Warriors from the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  “As it turned out, hate was not nearly a strong enough word. Ben and his Rebels first went to the Northwest and settled what would be forever known as the Tri-States, with the Tri-States form of government. The philosophy was based on personal responsibility and common sense. It soon became a hated form of government for those living outside the Tri-States, for liberals and other left-wingers don’t want to be responsible for anything they do and they don’t appear to possess any common sense.

  “‘Of course, that isn’t entirely true,’ Ben once said in one of his rarely granted interviews with the press. ‘But that’s the way it seems to those of us who believe that government should stay out of the lives of its citizens as much as possible.’

  “In the Tri-States, if you got careless and stuck yourself in the face with the business end of a screwdriver, you didn’t sue the manufacturer of the screwdriver for damages . . . you learned to be more careful in handling tools.

  “Common sense.

  “Ben Raines realized that not everyone could, or would, live under a system of law that leaned heavily on common sense and personal responsibility. From the outset he estimated, correctly, as it turned out, that no more man two or three out of every ten Americans could live under a Tri-States form of government. People who came to live in the old Tri-States did not expect something for nothing . . . and that was wise on their part, for they damn sure weren’t going to get something for nothing.

  “In the Tri-States, everybody who was able worked at something. No able-bodied person sat on their ass and expected free handouts from the taxpayers . . . that just wasn’t going to happen. You might not like the job that would be found for you, and it would be found very quickly, but you worked it, or you got out.

  “Criminals discovered almost immediately that in the Tri-States, they had very few rights. All the rights belonged to the law-abiding citizens. If a criminal got hurt during the commission of a crime, he or she could not sue for damages. If they got killed, their family could not sue for damages. And in the Tri-States, a lot of criminals got killed during the first years. The Tri-States was not a friendly place for criminals . . . and it didn’t take criminals long to discover that. The residents of the Tri-States didn’t have a problem with drugs; the penalty for selling hard drugs was death; when caught, and after a very brief trial, the criminals had a choice, hanging or firing squad. Consequently, very soon drug dealing in the Tri-States dropped off to zero.

  “Life was so good in the Tri-States, the central government, once it got back on its feet after only a few years, couldn’t stand it and moved against the Tri-Staters. It was a terrible battle, but in the end the old Tri-States, located in the Northwest, was destroyed.

  “But Ben Raines and his dream lived, and Ben gathered together the survivors of the government assault, and declared war on the government . . . a dirty, nasty, hit-and-destroy-and-run type of guerrilla warfare.

  “Eventually, the entire United States collapsed inward and Ben and his Rebels, now hundreds and hundreds strong, were able to move into the South and set up a new government. This time it was called the SUSA: the Southern United States of America.

  “It was a struggle for a few years, and one time the SUSA was overrun by rabble from outside its borders. But the Rebels beat the attackers back and rebuilt their nation, larger and stronger and more self-sufficient than ever before.

  “The Rebels are now the largest and most powerful and feared fighting force in the free world, so much so that the Secretary General of the newly reorganized United Nations met with Ben Raines and made a bargain with him: You deal with a few trouble spots around the world, especially with Bruno Bottger and his band of Nazis, and we’ll recognize the SUSA as a free and sovereign nation.

  “The two men shook hands, sealing the deal, and Ben took his Rebels and sailed off to Africa.”

  As Bottger put the paper down, Loco said, “The report ended just as Raines was heading off to fight you, Field Marshal, in Africa, some years ago.”

  Bottger pursed his lips, a wry expression on his face. He glanced at Bergman, who was scowling.

  “We remember the time very well, comandante,” Bottger said in a low voice, as if he didn’t appreciate being reminded of his defeat at the hands of Raines.

  Loco pushed a journal-type document across the table. “This is a journal, written by one of Raines’s team that accompanied him throughout that campaign,” Loco said. “It too gives fresh insight into the way Raines’s mind works, and speaks directly toward his motivation in trying to save the world from men such as he believes we are.”

