Treason in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  “Hold it, Coop.” He got out of the Hummer and righted the flag, jamming the pole deep into the ground. He looked at a member of POP, sitting on the ground, holding a rag to his head. The man was not badly hurt, only scared as he looked into the muzzles of dozens of M-16s, all pointing at him.

  “Well, go ahead and shoot me, Ben Raines,” the man said, a quiver in his voice.

  “I have no intention of shooting you,” Ben told him. “Unless you try to shoot me or any of my people.”

  “President Blanton’s agents told us you were initiating a scorched earth policy. That you killed everyone who did not agree with you.”

  “Blanton is a politician and lying is second nature to a politician,” Ben replied. “You have a doctor with your group?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fine. Then my medics won’t have to waste time checking you out. You just remember this: the next time you threaten a Rebel, you might not get off so lucky. Goodbye.”

  The Rebels mounted up and moved on, leaving the citizen with the bloody bump on his head sitting on the ground, looking very confused.

  As it turned out, the communications network of Blanton’s supporters throughout the nation was much more sophisticated than the Rebels first thought. Somebody from POP got on the horn and warned other groups that the Rebels played rough and dirty and didn’t bluff worth a damn. Ben’s small convoy encountered no more trouble as they rolled through Ohio and into Indiana. As before, some citizens cheered them and others booed and hissed and shook their fists.

  Ben started stopping along the way, talking to those who were friendly to the Rebels. He told them of the new nation that was being formed. If they thought they could live under Rebel law, he invited them down.

  The exodus started.

  The Rebels bypassed the ruins of Indianapolis and started angling south. They linked up with the battalion sent from Base Camp One at the junction of Highway 57 and I-64.

  “If that’s a battalion, I’m Daffy Duck,” Lt. Bonelli said, lowering his binoculars.

  “I think Cecil just might have overdone it a bit,” Ben said, lowering his binoculars. He had spotted Colonel Dan Gray amid all the vehicles and personnel. “Come on. Let’s sort all this out.”

  “Don’t blame me,” Dan said, after shaking Ben’s hand. “Ike ordered me to join you. We’ve got approximately two and a half battalions here, and that’s not counting artillery and armor.”

  “What’s the latest from Revere?”

  “He’s definitely moving against President Blanton’s troops. Intel reports he’s saving us for last. We’ve been seeing a lot of people, families, moving south. What’s that all about?”

  “They’re heading for the new nation we’re carving out.”

  “What is this new nation going to be called, Ben?”

  “The Southern United States of America. The flag will be the stars and stripes. With eleven stars.”

  Dan smiled. “That’s what that new factory down at Base Camp One is so busy working on.”

  “That’s right.”

  “President Blanton is not going to be happy about this.”

  “Blanton’s happiness or lack of it is not my concern.”

  “Everything is all jumbled up, Ben,” the former SAS man said. “We’re getting reports that Canadians are fighting Canadians over the building civil war down here. They’re split about fifty-fifty. Looks like about the same here in the Colonies.” He said the last with a smile. “General Jefferys is of the opinion that Blanton wants a civil war.”

  “I agree with that assessment. Why else would the man feign his own death and stay in hiding for years? Why the elaborate network of agents quietly working the nation, and the secret military bases?” Ben shook his head. “He’s a slick one, all right.”

  “Ben, we held off Revere’s army with trickery and deceit and experience. There is no way that Blanton’s troops can even come close to our proficiency.”

  “You’re right. In a manner of speaking, I agreed to help Blanton. He wanted no part of it. Hell with him. The only one I feel sorry for, believe it or not, is Blush Lightheart.”

  “Oh, I believe it. You are aware that we do have some homosexuals in our ranks?”

  “Of course. They were warned to keep their sexual preferences confined to others of their particular persuasion.”

  “I wondered if you knew.”

  “Very little goes on in this army that I am not aware of,” Ben said with a smile.

