During a rest break, Paula found Ben and sat down on the ground across from him. “I’ve just spoken with some of the reporters. They think you’re deliberately stalling to keep them out of the country.”
Ben screwed the cap back on his canteen. “I don’t give a damn what they think, Paula. I did what I did for their own safety. If they haven’t got enough sense to understand that, to hell with them.”
“You really hate the press, don’t you, Ben?”
“I don’t have much use for a lot of them. But hate? . . . No, I don’t hate them. What I hate is to see the press going right back to being what they were before the Great War. Those outside the SUSA, that is,” he added with a smile.
“What do you mean?”
“They were biased then, they’re biased now. It was the press I believe, who, back before the Great War, coined the phrase ‘hate groups’ to describe many, if not all, of the militia groups that sprang up across the country. I knew many people who belonged to various militia groups, and very few of them hated the government. They disliked the direction the government was taking, which was to the left. They were opposed to the government wasting billions of taxpayer dollars each year. They knew that many departments and agencies of the government were not necessary. They disliked the big bloated bureaucracy the federal government had become. They disliked the fact that government was snooping around in the private lives of its citizens. If one got his or her news solely from the national press, the average citizen would think every member of a militia group, or a tax protest group, or any kind of group who had the courage to speak out against government was evil. The evening news and the broadcast news magazines—so-called—became a joke to millions of Americans . . . and I include myself in that group. There was no fairness, no balance, no presenting of both sides of every story. Now to be honest about it, some of the militia and other protest groups were filled to overflowing with nuts and cranks. But not the majority. The majority were decent, honest, working, tax-paying men and women who felt they had no voice in the running of government . . . which they didn’t.”
“There was always the ballot box, Ben.”
“It wasn’t working. In the last national election before the Great War and the following revolt by citizens, only about forty-eight percent of eligible voters bothered to vote. That’s how bad it had become in America. Many people just gave up, believing, correctly to some degree, that their vote didn’t count and didn’t matter in the long run. They believed, again correctly to some degree, that big government was going to do what big government wanted to do, and to hell with the millions of Americans who were opposed to it. Revolution was inevitable, Paula. If the politicians had not been so far out of touch with the average citizen, they could have seen it coming. Should have seen it coming.”
“But the war came instead.”
“It sure did. And right on its heels, open rebellion by Americans who simply refused to go back to the old ways.”
“America never really recovered, did it, Ben?” she asked softly.
“It recovered just fine for us, Paula.”
“A few weeks ago, you said you felt that sometime in the very near future, or words to that effect, that the EUSA and the NUSA would soon become as one. Do you really believe that?”
“Oh, yes. I know that talks were underway even before we sailed. I’m not supposed to know that, but as you have stated, very little escapes my attention.” He smiled. “And we have a very good intelligence network.”
“I’m sure you do. And will the SUSA ever agree to return to the Union?”
“Doubtful. The eastern and northern sections of the country are going right back to the old ways just as fast as the liberals an steer them. And that is something we will never do.”
“What if, once America is reunited, the leaders try to force the SUSA to rejoin the Union?”
“They won’t. The politicians might bluster around and poke out their chests and talk tough, but that’s all it will be. They know better than to attempt to use force against us.”
“Why? Nearly your entire army is over here.”
“Paula, I won’t hesitate to use germ warfare against any enemy of the SUSA. And I have the stockpiles and the delivery systems ready to go.”
“You wouldn’t do that!”
“The hell I wouldn’t, lady. Those of us who conceived and followed this dream worked too damn hard and sacrificed too damn much to see it destroyed. That will not happen. Do you know what MAD means?”
“I can but assume you are talking about the old cold-war term meaning Mutually Assured Destruction?”
“That’s right, Paula. And you be sure and remind your asshole press buddies about it. I say remind, because they already know. If the United States ever does become united again, and I suspect they will, probably sooner than I think, and tries to move against us, I will defend the SUSA down to the last missile, the last canister of airborne sickness and death, and the last drop of Rebel blood. I will destroy any country who elects to wage war against us.”
Paula visibly paled under her tan. “I have never heard such a deadly warning behind any person’s words.”
“You’ve got that right. And I mean every word of it.”
She stared at him for a few heartbeats. “You say the press knows of this?”
“Sure. But they think I’m bluffing.”
“And you don’t bluff, do you, Ben?”
“Not when it comes to the SUSA.”
“But Ben, the people who live outside the SUSA won’t be the ones who make war against you . . . if war ever comes,” she added.
And Ben knew with those words, his lingering suspicions about how much Paula really knew had been confirmed. On the same day they’d met, while she was being checked over by Rebel doctors, Ben’s intelligence people had slipped into the basement at the consulate office. They had found extensive shortwave equipment, a huge portable generator, and fuel to last for years. They had found medicines and emergency food . . . among other things.
The next day, the consulate offices had been gutted by a fire, everything destroyed. Again, Ben’s people had gone there while Paula was out. The fire had been set by someone. No doubt in Ben’s mind who had set the fire: Ms. Paula Preston.
