Anarchy in the Ashes ta-3

by William W. Johnstone

  “I’ve never met the man. But I have seen his picture.”

  “He’s …” Mark paused, searching for the correct words. “Ben Raines is impressive. He … exudes power and confidence. And something else, you may as well hear it from me: A lot of people believe Ben Raines sits awfully close to a higher power.”

  Disbelief sprang into her eyes. “And what do you believe, Mark?”

  Mark sighed, many different emotions surging through his mind. “I… don’t know. I don’t want to believe that. But I’ve heard so many stories about him. And I know that many of them are fact. Peggy, the man’s been shot two dozen times; he’s been stabbed,

  blown up, shot off mountains and fallen God knows how far. Name it, and it’s happened to Ben Raines. But he won’t die.” A frightened look replaced the doubtful look in her eyes. She again searched his face. “Mark, are you sure of what you’re saying?”

  “Yes.” His reply came quickly and quietly and surely. “I am positive.”

  “Then I think we should join your Mr. Raines.”

  And the legend of Ben Raines surged forward.

  Mark and Peggy stood by the side of the road and waited for the troops to reach them. When they drew close, Mark stepped into the center of the weed-filled, cracked old road. He held up his hand.

  The convoy stopped and the troops got out to face Mark.

  Some four hundred men and women stood facing him; many would not meet his hard eyes.

  “Here it is,” Mark spoke firmly. “As far as I am concerned, New Africa is no more.” He noticed only a few stirring at his words. “Those pf you who wish to follow me, you’re welcome. Personally, I am linking up with Ben Raines and his people. If he will have me, I will live where he lives, and live under his rules. Do not think that Ben Raines would have behaved as I did a few days ago. If Ben Raines had ordered you to shoot, and you refused, you would not be standing on this highway this day, for Ben Raines would have personally shot you for disobeying an order. I’m not that hard; I should have done that, but I couldn’t. Ben Raines would have done it without blinking, and so will I if it ever occurs again. You will never disgrace my command again-and live to speak of it. Ben Raines is

  hard; that’s why he is a survivor and you people are slinking along the road with your tails tucked between your legs like whipped dogs. And if you’re not afraid to fight, if you think you can obey orders, and if you love freedom and liberty, follow me. I’ll take you to Ben Raines.”

  Juan Solis, his brother, Alvaro, and several hundred followers pulled into Ben’s new command post and base camp six days after their defeat. Juan walked up to Ben and the two men shook hands.

  “These are all I could convince to join me, Ben,” Juan said. “When my troops witnessed that … awfulness, it seemed to take the fight out of many of my men. I told them they were making a mistake.”

  “Don’t they know that eventually General Striganov will move against them?”

  Alvaro shook his head and said, “We tried to tell them, General Raines. Both of us. But they were too numbed by what happened for it to sink in. I am afraid that for many of them, when if finally does sink in, it will be too late.”

  “Mark Terry pulled in yesterday with about five hundred troops,” Ben said. “He told me if I’d have them, they want to join us, not temporarily, but on a full-time basis. New Africa is, according to Mark, no more. He gave quite a speech to his people, so I hear. Said we were wrong-all of us-in living the way we were. You and I have spoken of that, Juan.”

  The Mexican shook his head. “Yes, and to a point I agree with Mark. I am very disappointed in my people, Ben. I can understand what they did-their refusal

  to fire-but I cannot forgive it. I simply cannot. So, Ben Raines, we are here. I will not return to lead a people whose men have lost their cojones. I, and these hundred who follow me, now wish to pledge our loyalties to you, General. You lead; we shall follow and obey.”

  And again, Ben asked the silent question to which he had yet to receive a reply: Why me?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The IPF had not come out of the battle with Raines’s Rebels smelling like the proverbial rose. They had lost more men than all three brigades fighting against them combined. But Striganov could better afford the heavy loss of personnel and equipment, for he had fresh troops coming in from Iceland, and still more behind those in reserve. If he chose to go in that direction.

