Tyranny in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  “No thanks to Sugar Babe Osterman, God bless her memory,” Ben said sarcastically.

  Doc Chase nodded. “You’re right there, Ben. Her . . . uh, untimely death probably saved more lives than anything she’d ever done in life.”

  Ben bent and rubbed Jodie’s head as he took his seat at his desk.

  “How are the peace negotiations going with Otis Warner?” Doc asked.

  Ben shrugged. “Okay, I think. Cec Jeffreys says Warner and his new cabinet are much more reasonable to deal with than the Osterman regime was.” He grinned. “Warner at least seems to have the citizens’ welfare uppermost in his mind, rather than some misguided feelings of revenge against me personally as Sugar Babe did.”

  “What are the latest terms?” Coop asked.

  “Warner has agreed to reset the boundaries between our two countries back to their status at the time Osterman began her attacks against us.”

  “What about reparations?” Jersey asked.

  Ben wagged his head. “There are to be none. There wouldn’t be any use anyway, ’cause the treasury of the USA is just about empty.”

  Beth, the statistician on Ben’s team who was responsible for keeping track of resources and materiel during times when they were at war, nodded. “It’s just as you predicted, Ben. The hideously high taxes they’ve been collecting all these years have been used to support the vast bureaucracy of their government and their stupid welfare programs instead of for the good of the working citizens who are paying them.”

  “Maybe they’ll finally glom onto the fact you simply cannot pay people not to work and expect workers to keep propping up the system. It goes against all human nature,” Ben said.

  “Well, folks, politics is your bailiwick,” Doc said. “I just came to tell you about the plague, so I’m off.”

  “Headin’ for the golf course?” Coop asked with a smile. He was always kidding Doc about his quest to break 100 on the golf links around the base.

  Doc smiled. “Yeah. I’ve got this new driver that is guaranteed to let me hit the ball three hundred yards.”

  “That just means you’ll have to trek that much farther into the woods to find it,” Coop said.

  “Ain’t that the truth,” Doc said as he waved good-bye and headed out the door.

  Corrie, the team’s communications expert, looked up from one of the portable headsets she was fiddling with. “What are you going to do now that peace is threatening to break out, Ben? Take up golf like Doc Chase?”

  Ben smirked. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry too much about us warriors being out of a job, Corrie,” he answered. “If I remember my history correctly, there haven’t been too many years since man crawled out of the primordial muck that warriors weren’t much in demand. It seems human beings just can’t seem to get along for any length of time with each other. If it’s not the color of their neighbors’ skins that causes them to go to war, it’s the fact that one nation has something another wants and doesn’t want to work to get it. It’s always easier for politicians to send us in to do their dirty work rather than have the courage to pass laws that are painful to the voters who keep them in office. So, no, I’m not going to take up golf. I’m going to keep my .45 cleaned and oiled and be ready for the next hot spot to pop up, as one always does.”

  FOUR

  Claire Osterman was sweaty, exhausted, and covered with mosquito bites by the time she’d walked the five miles to the service station and the nearest phone.

  She stood the shotgun in a corner and walked into the office. “I need to make another phone call,” she said.

  The proprietor, a tall, skinny man with several days’ growth of whiskers on his face, looked up at her from under the brim of a large, black, flop-brimmed hat as he cut a piece of tobacco off a plug with a pocketknife.

  “You got money? Long-distance calls ain’t exactly cheap, ya know.”

  Claire felt in the pockets of the pants she’d appropriated from the Holts. Damn, she thought, she’d forgotten to take the stash of money Bettye Jean Holt had squirreled away in her sugar bowl, hidden from her husband.

  “Listen, I’m calling a friend to come pick me up. I’ll tell him to bring the money to pay you back for the call.”

  The man grinned, exposing teeth yellowed by years of chewing poor-grade tobacco. “That ain’t gonna cut it, little lady,” he drawled in the soft accent of south Tennessee. “No money, no call, It’s as simple as that.”

