Anarchy in the Ashes ta-3 Read online

  “I stood right there and watched that man die, Ben. I felt … I felt lots of things. But Ben, I didn’t feel any pity for him. I… felt like he deserved what I had done to him.”

  She sighed heavily, as if the telling had lifted a load from her slender shoulders.

  “One of the men had a pistol in a holster, and some bullets for it in loops. I took all those. I got in the pickup and drove off. Kind of. It was one of those four on the floor types. I knocked the whole porch down before I figured how to get the damn thing out of reverse. It was embarrassing.

  “I found some people a little while later and they were very nice. They told me they heard St. Louis had blown up. So I headed for Columbia. My parents had friends there that taught at the university. They took me in. There’s a whole lot more, but that’s the high points. Except for this:

  “I am tired of running. I am tired of being alone. I am tired of being scared. I do not want to be alone ever again. Do you understand what I am saying, Ben Raines? I mean, really understand it?”

  He looked at her and full comprehension passed silently between man and woman.

  “Yes, I do,” Ben told her.

  “Fine.” She smiled and mischief popped and sparkled in her dark eyes. “Then keep your eyes on the road, Ben. You’re not the best driver I’ve ever ridden with, you know?”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Ottumwa contained more people than Ben had seen theretofore in any one place. And Ben noticed that most of them were armed, with both side arms and rifles.

  He ordered his convoy to a halt and got out to speak with some of the people. He was greeted courteously, if not, at first, warmly.

  So spotty were communications throughout America that some of the people did not even know Ben had been in and out of the White House at Richmond.

  Ben commented on the highly visible arms.

  “Had to go to it,” a man told him. “First those awful things were around-you know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”

  Ben nodded. “Mutants.”

  “Yeah. Then the IPF came nosing around, spewing that communistic bullshit. We ran them out of town, but they just spread out all around here, all around us. They got a firm hand and hold on Waterloo, conducting classes at the college, and lots of folks are being taken in by that line. But not us.”

  “How far up north do they extend?”

  “All the way up into Canada, so I hear tell. But it’s a funny-odd-type of communism. Not like the way it was in Russia before the bombings.”

  “Yet,” Ben said.

  The man smiled. “Yeah. Say, why don’t you folks spend the night here? We have running water, electricity, all the comforts. Well, most of them. We can talk about what to do about the IPF.”

  “I’d like that,” Ben said with a smile. He stuck out his hand. The man shook it.

  “You’re sure you won’t reconsider and make the move down south with us?” Ben again asked. “Join up with us.”

  Dinner had been delicious. The people of Ottumwa had opened up their homes to the Rebels, eager for company and for some news of happenings on the outside. The days of turning on a radio or TV for news and entertainment were long gone… and for many would never return.

  The Iowan smiled and shook his head negatively. He refilled their cups with hot tea. Coffee was now almost unknown. The tea was a blend of sassafras root and experimental tea leaves grown in South Carolina and in hot houses.

  “I don’t believe so, General. This land around here is still some of the best farm land in the world, and me and the wife have been farming it for some years now. Think we’ll just stay on.”

  “And if the IPF returns?” Ben asked. “In force, with force?”

  “We do try not to think about that, General Raines.” the man’s wife said. “But we’re not always successful in doing it.”

  The farmer said, “If that happens, General Raines, look for us to join you.”

  “I’ll stay in contact, try to warn you in time to get out.”

  “We’d appreciate that, General.”

  “But if you see it coming at you, don’t wait until it’s too late,” Ben cautioned.

  “There’s about three hundred of us rebuilding around here,” the man said. “And we’re all armed and know how to use the weapons.”

  “The Russians have between five and ten thousand troops,” Ben replied.

  The man paled. “Then well have to give your suggestion some heavier consideration, General.”

  The convoy pulled out the next morning, rolling northward. They halted at the junction of Highways 63 and 6 while a team was sent into Grinnell College to inspect.

  Ben stood beside Gale, both of them leaning against the fender of the pickup. They heard the plane coming and looked up at the twin-engine prop job as it dipped lower, coming out of the north.

