Judgment in the Ashes

  JUDGMENT IN THE ASHES

  The Ashes Series: Book #24

  William W. Johnstone

  BOOK ONE

  Duty is the sublimest word in our language. Do your duty in all things. You cannot do more. You should never wish to do less.

  - Robert E. Lee

  PROLOGUE

  Many citizens believed the collapse of America was inevitable. Just before the total breakdown, voter participation in national elections dropped to less than half of all registered voters taking part. Candidate campaigning had deteriorated into nasty name-calling and finger pointing, with real issues taking a back seat. For several decades, it seemed that Americans just could not find a middle ground in politics or in the enforcement of laws. Morals and values plummeted to new lows.

  And the government began snooping into nearly every aspect of citizens’ lives.

  The IRS—which had become the most hated of all government agencies—knew to the penny what every citizen had in his or her bank account. The government had begun to view each citizen’s income as not belonging to them, but to the government, especially since the percentage most American citizens had to pay the government had soared to over fifty-five percent of their gross income.

  In many respects, America had become a socialist nation.

  And the liberals had finally gotten their wish: legislation had been rammed through Congress effectively disarming American citizens, leaving those who wished to be armed with only bolt-action hunting rifles and double-barrel, single-shot, or pump shotguns. No semi-automatic rifles or shotguns and absolutely no pistols in the hands of private citizens. Ammunition was heavily restricted and always registered. Government agents could enter a citizen’s home at any time without warrant or warning. And did, often, with great enthusiasm.

  And then the world seemed to go crazy, with brush wars popping up all over the globe, and spreading rapidly. Finally the bottom dropped out. One by one, governments all around the world began collapsing as citizens revolted. Then came a limited germ and nuclear war that quickly spread, leaving Earth without a stable government anywhere.

  But there were those in America who had long predicted such an event. They were called many names: militia, survivalists, nuts, kooks, gun-freaks, conspiracy-freaks, paranoid—and those were some of the kinder names. But they had been correct in their thinking and far-sighted in their planning. America was in trouble, and a long, hard fall did indeed happen.

  One of those who had predicted such terrible times for America was a young ex-soldier/adventurer named Ben Raines. It would be safe to call Ben a survivalist, but not a practicing type. That is to say he did not belong to any group who trained in the woods and conducted live-fire exercises. But Ben did believe in being ready, and when the fall came, he knew what to do.

  After prowling the nation for almost a year, Ben began to organize people who shared his philosophical views of how a government should be run, and how it should conduct itself. En masse they moved to the Northwest, taking over three states as their own.

  They called themselves Tri-Staters.

  ONE

  Where once there were only a few hundred, now there are thousands, Ben thought, as he stood outside a building at the old Tucson International Airport that was serving as his quarters and HQ and looked at the hustle and bustle of Rebels going about their work.

  Part of his command was billeted a few miles away at the old Davis-Monthan AFB and 16 Batt, under the command of Mike Post, was stretched out just north of the city as a first line of defense in case that religious nut, Simon Border, decided to attack.

  The campaign to rid the western part of America of punks and thugs was over, and the back of the punk empire had been broken and the head cut off. That much, at least, had been a success.

  But now Ben faced a religious war with the hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions of Simon Border supporters and followers, and that was something he most definitely did not want.

  But Ben could see no way out of it.

  He had tried to talk some sense with Border, but the man was having none of it. He considered Ben to be the great Satan, and was determined to destroy him and anyone else who followed the Tri-States political philosophy of a common-sense form of government.

  And when Simon tried that, just as the nation was struggling to its feet, the country would be plunged into a religious war . . . a war that might not have an end, for even after all that had happened, factions were still fighting in Northern Ireland.

  Ben turned and went back into his office. With a sigh of resignation he sat down behind his desk and looked at the pile of paperwork facing him. Ben hated paperwork, but knew he had to do it. He picked up a pen and went to work.