What Ben didn’t know was who she was really working for. He did not believe she was working for Bruno Bottger, for his people back in the States had checked her out and she was indeed an employee and official of the State Department, and she had indeed been stranded over here shortly after the Great War . . . or somebody fitting her description had. There was no way to really check that, for her fingerprints had been on file in Washington and that city no longer existed. Her family—mother and father—had lived just outside Washington; they had been killed when the nation’s capital went up.
Ben and his intelligence people felt she had been in contact with the state department all along, and that probably some of the so-called “refugees” were also state department employees. If that was true, and he felt it was, what was her game? What the hell was she up to?
“They support the administration of their respective governments, Paula,” Ben finally answered her. “And they have rejected the Tri-States philosophy of government. Which is certainly their right,” he added.
“Which means? . . .”
“They would probably support a war against the SUSA. Most of the people, that is.”
“I hope a civil war never happens, Ben.”
“You better do more than hope, Paula. You’d better pray it doesn’t.”
THIRTEEN
Mike Richards, head of the Rebel Intelligence, had at first balked at going to Africa, but in the end he relented and had been with Ike’s 2 Batt. He joined the column at the border and immediately pulled Ben to one side.
“Paula Preston is a ringer,” he said flatly.
“Yeah, Mike. I finally put that together the other day. I’ve had my suspicions since day one. Who does she work for?”
�
��State Department. Been with them since she got out of college.”
“Something about to pop back Stateside, Mike?”
“Not anytime soon. But there are rumors of some sort of action being planned against the SUSA.”
Ben was silent for a moment. “Mike, am I so hated my enemies back home would align themselves with Bruno Bottger in an attempt to defeat or kill me?”
That startled even Mike Richards, something that was not easy to do. “Jesus, Ben . . . I haven’t even considered that.”
“Well, consider it, Mike. Tell your people back home to start digging.”
“All right, Ben. I’ll get right on it. But what a monstrous thought.”
“Not so much, Mike. Left-wing liberalism is a form of socialism. Socialism is a first cousin to fascism. It really isn’t that far a jump between the two.”
Mike smiled and took the makin’s Ben offered. He rolled a cigarette and lit up, then said, “There are many people who would argue that connection, Ben.”
Ben shrugged. “Both of them are a form of people being dependent on the government and the government being all powerful in the lives of its citizens. People can argue that all they want to, but it’s true.”
Mike wandered off to the communications truck and Dr. Chase walked up.
“I just spoke with a doctor in Bissau via shortwave, Ben. Things are not that bad there. They’re desperately short of supplies, but morale is high and they’ve maintained a fairly decent standard of life, considering the circumstances.”
“Why do some people just give up and others fight for life, Lamar?”
“Ben, don’t get philosophical on me while we’re standing by the side of this miserable road sweating and slapping flies and mosquitoes. Hell, I don’t know.” Lamar squinted his eyes and stared at Ben. “What’s really on your mind, Ben?”
“You like Paula Preston, don’t you, Lamar?”
“Well . . . she’s all right. We get along. But I don’t believe she’s the shrinking violet she would like people to think. Why she insists upon maintaining that charade, I don’t know. Why are you asking about her?”
“She’s a ringer, Lamar.”
“Explain that, please. I’m a physician, not a cryptologist.”
“She’s told so many lies since she joined us I’m surprised she hasn’t tripped over one.”
“You know this for a fact?”
“Oh, yes, Lamar. For a fact. Mike just had her checked out back Stateside . . .”
“I thought I saw him skulking about.”
“Yeah, he’s here.”
“Tell me about Ms. Preston.”
Ben brought him up to date as they walked, being careful to stay on the road, for it was marsh and swamp on both sides. Since the ferry across the Rio Cacheu over to Cacheu had not run in years, the longer route was the only option left. The column would have to travel the road east to Ingore, then down to Sao Vicente, finally into Bissau.
“You actually think there will be a war waged against us, Ben?”
“I thought we were talking about Paula Preston?”
“Oh, to hell with her. We can feed her false information and have her and whoever the hell she’s working for so confused they won’t know up from down.”
Ben laughed at his old friend. “You’re getting feisty in your advanced years, Lamar.”
“Damn right, I am. Are we going to have to fight on American soil, again, Ben?”
Before Ben could reply, Corrie came running up. She paused for a moment to catch her breath, then said, “Boss, I just got this flash from Base Camp One. The EUSA and NUSA have rejoined . . .”
“That answer your question, Lamar?” Ben said, a grim expression on his face.
“. . . It’s now the United States of America, boss,” Corrie continued. “And they are working on the WUSA as we speak. They’re leaning toward reuniting.”
“Son of a bitch!” Lamar cussed.
“I suspected it was coming,” Ben said in a calm voice. “I just had a hunch it was.”
Mike Richards came panting up. “Goddamnit!” he cussed. “I just heard. Is it true?”
“It’s true, Mike. Calm down. Take a deep breath. It will take them months or a couple of years, or more, to work out the political angles. Hell, you get a bunch of loud-mouthed politicians—especially a gaggle of liberals—together and all they’ll be able to agree on is to disagree. They’ll be enough hot air expelled to heat a major city for a year.”
