Fire in the Ashes Page 11

  She closed her eyes and died.

  At Ben's orders, the Rebels drifted silently into the forest, taking their wounded, leaving their dead; Salina and the boy lay among the still and the quiet and the dead. Ants had already begun their march across her face. She lay in a puddle of thickening blood, one hand on the arm of her dead child.

  Ten

  “How are the new people working out, fitting in?” Ben asked Cecil.

  “A-okay, so far. Slater and Green are both prior-service. Air Force. Judy Fowler's going to be fine. I think they're all going to make it, Ben. But we're getting to the point of overtraining."

  “Some of the people getting edgy?"

  “More than a few. Jimmy Brady is hell-on-wheels with a rifle. Ike says he's never seen anyone better. Dawn Bellever is never going to be any great shakes with any weapon, but she managed to qualify on the range. I've assigned her to your office,” he dropped that in without pausing.

  “All right,” Ben said absently. “I want only the very best to hit the field—if that time comes. Assign all the others to non-combat duties; but make sure they understand they are to fight if it comes to that."

  Cecil looked at his friend.

  Ben looked up, catching the worry in the man's eyes. “Something, Cecil?"

  “Guess I've delayed long enough, Ben—you'd better hear it from me and not from the grapevine."

  “We've been together a long time, Cecil. Never been any lies between us."

  “Call a spade a spade, eh, Ben?” Cecil laughed at the old joke.

  “I'm glad you said that and not me, buddy. Come on, Cecil—what gives?"

  “Tina."

  Ben sat up in his chair.

  “She's left the base camp."

  “Got her a boyfriend?"

  “No, Ben,” Cecil spoke softly. “She's gone with Gray's Scouts. Out in the field."

  Ben started to blow wide open. He caught himself and forced himself to calm down. Ben took several deep breaths and relaxed in the chair. “I keep forgetting she is a grown woman. And damn good at her work. But I would like to know why I wasn't told of this."

  “You know the rules, Ben: no questions asked in that outfit."

  “Where are they training?"

  Cecil shrugged. “I don't know, Ben. If I did, I'd tell you. You know that's the way Captain Gray wanted it. But he is due to call in next week ... if you choose to interfere.” There was a definite note of disapproval in Cecil's voice.

  Ben picked up on it. “I won't do that, Cecil. It's her life."

  “I didn't think you would,” Cecil said with a smile. “Thought I knew you pretty well.” He left the big tent, walking toward his own. He thought: I know Tina is adopted; but Ben thinks of her as his own. I wonder how I would react if a kid of mine joined that crazy bunch?

  * * * *

  Gray's Scouts were formed during the weeks just after the government invasion and consequent crushing of the Rebel's dream. Their job was to infiltrate government offices; act as saboteurs; perform long-range recon into enemy territory; and anything else Captain Dan Gray might dream up that was dirty, dangerous, and bloody.

  Captain Gray had left Special Forces before the invasion, having no taste for civilized man fighting civilized man, when, as was the case, the “enemy” was simply a group of men and women attempting to build a livable society and take care of their own.

  Which the Tri-States were doing perfectly well and without so-called “Federal Government advice."

  Gray had spent five years in Britain's SAS (Special Air Service) and was as wild and randy as those boys are trained to be.

  To date they had been involved in only minor hit-and-run operations against the military units loyal to Lowry and Cody. But like Ben's Rebels in the mountains, they were chomping at the bit for a good fight.

  It would not be long in coming ... for any of them.

  * * * *

  Colonel Hector Ramos headed the first convoy to reach the mountains. He and his personnel set up on the western boundaries of the Great Smokies, patrolling a seventy-mile stretch of terrain, from the Georgia line to just south of Maryville, Tennessee. They had traveled across Texas, Louisiana, then angled northeast through Mississippi and a portion of Alabama.

  General Bill Hazen's convoy rolled in the day after Ramos arrived and took up positions from Maryville to Newport. Major Conger was less than three hours behind him. Conger deployed his personnel—the smallest detachment—as roaming scouts and listening posts along the Virginia line.

