Chaos in the Ashes Read online

  Cecil stared at him for a moment, then chuckled. The laughter took years from the man. “What is this, a new Ben Raines?”

  “In a way, perhaps it is. Might be better, might be worse. We’ll just have to see.” He looked over at Jersey. “What do you have to say about it, Little Bit?”

  “Well, the way I see it, we’re going to kick them in the ass and then extend a hand to help them up.”

  Ben laughed. “That about sums it up. Now let’s go see if it works.”

  TWO

  The transports never stopped except for maintenance. As the days drifted slowly into weeks, the Rebel battalions were gathering strength, back on American soil. Still Ben made no moves against those malcontents who now controlled—or thought they did—much of what used to be called the Southern United States of America. The SUSA. He would not move until he was up to full strength.

  Ben had left three battalions in Europe for a time, to assist and advise the growing European forces: Batts 21, 16, and 17. He pulled everyone else back to the States.

  Ships began docking at safe ports, unloading thousands of tons of equipment, including tanks and Hummers and helicopter gun ships and the souped-up P-51s that made up much of Ben’s air force.

  Ben was almost ready to move.

  Ike McGowan’s 2 Batt was the last one to leave Europe. When the ex-SEAL’s ship docked, a plane was ready to take him to Ben’s HQ, now located in what used to be known as Alabama.

  After shaking hands, the two men poured mugs of coffee and got down to business. “Is it as bad as the reports I’ve been getting, Ben?”

  “Worse, Ike. We’ve got a lot of territory to reclaim. And it’s going to be a nasty business. We’re up against hundreds of thousands of malcontents—for want of a better word—and we’ve got fifteen battalions to do it with. We’ve got the Gulf to our south, the Atlantic to the east, and facing the enemy west and north. I’ve made contact with some of their leaders, but they refuse to negotiate any terms. No compromise. For one of the few times in my life, I’m willing to compromise and bend some, to prevent blood-shed, and the enemy won’t hear of it.”

  “So we start kicking ass and taking names, right?”

  Ben sighed. Ike could see that he was clearly troubled. “It’s not that simple any more. I wish it was. But I can’t go in and start killing kids. The malcontents know that. I wish I could think of a better word than that, for malcontent just doesn’t fit many of these people. I am firmly convinced that many are really good, decent people . . . solidly opposed to the Tri-States philosophy.”

  “But they are also people who won’t practice live and let live, Ben,” Ike said softly.

  “You’re sure right about that. The same types of people who, a decade ago, supported gun control, more government interference in private lives, higher taxes for some totally worthless social programs, etc., etc.”

  “So what’s the plan, Ben?”

  Ben met Ike’s eyes. “That’s the problem. I don’t have one.”

  Ben was stymied and he would be the first to admit it. He worked up and then rejected a dozen plans over the weeks while he waited for all his people and equipment to be made ready.

  But when everything was ready, his people sitting on “Go,” Ben still did not have a plan.

  Mike Richards, the Rebels’ Chief of Intelligence, had hit the road moments after his plane touched down right behind Ben’s, and he and half a dozen of his spooks had vanished into the countryside.

  Just as Ben was planning to tear his umpteenth plan to shreds, Mike casually strolled into the CP, pulled a mug of coffee, and sat down.

  “So nice to see you,” Ben said drily.

  “Thanks,” Mike said with a small smile. “Good to be back.”

  Ike walked in, shook hands with Mike, and then took a chair.

  Mike took a sip of coffee, set the mug down, and said, “Billy Smithson is dead. What was the free state of Missouri is now in the hands of rabble.”

  “Damn!” Ben said. “That explains why we haven’t been able to contact him.”

  “Both President Blanton and his wife were wounded. They’re going to be all right, but it will be some time. They’re in Canada . . . or what used to be Canada. Parts of that country blew up, too.”

  “Does Homer need any help?” Ike asked.

  Mike shook his head. “No. They’re safe and well-protected. But the Joint Chiefs are dead. All of them. National Security Council—such as it was—dead. Most senators and representatives were caught in session in the capital. They’re dead. We have no government. None.”

  “What started it, Mike?” Ben asked.

  “It was a well-planned coup, engineered by the old left wing of the President’s party. Many of whom were voted out of office a decade back . . . but still stayed active in the shadows. Their plan was to control, to one degree or the other, everything east of the Mississippi River, and Simon Border and his forces most certainly control quite a bit of territory west of the river.”

  Mike left it at that, drained his coffee cup, and stood up, pulling himself another mug. He sat back down and exhaled wearily.

  “You look hungry, Mike.”

  “I could eat.”

  Ben sent out for sandwiches.

  Mike wolfed down two sandwiches, sipped his coffee, and leaned back in his chair. “Well, Harriet Hooter and her bunch helped plan the coup, but it backfired on them. The rabble turned on them. They couldn’t control the mobs when they went on a rampage, as mobs always do. Some of the left-wing were killed in the first few hours of rioting. We don’t know if Harriet and her immediate cronies are among the dead or not. The capital was sacked, looted, and burned by those mindless goddamn mobs of heathens. And they were of all colors. No placing the blame on any one group. Now the movement, if that’s what you want to call it, has splintered into several dozen smaller groups, each group controlling a certain section of territory. And each group vowing to fight right alongside the other if need be.”

