Betrayal in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  “Your people are doing a damn good job,” Ben told Billy.

  “And when this is over?” Billy asked.

  “You go back to your all-white state.”

  “And you don’t approve of that, do you, Ben?”

  “Not really. Running away from a problem is not going to solve it.”

  “Perhaps not. But if we’re free of Negroes, then it is no longer our problem, is it?”

  Ben grimaced. Billy was an intelligent man, highly educated and good at debating, while Ben was on shaky ground and knew it. He had personally chased people of all races out of the SUSA—although not because of their color—and he knew that Billy would pounce on that given the slightest opportunity.

  “Billy,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “if you will recall back a few years, when the world was more or less intact, I got in hot water more than once when appearing on various talk shows promoting one book or the other.”

  Billy chuckled and so did most of his men. A few did not. They disliked Ben and made little attempt to hide it. “Most of us couldn’t quite determine which side you were on.”

  “Unlike most liberals—of any color—I know there is some difference—albeit slight—between a separatist and a racist. If a person bought a section of land, fenced it in, built a home, and was qualified to teach his or her own children and could thus be left alone, I saw no harm in the situation. And I also felt a great deal of sympathy for those people who had worked for years to afford a good home in a nice, safe neighborhood and one day looked up and saw strangers with low-interest loans and other government-sponsored financial help moving in and fucking up the neighborhood. It was all done under a federal mandate, and it was wrong. It was well-intentioned; but nevertheless, it was wrong. Many individuals were simply not ready for the move—on both sides of the line. No government can or should pass laws in an attempt to force me to like you or you to like me. It just won’t work. Never has and never will.” Ben looked at Billy and smiled. “And those types of people cross all color lines, Billy.”

  Billy returned the smile . . . faintly.

  One of Billy’s senior advisors stood up and threw his fork onto the table. “I just flat don’t like you, Raines.” He cut his eyes as Jersey clicked her M-16 off safety. “Relax, little lady. I ain’t gonna hurt your precious general.”

  “I know that,” Jersey said. “And don’t call me ‘little lady,’ you lard-assed tub of guts.”

  “Easy, Junior,” Billy said. “Sit down and tell General Raines why you don’t like him.” He looked at Ben. “If you’re interested in hearing it, that is.”

  Ben shrugged. He had already pegged Junior as a die-hard racist who would never change; he would go to his grave unreasonably hating anyone not of his own color.

  “I just don’t like niggers or nigger-lovers,” Junior said. “Never have, never will.”

  “That’s your right,” Ben said, pushing his plate away and taking out tobacco sack and papers.

  Junior stared at him, astonished. “My right?” he asked finally.

  “Sure.” Ben rolled his cigarette and lit up.

  Junior sat back down. “I suppose you’re goin’ to tell me that you’re not goin’ to invade us when all this mess is over and we get back home.”

  “Not me, Junior. I gave you my word. And as long as Blanton is in power, neither will he—provided any person of color can pass through your state without harm or harassment. The old U.S. of A. is going to get stronger. They’ll probably never be as strong as the SUSA, but they’ll grow and prosper. And they won’t trade with your state, Junior. That is their right. And the SUSA doesn’t have to trade with you. We’re totally self-sufficient. You people might last, probably will last for a few years. But not much longer than that. Where are you going to buy fuel? And all the things that you can’t grow or produce? You’ve isolated yourselves in a little world of hate and intolerance. Think about it. How are you going to get your raw materials out to sell? You can pass our borders; I would allow that. But you must remember that the President of the SUSA is a black man. He might not be as charitable as I am. Iowa, Kansas, Nebraska, Illinois . . . why, they’re a part of the USA. You can’t go through those states.

  “No, Junior. You’re surrounded. You have your all-white state—but damned if I can figure out how you’re going to survive now that you have it.”

