The old people told him that Grenoble was filled with all sorts of thugs, bandits, and criminals.
“It won’t be for long,” Ben replied.
SIX
Ben studied the city of Grenoble through binoculars. The scene was tranquil—Ben knew it was anything but.
At Chambery Ben had split his battalion, sending one company down Highway 520. At the junction with the main highway leading from Grenoble to Lyon, they would cut south and attack from the west side of the city. Another company would take Highway 524 at Gieres and come in from the south. Ben and two companies, with tanks spearheading, would smash through from the north, taking the old forts of la Bastille and Rabot and securing the bridges across the Isere, which led to the main section of the once-thriving city of some 160,000.
The Rebels had been fortunate in reaching Grenoble, for oftentimes during the winter months, many of the roads were snowed under. But the past two days had been warm, and much of the snow had melted in the valleys, and the roads were in passable shape.
“First we take the airport so we can be resupplied,” Ben said, lowering his binoculars. “Baker Company, that’s your job. Lieutenant Bonelli, we drive straight through and take the high ground.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let’s do it.”
Baker Company slammed into the airport and finished the few punks and thugs there in five minutes of light fighting. Since the punks had no interest in old forts, museums, or universities, Ben and his company drove right up to the banks of the Isere, without having a shot fired at them, and secured all three bridges leading across to the Quai Crequi, Quai Stephane Jay, Quai Brosse, and Quai Jongkind.
“The airport is secure,” Corrie informed Ben.
“This is the dullest campaign I have ever been on,” Cooper bitched. “If it wasn’t for the creeps, we could have rolled across France and had picnics every day.”
Ben stood on the north side of the Isere and looked down the long expanse of Boulevard Gambetta. It was deserted as far as he could see. He turned to Corrie. “Do you know what frequency they’re using to communicate with each other?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Tell them I’ll give them fifteen minutes to lay down their weapons and step out into the streets with hands raised high. Those who refuse to surrender will be hanged.”
One minute later the boulevard was lined with men and women, most of them black and Hispanic. They stood with their hands over their heads.
The same scene was being played out all over the city, as about a thousand gang members chose surrender and a trial rather than certain death fighting the Rebels.
“This is the end of the easy trail,” Ben said. “Those remaining will fight; they’re the hard core. Once we’ve dealt with them, we’ve got Duffy and his people to contend with, plus ambushes from creepies.”
“What do we do with this pack of bums?” Cooper asked, as the thugs and would-be toughs and bully boys and their women were marched across the bridges.
“Find every shovel in this town and put them to work clearing the airport. Let them work for a change. It might be a refreshing sight to witness.”
Those who started bitching about being forced to shovel snow off the runways, clean out the hangars, and sweep out the terminal buildings were taken out of the lines and turned over to representatives of the FRF and led away. That put a quick halt to the complaining. Ben was not a man who paid much attention to legal technicalities.
Rebel teams were roaming the city, taking statements from residents and having the prisoners stand in lineups. Those who were accused of rape and murder were hauled out of the lineups and given polygraph and PSE tests. If any doubts remained after that, they were given drugs to get at the truth—both parties involved. The Rebel system of justice was harsh, but not nearly so unfair as many believed.
When the runways were ready for traffic, transports began bringing in supplies and taking back prisoners. Those wanted in America would be put on ships and taken back for trial there; those wanted in France would be tried on the Continent.
On the second day after the airport was opened, Ike flew in. On the ride back to Ben’s CP, he said, “Paris is ninety percent cleared, Ben. But Duffy and his people have dropped out of sight. Mike’s spooks seem to think they’ve slipped through and crossed the border into Austria and Germany.”
“That’s not all intelligence thinks,” Ben said. Ike was not surprised by the statement, for Ben seemed to be on top of everything all the time. “Mike thinks the creeps hate us so greatly, they deliberately sacrificed themselves in Paris in order to give Duffy time to get clear. And also allow the other creeps scattered throughout France to get away in small groups. That’s just a theory, but one I can buy.”