  Claire tried to put a seductive smile on her face, in spite of the swelling that still remained in her broken jaw. “How about I pay another way, handsome,” she purred, unbuttoning the top two buttons of her shirt. What the hell, she thought, it’d been over a month since she’d had any loving, and there was that old saying, any port in a storm.

  The owner of the station stared at her body, thinner than before due to the near-starvation rations of the Holts, but still twenty pounds overweight, and her sagging, lifeless breasts.

  “That might git ya some food, but yore not near pretty enough for a long-distance call, lady.”

  Claire’s face blushed red and her heart hammered in anger. Why, that lousy no good son of a bitch, she thought, humiliated at the rejection.

  “Okay, have it your way,” she said quietly through teeth gritted tight.

  She turned around, picked up the Holts’ shotgun, and opened the door. After making sure no one was around, she whirled and pointed the barrel at the man.

  “What’s your name, mister?” she asked.

  He looked up, eyes widening at the sight of the scattergun pointing at his face. He held up both hands, as if he could stop the buckshot if she fired. “Uh . . . I didn’t mean no disrespect, ma’am. Go ahead an’ use the phone.”

  “I said, what is your name?”

  “Kyle, Kyle Truman. Why do you want to know?”

  She grinned, feeling better suddenly. “’Cause I make it a practice to know the names of men I kill,” she growled, pulling the trigger.

  The shotgun exploded, kicking back against her shoulder as the buckshot took Kyle Truman’s head almost completely off at the neck, blowing his body backward to land spread-eagled on his desk behind the counter.

  Claire walked around the countertop and punched the No Sale key on the cash register. When the drawer opened, she pocketed the two hundred dollars in bills and as much of the change as she could stuff in her pockets. When the register was empty, she walked to Truman’s cooler, took out a couple of beers and three Butterfinger candy bars, and carried them to the phone. As she dialed, she tore the wrapper off the chocolate bar and popped the top on the beer.

  She drank half the bottle down in one long gulp, thinking she hadn’t tasted anything so good in a long time.

  The operator at USA headquarters answered, “United States Capital Services.”

  “I need to speak to BuPers, please,” Claire said, asking for the Bureau of Personnel.

  After several clicks and some static from the satellite connection, Claire was finally connected to the correct department.

  “Can I help you?” a feminine voice asked.

  “Yes. I need to talk to Herb Knoff. He used to be assigned to President Osterman’s staff.”

  There was silence for a moment, then the voice came back. “Military personnel aren’t allowed to receive personal phone calls.”

  “This isn’t exactly a personal call,” Claire replied, wanting to strangle the bitch on the other end of the line. “This is Nurse Jenkins at Baptist Memorial Hospital. Mr. Knoff’s mother has had a heart attack and she’s requested that we notify her son.”

  “Oh . . . in that case, I’m sure it’ll be all right. Lieutenant Knoff has been assigned to the motor pool. I’ll connect you.”

  Motor Pool? Claire thought. So that bastard Warner is getting rid of anyone who might still be loyal to me.

  After another series of annoying bursts of static, a surly voice came on the line. “Motor pool, Knoff speaking.”

  “Herb, don’t say a word . . . t
his is Claire.”

  There was a long pause, “Oh . . . uh . . . hello. This is quite a surprise.”

  “I suspect it is,” Claire replied drily. “How are you liking your new job?”

  “Oh, I just love being a grease monkey,” Knoff replied sarcastically.

  “Are you open to another more attractive offer?”

  “What do you think? Of course I am.”

  “Good. Here’s what I need. Find as many men as you think you can trust and commandeer a couple of HumVees and as much small arms and ammunition as you can get your hands on.”

  “That won’t be too hard. The . . . recent changes have left a lot of men unhappy with the new order of things.”

  “I thought it might be that way. Who’s staying in my old apartment?”

  “Harlan Millard and his wife took it over after your . . . accident.”

  “Can you get to Harlan and talk privately?”

  “Sure. Why?”

