Treason in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

Ben pulled his small team around him. Cooper asked, “Which side you reckon God is on in this thing, General?”

  “I think he’s neutral, Coop. I think He sat back a long time ago, long before any of you were born, and put Earth on the back burner.” He paused, smiled, and looked heavenward. “Well, He didn’t strike me dead so I guess we’re not totally out of favor.” The team laughed at that. When the laughter had subsided, Ben said, “Let’s go, folks.”

  The small teams of Rebels were spread out and dug in along a mile-long stretch of road. Each team was armed with rocket launchers—with every member of the team carrying four rounds—Big Thumpers, and automatic weapons. Each squad leader made certain every member knew the escape routes and where to rendezvous. They very carefully dug in and waited.

  The colonel leading the advancing regiment sent recon in first. The recon moved carefully and cautiously. But they seldom investigated more than twenty or so yards on either side of the old highway. Bad mistake. As soon as the recon teams had passed, the Rebels slipped out of their hidey-holes and reset the Claymores and placed C-4 at preselected sites. Then they slipped back to their holes and waited.

  The first tanks of the long column appeared and the Rebels let them rumble past, allowing them to roll deeper and deeper into the trap. Ben and his team were located at the south end of the mile-long corridor of death, with a handful of Rebel scouts a few hundred yards past that point. When the enemy recon passed Ben’s location, they paused to radio in the all-clear. Five seconds later they were dead, felled by silenced .22s. Their bodies were quickly dragged off the road and tossed into the brush just as the first tank drew up to Ben’s location.

  “Now!” Ben said, and Cooper fired the Armbrust. The rocket slammed into the side of the tank and turned the inside into a fiery death for the crew. Beth took out the second tank and Jersey finished the third one. Up and down the mile-long stretch of highway, explosions shattered the quiet and a rattled regimental commander screamed orders to get the hell out of there.

  But it was too late and too confusing. The tanks and trucks got all jammed up in their haste to get away and it became a turkey shoot for the Rebels and a massacre for the enemy troops. Then the Rebels vanished, running all out east and west. When they reached a preselected heading, they cut south, heading for the rendezvous spot. They left behind them a mile-long section of smoking, burning, and exploding hell. The Rebels headed for the ruins of a tiny town at the intersection of Highways 28 and 30.

  They had not suffered a single person lost due to death or wounds.

  While Ben and his people regrouped, the regimental commander of Revere’s troops had to hold up and lose a full day clearing the road and seeing to the wounded and burying the dead. Blanton and his troops had crossed over into Vermont and set up in the Green Mountains. His more experienced and worldly and less liberal commanders monitored the antics of Ben Raines and his Rebels by radio and exchanged glances. None of them were looking forward to tangling with the Rebels. But how to convince President Blanton that declaring war on the Rebels was going to be a bloody and terrible mistake? They were soldiers, and they would do as their commander in chief ordered. But they knew in their hearts they would never defeat the Rebels. To do that, they would have to wipe them out to the last person, and that was impossible. The commanders met and selected General Taylor to meet with Blanton.

  “Mister President,” Taylor said. “It’s time to put past political differences behind you and give serious thought to joining forces with the Rebels and defeating General Revere. When that is done, then you and General Raines can sit down and work something out.”

  Blanton shook his head. “No. I won’t do that. I will not allow that man to flaunt the constitution.”

  Taylor sighed. “Mister President, I’ve got to convince you of something. Ben Raines couldn’t, but maybe I can. Those thousands of people rushing to join us are worthless. They’re losers—before the Great War, and afterwards. Believe me. My people have interviewed those types for months . . . years! They want something for nothing. They’re scared to death of Ben Raines because they can’t live under very simple and very basic Rebel rule—”

  “Of course, they can’t,” Blanton cut him short. “No one wants to live under a dictatorship.”

  General Taylor sighed. “Mister President, I am sworn by oath to serve you. I will not break that oath. I will stand by you. But you are very wrong about General Raines. The Rebels don’t live under a dictatorship. They are the freest people on the face of the earth.”

