Survival in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  Four of the prisoners chose to cooperate. The others were led away.

  “You’re really going to shoot them, General?” Ben was asked by one of the four.

  “That is correct.”

  “Kenny don’t know what he’s up agin. We should have stayed in Florida.”

  “We would have gone there to destroy you,” Ben told him. “Eventually.”

  The man shook his head. “I believe that. You’re a devil, Ben Raines. You’re worser than the ACLU, the FBI, the State Po-lice, and the IRS all combined ever thought of bein.’”

  “That’s a very interesting comparison. How many men does Kenny have in his command?”

  “Fifteen hundred.”

  “All white trash?”

  The man stirred at that; but despite his situation, he was forced to smile, very thinly. “You’re goin’ to make the people knuckle under to you, ain’t you, Ben Raines?”

  “No,” Ben surprised him. “Only those who wish to receive medical attention, to give in a safe and secure zone, who want to work and live and play in freedom, who wish their children to be educated, and who want to see this country regain some of what it once was.”

  “And them that don’t want to live under your rules?”

  “Can go to hell.”

  “Their kids? . . .”

  “Will be taken from them and placed in foster homes, to live with decent people and who will see that the young are reeducated.”

  “That’s commomism!”

  “The word is communism. But you’re wrong. There is a touch of socialism in what we’re doing. But in the history of communism, no communist nation ever allowed their people, all of the people, to be fully armed, to vote on every rule or proposition, and to elect their leaders. I never agreed with the saying that everyone has a right to an opinion, because like you, many don’t know what the hell they’re talking about.” He cut his eyes to another. “You are, were, a part of Villar’s forces?”

  “Yes, General.” The prisoner sat at attention in the chair.

  And with that, Ben knew Villar’s forces would be the ones with the most staying power, the one’s with perhaps almost as much discipline as his own Rebels. “And you came here from?”

  “All over Europe, sir.”

  “Why?”

  “Those you call Night People, General, had a lot to do with it. There are also armies over there that would make all our combined forces, yours and those across the river, tiny in comparison. All of Europe is an armed camp. The people — many of them — have reverted back centuries. Baron/peasant-type of existence in many cases. The landowner has his or her private army to act as enforcers.”

  “You speak as an educated man, yet you joined Lan Villar’s terrorist army.”

  “I joined for survival, General. No one stands alone in Europe. To do so is to die . . . and not very pleasantly, I might add.”

  Ben studied the man for a moment, then told the guards to take the other prisoners out and question them. He asked the man from Villar’s army to stay.

  When they were alone, except for Dan Gray, Ben asked, “Your name?”

  “Hans Strobel.”

  “German?”

  “Yes, sir. My parents owned a small business in West Germany before the Great War. I was attending the University at Munich when the world blew apart.”

  “Majoring in what?”

  That thin smile appeared on his face. “Philosophy, sir.”

  “Your position with Villar?”

  “Platoon leader, sir.”

  “Do you enjoy raping and torturing, Hans?”

  “I never raped anyone in my life, General. Nor have I ever tortured anyone, except for a few Night People when trying to find where they had taken prisoners . . . to be eaten.”

  Ben grunted. He could certainly understand that. “Your opinion of Lan Villar, Hans?”

  Hans thought for a moment. “A brilliant soldier, but twisted in his thinking. Personally, I believe the man is functionally insane. He’s a cruel man. He once said that he wished he could have met Sam Hartline before you killed him, for he admired him very much.”

  “Sam Hartline was one of the most vicious people I ever encountered,” Ben told him.

  “Precisely,” Hans replied. “But you will find that Sam Hartline was an angel with wings when compared against Lan Villar.”

  “What would you do, Hans, if I were to offer you a position within my Rebel army?”

  “Accept and fight alongside you and your people. I am a survivor, General Raines. Even though I never held a gun in my hands until I was twenty-one years old. When the Great War came, I fought with the resistance in Germany for five years, before the forces of Lan Villar overran us and took control of the state where I lived. After a year in a forced labor camp, I was offered a chance to enlist. I took it. To stay where I was meant certain death. I am a survivor.”

