Escape from the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  “No, that’s too dangerous. Besides, even if you do get in, how would you get out? That’s a long walk back.”

  “You said they were going to go in with a helicopter tomorrow, didn’t you? I’ll come back with them.”

  “No,” Kingsley said. “It’s too dangerous. I can’t let you do this.”

  “Paul, please,” Carrie said. “If you don’t take me, I’ll find someone who will.”

  Kingsley sighed in frustration. “What do you think you could do, even if you were there?”

  “If they are still alive, I could keep them alive for at least one more day,” she said. “What if they are too badly injured to get water? I could give them food, water, first aid, and keep them warm.”

  Kingsley ran his hand through his hair, then looked at his watch. “I don’t have a plane available; they are all being used.”

  “What about my brothers’ old plane?”

  “Old plane? What? Do you mean the Stinson Reliant?”

  “Yes.”

  “Carrie, that plane is eighty years old! It’s an antique! The only time they ever fly it is for classic air shows.”

  “Yes,” Carrie replied. “But they do fly it. Which means it is flyable.”

  “I don’t know, it has no GPS, it would be pretty risky to—”

  “We can install one.”

  “Merrill’s not here. He does all the maintenance work.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Paul, what is there to installing a Global Position indicator? I can do that.”

  “You can?”

  “Yes.”

  Kingsley ran his hand through his hair and sighed. “If your brothers are still alive, they will kill me for flying that airplane.”

  “I’ll protect you,” Carrie promised with a smile.

  “All right, all right. Get the GPS installed. I’ll take you out there. How long will it take you to get ready?”

  Carrie smiled. “I’ve got my parachute, jumpsuit, and survival kit in the Jeep,” she said.

  SEVENTEEN

  Richmond

  The official seal of the Federal Prevention and Protective Service, the FPPS, was similar to the old FBI seal. Highly paid psychological consultants had suggested that the FPPS seal, like the seal of all the other newly created institutions, give the illusion of continuity with the government everyone had grown up with.

  The FPPS seal wasn’t the only one that resembled the original seal. There was a very strong similarity in nearly every official seal and emblem, because the United States liked to make the claim that it was the same nation it had always been: the nation of George Washington and Thomas Jefferson, the nation saved by Abraham Lincoln, and the nation that saved the world during World War II.

  That was the illusion they tried to project, but in reality, the government Ben Raines and his followers had established was much more of a linear descendant of the old USA than was the new.

  The Rebels, as the liberal U.S. press referred to citizens of the SUSA, had built their new nation upon the Constitution, following the original interpretations of that document.

  Theirs was a commonsense approach to government, something that wasn’t understood by the liberal press. Even before the breakup of the old United States, the liberal press, mostly located in the Northeast, had played its role in undermining the freedoms of the people. They led the charge as a corrupt national government abandoned the Constitution, or worse, so corrupted the interpretation of the Constitution that personal freedoms were being stripped away, right and left.

  Now, the new United States, whose government was openly and unabashedly liberal/socialist, gave lip service only to America’s rich heritage. And under the guise of national resurgence, power was taken from the people and put in the hands of the few, including President for Life Claire Osterman and those henchmen who had allied themselves with her in order to stake out their own claim to power.

  When Derek Owen and Carl Roberts returned to Richmond from their brief mission to Base Camp One, they brought back word that Buddy Raines was dead. Now, Derek Owen, Carl Roberts, and President Osterman were meeting in a conference room of the FPPS to plan their next move. Owen had just suggested that President Claire Osterman authorize him to insert special agents into the SUSA, with orders to bring about as much disorder as they could.

  “How many operatives could we turn loose in the SUSA?” Claire asked.

  “I have one hundred highly trained, well-armed, and totally motivated men ready to go right now,” Owen answered.

  “You are talking about your Shock Squads?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have only one hundred men?”

  “One hundred is all we will need.”

  Claire Osterman drummed her perfectly manicured and bloodred fingernails on the conference table.

  “I don’t know about that,” she said. “The SUSA has defeated our armies in the past. What makes you think one hundred men can get the job done now?”

  “In the past, the SUSA was led by Ben Raines. He’s not there now. Neither he nor his son.”

  “We know that Ben Raines’s airplane is missing, but we don’t know that he is dead,” Claire said.

  “He’s dead. Or if he is not yet dead, he soon will be. I can promise you that.”

  “How do you know that?” Claire asked. “How can you make such a promise?”

  “Madame President, you remember, I told you that I would look into who bombed the Ben Raines Middle School and robbed the bank?”

  “Yes.”

  “That was done by an organization called Die Kontrollgruppe. Have you ever heard of it?”

  “No, I don’t think I have. What are they? Are they like one of those militia units that used to exist in the U.S. prior to the Great War, built around some societal goal?”

  “No. Die Kontrollgruppe makes no claim to improving society. In fact, there are within Die Kontrollgruppe men and women who are extreme right-wing and extreme left-wing sympathizers. But they have managed to put all that aside. What Die Kontrollgruppe really stands for, and what unites its diverse members, is money. Greed . . . individually and corporately.”

