“What do you mean by that?” Ben spoke more sharply than he intended. Goddamn! Did the boy actually know what he had been dreaming?
Buddy stared long at his father. When he spoke, his voice was soft. “I meant only that you encountered my mother, for the second time, after the Great War, while she was burning someone at the stake, did you not?”
“Yes. Over in Tennessee, I think it was.” Ben sighed. “Did you know that I just awakened from a hellish nightmare?”
“No. But it doesn’t surprise me. There is a little of my mother in me, and a lot of you in me.”
Ben didn’t know exactly how to take that statement. He minutely shook his head and then glanced at his watch. Nearly four o’clock. Time to get up anyway. “How close do you feel your mother to be?”
“Close enough for me to sense a great deal of danger.”
“I ought to send you back to Base Camp One.”
“No. I wouldn’t want to disobey your orders, but on that one, I would.”
“I’m going to have to kill her, Buddy.”
“No, Father. I think not. I think my mother will meet her end at my hands. I think that is truth.”
“I hope you’re wrong, son.”
Buddy shook his head. “I am correct in my thinking. But I believe that my mother will live a very long and very evil life before she meets her end.”
“I’ll certainly go along with th evil part of it,” Ben said. “Will I be around to see her demise, son?”
“Yes,” the young man replied. Then he turned and walked away.
“That’s a weird kid, Dan.” Ben had heard the Englishman come up, moving as silently as a wraith.
“Weird? Oh, I don’t think so, General. I think he is simply blessed, or cursed, with the Insight, that’s all. Considering the way he was raised, I think he turned out very well.”
“Oh, I do too, Dan. No doubt about that. But he spooks me at times.”
“Did you ever stand among the great rocks of Stonehenge, General?”
Ben smiled. “Oh, yes. Years ago, when I was visiting England. Yes, I know what you mean.”
“Now that’s spooky. I will be the first to admit that I got the hell away from there in a hurry.”
Ben’s smile broadened. “I rather enjoyed the sensation. I felt I was actually a part of those old ones who came and went long before us.”
“And you call Buddy weird!”
It was a quiet time for the Rebels. A time that all of them had earned. They slept, they played, they swam, they gossiped, and they enjoyed just doing nothing.
All of them knew that it would probably be their last time for total relaxation for several long, hard, bitter, bloody months once the campaign against Malone was launched. That campaign, they knew, would be one where they could not rely on battle tanks and Dusters; it would be war in the deep forests, a very personal and, in many cases, one-on-one type of warfare. And while none of the Rebels were looking foward to it, they all knew it was something that had to be done.
Corrie came to Ben, several messages in her hand. “Base Camp One has picked up several coded transmissions, General. The first one originated in Colorado, they believe. The reply came out of Florida; they’re pretty sure of that. They have not been able to break the code.”
“Parr’s bunch is the largest still operating in Florida,” Ben said. “The young man is as tough as his father and twice as smart. He also hates me as much as Kenny did, thanks to his father. I’ve been wondering when he would break out and make his move. This may be the time. Go on, Corrie.”
“Reports from Sheridan state that a large force is camped on the west side of the Bighorn River, around Fort Smith. The force has made no hostile moves and the Rebels garrisoned at Sheridan have no idea who they are. They are requesting orders.”
“They could well be Ashley, Voleta, and the outlaws,” Ben said. “The settlers in Sheridan are too small in number to tackle them . . . if they are hostiles. Tell them to take no direct action until flybys have been done, Corrie.”
“Yes, sir. Khamsin has been reinforced by foreign troops. Pilots flying recon state that several large ships have docked in ports along the coast of South Carolina. Several more ships are still at sea, enroute. We lost one plane and crew to what is believed to be a Stinger, or missile of that type fired from shipboard.”
Georgi was studying maps. “Ships coming from where?” he questioned. “And carrying troops of what nationality?”
