Fire in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  “Umm,” Ike said.

  “Does that mean yes or no?"

  “Means: Umm,” Ike replied. “Ben ... do we have a chance in this thing? You think we have a chance of pulling this off?"

  Ben sighed. “A slim one.” He knew Ike, despite his intentional butchering of the English, had a mind that closed like a trap around information he felt was necessary to retain. “Of the 7,200 new people, how many can we field as fighting personnel?"

  “Six thousand,” the ex-Navy SEAL replied without hesitation. “That gives us just a tad over ten thousand personnel to field as fighters.” Ike looked closely at Ben. The man seemed deep in thought. “What's on your mind, Ben?"

  “We do it one town at a time,” Ben said softly. “So easy it escaped me for a time."

  “What is so easy?"

  “Giving the nation back to the people. We do it one town at a time.” He grabbed Ike's arm. “Get on the horn to our field commanders. Tell them to start hitting deserted bases and stripping them of weapons. When they've done that, have them begin hitting National Guard and reserve armories; I want every weapon they can get in their hands. Call our intelligence people and get them working; find out where the government is storing the weapons it takes from civilians. Then hit it."

  Ike's eyes lit up with comprehension. “We arm the people—one town at a time."

  “Yes, and we start with the towns around the Great Smokies."

  Both men turned to watch a black girl walk across the camp area. She was small, petite would be the word, and if one wished to be chauvinistic in describing a lady, stacked.

  “Steady, Ike,” Ben grinned. “Remember, you're a Mississippi boy."

  “I bet my ol’ granddaddy is jist a-spinnin’ in his grave,” Ike said. “Lord have mercy, would you look at that action at the fantail."

  “Ike—you're impossible!” Ben laughed. “What's her name?"

  “Carla Fisher. Great balls of fire."

  Over his chuckling, Ben asked, “What's her story?"

  “I don't know; but I shore intend to find out."

  * * * *

  Carla found herself in a South Carolina jail, charged with the murder of a man she'd never seen, nor heard of. The police used a dozen different methods to break her story, but they could not, and Carla held on.

  She was degraded, cursed, browbeaten, and humiliated. She was also treated to the standard search procedure used for suspected female narcotics users and pushers—at least that is what it started out at its inception. In many big city jails, all females are subjected to this search. One of the more Dachau-type tactics many police departments utilize.

  Stripped naked and either showered or hosed down—dependent entirely upon the department and the time of day or night—one is forcibly held down and then bent over by police matrons—if they are handy—and then the female is searched in every conceivable place a woman might elect to hide a small packet of drugs. It is anything but pleasant, and if the matrons happen to have a sadistic streak, it can not only be cruel, but painful—not to mention extremely humiliating.

  If this tactic is thought to be helpful, in any way, toward breaking a prisoner's story, it will be used. Narcotics sometimes has nothing to do with it. It is but a legal variation of Hartline's tactics.

  Carla spent weeks in jail. No bail. Her trial was long and staggeringly expensive. Her mother and father borrowed and mortgaged to pay for the best legal defense they could get. Carla was found not guilty—after the police found the real murderer. She was cleared of all but the stigma.

  And the press can be as culpable as the police in the failure to remove that.

  Ten days after Carla was released from jail, with a rather lame “Gee, we sure are sorry,” from the DA and the judge, Carla's father lost his job.

  Unable to pay his debts, unable to mortgage anything else, his creditors turned everything over to the collection agencies and they came slobbering and threatening into Mr. and Mrs. Fisher's lives.

  Then the vicious circle began to revolve.

  Mr. Fisher could not get a job because of the bad reports the local credit bureau gave to any prospective employer; he could not pay his bills because he had no job; he could not borrow the money to pay his bills because he had no job with which to repay the borrowed money ... if he could have borrowed any.

  Nasty letters from the collection bureaus; abusive phone calls from the collection bureaus; threats at all hours of the day and night—over and over.