  For the first time in a long time, Vice President Harriet Hooter and those who followed her found themselves powerless to do much of anything. President Blanton had virtually suspended the Constitution and placed the nation under martial law. Cecil Jefferys, President of the SUSA, had sent troops to back Blanton, and things were looking rather grim for the liberal wing of the Democratic Party.

  And, horror of horrors, Blanton was actually arming the people.

  “Oh, icky-poo!” Immaculate Crapums said, stamping his foot. “How could he do such a terrible thing?”

  Rita Rivers was less charitable. “Goddamned honky son of a bitch!” she cussed the President.

  To protest his actions, the First Lady had moved out of their bedroom and cut Homer off cold. But as President of the United States, Homer could get just about anything he wanted. Discreetly. Which he immediately set about doing.

  Ben and his team entered the smoking rubble of Dusseldorf with Billy and his people. The Germans—those over twenty or so years of age—greeted them with wild enthusiasm.

  “We destroyed their city and their homes,” Billy said. “And still they cheer us.”

  “The adults,” Ben said. “Not the younger ones. They’re still solidly in Bottger’s pocket. Look at the hate in their eyes.”

  “Sort of reminds me of the look in the eyes of some of my men.” Billy spoke the words softly.

  “Don’t get too chummy with me, Billy,” Ben warned him. “They’re going to turn on you. And some of my people will mutiny, too. Not that it makes much difference how friendly we get, I suppose. It’s already in the works—on both sides.”

  Billy gave him a sharp look. “Some of your troops are planning to betray you?”

  “Yes. With some of your people.”

  “Fact or guesswork?”

  “Fact.”

  “How many of your people?”

  “Eight to ten percent of them.”

  “And mine?”

  “Thirty to forty percent.”

  “Damn!” Billy swore, something he rarely did. “Because of our coming over here?”

  “That’s a small part of it. According to the information I’m getting, the betrayal in your ranks started even before you began purging Missouri of people of color. Those who are plotting against you want to spread out, to encompass more territory. About half of those thirty or forty percent support Bottger.”

  “We’ll talk at length later, Ben. I just noticed that we’re being followed.”

  Ben grinned. “Junior’s bunch. We picked up on them the day I arrived. Don’t worry. They’re being followed by my people. Oh, that new bunch who just came over to join your battalion?”

  “Yes. What about them?”

  “They’re Rebels. All of them raised in Missouri. I thought you’d like some people around you that you could one hundred percent depend on.”

  Billy chuckled. “We’re going to end up on the same side yet, you know that?”

  “I’m counting on it, Billy.”

  Billy had a frown on his face and a puzzled look in his eyes as he watched Ben stroll away, a security blanket surrounding him. Then he smiled. “The man never misses a trick,” he muttered.

  He did not notice when a man wearing sergeant’s stripes and Rebel BDUs fell in beside Ben.

  “Mike,” Ben said, eyeballing the collar pins. “Have you been demoted?”

  “I blend in better this way,” Mike said. “We’ve got to talk, Ben. Big trouble brewing.”

  “I’ll see you at my quarters in about an hour, all right?”

  “I’ll be there. And get ready to pull out in a hurry�
�we’ve got traitors all around us. More than even I first thought.”

  At his quarters, an empty house on the outskirts of town, Ben told Lt. Bonelli to prepare to evacuate when he gave the signal.

  “My people are all loyal, General,” Bonelli said. “I’d bet my life on it.”

  “That’s exactly what we’re both betting,” Ben told him.

  When Mike showed up, he had a worried look on his face. He spoke openly in front of Jersey, Beth, Corrie, and Cooper. “About half of Billy’s boys are turning on him. There will be a sneak attack on his CP tonight; it’ll be blamed on Bottger. The attack will coincide with an attack here. They’re going to try to kill both of you . . .”

  Ben opened his mouth to speak, and Mike waved him silent with a slash of his hand.

  “There will be an attempt on Blanton’s life and an attack on the northern and eastern borders of the SUSA within hours after the attacks over here. It’s been in the planning stages for weeks—the attacks on Blanton and on our borders probably much longer than that.”

