“What are your restrictions on guns, General?” Joel asked.
“None. We’re all armed.”
Ben held up a hand to stop any further questions. “Let’s have some lunch and then I’d like to take you all on a short tour. Look around and ask questions of the people. I think you’ll be surprised.”
“Or shocked,” Cynthia added.
“Probably,” Ben agreed.
SIX
President Blanton was shocked right down to his socks when he learned that some of the nation’s largest corporations were planning to rebuild in the SUSA. That was something he had not even considered. He looked across his desk at Cynthia Barn-hart, one of the few that once headed Fortune 500 companies who had met with Ben Raines and decided not to move to the SUSA. What he did not know was that her decision not to relocate was purely personal. She hated Ben Raines and despised his smart-aleck little bodyguard. That bitch had no manners and no respect for her betters. Someday, Cynthia had silently vowed, she’d see that trashy little Indian-looking squaw grovel at her feet.
Dream on, Cynthia. Groveling was something that Jersey did not do well.
Blanton stared at Cynthia. The woman had once been a TV soap star of some importance and Homer just loved TV and movie stars. They were so . . . well, with it.
“And the others?” he asked the woman.
“Most are relocating to the SUSA. They seem to like the prospect of living under a right-wing dictatorship.”
To call the SUSA a right-wing dictatorship was about as far off-base as comparing an eagle to a parakeet. But a lot of people, including Homer Blanton, really believed it was a dictatorship. In many respects the SUSA was right-wing . . . but it was far from being a dictatorship.
Cynthia left the Oval Office to return to her office at the State Department. She’d just been appointed to the position of Secretary of State, a post she was certainly qualified to hold, of course. Homer was busy looking for a one-eyed, club-footed, speech-impaired, syphilitic of aborigine ancestry to fill the post of Secretary of Health and Human Services. One must be fair to all, right? One of his first appointments had gone to a former gangster, rap star who called himself Camel Puke. Camel had been appointed Secretary of Education. Which was only fair, since Camel had none. His press secretary—a ditz named Goo Goo MacGruff—had antagonized the rapidly emerging press corps to the point of open hostility. The newly appointed head of the FBI, Lance Loveless, who had been kicked out of the Virginia Highway Patrol’s training academy because he could not bear the thought of having to shoot one of those nasty, horrible pistols, was pressuring the pres to call for an immediate ban on guns of all sorts. Anything that went bang or boom, as Lance put it. Blanton’s appointment to the newly created, brand-new, by-golly, gee-whiz position of Secretary of GHE—Good Health For Everybody—was a former basketball hero turned coach called Hubba-Hubba who was eight-and-a-half feet tall, drafted into the NBA out of a Mississippi junior high school, and insisted upon coming to work in short pants, without a jock strap.
Homer just could not understand why his regime was not going well.
It’s the caliber of people you pick, stupid.
Fall rolled quietly into winter and in the Southern United States of America, conditions were going so smoothly it was very nearly boring. Combat engineers were taking the ruined cities one at a time and demolishing what was left, then clearing away the rubble and bulldozing the area flat. The Rebels got in some target practice because the ruins still held a goodly number of Night People, and the Creeps did not look favorably on having their homes destroyed.
“Why don’t they just move out of our area and into Blanton’s part of the country?” Jersey questioned. “Since he loves all sorts of weirdos.”
“That’s a good idea, Jersey,” Ben replied. “Corrie, get me Blanton on the horn.”
She smiled. “He’s not speaking to you, General. He says that since what you did by breaking away from the Union is illegal, and the Southern United States of America is not real, then you must not exist.”
Ben looked at her. “He really said that?”
“Yes. According to Goo Goo.”
Ben and team were returning from what had once been Birmingham. No trace of the city now existed. It was as if some giant hand had reached down from the heavens and ripped the ruins from the face of the earth and flung them into another galaxy.
