Ben could but smile. Again, he agreed with the Russian. “We’re speaking of personal choices, Georgi; that is the price a society must pay if said society is to live in freedom.”
“Nice safe answer, Ben. So you are admitting that freedom can sometimes bring mediocrity to the forefront?”
“That’s an interesting way of putting it,” Ben said.
“And you’re hedging the question.”
“I learned a little about politics, Georgi.”
“Of all music, Ben, which do you want to endure through the ages?”
“I think you know the answer to that, Georgi. I was listening to a tape of Tchaikovsky’s Serenade for Strings and Capriccio Italien on the way up here. But I still maintain it is all a matter of free choice.”
“We could argue for quite some time about this, Ben.”
“Yes. But what would be the point? Unless one of us wanted to play devil’s advocate?”
Georgi laughed. He leaned back, sipping his coffee. “I forbid the yowlings of hillbillies and the jungle throbbings of black music among my people.”
“I don’t,” Ben said. “But I don’t have to listen to it, either.”
“You are very agile at side-stepping, Ben. But I think we are of like mind on many – no! perhaps a few – issues.”
“Probably.”
“How many sides do you possess, Ben?”
“Personalities?” Ben shrugged. “Several, I’m sure. I think you and I are both music snobs, Georgi.”
“Yes,” the Russian said. “Quite. And you are an honest man, Ben Raines. A truthful man. Diogenes the Cynic would have enjoyed speaking with you, I believe. Ben, let me be quite open and honest with you. When I first . . . when this plan of mine was first conceived – and it is not original with me, I assure you – I thought at first . . . well, that I would find Americans to be more compassionate than we Russians. But do you know what I’ve found, Ben? The majority of the Americans I’ve encountered are no more compassionate than my people. So for the past few weeks, I have been very honest with those to whom I speak. I tell them up front: We are going to have a pure white race – colorless. There will be no concentration camps, no gas chambers, nothing of that horror. No torture, no starvation, nothing of that sort. Now . . . history may well perceive me as – to use a movie term – the bad guy, but historians, if they exist at all a hundred years from now, will not portray me as some sort of modern-day Vlad the Impaler or Hitler or Amin. Selective breeding – yes. It will take many, many generations, and of course, I shall not see the end results of my work, certainly, but I will die with the satisfaction of knowing I started a pure race.
“And Ben, eighty percent – at least that mangy – of the people to whom I have approached agree with what I’m doing. You don’t appear to be startled at that news, Ben.”
“No, I’m not, Georgi. I have thought for years that Americans are some of the most arrogant people on earth. But I also think, in spite of, or perhaps because of, that arrogance, we have done more for the world than any other nation in history.”
Georgi reminded Ben: “You also helped to bring about the world’s downfall.”
“That, too.”
“More coffee?” the Russian offered. “Ah – good. I shall have another cup with you. Must we fight, General Raines?”
Ben sugared his coffee. Real sugar too. “General Striganov, the historians might well condemn me for what I’m about to say and do, and I may – probably will – have second thoughts about it. But from what you have told me so far, at this moment, I don’t want a war with you. For several reasons. I think what you are planning is wrong; I think it is monstrous. But I just don’t have the troops to beat you. At least I don’t believe I have. I think you carefully surveyed the situation before you came in, and you know all we would accomplish, at this time would be to annihilate each other. And I won’t do that, General. I have plans and hopes and dreams for what remains of this nation. Besides, you’ll fail, General, with or without me. If you think the surviving minorities in this land will just roll over and let you wipe them out as a race, you, sir, are very badly mistaken.”
“They are not organized, Ben, with the exception of that little group out in South Carolina and that other group in the Southwest. And those groups are of little concern to me. You are a man of organization. I am a man of organization. And we know that without organization – a central government, a man in power, in full control – all is lost. How many blacks and how many Hispanics and Indians are left? Let’s say a million. Spread out over more than three-and-a-half million square miles. Nyet, Gospodin Raines, they will present no problem. You present the immediate problem to me.”
Ben knew the man was right, but damned if he was going to agree with him. “So, General Striganov, do we now talk of a dividing line?”
“In time, yes, I believe that is the only answer. But first, let us have lunch. Then we will speak of boundaries.”
The lunch was excellent: thick steaks and green salad and good wine and baked potato with real butter and sour cream. Sour cream! Ben couldn’t believe it. He said as much.
The Russian was amused. “I like to eat,” he said simply. “And eat well.”
“Do your troops eat just as well?”