  But the Russian general who dreamed of a master race did not choose to go that route. He knew, now, the fierceness of President-General Ben Raines. He knew, now, that those who followed Ben Raines would follow him and fight to the death. And he knew, from scouts’ reports, contingents from the Mexican and black brigades had once more linked up with Raines, and those racially inferior people had also pledged to fight to the death alongside Raines’s Rebels.

  Well, Striganov mused, let them fight and let them die. Their struggles would be in vain. The Russian had

  no doubts about that; nothing clouded his mind; nothing within the Russian suggested that his dream of a master race would be unsuccessful. He felt, from studying history, that if Hitler had not committed so many troops to the Russian front, the little paper hanger would have won the war and chased the Allies right back into the English Channel.

  But Striganov was no Hitler. The Russian knew he was not insane, and would make no such costly errors in judgment.

  He gave his orders. “Prepare to move out. We move in two days. Leave only a token force behind to guard our perfect people and the other breeding stock. This time we throw it all at General Raines.”

  They met in Ben’s suite of rooms at a motel in Poplar Bluff. Cecil, Ike, Hector, Juan and Mark.

  “All right, boys,” Ben got the ball rolling. “I’m open for suggestions as to our next move. Let’s toss it around and see what we come up with.”

  “Looks like to me,” Ike said, “we’re damned if we do and damned if we don’t. Any move we make is going to cost us in blood.”

  “Yes,” Mark said. “I agree. If we elect to cut and run, try to set up a stable government anywhere, Striganov will just find us and we’ll still have to fight.”

  “Root hog or die,” Juan mused aloud. “I believe we are in this to the death. I cannot see any other way.” He looked at Cecil.

  Cecil sighed and then nodded his head in agreement. “Even if we could make some sort of peace arrangement with the Russian, none of us would be able

  to live with our conscience, not knowing what was taking place with so many people. I think it would drive me insane knowing Striganov was putting his master race plan into operation, with all the horrors therewith, and we were sitting back safe, allowing it to happen.”

  “I felt physically ill when I first saw that tattoo on Peggy’s arm,” Mark spoke softly. “I believe that hit me harder than seeing the young women and the old people that day on the ridge. It… it drove it all home to me.”

  Ike drummed his finger tips on the meeting table. “What bugs me is that we can’t get an accurate picture of just how many troops Striganov has. If we knew that, then we could make some firm plans.”

  “No way yet of really knowing that,” Ben said. “But I’ll wager he’s got two divisions to back him up-at least.”

  “Felt like he was throwing that at me,” Hector said with a very slight smile. “But I know he wasn’t.”

  Hector had been wounded in the side and in the arm, but his wounds were more painful than serious.

  What was more agonizing to Colonel Ramos was the fact he had taken such awful casualties: Almost seventy-five percent of his troops were either dead or wounded, with many of the wounded not expected to live.

  “They were tryin’ to flank you, Hec,” Ike said. “Come up under us. Their intelligence was bad; they thought you had the smallest force, when in reality, Ben had the smallest troop contingent.” He looked at Ben. “Two divisions, Ben?”

  “Yes. But I don’t believe they are all stateside; I

&nbs
p; think they’re still coming in from Iceland. And there is this to consider: Russian divisions have always been smaller than American divisions. But even with that knowledge, I’d make a guess Striganov has between eighteen and twenty thousand troops. After all, people, Striganov’s had better than a decade to work this out.”

  He expelled his breath and rubbed a hand across his face, as if trying to erase the worry he felt. “I think we’re back to plan one, boys. We just don’t have the people to stand up and slug it out with the Russians.”

  Colonel Gray stepped into the room. “Sorry I am late, gentlemen,” the Englishman said. “But I wanted to debrief the last group of LETTERRP’S that came in. General, they report the Russian is gearing up to throw it all at us the next go-round. And the rumors they heard, plus some actual radio transmissions our intelligence people decoded, clearly state the massive push coming at us very soon.”

