“So, Mr. Garrett,”—he looked at a uniformed man standing quietly across the room—“at six o’clock day after tomorrow, dawn, you will personally escort young Mr. Randolph Green to the designated place of execution and you will see to it that he is hanged by the neck until he is dead. The day of the punk . . . is over.”
“Yes, sir,” Garrett said. “It’s about time some backbone was shoved into the law.” He left the room.
Ben looked around him. “Any further questions as to how the law is going to work?”
No one had anything further to say. Ben left the room to have lunch with Salina.
“He’s a hard man,” an aide said.
Ike stood up and stretched. “Hard times, brother.”
EIGHTEEN
There were many who left the three-state area, but many more stayed and more wanted in. Some of those who came in also left after seeing what was happening, but most stayed. Life was not easy; rebuilding and conforming never is. Eighteen-hour days were not uncommon; there was a lot to do and everybody able was expected to work without whining about it.
There were those who could not, or would not, as the case may be, accept or adapt to the new laws being written by the people; and many of those laws were not easy to follow, for the people had reverted back to what used to be known as a code of conduct.
Violate that code, and one might find himself or herself in serious trouble. As one old-timer, long a resident of Idaho said, summing up the new system (actually an old system), “Man’s got two ways of gettin’ rid of leaves in his yard; smart man will rake them up, put them in bags, carry them to the dump where they’ll be disposed of in a safe manner. Stupid man will set them on fire in his yard and not give a thought about the smoke blowing in his neighbor’s window. Man does the latter now, he’s liable to end up with a busted jaw. And there isn’t a law on the books against it. Out there in the proper forty-seven, man don’t have to think much about what he does. Here, you’d better damned well give it some thought—a lot of thought. I like it here. Peaceful. Once we got rid of the troublemakers. And it didn’t take long.”
Many roads leading into the three-state area were destroyed, deliberately, to prevent easy access. There were signs posted all along the borders, warning travelers that the laws in these states were very different from those to which they had grown accustomed, and justice came down very hard and very swiftly.
The world still tumbled about in disorder and confusion and almost total disorganization. There were millions of people out of work and they did not know how to catch a fish or skin a rabbit or plant a garden. Gangs of thugs and punks and hoodlums roamed the country, stealing and raping and killing. All across the nation, from border to border, sea to sea, various groups of different ideological persuasions were breaking away and setting up little communities, sure their way was the right way—the only way. True, caring Christians; semireligious, demented fanatics; cult worshipers; and left- and right-of-center organizations were establishing little governments. All would fail in only a few months as Logan’s forces grew stronger; or they rotted from within. Only one would last for any length of time, and its concepts would never die.
How hated Ben’s system of government was did not come home to the people of the three states until late fall of the first year. Ben had stepped outside of his home for a breath of the cold, clean air of night. Juno went with him, and together they walked from the house around to the front. When Juno growled, Ben went into a crouch, and that saved his life. Automatic-weapon fire spider-webbed the windshield of his truck, the slugs hitting and ricocheting off the metal, sparking the night. Ben jerked open the door of the pickup, punched open the glove compartment, and grabbed a pistol. He fired at a dark shape running across his yard, then at another. Both went down, screaming in pain.
A man stepped from the shadows of the house and opened fire just as Ben hit the ground. Lights were popping on all over the street, men with rifles in their hands appeared on the lawns.
Ben felt a slug slam into his hip, knocking him to one side, spinning him around, the lead traveling down his leg, exiting just above his knee. He pulled himself to one knee and leveled the 9-mm, pumping three shots into the dark form by the side of the house. The man went down, the rifle dropping from his hands.
Ben pulled himself up, his leg and hip throbbing from the shock of the wounds. He leaned against the truck just as help reached him.
“Get the medics!” a man shouted. “Governor’s been shot.”
“Help me over to that man,” Ben said. “He looks familiar.”
Standing over the fallen man, Ben could see where his shots had gone: two in the stomach, one in the chest. The man was splattered with blood and dying. He coughed and spat at Ben.
“Goddamned nigger-lovin’ scum,” he said. He closed his eyes, shivered in the convulsions of pain; then died.
Badger came panting up, a robe over his pajamas, house slippers flapping. “God, Governor! Who is he?”
Ben stood for a time, leaning against the side of the house. Salina came to him, putting her arms around him as the wailing of ambulances drew louder. “Do you know him, Ben?” she asked.
“I used to,” Ben’s reply was sad. “He was my brother.”
PART THREE
THE SWIFT YEARS
ONE
The death of Carl Raines probably did more to ensure the immediate survival of the three states than any other single act. It shocked Logan when the news finally reached him, and Logan, like most people who heard the story, reasoned that if a man believed so strongly in an idea he would kill his brother . . . that man had best be left alone. And for almost five years, the Tri-states, as they were referred to, were left alone.
The world, and especially America, began to take shape and resume order, law, and some stability. In America, with the drafting of young men now in its fourth year, and the replacing of ranking officers with men who were loyal to Logan, the military was perhaps the strongest in the world. Acting under orders from Logan, the military, systematically, state by state, began crushing those people who had established their own forms of government. The nation was once more whole—almost—whether the people involved wanted it, or not.
