Chaos in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  “I think you look very distinguished, sir,” Anna said.

  Cecil grinned.

  “Yes, your white hair really sets off that black beret,” she added.

  Cecil’s grin faded.

  “Gotcha!” Ben said, and laughed at the crestfallen expression on his friend’s face.

  SIX

  Ben halted all forward movement of the battalions until Cecil’s 22 Batt was set up and fully equipped and staffed. To say the least, 22 Batt was unusual. The youngest Rebel was nineteen, the oldest was seventy.

  “Incredible,” Doctor Chase said, after reading the last of the fitness reports on the personnel of 22 Batt and closing the folder. “I can truthfully say I have never seen anything with which to compare it. I should assign two MASH units to this battalion. We have an amputee who is battalion sergeant major. We have a one-eyed old fart who is at least seventy years old. One of the officers is the grandfather of one of my doctors. Half of 22 Batt is on some sort of medication for various ailments, and some of them have recurring bouts of gout, for Christ’s sake. And these people are going into combat?”

  “Pulling out in the morning,” Ben told him. “They’ll be about forty miles north of Jackie’s 12 Batt, coming in just above the northernmost boundaries of the old Base Camp One. And don’t sell them short, Lamar.”

  “Oh, I know they can fight. Hell, I know all of them. For years. I’ve treated most of them at one time or the other. It’s just a hell of a way to run a war, Raines.”

  “It’s personal now, Lamar. These men are out looking for blood. Some of them lost their entire families.” He smiled. “Besides, it’s as you said—Cecil is the elected President of the SUSA. I can’t tell him what to do.”

  “Right, Raines,” Chase said sarcastically, cutting his eyes heavenward. “Sure.”

  “Your people all set, Lamar?”

  The doctor nodded his head. He started to speak when a runner walked into the room.

  “General?”

  “What is it?”

  “Simon Border is on the horn. He wants to talk to you.”

  Ben rose from the chair. “Well, now. How interesting. Want to come along, Lamar?”

  “I’m not in the least interested in anything that nut has to say. But you watch yourself, Ben. He’s slick. He’s conned millions of people over the years.”

  “Only those who wanted to be conned, Lamar,” Ben countered.

  Ben stepped inside the communications’ truck and took the mic. “This is Ben Raines.”

  “General Raines.” The snake-oil smooth voice of Simon Border came over hundreds of miles. “We finally get a chance to chat.”

  “What’s on your mind, Simon?”

  “Preventing a war.”

  “You started this conflict, not I.”

  “Nobody started it, Ben. The people became desperate, that’s all. Desperate people are capable of anything. They were hungry, they wanted jobs. You refused to open your borders. That’s all it was.”

  “Cut the shit, Simon. We have intelligence working just as you do. We’ve taken prisoners. We have the whole sorry story. So don’t try one of your famous con jobs on me.”

  There was a long moment of silence, with only the faint hiss of static from the speaker. “Well, General Raines,” Simon finally spoke. “Let me be the first to inform you of something you probably don’t know—Homer Blanton has officially resigned the presidency—”

  “That is news,” Ben said to those in the truck and those waiting and listening outside. “If it’s true.”

  “The government of the United States is no more. The United States of America is officially kaput. The nation is up for grabs, so to speak. Now then, you and I can either fight each other for the next decade, or longer, or we can attempt to work something out. What do you say?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Good. Very good. That is a start.”

  “Don’t believe anything that Republican son-of-a-bitch has to say!” The braying voice of Rita Rivers came over the miles, loud and clear.

  “Oh, my God!” Ben said. “She’s still alive.”

  “The man is a fascist!” Harriet Hooter squalled.

  Simon was deliberately leaving the mic open so Ben could hear it all.

  “Harriet Hooter,” Jersey said. “I don’t think you could kill that woman with an axe.”

  “As you can see, Ben”—Simon’s voice was calm—”you do have enemies.”

  “Simon, I’ve had enemies since the concept of the Tri-States philosophy was first discussed. Years before the Great War. What else is new?”