  * * *

  The convoy pulled out the next morning, heading west into Illinois. Almost two thousand ground troops, with tanks and artillery to back them up. The column stretched for miles, and it put fear into the hearts of those who backed Blanton, and joy in the hearts of those who favored the Rebels’ form of government.

  Ben knew Blanton had spies everywhere (that much had not changed since his administration when federal agents were spying on everybody they could—including Ben Raines), so there was no point in making any attempt to conceal what the Rebels were up to. That would have been near impossible anyway, considering the size of the columns.

  “We’ll head south when we reach I-57,” Ben told his officers late one afternoon. “We’ll start cleaning out Revere’s punk army and working north at what’s left of Memphis. Dan, get your teams of scouts dressed in civilian clothing and in cars and trucks and motorcycles and get them going. I want comprehensive reports from them. When we get a bit farther south, we’re going to have to cut back east and cross the Ohio River and come at them that way. Most of the bridges are blown over the Mississippi. Corrie, have you heard any reports today about Blanton and his troops?”

  “Nothing, sir. They’ve gone silent.”

  Dan studied Ben’s face. “You’re worried about the man, aren’t you, Ben?”

  “Yes,” Ben said after a slight hesitation. “He’s an American president. I didn’t like or trust him years back and I don’t like or trust him now. But he’s still a living, elected president. And he’s a law-abiding, decent American citizen. But I can’t be his nanny. Get some sleep, Dan. See you in the morning.”

  The column was in southern Illinois, just about to cross the Ohio River, when the first reports from the scouts came in. Revere’s punk army was stretched out all along the Mississippi, on both sides of the river, and they were extremely well-equipped. The only thing they didn’t have to match the Rebels—as far as equipment went—was long range artillery. But they were well-supplied with mortars and appeared to know how to use them.

  “Let’s find out,” Ben said with a hard smile.

  Nothing was left of Memphis but burned-out and bombed hulks of buildings. Most of the nation’s cities had been destroyed in order to wipe out the cannibalistic Creepies. Rebel units began moving to the west, from the east side of the Missouri bootheel, south down to the outskirts of Memphis.

  Rappin’ Sid and Cool Cal were the leaders of the gangs whose jobs it was to prevent the eastward advance of Ike’s Rebels. Revere just hadn’t counted on Ben Raines coming up behind his punk army.

  Thirteen and 14 Battalions, under the command of Raul Gomez and Jim Peters had set up across the river in Arkansas and at Ben’s orders started pounding the punk positions with long range 155s.

  “Holy shit!” Rappin’ Sid yelled as the huge shells began raining down on his position. The first few rounds had landed dangerously close to his headquarters and had knocked him out of the chair. He’d been listening to his favorite rap group, The Snot Drippers, perform on tape their greatest hit, “Give Me Yo’ Watch & Wallet or I’ll Kill the Bitch That’s With You.” The song really had not enjoyed much success since ninety-nine percent of the nation’s radio stations had refused to play it. But it had become a favorite among certain street gangs . . . which should give one some insight as to the overall mentality of the aforementioned.

  Then Ben cut loose with his own 155s from behind Rappin’ Sid and Cool Cal’s position. The first round landed just behind Cool Cal’s HQ, collapsed
the rear wall, and knocked the punk out of his chair, sprawling him face down on the littered floor. To make matters worse, he lost his favorite comic book, the one that featured Ghetto Man killing all the cops in the city and screwing all the rich bitches who had refused to go along with redistributing their wealth.

  “Good God!” Cal hollered, crawling to his feet just as the second round landed in front of the old home and the concussion blew out all the windows and doors. Cool Cal wound up on his butt in the bathroom, his head resting on the commode seat.

  Rappin’ Sid grabbed up the radio mic and alerted the next gang north, which was commanded by someone called Little Pecker, up in the Arkansas town of Osceola. “We’re under attack from the west and the east. Defend yo’ turf, man. Death to Ben Raines and the Rebels!” He grabbed his M-16 and headed out the front door just as another 155 round landed in front of the house. The concussion tore the door off its old hinges. The door slammed into Rappin’ Sid and knocked him down the hall. Sid ended up in the kitchen with the muzzle of the M-16 stuck up one side of his nose.