East of the Mississippi River, the nation was as one—no pockets of resistance left. And there was no longer any area known as New Africa. Cecil, knowing there was no way he could win against division after division of military might, quietly pulled down the flag of New Africa and told his people the dream was dead.
Most of the blacks chose to remain where they were, farming the land, working the reopened factories. But the experience had been bitter for Cecil. Cecil and Lila, Pal and Valerie, and about a hundred more blacks left the South and headed west, to the Tri-states. Ben immediately named Cecil as his lieutenant governor and Pal the secretary of state.
“Won’t that irritate a large number of people out here?” Cecil asked. “Naming blacks to high positions?”
Ben had smiled. “You don’t know the caliber of people living in the Tri-states.”
“You’ve been practicing selective population?” Pal asked.
“Yes,” Ben answered. “Amazing how much trouble you can avoid by doing that.”
“And amazing how illegal it is.” Cecil’s reply was dry.
“Maybe out there.” Ben jerked his thumb, indicating the area outside Tri-states. “But not in here.”
“Kasim has decided on guerrilla warfare,” Pal said. “He’s got several thousand men and women behind him, and there are lots more who quietly support what he’s about to do. It’s going to be bloody, Ben, for there is a lot of hate in that man.”
“It’s going to be bloody here, too,” Ben said. “Someday.”
Of the hundreds of towns and cities that once stood in the Tri-states, many were destroyed, having first been picked over; whatever could be used was labeled and stored. The area was returned to land. The residents, if any, were moved to newer, nicer homes and apartments and told to ma
intain them. There would be no slums in the Tri-states.
The people were pulled together for many reasons: to conserve energy, to stabilize government, for easier care, and to afford more land for the production of crops, as well as to afford better protection for the people in health care, police, fire, and social services.
The elderly, for the first time in their lives, were looked after with care and concern and respect. They were not grouped together and forgotten or ignored. Careful planning went into the population centers. Young, middle-aged, and elderly were carefully grouped together in housing and apartments. Those elderly who wanted to work, and could work, were encouraged to do so. They could work as long as they wished, or until they tired, and then could go home. The knowledge of older citizens is valuable and vast, and Ben knew it. Older citizens can teach so many things—if only the younger people would listen. In the Tri-states, they listened.
In order for this to work, the pace had to be slowed, the grind eased, the honor system restored; the work ethic, in both labor and management, renewed. It was.
Here, for the first time in decades, there was no welfare, no ADC, no WIC, no food stamps, no unemployment; but what there was was jobs for all, and all adults worked. Everyone. Those who would not, because they felt the job offered them was beneath their dignity, or because of laziness, apathy, and/or indifference, were escorted to the nearest border and booted out. They were told not to come back. If children were involved, they were taken from the people and immediately adopted.
It was harsh treatment, and by American standards, totally unconstitutional. But if Ben worried about the legality of it, the worry was not evident in his day-to-day living.
Ben took particular care in the defense of the Tri-states. Heavy artillery was ready to roar; defensive and offensive were tatics worked down to a fine state of readiness. Bunkers and hidden positions were stocked and checked and maintained. Roads and bridges could be wired to detonate, if and when it became necessary, in only a few hours. Radar hummed twenty-four hours a day. Radio-controlled antipersonnel mines were ready to be placed. Tanks were in abundance, and their crews were highly trained. The armed forces of the Tri-states ranked among the best in the world, their training a combination of Special Forces, Ranger, SEAL, and gutter-fighting. Every resident of the Tri-states, male and female, between the ages of sixteen and sixty was a member of the armed forces. They met twice a month, after their initial thirty-week basic training, and were on active duty one month each year. And the training was a no-holds-barred type. Any interference with the day-to-day activities of the Tri-states would be met with brutal and savage retaliation and Hilton Logan knew it. Logan hated Ben Raines, but that hatred was tempered with fear.
“It would cost us much more than it’s worth to take the Tri-states,” the Joint Chiefs told Logan. “Raines has the equivalent of seven divisions—all combat-ready and prepared to fight to the death. His people are better trained than ours. Leave Raines alone, Mr. President. For if we didn’t kill them all, every man, woman, and child, they’d group and fight as guerrillas, and we’d have another civil war on our hands. The only way we could possibly defeat Tri-states at this time is with the use of nuclear weapons, and that is totally out of the question. Another two to three years . . . maybe. But not now. Not without it costing us dearly.”
Tri-states was left alone.
The government in Richmond, the police, and federal agents watched all that was going on in Tri-states, watched it with awe and consternation, and to some degree, envy. Ben had gathered his people, of all backgrounds, all races, and molded them into a highly productive society, virtually free of prejudice, and totally devoid of crime. And what irritated Logan the most, was that Ben had the best people; the best doctors, the best scientists, the best computer programmers, the best farmers, financial planners, and so on down the line. And Ben’s society was working. That irritated Logan constantly.
The central government knew the people of the Tri-states had aligned themselves with the Indians of the West, working closely with them, and if they moved against Ben and his people, dozens of Indian tribes would join with Ben in the fight, and the central government of Richmond just wasn’t strong enough to fight that—not yet.