  “How do you know so much about this organization?” Claire asked.

  Owen smiled. “Because I am the Gruppe Kommandant.”

  “The what?”

  “The Group Commander,” Owen said. “I am the head of Die Kontrollgruppe. I am the founder of Die Kontrollgruppe. The entire organization was my creation. I named them, put them into being, and pay them. I even designed their uniforms and emblems. Funny how something like a snappy uniform and an impressive emblem can inculcate loyalty and a sense of belonging in someone who, otherwise, has no core.”

  “I see,” Claire said in a clipped voice. “You are aware, are you not, of the law that prohibits any member of the government from being involved with a group such as the one you have just described?”

  “I am well aware of that law, Madame President,” Owen replied. “As head of the FPPS, I have found it necessary to enforce that law, as I’m sure you know.”

  “Yet you have not only become involved with such an organization, you started it. And on top of that, you are now boasting of it.”

  “Die Kontrollgruppe has no domestic operations,” Owen said. “Not one member of Die Kontrollgruppe resides in the U.S.”

  “That doesn’t matter. You are involved with it. I don’t care if it—”

  “It has no domestic operation, in accordance with our agreement,” Owen continued, interrupting Claire’s outburst. “Yours and mine.”

  “Wait a minute. What do you mean, our agreement?” Claire asked.

  “I will refresh your memory,” Owen said. He opened a folder and took out a letter. “Madame President, I have here your authorization to create Die Kontrollgruppe. Here is a letter, drawn up by me, and signed by you, ordering me to create a secret organization that could be used to funnel money into a private bank account.”

  Claire looked at the letter. “I signed
this?” she asked.

  “You did.”

  “I don’t remember it.”

  “Well, I’m certainly not surprised that you don’t remember it,” Owen replied breezily. “What with the pressing duties of state that you have to attend to, it is a wonder you can remember anything.”

  “You said something about a private bank account?”

  “Yes,” Owen said. He shoved another paper across the table. “I have made distribution of the funds, also according to your directive, in the following way.”

  Claire looked at the paper for a moment; then her eyes widened. She put her finger on one of the columns. “Oh, my!” she said. “Is this correct?”

  “Yes, Madame President. Thus far, the sum of three million dollars has been deposited into your personal account.”

  “That’s . . . very . . . nice,” Claire said.

  “I’m glad you are pleased, but I must tell you that Die Kontrollgruppe was founded for a much more noble cause than money.”

  “And that would be?”

  “To give us an arm of military and economic effectiveness, beyond our borders, and beyond governmental restraints. It will be the means by which we cause the collapse of the Tri-States government and bring the SUSA back under our control.”

  Claire nodded. “Yes, yes, I remember now.”

  “I was sure you would once I refreshed your memory,” Owen said with a broad smile.

  Claire couldn’t possibly remember such a conversation because it never happened. Die Kontrollgruppe had been Owen’s idea from the beginning, and neither Claire nor anyone else in government knew of his involvement with it. He had faked the letter of authorization, and her signature. And though he had done it partly for money, he had done it primarily as an extension of his own power.

  He was making his position known now, as a means of getting government support for step two of his plan. Step two would be the defeat and takeover of the SUSA. Step three would be the delivery of the SUSA to the USA, and step four would be taking over the reins of government in the USA and seizing all power for himself. At this point, nobody, not even Carl Roberts, his second in command, knew his entire plan.

  “Yes, well, I believe you said a moment ago that Ben Raines is dead, or soon would be. Did Die Kontrollgruppe have anything to do with that?”

  “It had everything to do with it,” Owen said. “Die Kontrollgruppe is the reason Ben Raines’s plane went down over Canada’s northwest woods. We shot him down.”

  Claire examined her bank statement again. “Who else is getting money from this organization?” she asked.

  “Just you and the actual members.”

  “Nobody else in my government knows about it?”

  “Nobody.”

  “Let’s keep it that way, shall we?”

  “Whatever you say, Madame President. You are in charge,” Owen said. He thought, but didn’t add, for now.

  EIGHTEEN

  Port Hardy Airport

  Paul Kingsley taxied the antique plane to the far end of the active runway at Port Hardy Airport. Although the Stinson Reliant had been a mainstay of Canada and Alaska bush flying in the thirties and forties, no one had seen such an airplane in anything but an air show for many years. A few, hearing and recognizing the distinctive sound of the engine, stepped outside to watch the high-wing, gull-wing monoplane as it took off. It climbed out of Port Hardy Airport, departing the sector on a northeasterly course as it headed out on its mission.

  When Kingsley reached cruising altitude, he trimmed the plane out, set the RPM, leaned the fuel mixture, then studied the instrument panel. All needles were in the green, quivering well within the optimum ranges. The airplane rode solidly, holding the altitude and direction with little input from Kingsley.

  It was obvious that the brothers were proud of the old Reliant, because the leather upholstery was well kept, soft, supple, and gleaming. The panel was showroom-clean, as was the rest of the airplane. Kingsley put his hand on the burled wood-grain panel and rubbed it.