  “Don’t make any deals with that honky, racist Republican son-of-a-bitch!” Rita hollered.

  “He’s a tyrant!” Harriet shrieked. “He’s a modern-day Vlad the Impaler.”

  “If you want to have any kind of conversation with me, Simon,” Ben said, “get those two idiots out of your communications room.”

  A long moment passed. Ben thought the transmission had been broken. Finally, Simon came back on.

  “Sorry about that, Ben. I had to have the two ladies forcibly removed . . .”

  Ben smiled. He had a mental picture of that.

  “Ben, do you think our two nations could co-exist?”

  “What’s happened to you, Simon? The last word I got is that you had sworn to destroy both me and the Tri-States concept of government.”

  “Those were hastily spoken words, Ben. I sincerely regret them. But yes, that was my plan. I will freely admit that was my plan up until a few weeks ago. But why should we both deplete our manpower and resources fighting each other in a bloody war that might not ever end? Why not try to co-exist?”

  “What the hell is he up to?” Ben said. “He’s done a complete one-eighty on me.” He keyed the mic. “Simon, I’m game for anything that would save innocent lives. And I stress innocent lives.”

  “That’s good, Ben. Fine. With those words, we have both taken the first step toward agreement.”

  “What boundary lines are we talking about here?”

  “You keep your SUSA, Ben. I will not interfere with your retaking of that territory. Here are the coordinates my people have worked out . . .”

  With the exception of Texas, Simon cut the nation directly in two parts. He would take the sixteen western states. The midwest, the north, and the northeast would be decided upon at a later date.

  “Yeah, you bet,” Ben muttered. “What the hell are you up to now, Simon?” He keyed the mic. “All right, Simon. We’re in agreement so far. We’ll talk more later.”

  “Very good, Ben. As of this moment, all hostilities between us are over, agreed?”

  “Only if you give me your word you will cease immediately all support of the rabble who invaded our territory.”

  “You have my word on that, Ben. We’ll talk again soon.” Simon broke the transmission.

  “Get all batt coms in here, Corrie. We’ll delay the push-off until we’ve discussed this new twist.”

  “You really trust Simon Border to keep his word, Ben?” Cecil asked.

  “I don’t know, Cec. But if I have to fight, I’ll take words over weapons any time. Let’s see what the others have to say about it.”

  Ike opened the debate. “We know Simon Border had Billy Smithson killed,” the ex-SEAL said. “His people killed off the Joint Chiefs. His people killed all the members of the National Security Council. His people tried to kill the President and the First Lady. We know Simon Border masterminded and organized the assault against the SUSA. Now all of a sudden he runs up the white flag of truce and wants to make a deal. Why?”

  “Perhaps the man finally recognized the futility of fighting us,” Ben’s son Buddy said. “We both have well-equipped and seasoned armies. Why continue the bloodshed when half a loaf is better than no loaf at all?”

  “That’s a good point, son,” Ben said. “But consider this: Simon has never settled for anything less than one hundred percent. He despises our concept of government. He swore
publicly to see me destroyed and then grind the Tri-States philosophy of government under the heel of his boot. Maybe he’s changed. Maybe he’s sincere. Maybe he really believes our two systems of government can exist side by side. Well . . . I personally think the man has something up his sleeve. But I also think we should give his plan a try. It’s going to take us months to clear out the rabble and get our SUSA up and running again. If we can have Simon Border off our backs during that time, so much for the better. Cecil, the people elected you to run the government of the SUSA. What do you think?”

  Cecil was thoughtful for a moment. “I think we should give it a very cautious try.”

  “Then that’s it. Let’s start clearing our territory.”

  Ben put out the word on short-wave radio and by dropping leaflets: We are reclaiming our territory. Surrender and you may leave peacefully. Resist and you will be killed.