  “Billy doesn’t have that many men left Stateside to pull it off,” Ben said.

  “They’ve recruited all those people who have been gathering at our borders. Of all colors. They’ll be used as cannon fodder. And then disposed of. Any that are left, that is.”

  Lt. Bonelli walked in. “Something weird going on outside, General. Smithson’s men are throwing up a circle around his CP. They’re doing it slowly and quietly, but we could still pick up on it.”

  Mike quickly briefed the man while Corrie was busy on the horn, alerting all the Rebels attached to this contingent of Smithson’s troops what was going down. She was using burst transmissions in code, so there was no way any of Billy’s turncoats could understand the messages.

  When she had finished, Ben said, “Corrie, get hold of Ike and have him bump Cecil. Tell Cecil to warn Blanton, personally. He’s going to have to figure out how to do that. We don’t know whom to trust in this, so everybody is suspect. Goddamnit!” Ben lost his temper for a moment. He took several deep breaths and forced himself to calm down. He turned to Mike. “How many of our people are involved in this treachery?”

  Mike hesitated. “About twelve to fifteen percent, Ben. There were three attached to your personal company. Davis, Peterson, and Bosman. They have been neutralized,” he added without change of tone or expression.

  “Won’t that alert Smithson’s men?”

  “No. The vehicle they were riding in was involved in an . . . accident The three were injured and airlifted back to our own lines. More or less,” he added drily.

  Ben didn’t pursue that. Davis, Peterson, and Bosman would never be seen again.

  Ben was thinking fast. “We’re due to be resupplied this afternoon. The airport is clear. Instead of supplies, have those transports filled with Buddy and his special ops people. Get them moving right now, Corrie. And when you’re finished with that, get me Smithson on the horn.”

  She nodded and went to work. A few minutes later, she handed Ben the mike. “Billy, those percentages we spoke of about an hour ago . . . you recall them?”

  Billy picked up on it immediately. “Yes, I do, Ben. What about them?”

  “Well, the ante’s been upped quite a bit. I suppose you could say we’re literally surrounded by facts and we’re going to have to find a way to wade through them.”

  “I . . . see. Well, I don’t like paperwork any better than you do, Ben. I always try to eliminate as much of it as possible. Sometimes it’s unfortunate, but unavoidable.”

  “Oh, I agree with you. But with many of these papers, it’s difficult to tell which are important and which are not. So I’m sending you some experts to help you sort through the maze.”

  “I certainly appreciate that, Ben. More than I can say. When might I expect them?”

  “Momentarily, Billy. They are really quite good and, if you don’t mind, I would suggest you follow their lead.”

  “I will do that, Ben. Without question.”

  “I’ll talk to you later, Billy.”

  “Right. Good luck on your sorting through the maze, Ben. Billy out.”

  “I like that man, Ben,” Mike said.

  “So do I, Mike. He just lost his reason for a time. He blamed an entire race of people when it was the system at fault. I think he knows that.” He turned to Corrie. “What is Buddy’s ETA?”

  “1500.”

  “Everybody in body armor and high alert If Junior and his bunch get antsy, it’s going to get downright nasty around here.”

  “In a hurry,” Beth added.

  NINE

  Homer Blanton sat in his office and waited until the hot anger within him had cooled somewhat. He did not want to believe anything Cecil Jefferys had told him. But he knew Ben Raines would not alert him if he didn’t have concrete proof of the betrayal.

  But even Ben did not know exactly who in his administration was behind all the treachery or a part of it. But Homer thought he did—after some careful thinking. He picked up the phone and asked the chief of the White House detail of the Secret Service to come into his office. Then Homer Blanton, the most anti-gun President the nation had ever elected, opened a side drawer of his desk and took out a Colt Diamondback .38. He kept it in his right hand, out of sight of the Secret Service man. He waved the man to a seat using his left hand. Then he turned on a small radio and cranked up the volume. He leaned close to the man and began talking in low tones.