  “It’s unarmed, General!” a spotter called, viewing the plane through binoculars. “But its markings show it’s an IPF aircraft.”

  “Stand easy,” Ben told his people.

  Paper fluttered through the air as the plane did a slow fly-by. The pilot waggled his wings, banked to the north, and was gone before the bits of paper had fallen to the earth.

  Gale snagged one of the falling leaflets and handed it to Ben. After she read it. Ben waited patiently.

  TO: PRESIDENT-GENERAL BEN RAINES FROM: GENERAL GEORGI STRIGANOV MY DEAR MR. RAINES: I AM WAITING IN WATERLOO TO MEET WITH Y. I WILL MEET YOU ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF THE CITY, SOUTH SIDE, AT THE CITY LIMITS SIGN. IF YOU WISH, COME ARMED. I WILL NOT BE ARMED AND NEITHER WILL ANY OF MY P. LOOKING FORWARD TO MEETING WITH YOU AND SHARING SOME INTELLIGENT CONVERSATION.

  GEORGI

  “I wouldn’t trust a goddamn Russian any further than I could spit,” a Rebel said.

  Colonel Gray smiled, anticipating Ben’s reply. He was not disappointed.

  “I think that probably has a great deal to do with the shape of the world at the present time,” Ben said. “But the Russians never inspired a great deal of confidence in me, either. Colonel Gray?”

  “Sir?”

  “Take a team and reconnoiter the situation. Do not fire unless you are fired upon. If you meet with any of General Striganov’s people, set up day after tomorrow for the meeting and report back to me immediately.”

  “Sir.” The Englishman saluted and called for three other Rebels to join him. They left within five minutes in two Jeeps.

  “Corporal.” Ben looked at the radio operator. “Get on the horn and have Colonel McGowen get his people up and moving. I don’t want to risk a night landing using vehicle headlights, so tell him to use the airstrip just outside of town and I’ll expect him no later than 1200 hours tomorrow. I’ll be waiting.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Dismount and make camp,” Ben hollered.

  “You are?” Colonel Gray asked the uniformed young man.

  “Lieutenant Stolski, sir, IPF.”

  “Nice old Welsh name,” Dan muttered under his breath. “Well, Lieutenant, are we going to be civilized about this, or do we draw a line with the toe of a boot and dare each other to step over it?”

  The young IPF officer laughed and stuck out his hand. “I have some excellent tea in my quarters, sir. Would you join me for a cup?”

  Dan shook the offered hand. “Delighted, son.”

  The four old, prop-driven planes were airborne within an hour after receiving Ben’s orders. The planes were old, but in excellent mechanical condition, the motors rebuilt from the ground up. The four planes carried two full companies of hand-picked Rebels, in full combat gear.

  The planes had refueled in central Missouri and spent the night there. They were circling the small airport outside Grinnell, Iowa at 1150 hours.

  Ben had arranged transportation (thousands of vehicles

  around the nation were still operable after a bit of servicing) and the troops mounted up and were rolling after guards were placed around the aircraft.

  “You’re in charge here while I’
m meeting with General Striganov,” Ben told Ike. “I’m only taking four people with me.”

  “Plus your bodyguards.”

  “Only four people,” Ben repeated.

  “Plus your bodyguards,” Ike insisted, staring out the windshield.

  Ben sighed. “All right, Ike. If it will make you happy.”

  Ike sniffed the air of the cab. “Smells like perfume in here, Ben. Have you gone funny on me?”

  Ben gave him a hard look. But it was to no avail. No one could stay miffed at Ike. Ben told him about Gale.

  “One good thing came of this trip anyway,” the stocky ex-Seal said with a grin. His grin faded. “We got a little more trouble down home, though.”

  “Oh?”

  “Emil Hite and his band of kookies and fruities. They’re growing, Ben. Seems people are looking for something or someone to believe in. ‘Bout five or six hundred more new members just joined up with Hite and his cream-pies.”

  “Moving into our area?”

  “I don’t know how to keep them out, Ben. They’re not armed, never make any kind of hostile move. They are not aggressive at all. What the hell can we do under those circumstances?”