  “This is a beautiful airplane,” he said. “Your brothers have done a marvelous job in restoring it and keeping it up. It’s handling as well as just about any plane I’ve ever flown.”

  “It was more Ed than Gerald,” Carrie explained. “Ed loved this old plane. Gerald had Peggy and Jerry, but this plane was Ed’s family.”

  Carrie gasped.

  “What is it?”

  “I said he loved this plane,” Carrie said. “Loved, not loves. I used the past tense.”

  Kingsley didn’t answer.

  “They are dead, aren’t they?” Carrie asked.

  “I don’t know,” Kingsley said. “If I had to make an educated guess, though, I would say yes, they are dead.”

  “I haven’t wanted to admit it to myself, but that would be my guess as well,” Carrie said.

  Kingsley looked across at her. “Carrie, you don’t have to go through with this.”

  “Yes. Yes, I do. I have to give them every chance, Paul. Don’t you understand that? I have to give them every chance. I owe it to them, and I owe it to Gerald’s wife and child.”

  “I know,” Kingsley answered.

  They were silent for several more minutes before Kingsley spoke again.

  “If you get in there and discover that both are dead, will you be all right with it?”

  “Do you mean, am I going to go to pieces?”

  “Yes.”

  Carrie reached across the space between the seats and put her hand toward Kingsley, letting it rest lightly on his arm.

  “I told you, Paul, I’ve already resigned myself to the fact that they are probably dead,” she said.

  “You are a brave woman,” Kingsley said.

  “Not so brave. Determined maybe, but not so brave.”

  “We’re coming up on the lake.”

  Kingsley throttled back, then did a long, slow circle around the lake as he and Carrie searched the area.

  “Did they say where it was?” Carrie asked.

  “They said it was on a ledge, just by—”

  “There it is!” Carrie interrupted, pointing.

  “Where? I don’t see anything.”

  “There,” Carrie said. “In the rocks, alongside the river.”

  “Oh, yes, I see it now,” Kingsley said. “Damn, it’s really close to the edge, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, my, the front, it is . . .” Carrie began, then stopped in midsentence. “That . . . that would lessen the likelihood of survival, I think.”

  “Yes,” Kingsley replied quietly. He had already known this, but had thought it better not to tell Carrie until she discovered it for herself.

  Carrie unsnapped her seat belt, then began checking her parachute harness.

  “What are you doing?” Kingsley asked.

  “Get me a little altitude,” Carrie said.

  “Carrie, are you sure you want to do this?” Kingsley asked. “You don’t have to go through with it now. I mean, you can see what it looks like down there. There is little to absolutely no chance anyone survived that.”

  “I know that.”

  “You know that, but you are still going to go down there?”

  “Yes, I have to do it,” Carrie insisted as she repositioned herself in her seat, turning toward the door. “Where’s the wind?”

  “It’s out of the southwest.”

  “All right, I’ll exit about half a mile southwest of the site,” she said. “That should take me right up to it.”

  “Carrie, I’m asking you to reconsider one last time.”

  “I’ve come too far for that,” Carrie answered. “You just get me in position for the jump.”

  Kingsley sighed in defeat. “All right. I’ll hang us on the edge of a stall. That’ll give you an easier exit,” he said as he throttle back and pulled the nose up. The airspeed dropped to about sixty miles per hour.

  “Okay,” she said. “If I’m going to do this, now’s the time!” Carrie opened the door, turned around, and pr
esented her backside to the open air. She looked at Kingsley for a moment, then nodded. “Bye,” she called.

  “Good luck!” Kingsley replied.

  Carrie pushed herself away.

  Raines City, Capital District

  The ceremony was being held on the lawn of the headquarters building, the same lawn that also provided a place for the croquet court. A platform had been built in the middle of the lawn. The city high school band was playing a repertoire of spirited marches as the population of the city filed in and took their seats for the ceremony.

  Mike Post, Harley Reno, Anna, Coop, Jersey, and Chief of Police Rick Adams were on the stage, sitting beneath a banner that read:

  Welcome to Raines City, Capital District.

  There had been some discussion before the ceremony began as to whether or not Mike would tell the citizens that Ben was missing. There was some concern as to the effect his missing would have on overall morale, especially so soon after news of Buddy’s murder.

  They finally decided that because the rumor was now making the rounds, Mike should mention it, giving it the best possible spin.

  After a few more high-spirited numbers from the band, Mike got up to address the crowd.

  “My fellow citizens,” he began. “Welcome to Raines City, C.D.!”

  The crowd roared their approval, applauding and standing, continuing the demonstration for several moments before Mike raised his hands to quiet them.

  “It is fitting that we should name our capital city in honor of the man who did more than any other to bring this new nation into being.”

  More applause.

  “Many of you have heard the rumor that General Ben Raines’s plane has been reported missing in the wilds of Northwest Canada. I am here to tell you that the rumor is true.”

  “No!” someone shouted from the crowd, and there were other demonstrations of shock and horror. Once again, Mike quieted the crowd with his raised hands.

  “But he has not been reported dead, and those of us who know Ben Raines, who really know him, know that, at this point, any such report would be greatly exaggerated.”