward from the force.
Ben shot the trooper through the head with his .45 pistol, blowing half the man's head off. Salina collapsed to the ground.
Ben was at her side as his Rebels, offering no mercy, took the fight to the troopers. The Rebels took no prisoners.
Salina was fading quickly. She smiled a bloody smile and said, “Sorry ‘bout the baby, honey. But with our luck it would probably have been a koala bear."
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