“Fair questions, Georgi,” Ben said. “They could be from South America, West Africa, Europe. Son of a bitch!” Ben cussed. “About the time we think we’re gaining ground, something like this sails in and sets us back.”
“Ben,” Georgi said, “if we strained every resource, using every man and woman and young person, say, over the age of sixteen, how many people could we field?”
“If we count the people at the outposts, oh, maybe five thousand tops. But I’d hate to think it could come to that.”
Ike said, “The instant we start stripping and abandoning outposts to move troops east, the outlaws and crud would move in.”
“And we’d have to do it all over again,” Dan said with a disgusted look on his face.
“And we don’t even know the nationality of the troops landing.” That was put forth by Tina. “Could it be a multinational force?”
“It could be anything,” Ben said softly. “But what keeps puzzling me is this: why are they leaving their homelands? What is pushing them toward America? We now know, through intercepted radio transmissions, that the death toll, worldwide, was not nearly as high as first thought. We now know there are millions of people who survived the Great War. What in the hell is going on in South America, Europe, China?”
“Night People,” Buddy said.
“Probably,” Dan agreed. “But the troops landing belong to Lan Villar.” His voice was very soft. “Bet on it.”
Ben shifted his eyes. “Lan is dead.”
“That was never confirmed, friend,” Georgi said. “Our overseas intelligence people could never autenticate his demise. And neither could your CIA operatives. As a matter of fact, our people swore they saw Lan in West Africa several times after his reported death.”
That was fact and Ben knew it.
“Talk about a name from the past,” Ike said. “I was on the SEAL team who was given the nod from the NSA to kill Villar back in ’86. Then certain members of the House and Senate got wind of it and damn near pissed their lace drawers. Whole operation had to be scrapped.”
“Dad,” Tina looked at her father, “who is Lan Villar?”
“The most murderous, deadly, dangerous, despicable, and feared terrorist who ever lived.”
12
“So they drove you out, too?” Khamsin, the Hot Wind, said to Lan Villar.
“Nobody has ever driven me out of anyplace,” Lan corrected him. “But it looks like Ben Raines has sure done a dandy job of kicking your ass.”
Khamsin offered no rebuttal to that. How can one rebut the truth? Instead, he said, “I cannot believe that you sailed only God knows how many thousands of miles just to pay me a social call.”
One terrorist sat down across the table from the other terrorist. Lan Villar was a mixture of Scandinavian, Algerian, and Spanish. Back when such things were important, he had held dual citizenship between Algeria and Spain. Norway wanted nothing to do with the bastard. And said as much.
Lan had never felt any really allegiance to any country. He sold his skills to anybody, for the highest price. He would kill one, or a thousand. It made absolutely no difference to Lan whether they were men, women, or children.
Lan was now in his late forties, but still a very handsome man, and in the peak of physical conditioning. He had always been very vain about his looks, and with his black eyes and blond hair, Lan was a very striking-looking man. A big man, well over six feet, and a powerful man.
“So it’s true, then: New York City is no more?”
“It’s true. Be
n Raines destroyed it, and almost destroyed me,” the Hot Wind admitted.
“Ben Raines,” Lan mused softly. “I met him a couple of times, in Africa, back in . . . ?” He shrugged his heavy shoulders. “I can’t even remember when it was. He was there working for the Company. No matter. How many Rebels does Raines have under his command?”
“I would say he could field, and that would have to include the troops of the Russian, Georgi Striganov, between four and five thousand. But they are top troops. The black man, Cecil Jefferys, is in command of the base in Louisiana. The ex-SEAL, Ike Mc-Gown, is in command of another battalion; he’s with Ben in the west. The mercenary, West, commands another battalion. And that damnable ex-SAS man, Dan Gray, commands the Scouts. They are nothing but ruthless thugs.”
“I know Dan Gray. He tried to kill me twice, and almost succeeded the last time—when I was working for the IRA. If if had not been for the timidity of certain British politicians, Dan and his SAS men probably would have killed me.”