Ike thought for a moment, then nodded his head. “Yeah. I’ll buy it. What about this kook over in Germany? Any further info on him?”
Ben shook his head. “Not much. Except that he’s going to damn well give us a run for our money.”
They rode in silence for a time, these two men who had been close friends all through the long and bloody years after the Great War. Both had seen their dream of a separate nation flourish, almost die, then rebound with such strength and vigor that nothing could kill it. Both had lost wives and children and friends to the fury of a Democratic party controlled liberal government (spell that socialistic) grown too strong and too dictatorial . . . and so afraid of any voice of opposition they went to extreme lengths to silence any voice that cried out for reason and the return to a common sense form of government.
It had been an uphill battle for Ben Raines and his Rebels from the very start, and for a time it looked as though they could not win. But Ben had never doubted it. His faith had never wavered.
“What are you thinking about, Ben?” Ike asked.
“Long ago and far away,” Ben replied softly. “All the men and women who died getting us to this point.”
“I think about them more and more,” Dee’s reply was equally as soft, his tone filled with memories. “I was thinkin’ about Pal and Valerie the other day. Badger Harbin. Megan and Junebug. Voltan. Belle Riverson. Your son, Jack. And all the others,” his voice trailed off.
Ben smiled, putting a crack in the mood. “We’re getting maudlin in our middle years, Ike.”
“A lot of blood behind us, Ben.”
“And much more ahead of us, friend.”
With French militia now able to take over in Paris and mop up, Ben began shifting his battalions around for the final eastward push through France. What remained were the hard-core gangs who broke from Duffy after his alignment with Bruno Bottger, and pockets of creeps who had spread all over the countryside.
Ben arranged his battalions north to south, starting with Nick’s 21 Batt up north in Holland and ending with his own 1 Batt pushing off from Perpignan in the extreme south of France. On a very cold but clear day, Ben gave the orders.
“Move ’em out, Corrie.”
Eighteen overstrength battalions with heavy armor spearheading moved eastward. When the news reached the cold ears of the punks, many threw down their weapons and made ready to surrender to a clearly overwhelming force. Many more vowed to fight to the death.
They did just that . . . and died.
Ben’s 1 Batt hit some of the fiercest fighting they had seen in weeks in the old capital of Roussillon and the kingdom of Majorca. It was house to house, building to building. France was now very nearly overrun with press types, print and broadcast, and there was no way (short of shooting them) that Ben could keep them out of any combat zone.
“Let them in,” he ordered. “But they’re on their own.” He smiled ruefully at his team. “And since the punks who hold Perpignan are black, get ready for the press to brand us as right-wing racists.”
“Well, goddamn!” Jersey flared. “All they have to do is look around them. The ranks of the Rebels are filled with people of all colors.”
“You’re speaking from a logical point of v
iew, Jersey,” Ben told her. “You can’t use logic when describing the reporting of many members of the press because nearly all of them are liberal. As I have said before, nothing is ever black or white to a liberal; it’s all gray. You have to adopt their type of thinking: One: guns kill people, so all guns are inherently evil. Back when the world was more or less whole, I never, ever, heard any major reporter or anchorperson suggest that it just might be people who kill people. Two: just because a punk breaks into your house and threatens you or your family, that does not give you the right to defend what is yours by the use of deadly force. Three: if you leave the keys in your car and that car is stolen, it’s your fault for leaving the keys in the ignition—not the fault of the thief. The thief, you see, probably came from a broken home and was merely expressing himself by stealing or looting. It really wasn’t his fault, it was society’s fault.” Ben smiled and waited.
Several reporters were standing nearby listening (Ben was well aware of that), and steam was beginning to rise from several of them, and it had nothing to do with the cold weather.
“Goddamnit, General!” one reporter finally blew his safely valve.
“Yes?” Ben said pleasantly, turning to face the man.
“Just maybe, General—” the reporter said, thinking that perhaps he should have kept his mouth shut “—maybe we value all human life far more than you do.”