In the West, what the remaining tribes of Indians thought they needed in the way of supplies and equipment, they seized, just as Ben and his people had done. And now, with the help of personnel from the Tri-states, the Indian had what he had lacked for years: organization.
The Indians held meetings with other tribes to decide what first to do; and they worked together, putting aside centuries-old hatreds. Where there had once been a scarcity of water, it now moved freely. With the help of “borrowed” earth-moving equipment from deserted construction sites, and engineers from the Tri-states, the flow of water helped irrigate the crops and cool the thirst of a hundred and fifty years of wasted promises, broken treaties, and millions of words from Washington—all lies.
The Indians armed themselves with modern weapons, stockpiled millions of rounds of ammunition, canned goods, blankets, vehicles, spare parts, and all the other items they might need for war—when the white man came to reclaim land that was not his to begin with.
The Indians built new homes, with modern plumbing and running water. They laid down hundreds of miles of water pipe. They diverted the flow of electricity into their own communities and built clean, new modern schools and hospitals. Many reservations no longer resembled a nightmare from a hobo jungle. For now the Indians had had restored what the white man had taken from them: pride. Now they could live as decent, productive human beings—the only true Americans, really. They could have done all this decades back, had they been afforded the means, instead of being treated like animals.
Teams of doctors, engineers, medics, teachers, and construction workers from the Tri-states worked with the tribes and became friends, welcoming each other’s advice, each promising, if possible, to help the other if and when things began to turn sour and raunchy, as they both knew they would, in time. Time—a very precious commodity.
No, the government in Richmond did not have the manpower just yet to stop the Indians or the Rebels in the Tri-states. Tri-states and the Indians would have to wait.
TWO
“I’m tired of waiting,” Hilton Logan told VP Addison. “I know there is no easy answer, but we simply can’t allow much more of this to continue. If those two groups ever get a really firm toehold—and our intelligence people say they are talking of a written alliance—it’ll be the devil getting them back into the Union. Maybe impossible.”
“The Union is still here, Hilton,” Aston replied, listening more to the drumming of the rain on the window than to the president. The VP often had a full-time job just trying to soothe the ruffled feathers of President Logan. Didn’t the man know his wife—the first lady—was screwing half the men in Richmond? Her secret service detachment spent more time covering her tracks than protecting her life. Aston sighed. “We have to walk lightly, Hilton; don’t want to kick off a civil war.”
“I don’t put much faith in the military’s warnings.” The president looked at his friend. “They always overreact. Aston, I can’t believe you think we should do nothing. Just let the Rebels and the Indians continue without federal guidance?”
The VP laughed at that. “I haven’t heard them asking for our help—have you?”
The president shook his head, refusing to reply. Instead, he let himself warm to his inner hatred of Ben Raines. He despised the man; refusing to admit even to himself that it was not just hatred, it was jealousy.
Aston rose from his chair and poured the coffee. “My God, Hilton ... our guidance got us where we now are. Our guidance cost the U.S. many of our friends overseas. Our guidance bled the middle class dry with taxes. It was our constant interference in the private lives of citizens that attributed greatly to the downfall of this nation. Guidance, Hilton? Goddamn!”
“I don’t happen to agree with you, Aston
. People need a central point from which to seek advice and guidance.” He thumped a fist on his desk. “Aston, we’ve got to break the backs of the Rebels. Maybe cordon them off, fence them in; then take the Indians out first. Yes,” he mused. “Look, let’s face facts. They’ve stolen three states, and they have no intention of returning them. Because of their resistance, many others in this nation have refused to hand over their guns, and many others are arming themselves with illegal weapons. We’ve got the makings of a damned gunpowder society in this country. When will people learn that when government passes laws, those laws are to be obeyed? It’s for their own good! No, Aston, if we can hammer the Rebels into submission—for the good of the entire country—the rest of the nation will fall into line as well.”
“Oh, yes,” Aston replied, sarcasm thick in his voice. “That’s very good. The world is still stumbling about, attempting to recover from a germ and nuclear war, and you want to start another war. For the good of the country, of course. Hilton, leave the people of the Tri-states alone.”
Hilton Logan rubbed his temples; his headache had returned. It always did whenever he discussed Ben Raines. He thought: God, how I hate that bastard. Even Rev. Falcreek hates him. And he loves everybody ... even Jane Fonda, so he says.
“Aston,” he said wearily, “they’ve hanged and shot people out there in . . . Tri-states.” He spat the words from his mouth. “Capital punishment is the law of the land.” It wasn’t, and he knew it. “They’ve shut down the roads—or blown them up—turning the place into a damned fortress. Colonel Parr won’t even go near the place; says Ben Raines is crazy in combat. A damned ex-mercenary is governor of three states. That is incredible. Aston, they refuse to allow my agents to even come into the place and look around. They threw an FCC inspector out—literally. Some nitwit named Cossman said if he came back he’d tar and feather him. Everybody carries a gun out there. My God, Aston—even the ladies carry guns. Those nuts are teaching war in the public school system. The entire country is an army! They—”
Out of the Ashes Page 29