“I heard you were badly wounded.”
“I was. Came close to dying. Thanks to that British son of a bitch.”
“It seems as though you despise Dan Gray almost as much as I do Ben Raines.”
Lan locked gazes with the Libyan. Khamsin felt it was like looking into the eyes of a deadly snake. “More,” Lan replied.
They all compared notes as to what they knew of the terrorist, Lan Villar. Only Dan seemed to hold back. Ben picked up on it.
“What’s the matter, Dan?”
“There is something else you all should know about that bloody bastard, Villar. He despises me. I wounded him back in . . . oh, ’85 or ’86. I don’t remember exactly. But he almost died from it.” Dan smiled, and it was not pretty. “I hand-loaded my own ammo. Hollow-nose. But I sealed into the nose a liberal dose of cobra venom. I understand the terrorist son of a bitch hovered near death for months after that.”
Everyone noticed the near-sadistic glint in Dan’s eyes; and that was not like him. Dan was a professional soldier—he fought and killed the enemy because that seemed to be the only way to bring some sort of stability back to the earth—not because he was a person who took glee in inflicting pain on any living thing.
It appeared to all looking at Dan that Lan Villar was the exception to that.
“Tell it all, Dan,” Ike said.
“Before I put lead into him, and poison, Lan Villar had kidnapped my sister. She was thirteen years old. He tape-recorded every . . . session of perversion with her. Took delight in passing her around to his men . . . and some of the women who fought with him. It took Marilyn a long and very painful time to die. Ben, compared to Lan Villar, Sam Hartline was a courtly English gentleman. And let me add this: If I ever get my hands on Villar, and take that rotten plague upon the earth alive, I assure all of you he will not die well.”
The Englishman turned and put his back to the others for a moment, old memories heavy on his broad shoulders.
“Settle down, people,” Ben said. “We don’t know that it is Lan. Odds are that it is not.”
“It’s Villar,” Dan said. “Before the Great War, he had settled in Angola and was fighting for the Communists there.”
“That still doesn’t prove anything, Dan,” Georgi said.
“Oh, but it does.” Dan turned to face the group. “Those communiques in several different languages we have been intercepting over the past couple of years, but all being spoken by the same man with the same strange accent, almost like a slur? The ones we believed originated in Africa? Well, Villar is multilingual and was born with a slight speech impediment. Add it up.”
“I’d say you’re getting warmer,” Ben admitted. “But there still is a lot of room for doubt.”
“In one way I hope you’re right, General. But in another, I hope you’re wrong.” Dan nodded his head at the group, then turned and walked away.
“If it is Villar or isn’t Villar,” Ben said, “it still means that Malone and his bunch will probably have to be put on hold. Malone and his pack of screwballs represent only a fart in the wind compared to whoever is landing in South Carolina.”
“Did you know Villar, Dad?” Tina asked.
“I met him twice in Africa years ago, when I was doing Company work. It was instant dislike from both sides. I knew who he was, but I was under no orders to kill him. I’ve already regretted that I let him walk away. Looks like I might regret it even more if Dan’s suspicions are true.”
“He certainly feels very strongly that he is correct,” Georgi said.
“Do we head north, Father?” Buddy asked.
Ben shook his head. “No. We keep heading east on 94. I still want to finish up with Matt. We’ll pull out in the morning.”
“We have been sent help,” Voleta said, walking up to Ashley. She was smiling, and that was something the woman did not do very often.
“Parr?” Ashley asked, rising as was his custom when a lady approached—even Voleta, whom he knew was the farthest thing from a lady.
She sat down on a log. “No. Are you familiar with a terrorist named Lan Villar?”
“I’ve heard the name. From newscasts years back. I thought he was dead.”
“So did I. We were both wrong. He has landed in South Carolina with several thousand men and that many more on the way.”
“He’s linking up with what is left of Khamsin’s people?”
“That is correct.”
