Hatred in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  “You don’t know that for sure. I’ve read about people who moved down there and started over clean.”

  “Oh, yeah? I bet you can’t name a one.”

  “Outlaw bikers, street gang members, thugs. It’s a fact, Frank.”

  “Really? I wish I could. We just don’t get much information up here about the SUSA. Just a bunch of propaganda, is all.”

  “How much of that do you believe?”

  “Damn little. I know most of it is a lie.” He paused for a few seconds. “But I don’t ever say that out loud. Watchers and informers, you know?”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “You ever heard any of the government’s broadcasts, or read any of their literature about the SUSA?”

  “I don’t listen to much radio. And I’ve read only a little about the SUSA . . . from our government, that is. What makes you think most of it is a lie?”

  “Because no one would live there if it was true. I’ve talked to people who visited the SUSA . . . before the USA put the ban on traveling there. I was going to go until that happened. My friends told me that everybody’s working, there’s practically no crime to speak of, factories all over the place running around the clock. Roads are in good shape. Trains and planes and buses run on schedule. Their economy is the best in the world. All that couldn’t be happening if very much of what our government says about the SUSA is true.”

  Ben smiled as an idea came to him. “You really would like to move down into the SUSA, Frank?”

  “Oh, you bet I would.” He laughed. “Why? You going to tell me you have connections down there?”

  “Well, I might. I sure as hell won’t be able to stay in the USA after I raid this safe house, will I?”

  “You sure as hell won’t.” He glanced at Ben. “Why are you going to raid the FPPS’s safe house? You never did say.”

  “Because they have my daughter in there.”

  “Oh, shit! What did your kid do? Was she involved in some sort of student protest against the New Democracy? There’s a lot of that going on. But the government has put a lid on any publicity about it.”

  “There are a lot of student protests?”

  “Oh, you bet. One every day somewhere. Sometimes they get real violent. Some students have been killed. But mostly it’s just busted heads, some jail time, and then off to a reindoctrination camp somewhere.”

  “And they come out of these reindoctrination camps a better person, right?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say better, but if they want to come out at all their political views will be changed some. And you can bet on that.”

  “And who runs these camps?”

  “Why . . . hell, the democrat socialist government does. Who else?”

  “I figured that, Frank. No, I mean, does the FPPS operate them?”

  “Oh, sure. Not us. Not state or local cops. Hard-line FPPS people. Look, the FPPS is brand new. Nothing like the old FBI. I mean, nothing like them.”

  “Kind of like the Nazi gestapo of long ago?”

  “Well . . . not quite that bad. But they might be someday, if they keep on the way they’re going. Up at the end of that block is the safe house. Are you ever going to tell me your name?”

  Ben looked at the man. “Ben Raines.”

  Frank swallowed hard a couple of times. “Holy Jumpin’ Shit!” He finally managed to say. “Yeah, now it all fits. I read the bulletin on you. Do you know how much reward money is being offered for you?”

  “A million dollars, so I’ve heard. That’s a lot of money. You interested in collecting it?”

  “I sure would be a liar if I said it didn’t just enter my mind.”

  “Well? What’s it going to be? You have three choices, the way I see it. You can try to take me alive or kill me and collect that big reward and live like a king the rest of your life. You can get out of the car right now and tell the FPPS I turned you loose. Or you can help me get my kid and head down to the SUSA. What’s it going to be?”

  “Live like a king, huh? It doesn’t work that way here in the what used to be called the Good Ole’ U S of A. Taxes would take about sixty percent right off the bat. That’s federal taxes. State would be another ten percent. Even if I kept my job, those taxes apply on winnings and things like that.”

  “So what’s it going to be?”

  “Aw, hell, General! Let’s go get your kid. I can knock on the door and they’ll let me in. They know me. I won’t be armed, so the rest is up to you. As soon as they open the door, I’ll push the person out of the way and hit the floor—OK?”

  “OK, Frank. Let’s do it!”