  Ben nodded his head. “Outfit him, Dan. Keep him with you for a time. Let’s see how he works out.” He looked at Hans. “Welcome to the Rebels, Hans.”

  Hans nodded and stood up. “You will not be disappointed, General. I am a good soldier.”

  “How many more in Villar’s command would switch sides, Hans?”

  He answered without hesitation. “Perhaps one half of one percent, General. Most are men with little education; brutes for the most part.”

  “It always comes back to that, doesn’t it, Hans?”

  “Only if one keeps a gun close by his books, sir.”

  FIVE

  Dan was back in Ben’s quarters later that afternoon with a pleased look on his face.

  Ben arched one eyebrow in a question.

  “Hans,” Dan told him. “He’s going to do just fine. One of those we were going to shoot begged for his life in return for information. I pulled him out of the line and interrogated him. He said that Hans was always out of place in Villar’s army, and that Villar had threatened him many times with a firing squad if he didn’t toughen up. I asked what toughening up meant? He said Hans would never take part in the raping and senseless torture that the others did. He said the only reason Villar kept him around was because of his brilliant mind and because Villar liked to debate with him.”

  “Did you check his information?”

  “Oh, yes. He passed a polygraph and a PSE test. I cut him loose.”

  “Good. Where did you assign Hans?”

  “Buddy’s Rat Team. He’ll get a workout there.”

  “What’s the word from the new battalions?”

  “Moving into place. Two more days and the line should be complete. We move against Villar then?”

  “Are the young hellions ready?”

  Dan grinned. “Now, General, you don’t think I’m going to let all those lads and lassies drop in by themselves, do you?”

  “It would have surprised me. I might decide to join you.”

  Dan suddenly got a very worried look on his face.

  Ben laughed and waved a hand. “Oh, hell, Dan! I’m just joking. I may have a couple of jumps left in me, but we’ll save them for the future. You’ve told them it’s a one-shot deal? They’ll be going in at five hundred feet with no reserve?”

  “They know, General.”

  “They’ve got a hell of a forced march ahead of them, Dan. Has Chase started his medical exams yet?”

  “Started at 1200 hours today, General. So far, everyone looks good.”

  Ben stood up and moved to a wall map, motioning Dan to join him. “You’ll take off at 1800 hours from the strip and fly south for fifty miles before cutting east. Pathfinders are in place and have the DZ all marked out, at least in their minds. They’ll flag it for you at 1900 hours. By 0230, no later than 0300 I want you people here!” He hit the map. “That’s a twenty-mile forced march and you’re going to be staggering under the load of equipment. If you have any doubts, Dan, voice them now.”

  “No doubts, General. Anyone who falls behind, stays behind. My people all know the rules. The name of the gam
e is march or die.”

  “I’ll see you again before you shove off. I want to talk with all the boys and girls.”

  “Right, sir.”

  Dan did a turnabout and left the room as he had been trained to do at the Royal Military Academy near Sandhurst, moving along very smartly.

  Ben sat back down at his desk and fiddled with some papers, although his mind was not on it. If he could just figure out a way to go with Dan and his people . . .

  Jerre stepped into the room and stared at him. Ben met her eyes.

  “Forget it, Ben,” she told him.

  “Forget what?” Ben asked innocently.

  “I can practically hear the wheels turning in your head, Ben.” She closed the door behind her, walked to a chair facing his desk and sat down. “You’re not a twenty-one-year-old in the height of physical conditioning, Ben. I know. Remember me?”

  “How could I forget you?” Ben replied honestly. “And God knows I’ve tried.”

  “Would you believe me if I said I’m sorry about that, Ben?”

  “Yes. If there is fault to be placed, it lies with me.”

  She shook her head. “That’s debatable, of course. But beside the point right now. If I have to spend twenty-four hours a day with you until those paratroopers leave, Ben, I’ll do it just to keep you from going along. And you know I mean that.”

  Ben leaned back in his chair and stared at her, a slight smile on his lips. “Yes, Jerre, I’d forgotten. You probably know me better than any woman alive. I’d like to go on the drop; I won’t deny that. However, I also know that it’s out of the question. I realize that I’m needed here. But I will admit this: I was entertaining thoughts of how to get on board when you came in.”