  Bottger thumbed through the journal, reading as he sipped his coffee.

  “Ben poured a fresh hot mug of coffee from the thermos and shook his head and sighed, remembering all too vividly the bad days in America, before the collapse, before the terrible germ war that wiped out every government around the globe, even before the nationwide taxpayer revolt that cost hundreds of Americans their lives as hardworking and hard-pressed-by-the-government citizens protested the amount of money extorted from them every year by the government . . . and in many cases, at least in the minds of many, the money carelessly pissed away by Congress.

  “Ben sat in his tent and sipped his coffee, recalling the smooth and highly effective actions of the insidious gun-grab folks at work, until they finally got their way and all handguns (except those in the hands of selected citizens—the suck-ass types) were seized by federal agents and carefully handpicked and trained members of the military.

  “Ben recalled even before then, when morally the nation was sliding down into the gutter.

  “‘Morally we were bankrupt,’ Ben muttered, after taking another sip of coffee. ‘Many Americans were happy and content to be playing among the turds and the puke in the sewers.’

  “And Ben knew the nation was definitely morally bankrupt in the years before the Great War and the collapse. There was filth and perversion every day on the television and in the movies. The same garbage, and in many cases, much worse, could be found in cyberspace, on the information highway called the Internet.

  “Liberals and many members of the press screamed that it was freedom of speech and to interfere would be a violation of the Bill of Rights.

  “But Ben had grave doubts about that.

  “A few years before the entire world fell apart there had been a rash of schoolyard killings: kids killing kids for no apparent reason. The hysterical gun-grabbers howled that it was the availability of guns that caused the kids to kill. But Ben and millions of others who applied common sense to everyday living know that was pure horseshit: nothing but mealymouthed, out-of-touch-with-reality liberals making excuses for deviant and otherwise totally unacceptable behavior.

  “Ben stirred restlessly in his camp chair as old memories came flooding back with startling clarity, vivid images of him, years back, sitting in the den of his home trying to watch television, but instead seething with anger at the TV news commentators and movie and TV personalities (all of them so left-leaning and liberal it pained them to have to give a right-hand turn signal), excusing the behavior of dope dealers, violent criminals, gang members, and degenerates . . . and especially saying the Bible was passé.

  “Ben had listened to those types espouse their views that the Bible didn’t really have to be followed . . . not down to the letter. If a certain passage of Scriptures didn’t please the reader, well, just ignore it and go on to another passage that better suited the reader’s lifestyle.

  “Ben had always wondered, often, as he recalled, what the Almighty thought about that.

  “Ben was not an overly religious man, but he certainly believed in God and he did read the Bible: He carried a Bible with him in the wagon and read it often, taking a great deal of comfort in the words.

  “He recalled a radio interview he’d done with a talk show host one time, just a few months before the Great War and the collapse. The interviewer was one of those who believed that only the police and the military sho
uld own guns, and no civilian should be allowed to carry a concealed weapon . . . except for certain selected individuals, that is; but he would never say who those selected people might be. But Ben knew: people who gave lots of money to the whiny, I-want-to-run-your-life and the give-me-something-for-nothing parties. The interviewer placed the blame for many of society’s ills solely on guns . . . but never, ever on the person holding the gun.

  “Ben had finally lost his temper with the left-winger and the interview turned decidedly nasty. The ratings for that show were the highest ever known.

  “Ben smiled as he recalled that long-ago TV show. That had been a fun interview! He had succeeded in making the left-wing liberal prick angry and the man had lost his cool. Ben had been good at doing that.

  “Ben’s smile faded. Now the city where the station had been located no longer existed, except in the ashes of memory. Those wonderful people the interviewer had so staunchly defended had turned the streets into a battleground, as punk gangs fought for control . . . until the Rebels came along and killed them.”