  Nineteen

  The civil war that had long been predicted between the USA and the SUSA began hours after a team of FPPS agents raided a house in Ohio. The house belonged to and was occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Harry McComb, lifelong residents of Ohio. Their son, Harry, Jr., who lived on the same side of the street two houses away, was a strong supporter of the old Tri-States philosophy of government, and had organized a small chapter of like-minded men and women. The Attorney General of the United States, acting on the orders of President Claire Osterman, authorized a nighttime raid against Harry McComb, Jr. and the others in his Tri-States chapter. According to a local government informer, they were supposed to be holding a secret midnight meeting—presumably discussing the pros and cons of several makes and models of those big ole’, nasty, terrible, awful, and long-banned handguns.

  The FPPS agents raided the wrong house.

  The elder McCombs, both in their late seventies, were rousted out of bed in their nightclothes, shoved around, yelled at, humiliated, cursed, and belittled. Their home, which had survived years of near anarchy after the collapse of government, was ransacked. The McCombs’ pet, a small, eleven pound dog named Chester, was stomped by one of the FPPS agents, its back broken. Mrs. McComb, upon seeing her pet trying to drag its way to her, pulling itself along by its front paws, tried to get to her pet. Restrained by one of the brave government agents, Mrs. McComb suffered a heart attack and died in her living room. Mr. McComb, attempting to get to his wife, tried to push his way through the crowd of heavily armed agents and was struck on the head by an agent wielding a collapsible steel baton. Mr. McComb died two days later in a local hospital. The agents continued their ransacking of the house. Another FPPS agent, tired of hearing the injured dog whimper in pain, silenced the little creature by clubbing it to death. The midnight entry and the ensuing events had taken about five minutes.

  Harry McComb, Jr. was on a fishing trip with several of his friends and did not learn of his parents’ deaths for several days. Immediately after his parents’ burial Harry dug up his .308, cleaned and oiled the weapon, and with two of his friends drove into New Dayton and attacked the local FPPS office, killing three agents and a secretary and wounding three other agents before being killed by other agents.

  Madame President Claire Osterman and Attorney General Wilhelmina Morrow both called the attack on the New Dayton FPPS office the work of anti-government terrorists, probably the work of members of some militia group by banned government. It was a dreadful, horrible, cowardly thing. Yes indeedy, it sure was. Tsk, tsk.

  No mention was made of the deaths of Mr. and Mrs. McComb, or Chester.

  Upon hearing of the attack on the FPPS office, another long-banned, anti-government group in Michigan launched an attack on the FPPS office in New Detroit, killing two agents and wounding three more before being killed by local police.

  The USA national press promptly reported that the attacks were, in all probability, ordered by the SUSA. That rumor, of course, came from ‘usually highly reliable sources.’ In reality, they came straight out of the New White House in Indianapolis.

  The war was on.

  Ben knew nothing of the events occurring hundreds of miles south of him as he waited, pressed up against the wall beside Frank on the porch of the FPPS safe house.

  “Who is it?”

  “State Police. It’s Frank.”

&nbs
p; “He’s OK,” another voice said. “I know him. Let him in.”

  The door opened just a crack, wide enough for the man to see it was a man in a state police uniform. “What do you—”

  The man’s words were jammed in his throat as Frank put a shoulder into the door just as hard as he could. The FPPS agent was knocked off his feet and to the floor. Frank lunged through the now wide open door, jumped to his left, and hit the floor.

  Ben came in right behind Frank, his spitter leveled.

  The surprise attack was totally unexpected. One agent grabbed for a shotgun and Ben stitched him across the belly and chest, the line of bloody bullet holes moving up and right with the climb of the machine pistol.

  Another FPPS agent lifted an auto-loader, and Ben punched holes in him, knocking him backward against a wall. A third agent, a woman, fumbled at a pistol laying on an end table, and Ben said, “Don’t do it, lady. Don’t do it.”

  “Screw you!” the woman said, standing up as her hand closed around the butt of the pistol.