  Hundreds of miles to the north, in one of his mountain hideaways, the spiritual leader of millions of people, the Most Reverend Simon Border, stared out the south-facing window and thought of Ben Raines.

  He would not make the mistake of hurling untrained and untested troops against Ben again. That was foolish and very arrogant on his part and had cost the lives of hundreds of good men. Even as he pondered the situation, thousands of his people were undergoing intensive field training, learning as much as possible about the art of warfare.

  Simon leaned back in his chair and smiled at the thought of the nation, under his spiritual rule. What a glorious day that will be.

  Ben pushed aside the stack of paperwork and leaned back in his chair. He could not concentrate on the seemingly endless details of running a huge army. Besides, something else was nagging at him: why was Simon Border waiting? Why didn’t he attack? The so-called religious leader had made his brags, but nothing came of them.

  “We’ve been here for six weeks,” Ben muttered. “Growing stronger each hour. Still the man does nothing.”

  “Anything from Mike?” the ever-present Jersey asked.

  The very pretty and diminutive Jersey was Ben’s self-appointed bodyguard. Wherever Ben was, you would find Jersey shadowing him.

  Mike was the Rebel chief of intelligence.

  “Not in a couple of weeks,” Ben replied.

  Corrie the radio tech, had left her radio in the hands of a relief operator and was relaxing with a cup of coffee. “High-level recon flights is still showing nothing. We’re still getting reports that Simon’s army is training, but they’re in small units and it’s a big area to cover.”

  Beth, the statistician, laid aside her journal and looked up from her desk. “And all action by Border’s people east of the Mississippi River abruptly stopped about three weeks ago and no fighting has been reported since.”

  Cooper, the driver, said, “It just doesn’t make any sense, boss. They start an offensive all over America, then just stop. Why?”

  Ben shook his head.

  Anna, Ben’s adopted daughter, whom he had found as a dirty-faced little waif in Eastern Europe, turned her head with her close-cropped blond hair and cut her pale eyes toward him. Young/old eyes that had seen far too much for their age. “I am Catholic. Not a practicing Catholic, but Catholic nonetheless. I will never bow to someone such as Simon Border. If Simon does not want to bring the fight to us, we take the fight to him.”

  “I’m trying to avoid a religious war, Anna,” Ben told her. “Not start one.”

  The young lady shrugged her shoulders. “Can’t be avoided. You know as well as I, Border is up to something dirty—all in the name of God, of course. Personally, I think God turns His head and closes His eyes when wars start.”

  Ben grunted. Personally, he believed the same way. “Perhaps, Anna. But I’m not going to be the one to start this war.”

  Anna stood up, picking up her CAR as she did. “Did you ever consider that you just might not have any choice in the matter, General Ben?” She walked out the door.

  “What did she mean by that?” Cooper asked. He shook his head. “Sometimes that girl spooks me.”

  “It’s the Gypsy in her,” Ben said with a smile. “It’s said that some Gypsies are born with the ability to see into the future.”

  “The same is said of our medicine men,” Jersey, who was part Apache, said. “Personally I think it’s all a bunch of shit.” She walked outside to join Anna.

  Ben chuckled and returned to his paperwork. But in the back of his mind he wondered what Simon Border was up to.

  Simon was having some trouble of his own in his so-called paradise. Hundreds of people who adamantly rejected his dictatorial type of religion were making plans to clear out of Border’s territory. These men and women did not necessarily embrace the Tri-States philosophy, but they certainly didn’t want to live under Simon Border’s rule.

  Only problem with their leaving was that Simon had sealed his territory tight; no one in, no one out.

  “Then we have to fight,” one leader of a small resistance group told his followers.

  “With what?” a woman asked. “Shovels and axes?”

  Simon had disarmed any person who did not attend his churches and swear lifetime allegiance to his rule.

  Disarming a population and declaring the ownership of nearly all types of firearms illegal is one of the most effective methods of stilling dissent.

  “We make bombs,” Glenn Waite told his people. “We start blowing up army barracks and police stations and local politicians.”