  “I need him to open the safe I have hidden in the wall, behind a picture of the Capitol buildings. I’ve got some cash and a black book with the account numbers and bank locations where I’ve stashed enough cash to finance my return to power.”

  There was a pause of a couple of minutes, and Claire added, “And Herb. Don’t even think of taking it for yourself. The book is in code and you won’t be able to get your hands on the real money without me.”

  “I wasn’t . . .”

  “I know you weren’t, but I thought it prudent to remind you of what’s at stake here. You can stay a mechanic, or you can join forces with me and be my second in command.”

  “Sounds good to me. Nothing is more boring than the prospect of peace to a soldier.”

  “When you talk to Harlan, offer him a job with us. He should be ready to do anything to get rid of that bitch of a wife of his.”

  “And if he refuses?”

  “Wait until you get the book from the safe, and then kill the son of a bitch.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Where do I meet you?”

  Claire gave him directions to the service station and arranged to meet him there in one week’s time. She figured she could find a local farmhouse to hide out in for the time it would take him to get the vehicles and make the journey to Tennessee.

  “You won’t have any trouble getting passes for the checkpoints, will you?” she asked.

  “Naw, one of the men I intend to bring with us is a sergeant in the Intel division. He was demoted from a warrant officer for insubordination, so he’ll do whatever I ask to get the chance for some payback.”

  “Just the type of men I need. I also want you to get Harlan to give you the file on Perro Loco.”

  “Perro Loco? You mean that crazy rebel down in Nicaragua who calls himself Mad Dog?”

  “Yeah. I was in negotiations with him to attack Ben Raines from the south just before my plane went down. I think he’s moved his headquarters to Belize, and we’re gonna need some help to finish what I started and get my old job back.”

  “Will do. Anything else?”

  “Yeah, hurry up. I’m hornier than hell and can’t wait to see you.”

  “Give me a week and I’ll be there with bells on.”

  “Don’t worry about the bells. Just bring me some hard sons of bitches and some guns. I’ll do the rest.”

  FIVE

  Claire’s first job after talking to Herb was to find a safe place to wait for him to gather his men and equipment and come to her. Figuring the authorities, if there were any in this godforsaken state, would check out Kyle Truman’s house and then leave it alone, she took his driver’s license and keys and went out the back door.

  “Uh-huh,” she mumbled to herself upon seeing a large, four-wheel-drive pickup with huge knobby tires on it parked in the back. Just the type of car I’d expect a bubba like Kyle to have, she thought as she climbed up into the driver’s seat and put the key in the ignition.

  The motor started immediately, and the engine had a deep, throaty growl to it. Now she had to find out if he was married. There’d been no way to tell from the papers in the station, but at least there were no pictures of a little woman and rug rats on his desk.

  She glanced at his driver’s license, and headed for what passed for the nearest town, Harveyburg. As expected, there were only a couple of streets, so she had no difficulty finding Kyle’s. She parked his car around the corner and walked to the house with his address on it. Walking around to the back of the house, she carefully peeked in a window. The place was a mess. Beer cans, cardboard pizza containers, and garbage of every type littered the table, and even some areas of the floor. If Kyle was married, his wife was an even bigger slob than he was. So, now that she had her hidey-hole, all she had to do was wait for the police to come and make their routine check of the premises; then she could move in. She planned to pass the time at a local restaurant, since the beers and candy bars had done little to curb her appetite.

  Sure enough, after she’d finished eating a greasy fried-chicken steak and french fries at a nearby diner named Bell’s Place, she returned to Kyle’s house and found the front door sealed with tape bearing the sheriff department’s logo. She quickly put Kyle’s truck in his garage and slipped in the back door. After cleaning up the worst of the mess, she discovered the refrigerator was at least stocked well enough so she wouldn’t have to go out to buy groceries for a while.

  Claire spent the week and a half waiting for Herb Knoff to make the trip from USA headquarters to Tennessee working on her weight and physical conditioning. The remark from the gasoline station owner had stung her more than she cared to admit.