  Ben finished the magazine, stitching the woman across the chest. She sat back down on the couch, a very startled expression on her face. Then she died, her eyes wide open and staring directly at Ben, accusingly.

  “Jesus,” Frank whispered, getting to his feet. “You don’t mess around, do you, General?”

  “No,” Ben answered shortly as he ejected the empty mag and slipped a full one in place. “Anna!” he called. “Where are you, Baby?”

  A thumping sound came from behind a closed door. Ben kicked open the door and breathed a sigh of relief. Anna was on the bed, gagged, her hands tied to the headboard. She was alive.

  Federal troops tried a frontal assault against Rebel positions, attempting to cross the West Virginia line over into Virginia. They didn’t make it, and it turned into a slaughter for the Federals. The Virginians hammered them with intensive long range artillery and drove them back. It was very nearly a rout.

  The Federals tried the same tactic along the Southern Missouri/Northern Arkansas border. The Arkansas Home Guard, backed up by several battalions of regular Rebel troops and attack helicopters, put the Federals into a full retreat.

  The Federals tried another attack across the Oklahoma line into Texas. It was a bloody failure as the Texas Home Guard, highly outnumbered, held rock-solid firm and beat the Federals back.

  The commanding general of the Federals ordered a pullback of all troops. He realized only then that the SUSA was going to be a very tough nut to crack . . . if they could crack it at all. Madame President Osterman had been very wrong when she proclaimed that her troops would be victorious over the SUSA in only a few days.

  “This war is going to be a bloody son of a bitch,” General Duran told several of his ranking officers. “If we contain the Rebels inside their own territory and keep them out of the USA, it will be nothing short of a miracle.”

  “We’ve lost a lot of people, General,” General Vandermeer said. “And didn’t gain an inch of ground.”

  Studying maps on the table in front of him, Duran nodded his reply. He finally thumped the map and straightened up, facing his senior officers. “Problem is, the Rebels don’t have a weak point. We’re facing twenty-five or thirty million people, all heavily armed and well trained. The Rebels have stockpiles of supplies all over the damn place. Our intel says they have supplies enough to last for years. And intel says they will fight right down to the last person. Surrender is not a word in their vocabulary . . . unless it’s applied to the opposing force.”

  “This fight will not be limited to the SUSA, gentlemen,” a man dressed in civilian clothes said.

  General Duran slowly nodded his head in agreement. “I know, James. But have you been successful in convincing Madame President of that?”

  “No. Unfortunately she has always considered Ben Raines a lightweight.”

  “Bad mistake,” General Vandermeer said.

  “A tragic mistake,” James said. “But until or unless she sees the error in her thinking, we’re looking at one hell of a very large problem. The president wants results, and she wants them quickly.”

  “Well, she’s not going to get them,” General Duran said. “And you’d better convince her that we’re all in this thing for the long haul. I’m talking about years.”

  “Our economy won’t hold up for such a long struggle.”

  “The Rebels’ will,” General Masters pointed out. All eyes turned to him. “Look, gentlemen, let’s face some hard facts. We’ve all read the stats, but we all seem to have ignored or disallowed them. President Osterman certainly has. One—the SUSA has the largest navy in the world, as far as we know. Two—they have the best-equipped army in the world. That’s a fact. They have the best-equipped air force in the world, and that is a fact. Their home guard alone is made up of several million men and women, all highly trained and well-equipped and motivated. They have the supplies to fight a protracted war, and they have supply lines and the means to almost instantly resupply their people in the field. Their economy is the best, their currency the strongest in the world. I’m only hitting the high points here, gentlemen. Now here is the highest point—the Rebels have nuclear and germ capability, and General Raines has warned us that he will use them. And I believe him. Now, as military commanders we had damn well better face these facts and come up with an alternate plan to fight the Rebels. Because facing them head-to-head is going to accomplish only one thing we are going to get our asses kicked all over the goddamn place. And that, gentlemen, is a fact.”

  “Madame President had better not ever hear you say those words, General Masters,” Jerry said.