  “We can run their paganistic asses clear out of the area,” Ben spoke through clenched teeth. Emil Hite was the Jim Jones type-only worse. Ben suspected, but had no way of proving, that Hite was having sexual relations

  with young boys and girls ten years of age-and less. And he knew comhaving seen with his own eyes-Hite and his followers were worshipping idols. Well, they could worship a pile of horse hockey if they chose, but it was the children that concerned Ben.

  Ike glanced at him and worked his chewing tobacco over to the other side of his mouth. “The mutants might not like that too much, ol” buddy.”

  “What the hell do the mutants have to do with Emil Hite?”

  “Well-was Ike spat out the open window-“Emile Hite and his nutsos kind of worship the ugly bastards.”

  That so startled Ben he almost lost the pickup. He was glad Gale was not with him. “What!”

  “Yeah. Our intelligence just discovered that a few days ago. Seems they-Hite and his jellybeans-have been feeding the mutants for the past year or so; kind of tamed some of them, I reckon. And hold on to your balls for this one: Every now and then, so intelligence has gathered, Hite gives the ugly things women.”

  “You have got to be kidding!”

  “Nope.” Ike shrugged philosophically. “Savage and stupid people the world over have been doing things similar since the beginnings of time, Ben. You know that.”

  “Yeah. The Aztecs, Mayans, hell, the Hawaiians used to toss selected maidens into volcanoes.” He shook his head in disgust. “Well, I’ll deal with Hite later. Right now, let’s worry about the Russians.”

  “One thing at a time.” Ike grinned.

  The men stood for a full minute, each silently appraising the other. They were very close in age; no more than

  a year or two separated them. Both were in excellent physical shape, heavily muscled and lean-waisted.

  “General Striganov.” Ben was the first to speak. He extended his hand. The Russian took it.

  “So good to at last meet you, General Raines. It’s rare one gets to meet a legend.”

  “If indeed I am a legend.”

  “Oh, you are, sir.” Georgi said with a smile. “Have no doubts concerning that.”

  Ben decided to pull no punches with the man. “I won’t apologize for what happened to your young man in Rolla, General. He and his men raped one of my people and roughed up another.”

  The Russian smiled grimly. “No apologies expected, General. I personally shot him.”

  Ben lifted his eyes to meet the Russian’s open gaze.

  “Oh yes, General Raines. His orders were not to rape or physically abuse the population. And I run a very tight ship, so to speak. I will not tolerate any breach of discipline. Besides, Mikael, so I learned, was somewhat of a-how to say this-was twisted sexually. He will not be missed. His rather lame excuse about your two young people being spies had no validity. Spies against what or whom? Russia no longer exists as a government; America no longer exists as a government, a power. The world, indeed, is a free, open land, as unbridled by man-made law as the vast seas. I view it this way, General: If you have the right to set in place your own form of government, amenable to the people who follow you, then so do I. Would you argue that?”

  Ben had to smile. Putting the question that simplistically, Ben could not argue the concept or the method-thus far-but he could argue and question the ideology.

  The Russian returned the smile, viewing the American through cold eyes. “As the Americans used to be fond of saying, General, I’m being quite “up front” with the people. At first I was not; I will admit-openly-to some initial deceit. But no longer. I am telling the people who I was and what I have now become: a communist who has now shifted a bit to become a pure socialist in thinking and actions.”

  “And of the caste system you advocate?” Ben was not letting him off the hook that easily.

  But the Russian was full of surprises. “But of course! Stupid and shallow people are very often quite vain, General Raines. You are a very intelligent man; I don’t have to tell you about human nature. Oh no, General, I am now-much to Sam Hartline’s disgust-being quite open and honest in my dealings with the people. But what is amusing to me is this: Not one of the people who now embraces my form of government actually believes he will be placed in the lower levels of the system, even though I intimate they certainly will. That, I believe, is the dubious beauty of the naive and the arrogant man who knows not that he is either. And would not believe it if he was so informed. You know those types, General Raines. The world is-or was-full of them.”