Cities in the SUSA were rapidly becoming a thing of the past. The citizens had voted not to have them. From this day forward, smaller communities would be stressed. They were much more personal and friendly, schools were more conducive to learning, smaller towns much better to live in, and easier to defend.
Railroads were being rebuilt and people were happily discovering and using the much less stressful and relaxing mode of travel.
But outside of the SUSA, matters were going to hell in a handbasket. While unemployment was practically zero in the SUSA, unemployment was running rampant elsewhere. Blanton just could not get his regime running; which came as no surprise to anyone with any sense.
“It’s the same old tired democratic party philosophy of attempting to do all things for all people all the time,” Ben said to a visiting journalist who asked for his opinion on the difficulty the other states were having. “I don’t know why in the hell they can’t see that it just doesn’t work. God knows, they’ve been trying to make it work for decades.”
“Blanton swears that this new nation of yours will someday rejoin the Union.”
“First of all, it isn’t my nation,” Ben corrected with a smile. “It belongs to the people who inhabit it. That’s where both the Democratic and Republican parties got off the track years ago. They forgot the country belongs to the people, and the people have a constitutional right to overthrow or amend it if they so desire.”
“Will you ever rejoin the Union, General?”
“No. Not as long as one Rebel is alive and can pick up a gun and fight. We’ll fight to the last person and we shall never surrender.”
“Hard words, General.”
“Hard times, my friend.”
Even though Blanton had certainly appointed some real squirrels to rather high positions in his newly formed government, somehow he had managed to get some good people in among the kooks and flakes and banana cream pies. His Secretary of Defense, Dick Penny, was one of them. Dick managed to gain an audience with Blanton, after having to run a gauntlet of what appeared to be teenyboppers staffing the new White House. He stopped by a young man who was standing in the hall, snapping his fingers, his eyes glazed. There was an earplug in one ear.
“Pardon me,” Dick said. “Are you Secret Service?” He had to repeat the question three times.
“No, man,” he was told. “I’m the assistant communications director. I’m on my break. I’m just groovin’. Everything is out of sight. Don’t get uptight. It ain’t cool to fight. It’s right at night. You know what I mean?”
Dick stared at the young man for a moment, then slowly shook his head. “I’m sorry I asked. Excuse me.” He walked on. He stopped by the Secret Service guard in front of the doors to the Oval Office. He recognized this man from the old days. “Don, is that hollow head down the hall representative of what’s going on around here?”
“I’m afraid so, Mister Penny. You couldn’t get me reassigned, could you? Like maybe to Guam. That would be wonderful.”
“I’ll try.”
“Thank you. Go right in. But be ready for anything. Big Mama just left and they had a fight. She threw a vase at him.”
“Did she hit him?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
“Pity,” Dick muttered and walked in. The president was standing by the window, looking out at the first snowfall of the season.
Blanton turned to face the man. His face was grim. “Dick, what would you say if I told you I was considering declaring war on Ben Raines and his breakaway states?”
Dick Penny sat down. Quickly. He felt faint. Lightheaded. He stare
d at the president for a moment while he recovered. “Mister President, with all due respect, sir, I think that would be one of the dumbest goddamn things you have ever considered.” And you have a history of doing some extremely stupid things, he added silently.
“Thank you for your candor, Dick. But I think I will declare war on the Southern United States of America, Just . . .” He waved a hand. “Wipe them out. Boom. Bang. Kablooy.”
“Ka . . . blooy?”
“Right. Drop a big bomb on them. Blow them all up. Pow!”
“We don’t have a bomb that big, sir.”
“Well . . . hell! Build one!”
“A bomb big enough to blow up eleven states without doing damage to us?” Dick shouted. “That’s impossible. Sir, Ben Raines has nuclear capability. You try something like this and he’ll put a guided missile right up your nose!”
Blanton sat down. “You really think he’d do that?”
“Hell, yes, I think he’d do it. He told you he would. Ben Raines doesn’t bluff.”
“Then we’ll use conventional weapons and infantry to wipe them out down there.”