  Mike paused for another sip of coffee and Ben asked, “I was always under the impression that Simon Border was a big fan of Harriet Hooter and those that follow her; couldn’t she have taken refuge with him?”

  Mike sat his mug down on the desk. “It’s a possibility, providing she and the others could get to him. But they were all in Charleston when the riots began, and Border is headquartered in Colorado. Harriet thought she was going to just walk right into the New White House and take over. She didn’t take into account a mob’s mentality. And there’s something else—my people have uncovered a coup within a coup. Border was playing both ends against the middle. For a couple of years now, he’s had people roaming all over the nation, quietly talking with citizens. And when we pulled out for Europe, Simon’s people really went to work. When they were through, they had convinced most of the more or less reasonable-thinking men and women to come over to his side. They left Harriet and her group of fruitcakes the rabble, the punks, the gangs, and the hardcore criminal element.”

  Ben held up a hand. “Let me see if I can finish it for you. Drink your coffee and relax. Simon knows it’s going to take us some time to deal with the groups on the east side of the river. While we’re doing that, he’s going to be hard at work building up his army and defenses, right?”

  “You got it.”

  “And Simon Border’s people helped arm and supply the rabble, right?”

  “Give the man a ci-gar.”

  “That no-good, hypocritical son of a bitch!”

  Mike smiled. “Right again, boss.”

  Ben drummed his fingers on the desktop. “Scouts reports that since the takeover, those on the east side of the Mississippi River, most of them, have turned once clean, quiet little towns into nothing more than filthy squatters’ camps.”

  “Right again, for the most part. There are a few who have maintained the towns and villages, but damn few. Most don’t know how to keep the sewerage and water plants working, and don’t know jack-crap about power plants. It’
s pretty dismal. We’re just about back to ground zero, Ben.”

  “We won’t be for long,” Ben said, a grimness behind his words and a hard glint in his eyes.

  As he had done so many times in the past, Ben began walking the long lines of Rebels, his team a couple of steps behind him. Anna walked Ben’s Husky, Smoot, on a leash. Stretching out for hundreds of yards were fifteen battalions of Rebels and Therm’s short 19 Batt.

  Therm’s wife, Rosebud, had clouded up like a thunderstorm when Ben finally relented and gave Therm a front-line command. Ben had quickly backed down from that and Therm, with a sigh, finally accepted the fact that he was going to be CO of a short battalion that handled all the tedious paperwork and logistics and the thousand and one other details that keep the machinery of war running smoothly.

  Ben knew he had grossly underestimated both Simon Border and Harriet Hooter and her pack of screwballs. He silently vowed never to do that again.

  Ben, as always, wore no insignia. He didn’t have to. Everybody knew who Ben Raines was. And he and his team were the only Rebels that wore the old French-style lizard BDUs.

  There was little banter between Ben and the men and women who made up the Rebel Army—not this time. This time the Rebels had their backs against a wall and they all knew it There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that the Rebels would be anything except victorious in the upcoming fight—no one had ever defeated the Rebels—but, to a person, they knew this fight was going to be the worst they had ever fought—in more ways than one.

  This was going to be a full-blown civil war.

  But it was still not clear in Ben’s mind why Simon Border did what he did. There were other ways he could have carved out his own little empire. Ben would not have made any effort to stop him, and Blanton’s armed forces had been so under-strength he would have been unable to prevent it.

  As Ben walked the long lines of Rebels and equipment, acknowledging a salute here, a wave there, and a nod here, he concluded that Simon must want to be king of America.

  A roar of incoming planes brought Ben’s attention back to the present. The recon planes were returning from another photo op. The pictures would be ready for viewing in minutes.

  Ben turned to Corrie, a step behind him. “Have the battalions move to their staging area. All batt coms at my HQ.”

  Ben would be taking his 1 Batt and two other battalions and moving directly west, to reclaim the territory originally known as Base Camp One, then he would cut north and start the move up to the Missouri border. The other battalions, in groups of three, would head straight north, staying east of the Mississippi River, eventually clearing out the squatters all the way up to the old SUSA’s northern boundaries, from the Mississippi River running west to east.

  Everything that was necessary had been packed up and moved out, ready for the road. In a bare office, Ben faced his commanders. “We’ve bombarded the squatters with leaflets for three days now. They certainly know we’re coming. Scouts report that they finally got it through the squatters’ heads that we mean it, and have begun moving many of the non-combatant women and kids out.” Ben sighed audibly. “But many have stayed behind . . .”

  A loud groan went up from the batt coms.