  The man was anything but a fool, Ben reluctantly conceded. And he would be a formidable adversary. If it came to that.

  As if on some invisible signal, an aide brought them coffee-real coffee. Ben savored the rich smell and taste. He had to ask where in the world General Striganov got the coffee.

  “Call me Georgi-please. And may I call you Ben?”

  “Certainly, Georgi.”

  “Stockpiled it, Ben. Hundreds of tons of the finest coffee beans in the world, although I can’t personally guarantee each bean was hand-picked by that fellow on your American TV.”

  Ben smiled in remembrance of that commercial: a coffee bean picker with manicured fingernails.

  “And also some of the finest tea in the world, as well,” Georgi concluded proudly.

  “But none of that will be shared with the, ah, lower classes of your system?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “I could attack that, Georgi.”

  “But of course you could! However, Ben-was the Russian leaned forward, pyramiding his finger tips in a vague gesture of praying-“do tell me this: Does an ignorant person appreciate the beauty and talents of a Renoir, a Van Gogh, Cezanne, Caravaggio?” He smiled in anticipation of an easily won verbal victory. “We both know the answer to that. If an ignorant person had a choice, which would you envision him hanging in his hovel: a print of a famous master, or some hideous cloth depicting dogs playing billiards or poker?”

  Ben had to laugh at that, for in that, he shared the Russian’s philosophy. But he felt compelled to say: “They could be taught to appreciate fine art; are you in agreement with that?”

  Striganov waggled his left hand in a gesture of comme ci, comme ca. “I can attack that, Ben. Back in the eighties, before the world exploded in nuclear and germ madness-which brought us to this point today-which TV program do you think drew more viewers, Hee Haw or a special from the Metropolitan Opera?”

  Ben could but smile. Again, he agreed with the Russian. “We’re speaking of personal choices, Georgi; that is the price a society must pay if said society is to live in freedom.”

  “Nice safe answer, Ben. So you are admitting that freedom can sometimes bring mediocrity to the forefront?”


  “That’s an interesting way of putting it,” Ben said.

  “And you’re hedging the question.”

  “I learned a little about politics, Georgi.”

  “Of all music, Ben, which do you want to endure through the ages?”

  “I think you know the answer to that, Georgi. I was listening to a tape of Tchaikovsky’s Serenade for Strings and Capriccio Italien on the way up here. But I still maintain it is all a matter of free choice.”

  “We could argue for quite sometime about this, Ben.”

  “Yes. But what would be the point? Unless one of us wanted to play devil’s advocate?”

  Georgi laughed. He leaned back, sipping his coffee. “I forbid the yowlings of hillbillies and the jungle throbbings of black music among my people.”

  “I don’t,” Ben said. “But I don’t have to listen to it, either.”

  “You are very agile at sidestepping, Ben. But I think we are of like mind on many-no! perhaps a few-issues.”

  “Probably.”

  “How many sides do you possess, Ben?”

  “Personalities?” Ben shrugged. “Several, I’m sure. I think you and I are both music snobs, Georgi.” “Yes,” the Russian said. “Q. And you are an honest man, Ben Raines. A truthful man. Diogenes the

  Cynic would have enjoyed speaking with you, I believe. Ben, let me be quite open and honest with you. When I first… when this plan of mine was first conceived-and it is not original with me, I assure you-I thought at first… well, that I would find Americans to be more compassionate than we Russians. But do you know what I’ve found, Ben? The majority of the Americans I’ve encountered are no more compassionate than my people. So for the past few weeks, I have been very honest with those to whom I speak. I tell them up front: We are going to have a pure white race-colorless. There will be no concentration camps, no gas chambers, nothing of that horror. No torture, no starvation, nothing of that sort. Now … history may well perceive me as-to use a movie term-the bad guy, but historians, if they exist at all a hundred years from now, will not portray me as some sort of modern-day Vlad the Impaler or Hitler or Amin. Selective breeding-yes. It will take many, many generations, and of course, I shall not see the end results of my work, certainly, but I will die with the satisfaction of knowing I started a pure race.