Dick longed for a good stiff drink. But he knew Big Mama didn’t approve of alcohol. Somehow, he had to get the facts of life through to Blanton. “Homer, listen to me. Our latest intel shows that Ben Raines has over twenty battalions of the most skilled fighting men and women on the face of the earth. He has ten other battalions held in reserve. And his battalions in no way resemble our conventional battalions. Every person that swore allegiance to the SUSA is a soldier. Approximately half a million men and women. All armed. Heavily. All trained. Extensively. All the equipment we have we had to build from scratch because Ben Raines and his Rebels stole every goddamn tank and plane and gun and truck and ship and boat in this entire nation. He has an Air Force. We don’t. He has a Navy. We don’t. He has a Coast Guard. We don’t. Everything we have is poised to fight off the war with General Revere . . . which we know is coming this spring. And you want to pick a fight with Ben Raines and the Rebels, who have never been defeated? Homer, have you lost your damn mind?”
“Bad idea, huh, Dick?”
“Terrible.”
“Well, it was just a thought.”
“Don’t think it again. Ever!”
After taking his leave from the pres, Dick slowly walked down the long hallway, thinking: is the man losing it? Has the strain finally gotten to him? Or was that just frustration talking back there? Perhaps a combination of both, Dick concluded. Although he admitted that Blanton’s seeming lack of basic common sense scared him at times.
He passed by the young man in the hall, who was still grooving, popping his fingers and his gum.
“Hang in there, dude,” Dick said.
“Yo, man,” the assistant communications director replied, his eyes still glazed from the impact of the music he had plugged into his ear. “Outta sight!”
Dick walked on. Too many young people working around here; with too many idealistic ideas. It’s going to end in tragedy unless Blanton comes to his senses and pulls in some older and calmer heads to advise him.
And it’s going to end in tragedy a hell of a lot quicker if he ever declares war on Ben Raines.
He stood for a moment at the front entrance and looked past the wrought-iron fence at the crowds of people, all of them protesting about one thing or the other. Food, jobs, housing, medical aid, lack of heat. Dick shook his head in disbelief. There were coal trains loaded with thousands of tons of coal still stuck on railroad tracks, the coal there for the taking, and these yoyos were too goddamn lazy to go get it. There were thousands of long-abandoned homes all over the nation and these people were too goddamn lazy to occupy them and fix them up from the millions of board feet of lumber lying about, theirs for the taking. During the years of hiding after the Great War, Dick and his family had planted huge gardens, he and his wife and children home-canning the vegetables for consumption later. Why in the hell didn’t these protesters do the same?
“We want money, We want money, We want money!” came the chant.
“Money?” Dick muttered. “From what? The nation is flat broke.”
He chose to exit out the back way. Same thing. Protesters all over the damn place.
“We can clear you a way through, Mister Secretary,” a Marine guard told him.
“Thank you,” Dick said, his voice just audible over the angry chanting and shouting and cursing from the rapidly growing, unruly mob.
“Rabble,” Dick muttered.
“Beg your pardon, sir?” the Marine asked.
“Oh . . . nothing. Just talking to myself. It’s a bad habit of mine.”
“I do the same thing,” the Marine admitted.
Dick managed to get his ten year old car started and work his way through the demanding mob. They pounded on the hood and screamed obscenities at him.
“It isn’t worth it,” Dick said aloud, once clear of the mob. “It just by God isn’t worth it.”
He drove to his home in the suburbs and told his wife to pack up and get the kids. They were leaving.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“To the Southern United States of America. I want to see if Ben Raines has a job for a middle-aged ex-government employee.”
SEVEN
The Rebels never stopped working during the unusually harsh and long winter that fell upon the nation. Road-building and heavy construction came to a virtual halt, but everything else continued, in many cases, around the clock. Ben knew fully well that Revere was going to launch a springtime offensive against Blanton, and he knew, with a warrior’s senses, that Blanton’s forces were going to be defeated. It was only logical to assume that once the other thirty-eight states were in the control of Revere, the SUSA would be next. And that would be the mother of all battles.