“Very nearly so, yes. The steaks might not be as thick, and they may have mashed potatoes with gravy, but they are well-fed, yes. I assure you of that. I do not stint on my people’s behalf.”
“But there are people probably not fifty miles from where we sit, gorging ourselves, who are starving.”
“Not in any area I control,” General Striganov contradicted, his answer surprising Ben. “You see, Ben, we are – you and I – of very like mind. In some ways,” he was quick to add. “I do not wish slavery or hunger or disease or poverty for my people. Besides, they would be so much more difficult to control should I be an advocate of those undesirable traits.” He smiled. “You were correct in your statement that I have planned well. I do demand discipline, Ben, but no, there is no hunger in any area the IPF controls.”
“Providing I buy all that you have told me, General, and I have certain reservations, there is still one issue – correction – several issues that bother me.”
The Russian refilled their wine glasses. “Yes, I’m sure. Now we come to the part where I must try to match your honesty.”
Ben took a sip of wine. It was a Rothschild, a very old vintage. “White is a rather bland color, General. Black or brown or tan or yellow will almost always be dominant. You say you aren’t going to kill the minorities; you aren’t going to starve them out. No concentration camps, no gas chambers. Tell me, just how do you plan on achieving the master race without some form of genocide?”
The smile on the Russian’s face widened. “The minorities will not have children.”
Ben laughed. “Men and women have been known to engage in sex, General.”
“They may engage in all the sex they wish, General. As a matter of fact, I plan to encourage that – keep them happy. I am merely saying they will not have any offspring.”
“You’d better have one hell of a medical team if you’re planning on performing operations on every man and woman in this nation who doesn’t fit your standards of what a human being should look like.”
The smile remained on Striganov’s lips, but his eyes were cold. “What do you think we’ve been doing in Iceland for the past decade, Ben – playing cards and drinking vodka?”
“I have no idea what you’ve been doing, Georgi.”
“When we left Russia, Ben – getting out with only seconds to spare, I can tell you that – I took quite a few very good scientists with me. Doctors, scientists, the like.” He shrugged. “Many of them were Jews, I will admit, but still intelligent people. I don’t like Jews,” he conceded, “but they are survivors. And good scientists, too. It seems the Jew scientists perfected – and kept it a secret for years – a simple method of preventing pregnancy. One injection virtually destroys the abilit
y to reproduce. They kept silent about their discovery for years; we found out only by accident. Then it was only a matter of, ah, well, convincing them to share their knowledge with us. How we got it is not something one would want to discuss over lunch.”
“Torture.”
The Russian shrugged. “The end justified the means, Ben.”
“I’m sure.” Ben’s reply was as crisp as the wine.
“The people will be able to have and enjoy sex as often as they like. But they will never be able to reproduce offspring.”
Ben stared at the man for a full moment, allowing the horror of what he had just heard to sink in to its hideous depths. “That is monstrous!”
“Calm yourself, Ben.” Striganov patted Ben’s hand and Ben fought to restrain himself from taking physical action for that gesture. “After all, I’m not destroying a human being; I have no gas chambers or firing squads or the like. I beg you, please don’t compare me to Hitler.”
Ben thought of several people and many things he would be more than happy to compare the Russian to and with. But he kept silent.
“And, Ben, there is this: We aren’t monsters. If the people do not wish to have the injection, they may breed – selectively – with someone of fair skin. The offspring will do likewise, all very carefully controlled, of course. And so in time, several generations, they will conform. Selective breeding. It’s all up to the individual, I assure you.”
“How magnanimous can you be?” Ben said sarcastically. “And if the newborn child does not conform in color to your plans?”
“It will be destroyed for the good of the pure race.”
Ben felt a small sickness within him grow larger. He looked at the handsome features of the Russian and in his mind, the man wore the face of evil, his hair that of a Medusa.
Ben heard himself saying, “It will never work, General Striganov.”
“Oh?”
“When I leave here, I am going to spread the word about you.”
“But of course you are. I fully expect you to do that.”
“And you’re not going to try to stop me from leaving?”
“No, indeed, Ben. I’m not a barbarian.”
Ben could but look at the man and wonder if he was insane.
“You see, Ben, we’ve already injected over five thousand blacks, Hispanics and Jews. All your spreading the word will do is slow the process a bit, but really not very much. In the end, General Raines, we will be victorious.”
“I fail to see how, General.”