  “Oh, that’s nonsense!” Harriet Hooter stuck her mouth into it. “How can everybody be free when everybody is armed to the teeth with those horrible, nasty guns?”

  General Taylor cut his eyes. He couldn’t stand the woman, but she was a friend of the president. “Ms. Hooter, that is precisely the reason they are free.”

  “Nonsense!” was her reply. “Horrible, nasty Republicans.”

  General Taylor stood up. “Mister President, I would much rather have General Raines for an ally than an enemy.”

  “That is possible only if General Raines and his followers will swear allegiance to the flag of the United States of America and agree to relinquish the territory they now claim and rejoin the Union.”

  “That, sir, is something that will never happen.”

  “Then the war will be long and costly, but we shall eventually crush them in battle,” said the president. “For God is on our side.”

  “Shit!” said the general, then left the room.

  General Revere and his people were stopped cold and could not advance an inch. He sent commando teams sweeping around both ends of the Rebel lines. He stopped sending them when none of the previous teams reported back. There was no turning back for Revere; he was committed and was fully aware of what would happen to him should he lose. Neither President Blanton nor Ben Raines would hesitate a second in ordering him shot on the spot.

  General Taylor had ordered Revere’s supply lines severed. In a week or so, that would begin to tell. Revere had to make a decision, and had to make it soon. There was just no way he could fight on three fronts. He had sent messages out to the warlords he knew leaned toward his way of thinking, but so far, no replies had come in. If they would just swing over to his side . . .

  “General,” an aide broke into his thoughts. “The spokesman for all the warlords, Al Rogers, just called in. He and all the others have agreed to fight with us.”

  “All right!” Revere jumped to his boots. “Get all my people in here, Jimmy. We’ve got to move fast.”

  “Something weird’s going on, General,” Corrie called to Ben. “Colonel Taylor has been ordered back. Base Camp One reports massive movements of warlords and their people. Thousands of well-armed people. Intelligence seems to think that gangs of all colors have apparently put aside their differences and agreed to fight against the common enemy.”

  “Us,” Ben said.

  “Right.”

  “Well, you can bet they’ve thrown in with Revere. Get me Ike on the horn.”

  “Go, Eagle,” Ike said.

  “Ike, you heard from Cec?”

  “That’s ten-four. What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know for sure. But I’ll bet you a bottle of whiskey that Revere will be pulling out, or has already begun doing that, and heading in this direction. Those warlords and their people will be throwing up a line right down the middle of the country to block you.”

  Ike was silent for a moment. “Could be it, Ben. We intercepted a message that General Taylor had cut Revere’s supply lines. He’d be hurting in a couple of weeks. If these punks are well-equipped, they could hang me up.”

  “Expect that, Ike. According to reports, they are very well-equipped. Revere’s going to try to take out Blanton and his people, then deal with me. I’ve got some decisions to make, Ike. I’ll get back to you. Eagle out.” He looked at Corrie. “Get me home base, Corrie.”

  “Cec here, Ben. What’s up?”

&nb
sp; “Let me hear your opinion on what the warlords are doing.”

  It was the same as Ben thought.

  “Ben, you’re not going to try to assist Blanton and his people, are you?” Cecil asked.

  “With what, Cec? Less than a company? I’m not going to sacrifice my people because of his hard-headedness. I’ll try to advise him, but whether he takes that advice is up for grabs. Probably he won’t.”

  “And then?”

  “I’m taking my people and getting the hell out of here. Have a battalion start moving north, Cec. Armor, artillery, the whole mobile bag. As many people as you can spare. Stay on the east side of the Mississippi. We’ll link up with them somewhere in Indiana.”

  “Will do, Ben. Cec out.”

  “Get me Blanton, Corrie.” Ben poured a cup of coffee while he waited.

  Corrie said, “The president is not available at this time, General.”

  “Not available? What the hell is he doing, watching for the maple sap to start dripping?”

  Corrie ducked her head to hide her grin.

  “Can you get me General Taylor?”