  “Madame President doesn’t know jack-shit about warfare,” Masters replied. “She’s a goddamn politician and always has been, when she wasn’t fucking her way to where she is.”

  “That’s enough, General!” Jerry commanded. “You’re stepping over the line.”

  Masters fixed the White House liaison man with a cold stare. “I don’t take orders from you, Jerry. I’m in this fight because I don’t believe in a divided nation, not because I’m a socialist. Claire Osterman has sucked dicks from here to California to help her get where she is. And you can take those words back to Sugar Babe if you like . . . and you probably will.”

  Jerry did. One hour after Madame President was told of General Masters’ comments, Masters was relieved of command and placed under arrest.

  Ben cut the ropes that bound Anna’s wrists to the bedpost, and she sat up and jerked the tape from her mouth, then threw her arms around Ben’s neck.

  “Are you all right, Baby?” Ben asked.

  “I am now.”

  “Did they hurt you? Abuse you in any way?”

  She pulled back and refused to meet his eyes. That told him all he needed to know. Ben silently cursed. Rape of a female prisoner by a Rebel could mean long prison terms and on occasion, a firing squad.

  “Guess what, General?” Frank said from the doorway. “I had a change of heart. Don’t move.”

  Ben sighed and cut his eyes. Frank was holding a shotgun, the muzzle pointed at him. “That million bucks got to you, huh, Frank?”

  “Something like that, General. The boys here all took turns humping your kid, hey? Well, I could have told you they would. She looks like she’d be a prime piece.”

  Anna was slowly lifting Frank’s 9mm from behind Ben’s waistband. When it was free, she jacked the hammer back with her thumb.

  “Too bad you’ll never get any of it, you socialistic son of a bitch,” Anna told Frank.

  Frank flushed and took a couple of steps into the room, which was exactly what Anna wanted him to do. The small bedroom would help muffle a gunshot.

  “Don’t be too sure of that, Blondie,” Frank said, taking a couple more steps closer to the bed. “I bet it’s pretty good stuff. So, after I take care of the general here, I just might take me a taste.”

  “When pigs fly, you creep! I’ll die first, goddamn you!” Anna then proceeded to cuss F
rank. She did a good job of tracing his ancestry back through the centuries, Ben thought.

  Frank frowned for a moment, then grinned. “Hey, Baby, did Margie do her thing with you too?” he said with a laugh. “I hear she likes young blondes.”

  “She didn’t like this one worth a damn,” Anna said, then shot him twice. Once in the belly, once in the chest. Frank stumbled back and tried to raise the shotgun, but could not. He fell back against the wall and cursed, his voice weak. Blood began leaking out of his mouth. “You bitch!” he managed to say before he began coughing, blood spraying out of his mouth. “You miserable little Rebel bitch!”

  “Rebel all the way and forever, you son of a bitch!” Anna told him.

  Frank closed his eyes and died.

  “Let’s get the hell going, Anna,” Ben told her.

  “Let me get my shoes on, Daddy. Take half a minute. As soon as I can find the damn things.”

  “I’ll be gathering up the weapons. And . . .” An idea hit him. Maybe it would work. What the hell did they have to lose? He’d give it a try.

  “What?” Anna asked, looking up from her searching under the bed.

  “Get your shoes on, Kid. Move it.”

  Ben gathered up the weapons and took the ID from the dead woman and from the men. He flipped open the leather holder. No picture on any of the ID’s Might work. It was sure worth a try.

  Ben looked out the front door. There were few houses occupied in the long block on the edge of town, and Ben guessed the two shots Anna had pumped out had not been heard.

  He pulled the car up closer to the house and stowed the weapons in the backseat just as Anna came walking out, wiping a bloody knife on a piece of cloth. Her knife, Ben realized.

  “You have trouble in there, Baby?”

  “One of the men was still alive,” she said. “He had my knife. He is no longer alive. He was going to do some awfully disgusting things to me. The woman wanted to watch.”

  Ben opened his mouth and Anna waved him silent. “There’s nothing to say. It’s over. Let’s go.”