  General Krigel pulled in last and set up positions on the eastern side of the mountains, from Greenville, Tennessee, well down into North Carolina.

  The combined forces were not, as great armies go, terribly impressive. But there were no more great armies of the world. What world remained was still staggering and reeling under the aftereffects of the great war of 1988. So now, ten thousand armed men and women was a very impressive sight to behold.

  Especially as they began setting up local militia and kicking out all federal police and arming the people.

  * * * *

  “You mean,” a man in Greenville asked a Rebel captain, “it's as simple as this?"

  “Nothing is as simple as it appears,” the Rebel told him, “if you don't have the balls to use that weapon we just gave you. Don't think for one second the central government isn't going to come in here after we leave. Because they damn sure will send agents in. But if those agents see that you people are prepared to fight and die for your beliefs, and are organized and trained to do so, they'll back off. They don't have the people to fight an entire nation; they can't put you all in jail—not an entire nation. It would deplete the workforce and destroy the government. It's just like General Black said back in the mid-eighties, in one of his books: If the people would organize, by the thousands, and just stop paying taxes—what is the government going to do? Put several million people in jail? How? Where? Fifteen police officers in this town are going to arrest five thousand armed citizens? No way. It's all been a colossal bluff and we bought it for nearly two hundred years.

  “Now General Black is not advocating total anarchy—not at all. All he wants to do is restore power back to the people. And it looks like a gun is the only way to accomplish that.

  “All right—you've got the guns and the meeting places. The rest is up to you. We're not going to wet-nurse you. If you don't want freedom, fine, hang it up and roll over and take it in the ass. But if you love freedom, then learn how to use those weapons—and use them!"

  * * * *

  “So you think we have a chance of pulling this off without open warfare?” General Krigel asked.

  The COs of Ben's four brigades sat in a tent in Base Camp One, almost in the dead center of the Great Smokies.

  “With Lowry gone I believe the rest would be downhill,” Ben replied.

  “What does Levant say about it?” Conger asked.

  “He hasn't replied to our message as yet. Maybe he rejected it right off; maybe he's quietly sounding people out. I don't know."

  General Hazen placed his coffee mug carefully on the camp table. He said, “If Levant says it's no-go, for whatever reason, we still have an option."

  Ben looked at him; waited.

  “Gray's Scouts,” Hazen said. “A suicide mission. One team of handpicked Scouts. It's something to think about."

  Only Krigel knew of Tina's joining the Scouts. Ben had discussed it with him just the day before. Krigel looked at Ben for any sign of outwardly shown emotion. He saw none.

  “Let's hope it doesn't come to that,” Ben said. “But if it does, that's the way we'll go. All right, let's talk about the troops. How ready are they?"

  “My people say if you'll give them the green light, they can kick Hartline's bunch right in the ass and be back home in time for lunch,” Hazen said with a grin.

  “I gather morale is high,” Ben said dryly.

  “I'm having trouble keeping their feet on the ground,” the general replied.<
br />
  “My people are ready,” Colonel Ramos said. “This rest period is what they needed. They're hot to mix it up."

  “Same here,” Conger said.

  Krigel nodded his head. “We're all honed fine, Ben. How much longer do we wait?"

  “I've deliberately let the word out we wouldn't strike before the first of the year at the earliest. Preferably not until midsummer of 2000. I was afraid many of the civilians would back off from helping themselves; reports coming in say that is true. I keep forgetting that even though many of the people have served in the military, in their hearts, they're civilians. Hartline's men crushed a small town up in Ohio; just stood out and shelled it and then shot the survivors."

  “Haven't any of these goddamned people ever heard of flanking tactics?” Hazen growled. “Damnit, are we going to have to wet-nurse the entire nation?"

  “Steady, trooper,” Krigel laughed at his friend. “You seem to forget that for a decade and a half before the war of ‘88, we didn't have a draft and the country was not what one could call pro-military..."