  “I’ll try, sir.”

  Ben rolled a cigarette and sipped his coffee.

  “General Taylor on the horn, sir.”

  “General Taylor? Ben Raines here.” He laid it all out for the man.

  “Damn!” the general said, when Ben finished. “I think you’re probably right, General Raines. I’ll give your suggestions and my recommendation to the president and urge him to take your advice. But . . .”

  “Yeah, I know. Good luck to you, General Taylor.”

  “Luck to you, General Raines.”

  Ben handed Corrie the mic and said, “Pack it up, people. We’re shagging ass out of here.”

  * * *

  They had names like Bad Boy and Bull, Jammin’ Jimmy and Rappin’ Sid. Others were called Street Queen and Glory Girl, Lovely Leroy and Kansas City Kid. Still others went by the handles of Ass Kicker Kelly, Moline Max, Cool Man Milo, Toy Boy Bart, Ross the Rumbler, Dido Duke . . . and so on and so forth, well past the point of being nauseous. They were the absolute dregs of a fallen society. In the past, billions of taxpayer dollars had been spent (by a democrat-controlled, liberal government) trying to help people such as these. The money might as well have been flushed down the toilet. The sobbing sisters and hanky-twisters and snit-throwers in congress just never understood that street punks and gutter slime respect only one thing: brute force.

  One cannot offer these types compassion because they don’t have any, for anything or anybody. They are the types of people who want something for nothing. They demand a job but they are unqualified to do anything except mug and rob and assault and rape and kill. They demand that society foot the bill to train them for work and then complain that the jobs they’re offered are beneath them. They demand respect at the point of a gun or a knife. They come in all colors, all races. They are savage and ignorant and bigoted and don’t have enough common sense to pour piss out of a boot, and they are proud of it. When they don’t get their way, they riot and loot and burn and then demand that the law-abiding, tax-paying citizens pay to rebuild their neighborhoods.

  These types were about to discover that their way of thinking was totally alien to the Rebel philosophy. These types were about to discover that in the Rebel society, if you contribute nothing to society, that is exactly what you get from it. These types were about to discover that if you threaten a Rebel, you run the risk of getting killed—very quickly.

  “You were right,” Corrie said, monitoring transmissions as the column rolled south and west out of New York State. “Our scouts report that the punks are throwing up a line on the east side of the Mississippi River. And they are well-equipped.”

  “Artillery?” Ben asked.

  “Yes. But not under their command. Revere’s people control that.”

  Ben was silent for a couple of miles. “While we were fighting Hoffman and his Nazis for all those months, Revere and his people were busy setting all this up. It almost worked. Ike has confirmed that Revere is swinging his people around; shifting them to the east. Revere thinks he’s going to put me in a box. Has Cec put that battalion on the road yet?”

  “Yes, sir. Pushing hard to link up with us.”

  “Tell Ike to hold his positions until we are certain of Revere’s motives,” Ben said. “At my command he is to begin first swinging his westernmost battalions south and east. When the last of Revere’s battalions are east of the Great Lakes, Ike will start lining up north to south in the heartland, facing the Mississippi River and the punks.”

  “Then we’ll start harassing the punks from the rear,” Cooper said.

  “Right,” Ben said.

  Jersey smiled. “Kick-ass time!”

  FIVE

  Ben pushed his people hard, rolling the short convoy as fast as he dared along the old crumbling highways. If they could travel at 45 miles per hour, that was good. Usually it was less than that.

  Blanton’s agents had done their work well in spreading the “chicken in every pot” (skinless) crap. Sometimes people hidden along the way shot at them, sometimes the people waved and cheered. Residents of the battered nation were pretty evenly divided between the Rebels’ form of government and the old unworkable, so-called “democratic” type of government.

  “Looks like about half the people are for us and half against us,” Beth remarked.

  “The old government would have worked if the politicians had adhered to the constitution the way it was written and stopped trying to screw it up,” Ben said, during a welcome break. “But it seemed like suddenly every liberal became an expert on the constitution . . . interpreting it the way they wanted it to read.”