  She returned his smile. “You think you could keep up with them, Ben?”

  He slowly shook his head. “I’m a middle-aged man, Jerre. So the answer is no. I could not. I’m not even sure how much longer Dan will be able to do it. That’s why I’m pushing Buddy along so quickly.”

  She looked toward the ever-present coffeepot. “May I?”

  “Of course.”

  “Would you like a cup?”

  “Yes. Black with . . .”

  “I know how you take it, Ben,” she cut him off with a smile.

  Over coffee they sat and talked for more than an hour; something they had not done — with any degree of friendliness — in a long time. They spoke of old friends, many of whom were dead, killed while fighting in the Rebel Army. And of how well the movement was progressing.

  “Are you really serious about taking troops to Europe, Ben?”

  “I’m certainly thinking about it. If we can kick Villar and Parr’s asses, it will just about wrap it up for the States; except for some isolated pockets, I’ll be expanding Base Camp One as soon as this fight is over, taking in half a dozen more parishes, west and south. Cecil is a fine administrator. I’ll be handing the reins over to him.”

  She laughed, and it was filled with good humor. “The first black man in the history of the United States to be completely in charge of the country. But I’ll make you a bet that Cecil will be hopping mad about not coming along with you.”

  “No bet, Jerre. He’s liable to call me out for a fistfight. He doesn’t know that I’ll be placing him in charge, so keep it quiet.”

  She nodded. “How many battalions are you taking?”

  “As it stands now, three. That will leave four battalions in country. My battalion will go, as will Ike’s, and Colonel West.”

  “Doctor Chase?”

  “I don’t think I could keep him from going.”

  “I’ve never been to Europe.”

  “Then I would suggest you start packing.”

  Those miscreants that made up Sister Voleta’s Ninth Order surfaced at her coded radio messages and began their march toward the west. They came out of the hills and the marshes and the swamps and the caves. Those east of the Mississippi swung north and south, to avoid the conflict at St. Louis, coming up under or over the gathering and then cutting west to link up with Voleta and Ashley and their assorted band of outlaws. Those west of the Mississippi and west of the Rebels who were now stretched out south to north in Missouri simply stayed in place and waited for the main force to reach them.

  Those between St. Louis and the three battalions kept their heads down and waited for the signal to begin harassing tactics against both the Rebels in St. Louis and the Rebels between Kirksville and Rolla.

  In the ruins of East St. Louis, Villar was pacing the floor of his CP. “What’s the bastard waiting on?” he flung the question out, not really expecting an answer. “What’s he got up his sleeve?”

  Villar had expected the campaign to be short, violent, and of course, victorious for his forces. Food for his people was going to be a problem very quickly. When he hit the shores of America, he had plans to overrun Ben’s Base Camp One. Then that was very quickly nixed when he learned that Ben had nuclear weapons there, and that everything in Base Camp One was wired to explode in the event the zone was ever overrun by enemy forces. So that much needed source of food was out of reach.

  Twelve thousand people ate up a lot of food every day. And he had no idea where he was to get more. Kenny Parr had huge farms in Florida, but getting food up was a dangerous operation, for Raines had Rebel patrols working everywhere around the nation. One convoy had already been ambushed and the food taken. The bastards and bitches were across the river dining on their food right now. He hoped they all choked on their greens and blackeyed peas and lima beans. The mere thought of defeat was a bitter pill for Lan to swallow. And when he did get it down, it lay like a lump in his belly.

  Villar had known that Raines was well-organized; but he had not known just how well. Until it was too late . . . now there was no turning back.

  He had thought of and then discarded the idea of scouring the countryside and taking civilian hostages; perhaps to coerce Raines into letting the food trucks through. But he knew that Raines did not negotiate with terrorists — ever. Another plan out the window.

  For the very first time, Lan Villar began to realize just what kind of a man he was facing. In his own way, Ben Raines was perhaps more ruthless than Villar. While the Rebels did not rape and pillage and plunder, Raines and his Rebels did not have one ounce of pity or compassion in their souls for anyone who fought against their dream of rebuilding the shattered nation that was once called America.