And Ben had made up his mind on another matter: this time, he would not come to the aid of Blanton. If Blanton and his people sought asylum inside the SUSA, that would be granted. But the Rebels were staying out of the fight . . . unless Blanton agreed to recognize the SUSA as a separate and sovereign nation.
Ben had ordered many of the bridges and overpasses leading into the SUSA blown, and blockaded many of the secondary highways, thereby cutting down the routes any enemy could use getting into the new nation.
Cecil had welcomed Dick Penny and family, and immediately put him to work in the SUSA’s fledgling state department, naming the man Secretary of State.
Dick had never met Ben Raines, but during the first few seconds of their first meeting, he realized why the man had been able to accomplish so much. Ben Raines exuded power and confidence. His very presence filled a room. And Dick Penny also sensed, quite correctly, that Ben was a very dangerous man.
But Ben was smiles and handshakes on that first, all important meeting . . . for a few seconds. Then he waved Dick to a chair and got right down to business.
“Is Blanton going to make war on us, Dick?”
“He very much would like to, General,” Dick leveled with him. “But I think I talked him out of it.”
“It’s going to be a moot point later on this spring, anyway,” Ben said, with a shrug of his shoulders. “Because Nick Stafford is going to roll right over him. The man who goes by the name of General Revere.”
“Yes. You . . . we . . . are not going to back President Blanton?”
“No,” Ben said firmly. “Not the committing of troops. Not unless he recognizes us as a legal and separate nation.”
“He’s not a bad person, General.”
“Oh, I know that. He’s fairly likeable . . . for a liberal democrat. Hanrahan, Lightheart . . . they’re all right. But I’m not going to commit my people to aid a political party whose views I am diametrically opposed to.” He shook his head. “Not a second time. Not unless my conditions are met.”
Cecil had warned Secretary Penny of Ben’s decision, and the man offered no argument on the subject. He was well aware that Ben Raines had offered to sign a d
efense pact with Blanton—in return for Blanton recognizing the SUSA as a separate nation—and that Blanton had tossed it right back in his face. Another incredibly stupid act on the man’s part.
“You and your wife and family getting settled in, Dick?” Ben asked, and Dick knew then the matter of Blanton’s fate was indeed closed.
“Oh, yes. Thank you. But we’re all having somewhat of a difficult time adjusting to the land of peace and plenty after what we’ve been living in for years. Both of us still go from door to door before retiring for the evening, to see if they are locked.”
“It’s a hard habit to break, and you’re not alone. A lot of people still lock their doors at night.”
“Do you, General?”
Ben smiled. “No. But I have several dogs and they’ve very good at alerting me. And,” he sighed, “my area is patrolled quite heavily at all times.”
“That’s the price of fame, General,” Dick said.
Ben laughed and stood up. “No, Dick. That’s the price one pays for having two or three million people wanting to kill you.”
Winter began loosening its icy grip on the nation and Blanton’s military leaders braced for General Revere’s assault. All winter long Revere had been positioning his troops and tanks and artillery and Blanton’s generals had watched with an increasing feeling of doom. There was no way their smaller and inexperienced army was going to stop Revere and his hard core of mercenaries. The best they could hope for was a delaying tactic, during which time Homer Blanton and staff could be spirited off to safety.
“No!” Blanton said, most emphatically. “I will not ask for asylum in the SUSA. That is absolutely, positively out of the question. I will not go groveling to Ben Raines. Besides, the SUSA does not officially exist. I do not recognize that breakaway nation.”
“Homer,” one of his top people said, struggling to keep his temper in check. “I know it’s difficult for you, but will you stop being such an asshole.” That got Blanton’s attention. “This Revere/Stafford person will not attack the SUSA. Not until they deal with us. And they will. The Rebels are just too strong a force. You’ve got to be a big enough man to put pride and stubbornness aside and think about the good of the country.”
Treason in the Ashes Page 24