  Five months after their daughter was freed from a charge that should never have been hung on her, with the only utility still operating being the gas, they elected to use that. They locked themselves in the kitchen and turned on the stove and went to sleep.

  They never woke up.

  A day after she buried her parents, Carla took her father's shotgun, waited in the DA's garage until he came home from work, and shot him four times in the chest and once in the face.

  Then she joined the Rebels.

  None of that could have happened in Ben Raines's Tri-States.

  * * * *

  There were many things different, unique, and quite experimental about Tri-States. One visiting reporter called it right-wing socialism, and to a degree, he was correct. But yet, as another reporter put it, “It is a state for all the people who wish to live here, and who have the ability to live together."

  In the Tri-States, if a family fell behind in their bills, they could go to a state-operated counseling service for help. The people there were friendly, courteous, and openly and honestly sympathetic, if that family could not pay their bills because of some unforeseen emergency, and if that family was making a genuine effort to pay their bills, utilities could not be disconnected, automobiles could not be taken from them, furniture could not be repossessed. A system of payment would be worked out. There were no collection agencies in the Tri-States.

  As Ben once told a group of visiting tourists, “It is the duty and the moral and legal obligation of the government—in this case—state government, to be of service and of help to its citizens. When a citizen calls for help, that person wants and needs help instantly, not in a month or in three months. And in the Tri-States, that is when it is provided—instantly. Without citizens, the state cannot exist. The state is not here to harass, or to allow harassment, in any form. And it will not be tolerated."

  * * * *

  Within a week's time, all towns within a fifty-mile radius of the shadows of the Great Smokies were shut down tight. Every person over the age of eighteen—if they so desired, and most did—were armed. With those weapons, the people were making their first real start in a hundred years in establishing some control over their lives.

  A Tennessee federal highway patrolman almost messed in his underwear shorts when he drove through a small town and all the adults were armed—and not just with squirrel rifles, either. Many had M-14s, M-15s, and M-16s. A few carried old BARS, Grease Guns, Thompson, and M-11s and 10s.

  “Hey!” he shouted at one young woman. She was pushing a baby stroller and had a .30-caliber carbine over one shoulder. “What the hell is going on around here?"

  “You want something, trooper?” she replied.

  “Ah ... yeah. Where are the ... I mean ... what happened to Chief Bennett and his men? The police station is empty."

  “They all quit."

  “Quit!” The trooper was uncomfortably aware of a crowd of people gathering around his patrol car. They were all armed. Well armed. “Possession of any type of automatic weapon is illegal,” he spoke from rote. “The possession of any shotgun larger than a 20-gauge is also against the law. No one may own a hunting rifle in a caliber larger than a .22. If you people..."

  “Shut up,” he was told.

  He shut up.

  “Times have changed,” a man spoke. “If you don't believe it, just move your head a bit to the left."

  The trooper turned his head, slowly, and found himself looking down the bore of a 9-mm SMG. “I believe, I believe,”
he said. “Man ... Mister, put that thing on safety. Please?"

  The 9-mm was lowered.

  “Burt,” a woman said, “you've been a decent sort of trooper. I don't think you ever liked all this high-handed business coming out of Richmond. Did you, Burt?"

  Burt knew if he uttered the wrong answer someone would soon be picking him up with a shovel and a spoon. He told the truth. “No, ma'am—I haven't liked it."

  “I reckon the government will be sending in federal lawmen to take our guns, don't you, Burt?"

  “I reckon that is the truth."

  “They are not going to make it this time, Burt."

  “I kinda figured that, too, Miss Ida,” Burt said. “I sure did."

  “We wouldn't want to see you among that crowd of feds, Burt."

  “Miss Ida, you ain't gonna see me in that crowd. Now you can just bet on that."

  “Burt,” a man said, “you tell your commanding officer that the people in the towns around the mountains are law-abiding folks. We're not vigilantes and no one has been hanged by mob law and no one is going to be. But anyone who tries to come in here and take our guns will be met with gunfire. You tell your commanding officer that, Burt, now, you hear?"