  Ben nodded. The news did not surprise him. It was what he would do if he stood in the Russian’s boots.

  Colonel Gray poured himself a cup of coffee, tasted it, grimaced and said, “My word.”

  The men laughed and Cecil said, “Ben, you said back to plan one. What did you mean?”

  “I believe we’re too small a force to stand up and do anymore nose-to-nose slugging it out with the IPF. Add the fact that we’ve taken substantial losses in troops-it wouldn’t take Striganov long to overrun and destroy us. That’s my belief. So … I think we’ve got to go to a guerrilla-type operation: hit and run, and I mean hit hard. Cut and slash and demoralize. If it can be mined, mine it; if it can be blown, blow it up.

  We’ve got snipers who can knock the eye out of a squirrel at three hundred meters-use them as long-distance shooters. Give me your thoughts on those ideas.”

  “I don’t see that we have a choice,” Ike said.

  The rest of the men agreed.

  Ben spoke to Cecil. “Order the heavy howitzers into hiding with the main battle tanks. Send the PU!‘S into hiding. We can’t risk losing any of them and with this type of operation, we’ll have to depend on speed to survive. I want them to come to us this time. This is perfect country for ambushes and throat-cuttings: rolling hills and lots of brush.

  “Gentlemen, start breaking your commands into small, highly movable teams. I want destruction and terror and confusion. Ike, get word back to Tri-States that I want all the Claymores, C-4, mines and dynamite we have in storage sent up here ASAP. Go over the use of high explosives with all your people. Hec, get your people to cleaning up the airport here at Poplar Bluff-we’ll use that strip.

  “Colonel Gray, send fresh teams of scouts and LETTERRP’S back north with all the equipment they can carry. Tell them to start cutting throats. Have them determine which route the IPF will be taking and mine those bridges. We’ve got some good electronics people with us; they can rig those explosives so our LETTERRP’S can lay back two, three miles and blow the bridges, with maximum killing effects and less danger to themselves.

  “I want fresh teams on the way to replace weary teams at all times. I don’t have to tell you men what a strain guerrilla warfare is; you all know a man tires

  mentally and physically very quickly. And I don’t want any heroics.” He looked each man square in the eyes. “I mean that. For a number of reasons. Just being a part of any guerrilla action is heroic enough. And you all know that for an iron-clad fact.

  “We’ve got the edge over the IPF in this type of action, even though we’re heavily outnumbered. Most of our people have been fighting, in one way or another, for years. This is our type of war. But tell your people if they think they can’t cut it-no pun intended,” Ben said with a smile, and the men all laughed in rough soldier humor, “to step forward now. Don’t endanger their buddies’ lives.

  “We will neutralize our zones of operation. If the people are IPF supporters-kill them. We went over this before, but I feel it best to hash it out again. The people will either be one hundred percent for what we are attempting to do, or one hundred percent against us. There will be no middle ground. We don’t have the time or the personnel for a political debate. Anyone could turn our teams in. If you’re Red, you’re dead. That’s the way it has to be, and that’s the way it is going to be from this moment on. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Perfectly, General,” Colonel Gray said. He smiled. “Put quite forcefully, I should say.”

  Ben looked around the table. There were no questions from any man.

  “All right, boys,” Ben said. “I want the first teams equipped and moving north by late this afternoon. That’s it, people, let’s move it and shake it.”

  Cecil held up a hand, signaling that the meeting was not yet over. “Ben, I have to ask the question that is on all our minds.”

  Ben looked at him.

  “Your part in all this guerrilla action will be to oversee the project and direct from this base-is that correct?”

  “Not necessarily.” Ben braced himself, for he knew what was coming. And he was going to have no part of it.

  “Whoa, now, partner.” Ike swung his eyes to Ben. “Like it or not, someone has to run things from this side of the battle line. You know that and you know who that person is.”

  Colonel Gray sat without entering the conversation. He knew very well no one would be able to keep General Raines out of the field. The man had entirely too much old war-horse in him for that. Middle-aged or not.