  “I can make bombs,” another of Glenn’s followers said. “It’s really pretty simple. With all of us working, we can make dozens. If the other teams go along with it, we can have hundreds of bombs
ready to go in a very short time.”

  Glenn nodded his head. “I’ll contact them. Most, if not all, will go along, I’m sure. Get cracking on it, Martin. I’d rather die fighting as a free man than live under the rule of Simon Border.”

  “Everything is calm back here, Ben,” Cecil Jefferys, the president of the SUSA and Ben’s long-time friend reported. “We had a few minor flare-ups here in the SUSA with some people who feel that Simon’s way is the best way, but they were quickly shown to the border and kicked out. I’m sure we have others, but they’re keeping a low profile and their mouths shut.”

  “Then they’re up to something, Cec.”

  Cecil sighed over the miles. “Yeah, I agree, Ben. And it worries me. But we can’t polygraph or PSE the entire population.”

  “No,” Ben returned the sigh. “And I wouldn’t want things to come to that, anyway.”

  “Any word from Mike?”

  “Not a peep. He’s found him a woman up in Utah, I think. She’s with a guerrilla team, so Mike joined them.”

  “Ol’ Mike’s in love, huh?”

  “Looks that way.”

  “Good for him.”

  “Everything is quiet here, Cec. And I still refuse to take the offensive in this matter.”

  “I think you’re doing the right thing, Ben. But if Simon’s people start slaughtering dissidents in his territory, you might be forced to change your mind.”

  “You know something I should know, Cec?”

  “No. But I wouldn’t put something like that past the lunatic.”

  “Nor would I. All right, Cec. I’ll bump you in a few days.”

  Ben returned to his desk and sat down, propping his boots up on a stack of paperwork he just simply quit on. “Corrie, when is Thermopolis and his 19 HQ Batt scheduled to pull in?”

  “Sometime tomorrow.”

  Ben pointed to the paperwork. “When they get here, give all that crap to them. That’s what HQ is supposed to do, not me.”

  “Right, boss. Boss?”

  Ben cut his eyes.

  “Some of the people were wondering about Simon Border. They know that Border’s country is based, sort of, on his weird philosophy, but other than that, what kind of government does he have?”

  “Socialistic, for the most part. Everything is state run. Collective farming and so forth; everything that anyone does is for the state, not for the individual. The state, of course, being Simon Border and his inner circle and friends.” Ben smiled. “I think the people can have tiny gardens all their own.”

  “Well, that’s damn charitable of Nutbrain Border,” Cooper said.

  “It didn’t work in Russia,” Beth said, laying aside an old paperback novel she had found along the way. Ben took note of the author, Linda Howard. He had known her back before the world erupted into war. “It was beginning not to work in China—according to what I’ve been able to read. Capitalism is the only form of government that’s worth a damn.”

  “Thank you, Professor Beth,” Cooper said.

  “You’re welcome, Coop.” Beth stuck her nose back into the book. Mackenzie’s Mountain, Ben observed.

  “What is so great about that type of government, boss?” Coop asked.

  “Nothing, as far as I’m concerned,” Ben replied. “Personally, I think it stinks. And Simon and his followers could have it, if they’d just back off and stay away from us.”

  “Message coming in from Mike,” Corrie said, holding up her hand.

  Ben took the mic. “Go. Mike.”

  “I’ll keep this short, Ben,” the chief of intelligence said. “Simon is just about ready to make his move against you. In addition, there are hundreds of people living in his territory who are ready to fight him just as soon as you give the word. I’ll give Corrie the map coordinates for air drops. We need weapons and ammo in the worst way.”

  “You’ll get them, Mike. There is no hope Simon will back off?”

  “No, Ben. None. But what difference would it make if he did back off? He’s sealed his borders and refused to allow dissidents to leave. He’s using force to coerce people to worship his way. He’s preparing to kill any who oppose him. Make virtual slaves out of those who survive the purge.”