“You probably do,” Ben said. “But the problem with that is, you people wanted those who felt differently to help pay the bills for halfway houses, drug rehab programs, early release of murderers, rapists, muggers, and others of that ilk, free legal assistance, methadone handouts, welfare under half a hundred different names, and all the other dozens and dozens of giveaway programs using taxpayer money. End of discussion.”
Ben turned his back to the knot of reporters and walked away, his team with him.
“I hate that bastard!” Dick Bogarde, the hot-under-the-collar reporter, said, but not loud enough for Ben to hear him . . . he hoped.
“Easy, Dick,” a friend cautioned.
“Did any of you ever consider that what he says about us just might be true?” another questioned.
“Oh, get off it, Cassie!” Dick shouted, red-faced. “I’m tired of Mr. High-and-Mighty Raines questioning my integrity. I report what I see.”
“Do you really?” she questioned. “Do any of us really report just what we see? I’m beginning to question statements like that. I’ve gone back and researched Ben Raines, back when he was a writer of adventure books and those few articles he did. Those articles touched a nerve in me.”
Perpignan had been taken for the most part, and only the occasional gunshot was heard as the last of the gang members were routed out. The French militia moved in to take over, and the Rebels handed the mop-up over to them and were preparing to pull out for Narbonne the next morning, about sixty kilometers up the coast.
Cassie’s colleagues stared at her. She had been an up and comer in broadcast news before the Great War—a woman who spoke her mind and damn the consequences. Cassie Phillips was not a breathtakingly beautiful woman, but one whose quick smile, intelligence, and wit coupled with a pretty face made her seem more attractive than she was. In addition, as one male reporter said, “Cassie’s got a hell of a bod.”
Cassie said, “Why didn’t we say ‘taxpayer money’ instead of government assistance when money was handed out for this or that program, even when we all knew the majority of people were opposed to the programs?”
“Come on now, Cassie,” Nils Wilson said.
“Come on . . . where, Nils?” she retorted.
None of the reporters noticed that Ben had stopped and was listening to the exchange.
“Back to the old days of slanted reporting?” Cassie didn’t let up.
“I never slanted a story in all my years of reporting!” Dick shouted. “Never.”
Cassie laughed and stood her ground as Ben moved closer, a deuce and a half between Ben and team and the arguing reporters. Well known for having an eye for the ladies, Ben had certainly taken note of Cassie, thinking her a very lovely lady. But he had originally pegged her as just another liberal reporter. Could be, he thought, I was wrong. This just might get interesting. Ben handed his Thompson to Cooper.
Dick pointed a finger at Cassie. “That laugh was derisive, Cassie, and I resent it. If you were a man, I’d whip your ass.”
“Talk about politically incorrect,” Nils said with a laugh, trying to lighten the moment.
“Shut up, Nils!” Dick popped. “And stay out of this.”
“Never slanted a story?” Cassie said. “You have to be kidding, Dick. How about that series you did on L.A. gangs after the riots? That was the worst piece of pandering shit I ever heard. You invented more excuses for that pack of savages than a stray dog has fleas.”
“You damn snooty bitch!” Dick yelled. “What the hell do you know about being poor and of color. You come from old money. You never wanted for anything in your rich, spoiled life. You goddamn dyke.”
Ben arched an eyebrow at that last remark. “I don’t think so,” he muttered.
“If she’s queer,” Beth whispered, “I’m Attila the Hun.”
Cassie laughed at Dick and shook her head. “Dick, as usual, you’re wrong. Can’t you get anything right?”
Dick took two steps and slapped the woman, the openhanded pop knocking her to the ground and stunning those who witnessed the slap.
Ben stepped from behind the truck and flattened the reporter with a hard right fist. “I didn’t like you before the Great War, Bogarde, and I don’t like you now. Now get up, you son of a bitch!”