  Homer laid it all out to the Secret Service chief, watching his facial expression closely. The man was either the greatest actor ever born or he was hearing of this for the first time.

  The man’s eyes widened when Homer lifted his right hand, showing him the .38. He had not been aware the President even owned a gun.

  “Jeff,” Blanton said, “we’ve got to trust each other. But if you’ve turned on me, you will be the first one I plug. And that’s a promise.”

  Jeff struggled to keep a straight face. “Plug, sir?”

  “It sounded good at the time.”

  Then both men laughed and the tension and distrust was broken.

  “This office is not bugged, sir. I swept it only a few hours ago.”

  “My phones?”

  “The red one is secure. I’m sure of that.”

  “Good. That’s where the call from Cecil Jefferys came in. How about the phones in your office?”

  “One of them is secure. I know that for a fact.”

  “Use it and get in touch with General Bodison. Bring him up to date. I’ve got to trust Bodison. You two plan what we’re going to do.”

  “You can trust him, sir. And I know a number of others you can trust. I’ll start gathering the troops.”

  “Discreetly, Jeff. Very discreetly. I want those involved in this betrayal to show their hands.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Jeff?”

  “Sir?”

  “Get my wife clear of Charleston.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  “Jeff?”

  “Sir?”

  “Hit her on the head if you have to. Just get her clear.”

  Jeff smiled.

  “You don’t have to look so happy,” Homer said with a small grin.

  “No, sir. Of course not.” Jeff managed to get out of the oval office without laughing.

  Blanton punched a button on his intercom. “Is my vice president here yet?”

  “She’s in the building, sir. On her way up.”

  “Are the others with her?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Send them right in.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Homer checked the loads in the .38 and clicked the wheel closed. Suddenly he felt better than he had in years. Everything was sharp and clear in his mind. Ben’s words came back to him.

  We’ve all got to be on equal footing. If we’re not, it won’t work. We control our own destinies. If I screw up or if you screw up, we pay the price. We’re no better than anybody else.
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  Homer looked at the pistol in his hand. What gave him the right to own a gun when most others could not? What gave him the right to have around-the-clock protection by highly armed guards and the entire military complex when ninety-nine percent of Americans (those living outside of the SUSA, that is) lived in fear of their lives? What made him so special that if his life were threatened—even by long-distance phone calls or by letter or E-mail—the person making the threat could be arrested immediately and then sent to prison for years, when the average citizen had no such protection or anything even remotely like it?

  “I am no better than anyone else,” Homer muttered. “If I can be protected by dozens of armed guards, everybody else should have that same right, or the equivalent thereof.” He smiled. “Now I understand, Ben. It’s taken me a year, but I finally got it through my thick skull.”

  “Vice President Hooter to see you, sir,” his secretary said.

  “Send her in.”

  “Now you see here, Homer,” Harriet Hooter hollered before she even got through the door. “What you’ve done is unconscionable. Who the hell do you think you are? What gives you the right to . . .”

  Outside the office, Blanton’s secretary screamed. The door was slammed open and Harriet was knocked out of the way and onto the floor by two Secret Service men, both of them carrying pistols. They fired simultaneously, their slugs taking the President in the chest Homer Blanton fell out of his chair and lay on the floor in a puddle of his own blood.

  “Cecil says he spoke personally with Blanton,” Corrie said, “but he can’t reach him now. Something has gone wrong.”

  Mike ran into the room, out of breath. “Charleston reports that ambulances have been summoned to the White House following a volley of shots within the residence.”

  “Shit!” Ben cussed. “It’s started. Any word on who got hurt or killed?”

  Mike shook his head. “No. But I could take a guess and be right on the money.”

  “Buddy and battalion have landed and come under heavy fire from Smithson’s contingent at the airport!” Corrie called.