  Little Pecker immediately radioed Big Pecker up in Blytheville, who radioed Boo Boo in Caruthersville, who contacted Poke Chop in Portageville.

  Ben looked over at Corrie, earphones on her head. She was laughing so hard tears were running down her cheeks. “What got you started?” he asked.

  “Little Pecker, Big Pecker, Boo Boo, and Poke Chop,” she managed to say.

  Ben stared at her for a moment. “Did you suddenly develop a speech impediment?”

  She couldn’t speak. Just handed him the headset. Ben listened, a smile slowly creeping across his lips. He started laughing. Ben sat down beside Corrie and removed the headset. He shook his head. “I guess I should be ashamed of myself, but I can’t help it,” he said over the thunder of artillery. “The mightiest army on the face of the earth has been reduced to waging war on someone called Poke Chop.”

  “It gets worse,” Corrie finally managed to speak.

  “How?” Ben asked.

  “Someone named Super Dick is commanding the gang in Charleston.”

  SIX

  “That trash defending along the river is not going to hold,” General Revere was advised.

  “Of course, they’re not,” Paul said. “I didn’t expect them to hold. Just buy us some time, that’s all. I want Raines and the Rebels to destroy them.”

  “Clever,” the colonel said. “We would have had to contend with them later on anyway.”

  “That’s right. Raines is doing us a favor.”

  An aide came into the big tent. “General Taylor has broken up his army and sent them out in small units dressed in civilian clothing. The president, First Lady, and staff have gone underground.”

  “Goddamnit!” Revere cursed. “Do we have any idea where they might be?”

  “Not a clue. They just dropped out of sight.”

  “We know the government built dozens of underground bunkers—from small to huge—before the Great War, and then added hundreds after that, stocked with enough supplies to last for a century. Blanton and his staff could be anywhere. They could be in any one of a dozen or more states. Keep looking. I want them found, and I want them killed.”

  “How many people do we pull off the line?”

  Revere hesitated, then said, “As many as you need. Find President Blanton and staff, and kill them!”

  Beth finished decoding the message communications handed her and studied it for a moment, then she walked out of the trailer and over to Ben. “Strange message, General. Does this mean you?”

  Ben read the cryptic note. FIND & KILL EAGLE AND CHICKS. He shook his head. “Eagle was the Secret Service name—one of them—for the president. The chicks are probably his wife and staff. Has Corrie had any luck in making contact with Blanton?”

  “Negative, sir. Intell thinks they’ve gone hard underground.”

  “They may be right. Both before and after the Great War, the government built several hundred bunkers deep underground and stocked them with plenty of food and water and fuel for generators.”

  “Do you know where they are?” Cooper asked.

  Ben smiled. “Most of them.”

  Deep underground in the mountains of West Virginia, President Homer Blanton sat at the head of the long table and stared at his staff and those senators and representatives who had been with him for years. The arguments had been heated, and everyone was pausing to let tempers cool.

  Lightheart stood firm and he picked it up. “Let General Raines and his people have their nation, Homer. They’re going to have it anyway—whether we like it or not.”

  “No!” Harriet Hooter shrieked, and everyone present winced. Her voice was like someone dragging their fingernails across a chalkboard.

  “No!” Rita Rivers shouted.

  “No!” Benedict hollered.

  Senator Hanrahan was unusually silent, as was Ditto and Arnold. Blanton’s eyes touched Hanrahan. “You have said nothing for an hour, Senator.”

  “Give the Rebels their country,” Hanrahan said, his words soft. “Or we’ll be at war from now until the end of time.”

  “Have you lost your mind?” Harriet squealed.