  Ben let his commanders rattle sabers at each other as his mind took him back thirty years, back to the words of one of the greatest guerrilla fighters the world had ever known: Colonel Bull Dean.

  * * * *

  They had been waiting to lift off from Rocket City, heading into North Vietnam, to HALO in: high altitude, low opening. They would jump at twenty thousand feet, their chutes opening automatically when they got under radar.

  “We're losing this war, son,” Bull had said. “And there is nothing that guys like you and me can do about it—we can only prolong it. Back home, now, it's gonna get worse—much worse. Patriotism is gonna take a nose dive, sinking to new depths of dishonor. There is no discipline in the schools; the courts have seen to that. America is going to take a pasting for a decade, maybe longer, losing ground, losing face, losing faith."

  How true his words had been.

  A month after Bull had spoken those words, and had supposedly been killed, Ben was wounded and sent home. To a land he could not relate to.

  He found he could not tolerate the attitudes in America toward her Vietnam vets. He was restless, and missed the action he had left behind. He had been sent home to a land of hairy, profane young men who sewed the American flag on the seats of their dirty jeans and marched up and down the streets, shouting ugly words, all in the name of freedom—their concept of freedom.

  Ben spent two years in Africa, fighting in dozens of little no-name wars as a mercenary. Then he had returned and found, to his amazement, he could write, and make a living at it. He had lived in Louisiana for fifteen years. Until the great war of 1988.

  He remembered that strange phone call he'd received that night so long ago. Those two words: Bold Strike. The words Bull Dean had told him to remember. He recalled his confusion.

  That man who had visited him back in ‘84 with the ridiculous idea that Bull Dean and Carl Adams were still alive; that they were covertly heading some underground guerrilla army; that they were going to take over the government.

  Ben had sent the man packing; had laughed at him.

  Then, only a week before the world exploded in nuclear and germ warfare, Ben had called the CO of his old outfit, the Hell Hounds. Sam Cooper had told Ben to “hunt a hole and keep your head down, partner."

  Then the connection had been broken.

  Five days later the world blew up.

  * * * *

  “...about this Hickman woman, Ben?” he caught the last of Colonel Ramos's question.

  Ben shook himself back to reality; broke the misty bounds of memories of things past and people long dead and gone. He looked up and smiled.

  “Sorry, Hec. I was long ago and far away."

  “We all do it, Ben,” Hector said. “I sometimes have to fight my way back from memories. When my wife and I were stationed out at Huachuca. The kids...” He trailed it off, then cleared his throat. “Never did find them. Finally gave up hope about five years ago.” He shook his head. “What I was saying, Ben: Have you and this Hickman woman worked out any code?"

  “No. That's Cecil's department. I never was much for secret handshakes and codes. Personally, I wish this Olivier woman had never dreamed this up. I think she's playing a game that is going to get her killed."

  Hector nodded. “You know I soldiered with Sam Hartline, don't you, Ben?"

  Ben's head came up, eyes sharp. “No, I didn't, Hec. When was this?"

  “Seventy-nine. We were stationed at Bragg together. He was prior service and reenlisted. I think he'd had about three or four years in Africa—this was right after ‘Nam—and came back stateside and went Special Forces. He got kicked out of the Army; a rape charge that was never proved. But we all knew he did it. Young girl. ‘Bout twelve or thirteen, as I recall. He's loco de atar, that one. And cruel mean. All twisted inside. This Olivier lady, she's got courage, but I don't think she really knows what she's up against."

  * * * *

  “Beginning this Friday,” Hartline told Cody, “I want your cryptography section to videotape all shows that have anything about me or Raines on them. Go over them from top to bottom for coded messages."

  “Olivier is playing games?"

  “Why, hell, yes. Whole goddamn thing is a game. One day she hates me so badly her eyes are like a snake; next day she's inviting me to her house and lickin’ my dick like it's peppermint candy—doesn't take a genius to figure that out."

  “And ...?"

  “So we'll let her play her little games. If she's sending codes to Raines—and I believe she will—I'll give her all the false information she can use; let her play her games. Raines isn't going to buy it. He's an ol’ curly wolf that'll puke up the poison soon as it hits his stomach. Wish I could figure out some way to kill that son of a bitch."