  Bottger sneered as he put the journal down. “This is bullshit, written by a woman obviously infatuated with General Raines. No one in a position of power is that naive, that altruistic,” Bottger said.

  Loco shrugged. “I would not be too sure, Field Marshal. I, for one, believe Ben Raines is just as he’s reported to be, a fanatic about self-reliance and loyalty. Just read what the journal says about his relationship with the president of the SUSA.”

  Bottger picked the journal back up and read:

  “Cecil Jeffreys was the president of the SUSA, the first black man elected to such a high office in America . . . and it took the separation of the nation and the men and women of the South to accomplish it.

  “Cecil and Ben had been friends for many years. Cecil had left the grueling life in the field to enter politics after a heart attack nearly killed him during a campaign.”

  Loco pointed at the transcript of the expedition written by Robert Barnes, war correspondent, Associated Press, and the journal written by an unnamed member of his team. “Ben Raines is part madman,” Loco said, “as you can see by his antiquated beliefs in the importance of the individual, and I believe that makes him a far more formidable adversary than we have believed. I think part of his success against both of us has been that fact, that we’ve underestimated him, thought him to be more like us, when in fact he is just the opposite.”

  Bottger put down the lengthy article. “Ben Raines and his men are very tough,” he said, “and they are apparently completely unafraid of us and our armies, a fact we must take into consideration. We can only hope that Raines’s battles with the forces of the USA will weaken him and divide his attention from us long enough for us to prevail here in Mexico.”

  “It is a gamble worth taking, Field Marshal,” Loco said, leaning across the table to make his point. “After all, for a chance to control all of the American continent, what difference would it make if we lose a few thousand men? Fighting men and equipment are expendable and easily replaceable. Central and South America are full of men who are willing to risk their lives for the promise of money.”

  Bottger grinned and raised his cup of coffee. “For which we both should be eternally grateful.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Captain Dimitri Zubov was deeply concerned. Worried was a better word for the way he felt. In all his years as a hired mercenary since leaving the former Soviet Union, he’d never encountered anything quite like this. His men were spread out across muggy, jungle-thick hills in a Mexican state known as Oxaca.

  They’d been dropped off at the port town of Salina Cruz by freighter and told to move northward and kill everyone and destroy any villages they came upon. They’d been promised that the Mexican Army was weak and poorly represented in this state and that they’d face little opposition except from poorly armed Indians and half-breeds.

  However, a seek-and-destroy mission in this terrain was about as tough as it could get. Captain Zubov lead a force of ex-Blackshirts, the special assassination troops trained in guerrilla warfare by the elite USA Subversive Corps. Black-shirts, as they were called, were only sent into a war zone for highly specialized assignments. Most of these men had left the U.S. when Claire Osterman had been forced from power last year, and had joined up with mercenary forces. Zubov commanded one of these units, made up of mercenaries from around the world.

  General Herman Bundt had directed him to search for a Mexican Army unit made up of special troops reported to be in these hills. And yet no sign of them had turned up anywhere . . . not so much as a single footprint. A bombing run by the helicopters assigned to his unit had used their antitank missiles to wipe out most of the citizenry of this region, leaving only a few farm animals and wild creatures roaming the mountainous jungle region.

  He spoke to his sergeant, Sergi Rikov, another highly skilled Soviet guerrilla fighter, whispering to him in the fog of an early spring morning in southern Mexico.

  “Nothing. We were given bad information by General Bundt about these Mexican troops. They are not here. Otherwise, we would have found something. . . .”

  “Why would anyone fight to hold this useless territory?” Sergeant Rikov asked. “What strategic value could it possibly have?”

  “Who knows? I’m beginning to wonder about the competence of leadership under this man whom we never see. No one seems to know what they are doing.”

  Zubov glanced up at cloudy skies. A silence blanketed the valley below them. “No airplanes. No rockets. Not a shot has been fired.”