  When she was the leader of one of the two most powerful countries in the world, no one had ever dared to speak to her in such a way, and she had become complacent both with her body and her conditioning. She now knew she was going to be in for the fight of her life, against both her former comrades and Ben Raines, so she needed to get in fighting trim.

  She had a head start on the weight loss, since the Holts’ food supply had been meager and Billy Bob was anything but generous with the helpings. At Kyle’s, she threw out all the fatty foods, cooked only low-fat, nutritious meals, and exercised three times a day until she was covered with sweat and her muscles ached and knotted with cramps.

  Claire Osterman had a lot of faults, but lack of resolve had never been one of them. When the time came to go meet Herb, she’d lost all of her excess weight and was beginning to get some muscle definition in her arms and legs. Her belly, while still not flat, no longer hung over her belt, and she could run in place and do sirups and pushups for long periods of time without becoming winded. She was ready to face her adversaries.

  Claire drove to the gasoline station outside of town at ten o’ clock, after it was closed for the night by the new proprietor. She didn’t want any witnesses to her meeting with Herb. He wasn’t supposed to make his appearance until midnight, but she wanted time to search the vicinity and make sure there was no one hanging around.

  When Herb’s small caravan finally arrived two hours later, Claire was sitting in the station, calmly drinking a beer.

  He walked into the room, a .45 in his hand and a surprised expression on his face.

  “Claire?” he asked, with upraised eyebrows, clearly unsure of whether this thin, muscular woman was the one he’d known previously.

  She got to her feet and walked over to him. Seeing there were men watching them through the plate-glass window, she didn’t take him in her arms as she wanted to, but stuck out her hand. “Yes, Herb, it’s the new me. I’ll give you a proper welcome later, when we’re alone,” she said as he shook her hand formally.

  “Now,” she said, “show me what we’ve got to work with.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he answered, and with a grin whispered, “and I can hardly wait until later.”

  He took her outside and showed her what he’d brought with him. “I’ve got three HumVees, all four-wheel-drive with diesel engines. Twenty-two men joined me, includi
ng one you know very well,” he said, pointing to the lead vehicle.

  Harlan Millard opened the door and stepped out, a weak grin on his face. Claire smiled, relieved he’d been willing to come. Herb was a great bodyguard, and not too bad in bed, but she needed someone with brainpower and cunning at her side, and Harlan was a natural-born conspirator who knew all the tricks of the trade when it came to wielding power and making the most of it. She hadn’t realized how much she’d depended on him until she thought she might lose his services.

  She stepped to his side quickly, her hand outstretched. “Harlan, I’m so glad you came,” she said, giving him a quick wink.

  “Yes, Madame President,” he replied, smiling more broadly now that he saw he wasn’t going to get his ass chewed out by her. “I welcome the chance to do everything in my power to see that you get your Presidency back.”

  As he spoke, his eyes roved freely over her body. He was clearly happy with what he saw. Claire knew she would no longer have to threaten him to make him go to bed with her. There were definite benefits to this new body she was sporting, she thought, as a tiny tingle started between her legs. Yes, she was most certainly looking forward to working very closely with both Herb and Harlan.

  Herb lined the men up in front of the HumVees for Claire’s inspection. “These are all ex-Blackshirts,” Herb explained.

  “Ex-Blackshirts? What do you mean?” she asked.

  “That fool Otis Warner has disbanded the Blackshirt Units,” Harlan said with a sneer. “It’s all part of his kinder, friendlier administration. He says there’s no place for Gestapo tactics in a free nation.”

  Claire wagged her head. “The man is even more of a fool than I thought he was. How does he expect to keep the citizens in line without a show of force?”

  Harlan smiled. “He’s dumb enough to think if he does what the people want him to, like end the war with Ben Raines, they’ll suddenly jump up and do what is right.”

  “The fucking people don’t have a clue as to what’s right,” Claire observed. “But enough about Warner, his time is limited anyway. Have you found a place for us to use as our base?” she asked Herb.