  “I know, I know,” Ben said. “That means no shelling, no softening up with mortars and artillery. We do it eyeball to eyeball, down and dirty. I know you all well, and I know I speak for everyone here when I say that none of us wants to hurt a child.” He shook his head. “But this is war and that is certainly going to happen. Probably before we get past our first skirmish. There is nothing I can say here that will prevent it, or ease the personal pain when it happens. Ah . . .” He sighed. “Words fail me here. What can I say to you? That we’re fighting for our land? Yes, we are. But probably many of the people we’ll be up against lived here before we came along. And don’t think I haven’t thought about that. With the exception of the gangs of punks and the criminal element we’ll be facing, there are no clearly defined good guys and bad guys; no black hats or white hats. We’re all wearing gray, so to speak. I’ve spoken to Rebels who have told me they have brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles and cousins out there facing us. This is not going to be a pleasant campaign—for any of us. At least not until we cross that Mississippi River and face Simon Border and his forces. Then we can start kicking ass the Rebel way. Any questions?”

  There were none.

  “All right, people. Let’s do it.”

  Since the Rebels were deep inside their own territory, they hit no trouble spots the first day out. It was noon of the second day before the Scouts, ranging miles ahead of the main column, radioed back to get ready for some trouble.

  Corrie grimaced at the speaker and lifted the mic. “What sort of trouble, Far Eyes?”

  “The kind we don’t handle very well,” the scout said. “Hang on. I’m trying to sort all this out.”

  “What the hell is she talking about?” Ben asked. In the Rebel Army, any woman who could make it through the rugged training of special operations groups such as the Scouts became a part of that unit. But there was no slack cut because of gender, and no bullshit was tolerated from the men once that female proved her mettle. The Rebels had proven years back that women were just as effective as men in combat.

  Ben and team were riding in a large, completely modified van that seated six comfortably. The van had been bullet-proofed. A truck carrying their equipment and supplies traveled behind them, but each team member did carry an emergency kit containing a three-day supply of food.

  “I can’t think of anything we don’t do well,” Ben bitched. He reached up and unhooked a mic. “Far Eyes, this is Eagle. What are you talking about?”

  “Protestors, sir. People have formed a human chain across the highway. The road is completely blocked with men, women, and children.”

  “Shit!” Ben said. He keyed the mic. “All right, Far Eyes. Back off until we get there.”

  “Ten-four, sir. With pleasure.”

  Ben occupied the captain’s chair beside Cooper, the driver. Jersey and Corrie had the two captain’s chairs behind them, and Beth and Anna were in the rear. The big custom-built van was crowded with gear, but not uncomfortably so.

  “How far away are we from the Scouts’ location, Corrie?”

  “About twenty miles, boss.”

  Ben nodded, a sudden smile creasing his lips. Cooper glanced at him. “You think of something funny, boss?”

  “Maybe. Just maybe, I’ve come up with a way to temporarily deal with some of these . . . situations. Without a lot of bloodshed. That is, no bloodshed if these squatters have any sense at all. We’ll see.”

  “Boss,” Corrie said, “all Scouts in all sectors are reporting protestors forming human chains across roads and bridges.”

  “Tell all forward units to hold what they’ve got until I meet with the people up ahead. Tell them they will have instructions within the hour.” He looked back at his team. “Cross your fingers and wish me luck, gang.”

  The blonde-haired, pale-eyed Anna said, “Why not just shoot them, General Ben?”

  “Let’s give them a chance first, Anna,” Ben told his newly adopted daughter. The team had quickly discovered that Anna, despite being only fifteen or sixteen (she wasn’t sure which), was a fierce fighter who gave absolutely no quarter to an enemy.

  “Bah!” Anna replied. “If these people are not our friends, then they must surely be our enemies. I do not see any middle ground.”

  “Hush,” Ben told her.

  Anna was quite lovely, and very mature for her age. She also had a figure that had caused more than one Rebel to walk into trees and poles while watching her. But Anna had a streak of savagery in her that Ben had not been able to rid her of.

  Anna had been orphaned when she was a very small child, and had been on her own until captured by the Rebels in Hungary; in her early years she had to fight dogs for scraps of food. Dan Gray had remarked to Ben that while Anna was lovely and charming and hig
hly intelligent, she was, at times, only a cut above a feral child.

  Ben had not taken offense at the statement, for he knew what Dan said was true.

  Anna loved to get in close with an enemy and use a knife—and she was very, very good with a blade. Anna was also fiercely loyal to Ben and the Rebels.

  “Scouts have pulled back about a mile from the protestors,” Corrie said. “They’re just up ahead.”

  When they reached the Scouts, Cooper parked in the middle of the road and Ben and team got out. “Are these people armed?” Ben asked.

  “No, sir. Not a weapon anywhere. And it isn’t an ambush. We checked the area. It’s clean.”

  “Let’s go see these people,” Ben said, climbing back into the van. “Lead the way, boys and girls.”

  “What do you have in mind?” Jersey asked.

  Ben smiled. “You’ll see.”

  THREE

  “It’s the devil himself!” a woman cried out as Ben stepped from the van and walked toward the group.

  “Idiots!” Jersey muttered.

  Anna said something under her breath, in her native tongue. No one in the team knew what it was she said, but all knew it was highly uncomplimentary, directed at the gathering of malcontents in the road.