  Two days later, the Rebels slammed west and north like a mighty armed fist. When they hit roadblocks, the main battle tanks blew them apart, along with any defenders that were foolish enough to be standing behind them. The Rebels began retaking towns and villages in brutal hand-to-hand combat. By the end of the third day out, the Rebels had advanced more than fifty miles in all directions. They had killed and wounded hundreds and taken hundreds more prisoner. By the end of the first week, the Tri-States army had to stop their advance because so many Rebels were needed to guard prisoners, it was cutting into the effectiveness of the advance.

  Ben was touring one prisoner camp with Ike, discussing what the hell to do with them.

  “We demand to be taken care of, General Raines!” one prisoner shouted from behind the loose-strung wire. “We have rights, you know.”

  “Sometimes I hate that word almost as much as I did political correctness,” Ben said.

  “What the hell are we going to do with all these people, Ben?” Ike questioned. “We’re all going to be on short rations if this keeps up. We just don’t have the food to keep on feeding them much longer.”

  “We have rights! We have rights!” the prisoners began shouting.

  Ben stood for a moment, looking at the chanting men and women. “Turn them loose.”

  “What?”

  “Turn them loose with a warning that if they try to steal food or wage war against us, we’ll shoot them on sight. Male or female. Makes no difference.”

  “I don’t know, Ben,” Ike said doubtfully.

  Ben lifted his Thompson and blew a full magazine of .45 rounds into the air. The sound was enormous in the warm spring afternoon. The chanting stopped and the prisoners fell into a sullen silence.

  “Bullhorn,” Ben said. A guard produced one and Ben lifted the bullhorn to his lips and said, “Now that I have your attention, I have an announcement to make. I am ordering your immediate release—”

  Ben waited until the cheering had died down.

  “You will all be given five days’ field rations and pointed north. Go that way and keep going until you are out of our territory. Don’t even think of staying and squatting in the SUSA. You are not wanted here. Not if you insist on our feeding and housing you without you giving us something in return.”

  “What are you going to do if we stay, General?” a woman shouted. “Kill us?”

  Ben didn’t hesitate. “Yes,” he said bluntly. “Unless you agree to obey the laws we have in force in the SUSA. Those of you who wish to stay and work and obey the law are welcome. We’ll help you get started. You’ll be welcome here. But that isn’t going to happen; not with a large percentage of you. You people waged war against us. You wanted what we worked to build; but you wanted it given to you. You are not the type of people we want in the SUSA and we will not tolerate your presence. I don’t know how I can be any blunter than that.”

  “Then . . . who is left to see to our rights and our needs?” a man called.

  “Goddammit!” Ben lost his temper.

  “Here it comes,” Jersey muttered.

  Ben lifted the bullhorn. “You take care of yourselves!” he roared. “You band together and form little communities. You work together to grow gardens and raise chickens and cattle and sheep and hogs. Get something through your thick skulls, people: the government of the United States of America no longer exists. It’s gone. Finished. Done, Kaput. Through. Ended. The day of the free ride is over. In all likelihood, it will never return, not as you all have known it. It certainly will never happen in the SUSA. Now, for the first time in your lives, you control your own destinies. How you live is entirely up to you. If you want to work and get along with your neighbors—whatever color they might be—and obey the law and live under the few rules we have on the books in the SUSA, that’s fine. Then by all means, stay, you’ll be welcomed and given some help in getting started with your new way of life. Open those gates,” Ben told a guard.

  The barbed wire gates were opened and Ben pointed north, lifting the bullhorn. “For the rest of you bastards and bitches, that way—” he pointed “—is north. Get your field rations over there.” He pointed to a line of trucks. “Then get on that road and keep on walking until you are out of our territory. You’ll know when you reach the boundary—it’s still littered with Rebel dead that you worthless trash had a hand in killing during your mindless rush for a free ride and a handout.” Ben slung the bullhorn and slipped a fresh magazine into the Thompson, jacking a round into the slot. He lifted the bullhorn. “Now get the hell out of my sight. And you goddamn well better stay out of my sight. Move!”