SEVEN
Dick was a good ten years younger than Ben and felt he was capable of taking care of himself in any situation. After all, he had been on his college wrestling team. Besides, he’d been a member of the most prestigious frat house on campus, and that alone automatically made him far superior to anyone else.
Dick bounced to his feet and took a swing at Ben. Ben slipped the punch and gave the man two hard shots to the belly, a left and right. Dick grunted in pain and stepped back. Ben pressed and popped him on the mouth with a straight right, the blow bringing blood. Dick came in like a windmill, both fists flailing the air. Ben sidestepped and clubbed Dick on the kidney, bringing a cry of pain. Dick put both hands to his aching lower back and Ben started his punch down around his ankles and knocked the shit out of him.
Ben stepped back and waited for Dick to climb out of the churned-up mud. The cameras were rolling, recording it all.
Cassie was sitting on the ground, the left side of her face swelling, and a thin trickle of blood leaking out of one side of her mouth. Dick Bogarde was not a small man, and the blow had hurt.
She looked up just in time to hear Ben’s punch impact against Dick’s mouth and see Dick’s butt hit the mud, his mouth scarlet with fresh blood. “There is justice in the world after all,” she muttered.
Cassie felt hands on her arms and looked up into the faces of Beth and Corrie, pulling her to her feet. Jersey was standing with her M-16 at the ready, in case anyone tried to interfere on the side of Dick, against Ben. One of the men present would later report that just one look at Little Jersey would have been enough to scare away Vlad the Impaler.
“Enough.” Dick pushed the words past loosened teeth and bloody lips.
“It better be,” Ben warned. “For the next time I witness you slapping someone for speaking the truth, I’ll kill you.”
Dick thought plenty but wisely said nothing.
Ben turned to a couple of medics who walked up. He pointed to Dick. “One of you see to that son of a bitch,” he ordered. “The other check out Miss Phillips.”
Ben pulled off his gloves and walked over to where Cassie was standing with Ben’s team. She looked at him; there was a frankness in her gaze that Ben liked.
“A tooth cut the inside of your mouth, miss,” the medic said. He dipped a cotton-tipped swab in a bottle of solut
ion. This will stop the bleeding. You’ll be all right.”
“Thank you,” Cassie told him, then winced as the tip touched the small cut.
The medic looked at Ben. “You all right, sir?”
“I’m fine.”
The medic smiled. “Good fight. I just hope Doctor Chase doesn’t hear of it.”
“Oh, he will,” Ben said.
The medic laughed and walked over to where the other medic was working on a moaning and bleeding Dick.
Ben turned to look at the reporter. Cassie was staring at him through incredibly pale-gray eyes. Ben suddenly realized that while some men might not consider her attractive, he did. Very attractive.
“I would say that you are not the first woman he’s struck,” Ben told her. “However, that’s just a guess on my part.”
“A pretty good guess, General,” Cassie said. “There have been rumors circulating about Dick for years. Even before the Great War.”
“Ben, Miss Phillips. Call me Ben.”
She smiled, and she was lovely. “In that case, I’m Cassie.”
The two gravely shook hands, surrounded by the cold winds of January and hundreds of heavily armed Rebels and thousands of tons of the machinery of war.
Beth and Corrie and Cooper and Jersey looked at each other and smiled as Ben and Cassie stared into each other’s eyes like a couple of junior high students suddenly struck for the first time with love-tipped arrows from Cupid’s quiver.
“Nice to meet you, Cassie,” Ben said.
“Very nice to meet you, Ben,” Cassie said.
“Oh, my God!” The voice of Doctor Lamar Chase came from just behind Ben’s team. “Has that middle-aged lothario been smitten again?”
“Looks that way,” Beth said. “How long have you been here, Doctor?”
“I landed at the airstrip about half an hour ago to inspect the MASH unit attached to 1 Batt. Heard about Ben’s fight a couple of minutes ago. That is a handsome woman. Who is she?”
“Cassie Phillips,” Jersey said.
“The reporter?”
D-Day in the Ashes Page 18