  “How about folks like us?” Cooper asked. “Why didn’t we get a say in matters?”

  Ben smiled and poured another cup of coffee. “The news media usually branded anyone who believed in using lethal force to protect what was theirs a right-wing lunatic. We didn’t have much of a chance to say our piece. Usually when the press did stick a microphone under the nose of a citizen who believed they still had a right to protect what was theirs, it was nearly always some ignorant, bigoted ultra-right-winger with an alligator mouth and a hummingbird ass.”

  “We’re going to have company just about a mile down the road, General,” Corrie called. “Some group calling themselves Partners of Peace.”

  “POP?” Ben said with a smile.

  “That’s a hell of a lot better than Warriors of Peace,” Lt. Bonelli said with a laugh.

  When the laughter had subsided, Ben asked, “What frequency are they using?”

  “CB.”

  “Very up to date, aren’t they?”

  “Channel 19,” Corrie added.

  “Really professional,” Jersey said, stretching out her diminutive frame for a short nap.

  “Wake me up in thirty,” Ben said, lying down. He was asleep in two minutes.

  “Scout it out,” Lt. Bonelli said, jerking his thumb toward the road.

  They returned just about the time Ben was waking up.

  “The interstate is blocked and they’re definitely waiting for us,” the Rebels told Ben. “And they’re well-armed.”

  The convoy had skirted Youngstown and were staying on I-76, working their way to Indiana.

  “Looks like about a hundred of them,” the other Rebel said. “Men and women. Flying the American flag.”

  Ben sighed. “Exactly what I didn’t want. This is shaping up to be a full-blown civil war. Blanton’s smart. That’s what he wants. He’s the good guy and we’re the bad guys. He’s worked for many years setting all this up. I’ll give him credit for patience.”

  “What about POP?” Cooper asked.

  Ben stood up and stretched. He reached for his Thompson. “Let’s go see what their beef is.”

  The Rebels could have easily shot their way through, or simply bypassed the area. But neither of those was, at the moment, acceptable to Ben. Abou
t five hundred yards from the barricade, Ben halted the convoy and got on the CB.

  “You people do not own the highways,” he radioed. “Please allow us to pass.”

  “You are a traitor, Ben Raines,” a man’s voice came through the speaker. “You have turned your back on the President of the United States. Your reign of terror ends here.”

  “Are they kidding?” Beth asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Ben said, keying the mic. “I don’t know where you got your information, mister, but it’s wrong. I offered help to the president. He turned it down.”

  “We did?” Jersey looked at Ben.

  “Sort of,” he replied.

  No one had to ask what the Rebels should do if the members of POP opened fire. No one fired on the Rebels without retaliation. If the members of POP had a death wish, they couldn’t have found a better group to see that their wishes became reality.

  “You lie, Ben Raines,” the spokesman for POP said. “Everybody knows you are a liar.”

  Ben had been called lots of things both before and after the Great War, but being called a liar was something he would not take. Everyone who knew Ben even slightly knew he was honest to a fault. Ben was uncommonly blunt with the truth. “Clear that goddamn road,” he radioed. “And do it quickly. That is the only warning you are going to get.” He turned to Lt. Bonelli. “Rocket launchers in place?”

  Bonelli nodded.

  “You go straight to hell, Ben Raines!” the spokesman said. “We are prepared to die for President Blanton.”

  “Idiots,” Ben muttered. “Put two HE’s into that barricade” he ordered.

  The vehicles that blocked the interstate went up with a swooshing boom as the high explosive rounds impacted against them and ignited the gas tanks. Bodies and parts of bodies were hurled into the air and slammed away from both sides of the road. Those left alive put their feet to work and hit the trail.

  “Clear the wreckage,” Ben ordered.

  Deuce and a halves moved up and pushed the mangled hulks out of the way, clearing one lane. The Rebels mounted up and moved forward. At the smoking site, Ben saw the American flag the members of POP had been flying lying on the grass, just off the shoulder.