  “Perhaps I’ve just found it,” the aging senator said. “Ben Raines spoke to me at length, and his words stung. He’s very correct in saying that we ignored a large segment of the American population. We over-taxed the good citizens to pay for programs the majority of them didn’t want. We had no right to seize private firearms. We just didn’t have the right to do that. We went soft on criminals and hard on law-abiding citizens. Oh, we were well-meaning in what we did . . . I guess. Looking back I’m not so that sure we weren’t all on a powertrip. We all knew that a straight across the board flat tax was the really fair way to go. But instead we made great flowery speeches and in the end screwed the American people with such a complicated tax system not even tax lawyers agreed on how to interpret it. We . . .”

  “I must protest this,” Harriet Hooter hollered. “I feel . . .”

  Hanrahan looked at her and stepped completely out of character by saying, “Shut your goddamn mouth. For once, just close that great flapping orifice and listen.”

  Harriet’s mouth dropped open so far it would have taken a team of Percherons all working in harness all day to wrench it closed.

  “Why, you damned old senile fool!” Rita Rivers shouted, jumping to her feet.

  “Shut up!” President Blanton said.

  Rita’s mouth started working like a fish, but no sounds were coming out.

  “And sit down,” Blanton added. Rita sat. “Go on,” he said to Senator Hanrahan.

  Hanrahan shrugged his shoulders. “You’ve admitted privately that we were wrong, Homer. Time and time again we were wrong. Now I’m admitting it. I think that Ben Raines is a fair man . . .”

  Harriet almost had a heart attack at that, and Arnold and Benedict looked stunned.

  “People who are offered jobs and refuse to work at them deserve nothing from the government—that is, if we had a government. Face it people, the only stable government in the world, that I am aware of, is the Rebel government. Oh, my, yes, their laws are harsh; Orwellian, to our way of looking at it. But they—the Rebels—don’t mind living under those laws. Ben Raines is not asking us to live under his laws. He’s just telling us that he and his people are not going to live under ours. He has stated he will discuss a compromise. All right, let’s try it. I personally think we can work with General Raines. It’s certainly worth a try.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Homer Blanton said.

  Rappin’ Sid and Cool Cal survived the barrage with their sanity and not much else. On both sides of the river, the Rebels had laid down a blanket of deadly walking-in artillery, the 155 rounds systematically destroying everything in their path.

  Then Ben sent his ground troops in.

  The “troops” of Rappin’ Sid and Cool Cal (those who were still alive) had no stomach left for the fight. For thirty-six h
ours the artillery of the Rebels had rained down on them, and a heavy and unrelenting artillery barrage is the most demoralizing of all combat situations. Most threw down their weapons and surrendered. Those who chose to fight were killed; no mercy, no quarter.

  Rappin’ Sid and Cool Cal were brought to Ben’s CP. They were badly shaken men. Ben stared at them for a long minute, his cold eyes shifting from one to the other.

  “Is you gonna off us, man?” Rappin’ Sid mush-mouthed.

  “Can you speak proper English?” Ben challenged.

  “Huh?”

  “I said, can you speak proper English?” Ben shouted. “Goddamn, are you deaf as well as ignorant?”

  The two ex-gang leaders stood silent.

  “I’d guess you both were about twenty when the Great War blew the world apart,” Ben said. “Ample time for you to have graduated from high school and have some college or vo-tech. Ample time for you to have found jobs and begin contributing to the society in which you lived. Did you do any of those things?”

  Rappin’ Sid, who was black, looked at Cool Cal, who was white. Neither of them had ever held a job and they were both high school drop-outs. Rap-pin’ Sid was from Chicago, Cool Cal from St. Louis. Before the Great War they were street punks. They still were. Both of them had police rap sheets half a city block long.

  “My daddy beat me,” Cool Cal said.

  “The teachers picked on me,” Rappin’ Sid said.

  Ben leaned back in his chair and stared at the pair. He thought: Why do I even bother talking with them? It’s always the same old story. It’s always someone else’s fault.

  The Rebel ranks were dotted with men and women who had come from broken and dysfunctional homes—men and women who had suffered child abuse and poverty . . . yet who had not turned to a life of crime. They had gone on to live productive lives, making no excuses for their childhood deprivations, placing no blame on society.