  “It may be too quiet,” Rikov warned. “Remember what Leonid said about silence when we went through our training in Mongolia. Silence can be a deadly thing . . . a warning. I have never been in a place as quiet as this. It is far too quiet to suit me.”

  “Nor have I seen a place so quiet,” Zubov agreed, sweeping the pine-studded valley with field glasses.

  “If these Mexican troops intend to challenge us over this place, they would surely send up aircraft in order to have our position,” said Rikov. “Even the quietest surveillance airplane flying at high altitude makes some noise.” He glanced at his superior lying next to him. “Or perhaps the presence of our attack helicopters scared them off.”

  “They may not be able to get a fix on us,” Zubov said. “We don’t know how well equipped this General Guerra and his armies are. We have ten rocket launchers, and only thirty men for them to find. If these Mexican soldiers are here, we will certainly have them overpowered by weaponry . . . and skilled guerrilla fighters.”

  “At the very least, we have good men,” Rikov said with a glance behind him. “Our Soviet and Yugoslav assault teams are the best in the world. I have absolutely no doubt about it. All we have to do is find the enemy.”

  Zubov let out a sigh. “What good will it do us, or this cause championed by General Bundt and Field Marshal Bottger, if they have sent us to the wrong place? There are times, like now, when I question the value of their intelligence reports on enemy activities.”

  “General Bundt sounded so sure. A unit of the Mexicans’ crack assault troops was coming south by way of this old road, to launch an attack on Salina Cruz to try and take back the port so we couldn’t use it for reinforcements. No one had any doubts, according to the general.”

  “I have my doubts now,” Zubov said. “This is nothing but jungle and empty villages, a few wandering cows and some pigs beyond that hilltop. There are no enemy soldiers here. We have wasted our time in difficult terrain based on inaccurate information. No one, not even a civilian, is here now.”

  “We were ordered to wait.”

  Zubov scowled. “Yes. To wait for the enemy. But as you can see, there is no enemy, unless we intend to wage war against pigs and cows.”

  “According to General Bundt, we will be paid no matter what we find.”

  “I’m beginning to wonder,” Zubov added, turning the focus knob on his field glasses. “I hear rumors that Bottger and
Perro Loco are going broke . . . that they have very little money left after the disastrous defeat last year at the hands of Ben Raines’s Rebels. Most of their attempts to take Africa and Mexico failed miserably, which only makes me wonder more about their leadership. And now I hear they are broke.”

  “I have heard the same thing,” Rikov said. “If this is indeed true, we will be forced to take our money from them at gunpoint.”

  “I was told the Central Americans have not been paid in silver or gold. They were given paper currency that is worthless. None of the stores in any of the towns in the USA will take this paper money.”

  “Until Field Marshal Bottger breaks a promise to us, we have no choice but to follow his orders. If anything he has told us is not true, including the amount and type of money we will be paid, then I will kill him personally.”

  Rikov suddenly looked away. “I heard a noise, Captain.”

  Zubov jerked around. “What kind of noise?” he whispered when all seemed quiet at the front, to the north of their present position.

  “A cry . . . like the crying of a small child, but very soft and far away.”

  “Who the hell would be crying in this wilderness? There are no children here. We haven’t seen anyone since we crossed that ridge miles behind us.”

  “It may be nothing,” Rikov said, although he continued to keep an eye on a hilltop roughly half a mile away. “I could have imagined it, I suppose.”

  Zubov went back to his field glasses, sweeping the jungle again. “Nothing,” he hissed, clenching his teeth. “But I have the distinct feeling that something is wrong.”

  “Look!” Rikov exclaimed, pointing to a grassy slope to the north. “It is Yarimere! What is he doing out in the open like that?”

  Zubov turned his binoculars on the slope. Yarimere Hecht, an old friend from Russia, was staggering down the hill, stumbling and almost falling. And now Zubov heard the crying sounds too, for they were distinct in the silence surrounding them.