  Of the several hundred prisoners in this camp, most quietly shuffled over to the supply trucks and drew rations. They got on the highway and started walking north. Most did not look back. Ben’s words had chilled them to the bone. About forty men and women stayed.

  Ben walked over to the small group, his team right with him. He carefully eyeballed each man and woman. “So you think you want to try life in a Rebel-controlled zone, huh? OK. That’s fine.” He looked at Beth. “Have a runner get a political officer over here. These people have a lot to learn in a very short time.”

  “Right, boss.”

  “What about the ones you just put on the road, Ben?” Ike questioned. “You want them followed?”

  Ben shook his head as he handed the bullhorn to Cooper. “No. If they fuck up, we’ll know about it.”

  “And if they do?”

  Ben met his old friend’s eyes. His expression was bleak and very easy to read. Those forty odd men and women who had elected to stay could read it, too. The silent message touched them all with a icy hand.

  “Right,” Ike said.

  Two men and two women exchanged glances, shook their heads, stepped out of the group, and walked over to the supply trucks. They drew rations and started walking slowly north.

  “Thirty-eight out of four hundred stayed,” Corrie said. “That’s just about right.”

  Statisticians had worked out that only about three out of every ten people could, or would, live under the laws that governed the SUSA.

  Ben turned back to the group who had elected to stay. “The SUSA can be a very easy, peaceful, and laid-back place to live, folks. Or you can make it very a difficult and unpleasant place to live. That is solely up to you. The political officer will carefully explain the rules to you. You listen well and take his or her words to heart. Understanding and adhering to them is a matter of survival here. Now, people, you’ll be starting fresh here. Just like the old French Foreign Legion, your past is forgiven and forgotten. I don’t care what name you give for your permanent papers. But that will be the name you will live under and die with. Good luck to you all.”

  Ben turned to Corrie. “Bump all prison camps. Cut the rabble loose and head them north. You know what to say.”

  “Right, boss.”

  Ike smiled. “Some of those people are going to circle back and squat, Ben.”

  Ben nodded his head. “When they do, I hope they pick a very comfortable place to squat. They’re going to be buried there.”

>   SEVEN

  Hundreds of families who had settled in the SUSA had been killed by the rampaging rabble. As the Rebels pushed further in all directions, they began finding more and more evidence of the mindless and wholesale slaughter of citizens. The rabble they now encountered were the hard-core. The Rebels found entire families, from the oldest to the youngest, killed execution-style, their family pets lying dead beside them.

  As they rolled past the ruins that was once Meridian, Mississippi, Ben’s mood became foul. As they approached the rubble that had been Jackson, Ben’s orders came as no surprise to any Rebel.

  “No more surrender talk. These are savages we’re dealing with. Hit them first, hit them hard, and finish it.”

  As the Rebels approached the eastern edge of the old Base Camp One, the remaining bands of rabble finally realized the futility of any further resistance and began fleeing for their lives.

  Ben and his 1 Batt rolled and rumbled onto the soil of the old Base Camp One. Ben ordered the long column halted and got out of the van to stand for a moment, looking out over fields that should have been long planted with corn and beans and cotton and milo. Weeds waved in the soft gentle breeze.

  “This will tell you something about the caliber of people who invaded our land,” he said, speaking to no one in particular. “No thought for the future. They just ate up everything we had stored and then wondered why there wasn’t any more. These are the types of people the old liberal wing of the Democratic Party used to piss and moan about. They spent several trillion dollars of taxpayer money feeding and clothing and housing these worthless sacks of shit. That money would have been put to better use by stuffing it down a rat hole.”

  Anna had left the road to kneel down and dig up handfuls of the rich earth. “It’s so rich,” she said, rejoining the group. “It would grow anything. Why didn’t the rabble plant food?”

  “Because they’re assholes,” Ben said bluntly. “They want somebody else to do it for them: work the land, harvest the crops, and then give them the final product—cleaned and cooked and prepared, of course.” He sighed. “Let’s push on. See how much damage was done.”