Lamar laughed and Mike grinned. “You’re probably right, Ben,” Mike said. “I lost my cool there for a moment.”
“Cecil knows what to do,” Ben assured them both. “Believe me, he does, and he will. Right now, let’s get this show on the road and get to Bissau. I want to get a link set up with Base Camp One. Cecil and I have a lot to talk over.”
“Not to worry, Ben,” Cecil’s voice was strong over the thousands of miles that separated the two good friends. “They know better than to make a move against the SUSA.”
“They do right now, Cec. Down the road is another matter. How about our friends in the NUSA and the others?”
“We have no politico friends in the newly reunited USA, Ben. They’ve all been replaced; some of them forcibly.”
“That doesn’t surprise me one little bit. Have any of them asked for asylum in the SUSA?”
“Quite a few, and I granted it.”
“Good. What about any type of armed forces?”
“They have no navy or air force. But they are building an army as quickly as they can. And with their economic situation as bleak as it is, they’re having no problem getting recruits.”
“I can just imagine. And many of those men will have combat experience and make damn good soldiers. And thousands of them will have a very strong hatred for us.”
“That’s true, Ben. But it will take them months to put any type of army together. They’re having to start from scratch. They have few weapons and are having to build the factories to manufacture the weapons from the ground up. They have no missiles—none, zip. They have no bombs of any kind and no delivery system if they build bombs.”
“Two years, Cec. That’s how I figure it. But two years max before they’ll be capable of launching any type of effective attack against the SUSA.”
“I agree, Ben. But there is something else we’ve got to think about.”
“Bruno Bottger,” Ben said quickly.
“Right. You can bet he’s already heard the news and has his political people working around the clock trying to come up with some plan to offer the USA aid.”
“If this entire scheme wasn’t hatched in his sick brain to begin with.”
“There is that to consider.”
“I have and I think the Nazi son of a bitch is behind it all, Cec.”
Cecil had the key open when he sighed, the sigh very audible over the distance. “I think you just might be right, Ben. Needless to say, our intelligence people are very red-faced about this matter.”
“Tell them to stop kicking themselves. This caught all of us off guard. Good God, Cec, we’ve got the best intel system in the world. They’ve done a superb job over the years. They can’t be expected to nail down everything. All right, ol’ buddy, here it is: I want infiltrators moving ASAP . . .”
“I’ve got them ready to go, Ben. At the very first sign of aggression, they’ll start knocking out vital facilities in enemy territory.”
“Good, good.”
“I’ve placed the SUSA on low alert and beefed up our border crossings. We’re monitoring every transmission. We’re stockpiling supplies.”
Ben laughed and let Cecil hear the laughter. “Hell, Cec, I’ll stop worrying then. You’ve got a handle on it.”
“Ben, I’ve just been notified that the new President of the USA wants to talk to me. I’ll break off and get back to you just as soon as I find out what’s up.”
“Ten-four, Cec. I’ll stay close to the radio. Good luck.”
“Watch your ass over
there, Ben.”
“You can bet on that. Talk to you soon. Eagle out.”
Ben stood up and walked around the room for a moment, deep in thought. He stopped and turned to the crowd who had gathered to hear what Cecil Jefferys had to say. “Corrie, advise the batt coms of the situation. But tell them I don’t want to even think about a meeting just yet. There really is no point. We simply don’t know enough to warrant that. Cecil’s got everything under control back home. We’ve got a job to do over here, so let’s concentrate on that for the time being.”
He put his gaze on Dr. Chase, sitting on the corner of a deck in the old office building on the edge of the airport. “Lamar, give me your first estimates of the health situation of the people here.”
“Pretty good, Ben, all things considering. We’re getting supplies in from Europe in a couple of days: enough vaccines to last us for a long time. Those countries have really come through for us.”
“Good, Lamar, good.” He looked at each of the company commanders. “Any trouble in town?”
“Not a bit,” one told him. “General, the press is due to arrive this afternoon. What the hell are we supposed to do with them?”
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”
“The ships have docked, waiting to be unloaded,” another CO said. “You want us to see to that?”
“Hell, no!” Ben said emphatically. “That isn’t our job. I didn’t invite these people over here. Let them take care of their own mess.”
Lamar turned his face away so Ben could not see his grin. Ben was determined to get off on the wrong foot with the press. Lamar was always amused at that, for Ben had a marvelous relationship with the press back in the SUSA, occasionally writing columns for them when he was home. There were several reporters traveling with the Rebels, constantly moving from one battalion to another, and they wrote and sent dispatches back home. But the difference between the national press and the press from the SUSA—at least one of the differences—was that the local people never had to have their columns censored. The local press knew there were always going to be accidental killings of innocent civilians—that was war—and they didn’t dwell on it and blow it all out of proportion, pissing and moaning with every sentence. Not so with the press outside of the SUSA, and Lamar often wondered when that changed. His father had told him that the press was respected and trusted—for the most part—during World War Two. So when did it change and why?
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