“I don’t know whether that is a help or not, Voleta. Khamsin might not be too thrilled to see us after New York City.”
“He will be after Ben Raines makes his move and we pull in behind them and get them in a box.”
“Just us?”
“Don’t be foolish. Parr will join us, I’m sure of that. Parr’s father and Villar were old friends, when both of them were fighting in Africa. And I have other people I can commit.”
“I thought as much,” Ashley said drily. “Ben Raines’s enemies are certainly popping out of the woodwork of late.”
“It isn’t Ben Raines that Villar is terribly interested in. It’s Dan Gray. My people have just decoded messages they picked up sent from shipboard days ago.”
“Villar came here solely to kill Dan Gray?”
“No. Europe and Africa are not safe. The Night People are worldwide—or at least in many countries. It seems they don’t have a Ben Raines over there.”
“Thank God for small favors. One of him is quite enough.”
“We can’t fail now,” Voleta said, excitement in her voice. “Now I get my revenge against Ben Raines.” Her eyes were wild with hate and fury.
Crazy bitch! Ashley thought.
Messages from Base Camp One confirmed Ben’s worst suspicions: the army that was stepping ashore from the big ships was huge, several thousand more than Ben could ever hope to field. And according to citizens who still resided in South Carolina and spied for the Rebels, Dan had been correct. It was Lan Villar.
“We’re in trouble, Ben,” Cecil radioed from Base Camp One.
“We’re in for a hell of a fight, that’s for sure.” Ben wanted to present a calm front, even though he knew he did not need to do that with Cecil. Someone once said, after watching Cecil Jefferys handle hours of a stressful combat situation, that if Cecil got any calmer, he’d go to sleep.
“Villar made any firm moves yet?”
“Negative. According to the people we have in the area, it’s all pretty much in the staging status as of now. They report artillery, all the way up to 105s; but it’s vehicle-drawn. I don’t think Villar has any tanks.”
“Probably hoping to pick up those over on this side of the waters. We’ll disappoint him on that score.”
Years back, the Rebels had gone to every military base and national guard and reserve facility in the nation, and had picked through what remained. They had hidden depots of everything from long-range 155s to BB guns.
“Uncork everything we’ve got, Cec. Get it operational. I want the self-propelled 155s
ready to roll by the time I decide to commit.”
“Eight inchers, Ben?”
“Everything, Cec. We’ve got to be able to give a hell of lot more than we receive.”
“This Parr fellow is going to try an end-around, Ben. He’s moving now. Intel seems to think he’ll attempt to link up with Ashley and Voleta. And some of her people have been coming out of their caves and holes around the country.”
“That’s ten-four. I expected it. How is West?”
“Able to hobble around and command from a Jeep.”
“Tell him to get his people geared up and ready to go. We’re going to need everybody on this operation.”
“Thermopolis and his group?”
“If he wants to throw in with us, yes. I’m sure that Emil will want in.”
“He’s standing right here now, Ben, listening.”
“At your service, General Raines,” the unmistakable voice of Emil Hite traveled over the miles. “Always ready to assist the great General Raines, supreme commander of all allied forces on planet earth, great benefactor of—”
“Emil, for christ’s sake!”
“... the oppressed and the down-trodden. Protector of the aged and infirm—”
“Good God, Emil!”
Georgi Striganov and Ike and Dan, Tina, and Buddy stood around the communications truck, listening and laughing, mostly at the expression on Ben’s face as Emil prattled on.
“... the greatest military mind since Napoleon, with the possibly exception of Genghis Khan, and the man to whom Gods speak . . .”
Ben laid down the mike and rubbed his temples with his fingertips, knowing the only way to get Emil to shut up was to let him run his course.
“I commit my small band of fearless warriors and warrioresses ...”
“Warrioresses?” Dan questioned, a puzzled look on his face.
“We shall fight from the hedgerows and in the streets . . .”
“Oh, no!” Ben muttered, sensing that Emil was just getting wound up.
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