  Cody let that slide. Lots of people would like to figure out a way to kill Ben Raines; lots of people had tried to kill him—for years. Cody was beginning to think the man was untouchable. And he wasn't alone in that. He had heard of those who felt the man was God-touched; that even some in his command were viewing him as if he rested on some higher plane than mere mortals. Some of those he had seen broken under torture went out calling Raines's name. Not Jesus Christ. Not the Holy Mother. Not God—but Ben Raines.

  It was enough to make a person wonder...

  He looked at Sam Hartline. “Lowry wants the Olivier woman ... sexually."

  “Yeah, I know. He can have her any time he wants her. I've got that all set up. She thinks by fucking him she'll get brownie points. She's just like all broads: keeps her brains between her legs. Let Lowry get his jollies humping her, then we'll dispose of her. Who do you want?"

  “I beg your pardon?"

  “What cunt do you want, Al—Lowry wants you with him when he jazzs Sabra."

  “I...” Cody shook his head. “I don't want any, Hartline."

  The mercenary laughed. “That's not the way we play this game, Cody. What's the matter, Al? You like boys, maybe?"

  “Good God, no!"

  “Okay, then, I'll get Little Bit for you."

  “Who?"

  “Jane Moore. The blond cunt you've mentioned a time or two. Little Bit, I call her."

  “I don't want her, Sam."

  “She'd be a fine romp, I'm thinking. Hell, she isn't but about five feet tall and you know what's said about those kinds of gals: Big woman, little pussy; little woman, all pussy."

  Hartline laughed and slapped the desk with his heavy hand.

  Al Cody felt sick at his stomach. He thought he might know, now, how an animal felt trapped in a cage; or like that man riding a tiger; afraid to stay on, afraid to get off.

  He fought back his sickness and wondered how he ever got involved with this sick creature who walked upright like a man.

  “I'll set it up for next week,” Hartline said, rising from his chair. “That'll give you time to think about dipping your wick in that blond muff.” He found that hysterically am
using and stood chuckling for a moment. He sobered and looked down at Cody. “Relax, Al. You act like a man who is about to be hanged instead of a man who is about to get some prime gash."

  Cody inwardly winced at that. “That isn't it. Look, Sam, you've been around the world a number of times; seen things that most other people haven't seen. One of my agents reported something to me last week. I found it ... well, odd, to say the least."

  “Oh?” Hartline sat down.

  “Yes. At first I dismissed it as an overactive imagination under stress. The men were on the fringes of a dead city..."

  “Where?"

  “Memphis. They were looking for another suspected Rebel cell. They didn't find that, but they ... well, goddamnit, they said they saw rats in there as big as dogs!"

  Hartline was silent for a moment. Cody thought the mercenary was going to laugh at him and was surprised when the man said, “I don't doubt it. There is no telling what aftereffects the bombings might have produced. What the radiation and the germs might have done to genes in humans and animals. I'm surprised something like this hasn't turned up before this."

  “Are you serious!"

  “Sure,” Hartline said with a shrug. “Scientists don't have—and never did have—the vaguest idea what massive doses of radiation might cause or produce in humans or animals after a period of time. There were monsters born in Japan after the bombings in ‘45—I've seen the pictures and read the reports; but the Japs and the Americans hushed it all up."

  “Monsters! Jesus Christ!"

  “Oh, hell, Cody. I've seen things in Africa and Asia that would make a dog-sized rat look like something of beauty. Just tell your men to be careful; don't get bitten by one. No telling what that might do."

  Hartline laughed at the expression on Cody's face. He was still laughing as he walked out of the director's office.

  Cody rubbed his face with his hands. “As if Ben Raines isn't enough to worry about,” he muttered. “Now I have monsters and boogymen and king-sized rats. What next?"

  He looked up as the buzzer sounded on his intercom. “Yes?"

  “Mr. Levant to see you, sir,” his secretary said.