  “Yes, sir."

  “You go on, now, Burt. And, Burt..."

  The trooper looked at the man.

  “...you're welcome back here in Sevierville just anytime at all. If we have law problems with anyone, we'll be callin’ for you to come in and handle it."

  “Yes, sir. I'd be right proud to do that for y'all. Just anytime at all. You call HQ—I'll sure roll on it."

  “Bye, Burt."

  Trooper Burt put his patrol car in gear and rolled out of Sevierville. Smartly, as the British would say.

  * * * *

  Sabra Olivier sat in her office and watched the six o'clock news; watched it with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. The censored report was bland stuff, stories that would not have made it prior to Hartline's ... visit.

  She shuddered at the memory—or memories, she corrected herself.

  For Hartline had been back several times, to, as he put it, “Get him another taste of successful pussy."

  Sabra felt like throwing up on the floor.

  She got up and paced the floor.

  The news was so innocuous she changed channels; but that move produced nothing better. Hartline and his men had been to all network offices. She looked at the anchorwoman on ABC and wondered if Hartline had forced his way with her, too. Sabra concluded the mercenary probably had. But, she smiled cattily, with that one's reputation, Hartline probably hadn't had to do much forcing.

  She sat down in her chair and propped both elbows on her desk, chin in her hands. How did we get to this point? she pondered. Good Lord, were we all so blind to the truth we failed to see Logan was just a front for Lowry?

  I guess so, she sighed.

  We were so busy protecting our own precious right to report the news—as we saw it, with our own little twists and subtle innuendoes—we failed to notice what was really happening around us; failed to pick up on the real mood of the people.

  The majority, she admitted.

  The taxpayers, she once more sighed.

  “Guardians of freedom,” she muttered. “But whose freedom? Ours, or the people?"

  She sat up straight in the chair as an idea came to her.

  A dangerous idea, for sure, but one way—if she could pull it off—to nail Hartline's cock to the wall. With him attached. Hanging about a foot from the floor.

  She savored that mental sight for a few moments, then reached for the phone. She pulled her hand back. Surely Hartline would have it all bugged. Well, she'd just have to be sure of what she said.

  “Get me Roanna,” she told her secretary.

  She intercepted the reporter outside her office and took her by the arm, leading her to the restroom. As she had seen in countless movies and TV shows, Sabra turned on the water in the sink to cover any noise.

  “You know all about Hartline,” she said. “I've never pulled any punches with any of you. But what do you really think of him?"

  “I'd like to cut the bastard's cock off and stuff it down his throat,” the reporter said without a second's hesitation.

  Sabra was mildly shocked. She had never heard Roanna be so crude. “He got to you?"

  The brunette's smile was grim. “Oh, yes—from behind. Said he didn't like the stories I'd done on mercenaries; wanted to give me something I'd remember.” She grimaced. “I remember all right. I walked funny for three days."

  “How many other women?"

  “Sabra, it's not just the women; some of his men are twisted all out of shape. I don't know what you're planning, but be careful, you're dealing with a maniac in Hartline. He's a master at torture. He's got most of the people in the networks frightened out of their wits, men and women. All of us wondering how it got this far out of hand so quickly."

  “I was wondering the same thing just a few minutes ago,” Sabra admitted. “Look, I've got to get someone in Ben Raines's camp, and I've got you in mind. I think I can convince Hartline it's for the best. You do a story on Raines, I'll put together one on Hartline. I'll make him look like the coming of Christ. We'll do little three-minute segments each week, but they'll be coded with messages for Raines."

  “Sabra..."

  “No! It's something I believe we've got to do. I'll accept some responsibility for what's happening—what has happened to this nation; it's partly our fault. Hartline ... visits me twice a week. Lately I've been accepting his visits as something I have no control over. He thinks I'm enjoying them. He's an egomaniac; I can play on that. Really build him up. It's amazing what a man will say when he's in bed with a woman. We'll work out some sort of code to let Raines know what is happening, or what is about to happen. Are you game?"