  “Goddamn you to hell, Ben Raines!” Lan Villar cursed him.

  Across the river, Ben looked at his plate of fresh vegetables and smiled. Corn on the cob, navy beans, and hot cornbread.

  “Compliments of Kenny Parr,” Jersey told him. “Maybe we should send him a thank-you note.”

  “Corrie,” Ben said around a mouthful of food. “Send Villar a message. Tell him many thanks for the fresh vegetables, and advise him that a university here once did a study. They concluded that rats were full of protein and when cooked correctly were quite tasty. Tell him I suggest he try dining on rodents.”

  When his runner handed him the message, Villar became livid with rage. He screamed out his anger and then ripped the paper to shreds and flung the remnants around the room. “I hate that son of a bitch!” he shouted, his fists clenched.

  “Join the club,” Khamsin said, looking down at the goop on his plate the officers’ personal cooks had prepared for them.

  “You know what he’s doing,” Kenny said softly. “He’s waiting us out. He’s guessed that by now we’re on short rations, so he’s pushing us to attack him out of desperation. And we’re not far from doing that. If we don’t attack, and do so successfully, we’re going to have to fall back.”

  “Fall back to where?” Villar demanded, but with no rancor in his voice. “Anyway, we agreed to stay here until this Sister Voleta nut got her forces together and attacked from the west. I never, never expected Raines to blow the bridges. I never did that in Europe. Once they are gone, they are gone forever . . . at least in our l
ifetimes. We’re facing a madman!” He shuddered and regained control. “No,” his voice was softer. “No. Raines is not a madman. He is brilliantly ruthless. And he is a man who would see this nation restored no matter what the cost. If I thought he would even remotely entertain the idea, I would . . .” He trailed that off.

  But Khamsin had already guessed what he was about to say. “Forget it,” the Libyan said. “Ben Raines makes no deals with terrorists. Or at least none that I know of. And you are forgetting your archenemy across the river, Colonel Daniel Gray.”

  “Yes,” Villar said softly. “Dan Gray swore on his sister’s grave he would kill me.”

  “Why does he hate you so?” Kenny asked.

  “I had agreed to do some contract work for a offshoot of the IRA back in, oh, eighty-five or eighty-six. I made the mistake, and it was a mistake, of kidnapping some schoolchildren in London. One of the girls was the sister of Dan Gray. All we had been told was that they were relatives of SAS men. She was raped.” He shrugged his indifference to that. “Many times. She did not die well. I had learned that she was Gray’s sister and tape-recorded the rapes. I sent the tape to him. I was younger then and much more arrogant. I made a mistake. That mistake almost cost me my life. Gray stalked me halfway around the world and shot me with his own damnable brand of hand-loaded ammo. The bastard had sealed cobra venom into the tip. I was near death and paralyzed on one side for months. Don’t ever sell Dan Gray short. As a matter of fact, don’t sell any Rebel commander short. Ike McGowan is a former Navy SEAL. Murderous bastards! West is ex-FFL. Cecil Jefferys is ex-Green Beret. He isn’t as ruthless as Ben Raines, but he is a far better administrator. Word that I’ve received is that Raines is going to turn the whole operation over to him in the very near future. Can you imagine that? A nigger running the country?”

  Ben called for a final meeting of his commanders just hours before the teams of paratroopers took off from the airstrip at St. Clair.

  “Dan will be taking off in two hours, people. At 0600 hours in the morning, we shall begin shelling the other side of the river with our long-range artillery. Jersey will give you all the coordinates. Do not overshoot. To do that will endanger Dan and his troopers. Ike dropped sappers in two days ago to mine overpasses and bridges on Interstates Sixty-four and 55/70, east of Villar’s positions. As soon as the shelling starts, they’ll blow their targets and get the hell out of there, moving north and south respectively. It is my hope that with the bombardment, the sappers’ work will not be noticed. That leaves Highway Fifty open to Villar and the others. If he takes it, our plan will work and we’ll be rid of a lot of terrorists. If he smells a rat — and he just might — we’ll be sitting on this side of the river with our thumbs up our asses while Dan and his people are facing the real possibility of getting mauled.”