  Juan looked horrified. “General Raines, you can’t be serious. I mean, you can’t be thinking of leading a team into the field.”

  Even Mark was upset, his face registering that discomposure. “General, your place is here. That you would even consider-was

  Ben silenced them with a look and wave of his hand. “My place, gentlemen, shall be wherever I’m needed and can do the most good. If I feel the need to go into the field, I shall do just that.” He stood up. “And that settles the matter. Do we have any further questions concerning this operation?”

  There were questions by the score on each man’s tongue, but they checked any vocal arguments. They all knew better than to cross Ben when his mind was made up.

  “Tina is well-trained in this business of guerrilla warfare,” Colonel Gray asked the question without it being put as such. “I know, I helped train her.”

  “Then by all means, use her,” Ben said, no expression on his face. “No one among us is indispensable.”

  Only one man, the thought jumped into the brain of the men who sat looking up at Ben Raines.

  But no one spoke the name aloud.

  “Move out, gentlemen,” Ben said softly. “And good luck to you all.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I have passed the Rubicon; swim or sink, live or die, survive or perish with my country-that is my unalterable determination.

  -John Adams

  “It ain’t our fight,” the burly man told the young captain from Raines’s Rebels.

  “Mister-was the captain stood his ground, the ground in this case being just below the Great Smoky Mountains National Park in north Georgia-“if you think it isn’t your fight, if you think the IPF won’t be in here after you and your family, you’d better think again.”

  The man spat tobacco juice on the ground. “When or if this Russian and his troops get here, we’ll fight. But not before.”

  “By then it may well be too late,” he was told.

  “Mayhaps you be right in that,” the man replied in the peculiar mountain dialect that many families still used after centuries. “But me and mine been gettin’ by

  in these mountains for more years than there was a nation, sonny boy. The Russians come in here and they’ll find us to be not so hospitable as we is to you and your soldiers … sonny boy.”

  The young captain met the mountain man’s stony gaze with a look just as unflinching and unyielding. “Mister, you call me sonny boy one more time, and you’re going to be eating on the butt of this AK-47. And after I butt-stroke you, I am going to stomp your fucking guts clear o
ut.”

  “He looks and acts like he might just be able to do it, Abe,” a man called from the porch.

  Good-humored laughter broke from the knot of men gathered around the troops.

  Humor touched the burly mountain man’s eyes. “I do believe you’d try your best to whup me, wouldn’t you…Captain?”

  A grin touched the corners of Capt. Roger Rayle’s mouth. “Yes, sir, I sure would.”

  The mountain man laughed and shook his shaggy head. “All right, Captain. Come on up to the porch. Folks been a-bringin’ in food all morning. We eat and talk about this thing. We don’t get much outside news “round here. Be nice to find out what’s happenin” in the world and with these Russians!”

  Abe stopped dead in his tracks and slowly turned around when Captain Rayle said, “A resurgence of Nazism, sir.”

  Abe stared at him for a long moment. He blinked. “Resurgence. Good word. I believe that means-and you tell me if I’m wrong-these Russian people, the IPF, they doing the same thing that Hitler feller done back in the thirties and forties to the Jews.

  Am I right?”

  “Yes, sir. You are exactly right. And they must be stopped.”

  By now the crowd around the stone and wood house had grown to more than a hundred men and women. They stood silently.

  Abe said, “My daddy was a paratrooper in that war. He helped liberate a concentration camp. Don’t rightly recall just where it was. He told me he had seen some ugly sights in his life, during the war. Hadn’t never seen nothing to compare with that. Said them people was the poorest lookin’ bunch he’d ever seen. Made him sick, so he said. Couldn’t keep nothing on his stomach for a week or better.

  “Now, as for me, I don’t know many Jew folks. Them I have known, I didn’t much care for. Too pushy for my tastes. But my personal opinions don’t matter much when it comes to another man doing a deliberate hurt to a human being “cause of race or religion. I just don’t hold with that. What is this IPF bunch doin” to folks?”