  Ben sighed and shook his head. He had noticed today that the gray was spreading rapidly among his once dark brown hair. Well, hell, Ben thought, it was time for him to gray. “Then I guess that does it, Mike. His armies have been training hard, right?”

  “Right, Ben. We’ve got twenty battalions to field, he’s got a hundred and twenty and more in reserve. They won’t be making the mistakes they did at first. Count on that.”

  “I’ll never understand how he got so many people to go along with his nutty plans.”

  “Long story, Ben. I’m still piecing it together. Someday we’ll sit down over a pot of coffee and talk it out. But for right now, you’d better get ready for the fight of your life.”

  “Okay, Mike.

  “Good luck.” Mike broke it off.

  Ben turned to find his team looking at him. “Get the Batt Coms in here, Corrie. Let’s start making plans.”

  “Are we going to carry the fight to Simon’s people, boss?” Cooper asked.

  “I guess so, Coop,” Ben’s words were softly offered. “I don’t see that we have any choice in the matter.”

  TWO

  The battalion commanders began assembling. Ben had reshuffled some of the battalion designations and eliminated a few others. Ike McGowen, a man who had been with Ben since the beginning, was the commander of 2 Batt. Ike was an ex-Navy SEAL and only a few years younger than Ben. Ike struggled with his weight, but no matter what he did, he still resembled a big teddy bear. The Englishman, Dan Gray, commanded 3 Batt. Dan was a former British SAS officer. West, the ex-mercenary, was the commander of 4 Batt. Georgi Striganov, the former Russian airborne commander, commanded 5 Batt. Rebet was the commander of 6 Batt. Danjou, the Canadian, commanded 7 Batt. Buddy Raines, Ben’s son, was the commander of 8 Batt, the special operations battalion. Tina, Ben’s daughter, commanded 9 Batt. Tina and West were engaged and would someday be married. Someday, when the fighting was over. Pat O’Shea, the wild Irishman, was the commander of 10 Batt. Green-wait commanded 11, and Jackie Malone, a very pretty lady who was pure hell when it came to discipline, was the commander of 12 Batt. Raul Gomez commanded 13 Batt; Jim Peters, the Texan, 14 Batt. Buck Taylor was the commander of 15 Batt; Mike Post of 16 Batt; Paul Harrison commanded 17 Batt; and Nick Stafford commanded 21 Batt. Thermopolis, the ex-hippie, was the commander of Headquarters Battalion, designated 19 Batt. 18 and 20 Batts had been incorporated into other battalions. Each battalion in the Rebel army carried its own large contingent of tanks and artillery and heavy mortars. Each had an additional platoon of Scouts, a group of cold-eyed young men and women who had undergone some of the most brutal training ever devised by humankind. The Scouts were used for all sorts of dirty jobs, and were not happy unless they were taking incredible chances, usually working behind enemy lines, cutting throats. The battalions that made up the Rebel army were over-sized, several times larger than conventional battalions, about half the size of a regiment, so companies were larger, platoons were larger, squads were larger.

  “Looks like we’re into it, gang,” Ben announced, after everyone had pulled mugs of coffee and taken a seat. “Against my better judgment,” he added.

  The batt coms sat silently. To a person, the news came as no surprise. They knew that while Ben had been agonizing over this decision, he would never tolerate any threat toward the SUSA.

  Ben brought the batt coms up to date, laying out every piece of intelligence he had received over the past seventy-two hours. When it was all added up, there was no doubt in anyone’s mind but that Simon was going to attack.

  “We know Simon has little in the way of heavy artillery,” Ben continued. “But that he has plenty of mortars. And one hell of a lot of warm bodies to throw at us. We can certainly expect suicide charges. And we all know how unpleasant those are,” he said, very drily.

  “We’re going to be all over the map, aren’t we, Ben?” Ike asked.

  “Yes. Sometimes we’re going to have to operate as guerrilla units, other times standing and slugging it out with Simon’s people.”