  “You know what will happen to both of us if Hartline discovers what we're doing?"

  “Yes."

  “All right,” Roanna said. “Let's do it."

  * * * *

  The lights of the small airstrip winked at the Kansas ag-pilot. Married less than a year, Jim Slater was anxious to get back to earth and to his wife. Suddenly, a Piper Club came up fast on his right, flying without lights, startling him. His ‘phones crackled a message that chilled him, turning his guts to ice.

  “Watch yourself, Jim. FBI agents on the ground waiting for you. Someone spilled the beans about your running guns for the Rebels. They busted into your house and took Jeanne about noon. They raped her, man. She tried to run away and they shot her. She's dead. I'm sorry, Jim."

  The Cub was gone into the night before Jim could acknowledge the message.

  Jim circled the small strip before landing. When his wheels touched down, he quickly taxied to the far end of the strip, cut his engine, and jumped out, running into a hangar, slipping through the darkness. He ran to his locker and fumbled inside until he found the hidden panel. Far down the field he could see the bobbing lights of flashlights moving toward him, behind the lights, running figures in the still-warm night.

  Cursing under his breath at his clumsiness, and angry because of his tears, Jim hurriedly pulled out a Browning Buck Gun and began shoving magnum loads into the 12 gauge. He slung an ammo belt around his waist and moved to the open window, staying low. Chambering one shell, he fed another into the magazine and waited. The agents stopped some twenty-five feet from the hangar and began talking. Jim listened to the conversations before taking any action. He wanted to be sure he was killing the right men.

  “The son of a bitch is gone, I tell you. I watched him run over there, into that field."

  “Too bad about that wife of his."

  “Yeah, I could have stood some more of that pussy. Man, that was tight."

  Jim emptied the Buck Special into the dark shapes, watching one man's head fly apart as the slugs ripped and tore their explosive path. He reloaded and emptied the Buck Gun once more into the still forms on the dewy grass.
<
br />   At twenty-five feet, magnum-pushed slugs are brutal.

  Moving to the bodies, sprawling grotesquely in sudden death, Jim picked through the gore and gathered all the weapons, ammo, IDs, and money. At the agents’ cars, he opened the trunks and found high-powered rifles, an M-16, and several riot guns. He took them all, stashing them in his personal plane. He heard footsteps behind him and spun, ready to kill again.

  It was Paul Green, a mechanic at the field.

  The two men stood for a moment, looking at each other.

  “You played hell, Jim,” Paul finally said. “I heard about Jeanne—I'm sorry.” He looked at the lumps on the grass, gathering dew. “What now, buddy?"

  The two men had gone through school together. Jim leveled with him. “I head for Tennessee, to the Park. Might as well tell you, I've been part of the Rebels since ‘97."

  Paul smiled in the darkness. “Hell, Jim, everyone in town knew that. You want some company?"

  Jim pointed to his private, twin-engined plane. “Let's get ‘er gassed up and get gone. I got no reason to go home, now."

  Eight

  In the southwest part of the nation, Colonel Hector Ramos's Rebels began their search of deserted military bases, looking for weapons. In some bases, the military can be devious in hiding the main armament room, and it takes an ex-military man to find them. Hector knew right where to look.

  “Hola!” Rosita Murphy said, stepping down into the coolness of the long corridor, gazing at the long rows of M-16s, M-60 machine guns, and other infantry weapons.

  Hector grinned at the small woman. “Nice to know the Irish in you can still be overriden by your mother's tongue."

  She returned his grin. “My mother made sure I could speak both languages, Colonel. I gather these,” she waved at the rows of arms, “go to Tennessee?"

  “You gather correctly.” He looked at the new member in his command. The little green-eyed, Spanish-Irish lady was quite a delightful eyeful. “Ever met General Raines, Rosita?"

  “No, sir. But I'm told he is quite a man?"

  “He is that, little one. Mucho hombre."