“Because a great many people simply do not like blacks and Spanish people, Ben. A like number – maybe even more – do not care for Jews. Those people will turn them in to us.” He smiled at how simple it all was – in his mind.
Ben thought the smile resembled the SS death’s-head insignia. “Let me guess how you plan on keeping records, General Striganov: little, portable tattoo machines.”
The Russian applauded Ben. “How marvelously astute of you, President-General Raines.”
Ben’s lunch lay heavy on his stomach. The once-delicious meal felt as though it had turned wormy. He had lost all taste for the wine. He wanted to run outside and breathe deeply of the summer air. He felt the invisible odor of death and evil and everything hideous and unimaginable through his clothing, sinking into his flesh. For a brief moment, Ben entertained the wild thought of reaching across the table with his steak knife and slashing the Russian’s throat. He rose from the table.
“I am going to stop you and your master plan, General Striganov.”
“You will forgive me if I don’t wish you luck, General Raines. But no matter – you will be unsuccessful, I assure you of that.”
Ben’s smile was grim, the smile of a mongoose looking at a cobra. “You will forgive my lack of manners by not offering to shake your hand?”
“Perfectly understandable, General Raines.”
Ben walked out of the building and to his waiting troops. “Let’s go,” he said. “First chance you get, pull over to the side of the road.”
“Something the matter, sir?” Sgt. Buck Osgood asked.
Ben looked back at General Striganov, looking at him through a window. The Russian waved merrily. “Yeah,” Ben said, “I need to puke!”
SEVEN
“So you didn’t speak of dividing lines?” Ike said.
“No, I blew it,” Ben replied. “Got mad. Lost my cool. Almost my lunch. I wish I had. I wish I had vomited all over that bastard. He’s got to be stopped, Ike.”
“I agree. Al Malden time, Ben?”
“With much reluctance, Ike. I don’t like Al Malden. Cecil doesn’t like Al Malden. There isn’t a black in all of Tri-States that likes him. He’s a militant white-hater. He’s as bad in his own way as Striganov.” Ben shook his head. “No, he isn’t. I shouldn’t have said that. The man reminds me of Kasim, that’s all. But I know he isn’t that bad.”
Ben had met Kasim back in the late fall of 1988, at a motel in Indiana. The man had been traveling with Cecil, his wife, and several other blacks, including the lady who was later to become Ben’s wife, Salina. Kasim had hated Ben from the beginning, and the feeling had been more than mutual with Ben. Kasim had later been killed by Hartline’s mercenaries; Cecil’s wife and family, along with Salina, had been killed during the government assault on the first Tri-States.
“Juan Solis?” Ike asked, shaking Ben out of the misty memories of the past. Ike had lost his family during the bloody and needless battle of Tri-States, and, like Ben, sometimes retreated into memory.
“Him I like. Yes, get in touch with both of them. Sorry to have brought you up here on a false alarm, Ike.”
“Got me out of the house for a little while.” Ike grinned. “You want to meet with them in Tri-States, Ben?”
“Yes. Tell them what’s going down.” Ben sighed.
“But for God’s sake, Ike, don’t tell Malden to come in for the meeting. You’ll get him mad and he’ll puff up like a spreading adder.”
Ike laughed and slapped his friend on the back. “Hell, Ben. Malden is just doing what you did back in ’89: starting his own little country.” There was a twinkle in Ike’s eyes. He knew only too well he was touching a very sore spot with Ben.
Ben bristled. “Damned if that’s so, buddy, and you know better.” Then he smiled. “You do love to needle me, don’t you?”
“Helps to keep you young, ol’ buddy.” Ike grinned lewdly. “And with Gale, boy, you’d damn well better stay young. That lady is a spitfire.”
“Tell me. OK, buddy, you head on back. I’ll see you in a couple of weeks.”
So often when tragedy strikes, the first glimpse is misleading. The initial scene depicts total desolation, seemingly void of life; but there are almost always survivors at the second glance: men and women who somehow made it through the impossible.
Such was the case with Juan Solis and Al Malden and their followers.
Juan had surfaced only a few weeks after Ben and his Rebels and pulled into the new Tri-States. Juan had sent patrols out, looking for Spanish-speaking survivors, urging them to resettle in New Mexico and Arizona. Some eight thousand had, with more trickling in each day. Juan was building, as Ben had done back in ’89, a society of like-minded men and women whose aim was to rebuild from the ashes of chaos and destruction a workable, fair society, with schools and businesses and a strong economy. Juan’s was not an all-Spanish-speaking society. Just like Ben’s Tri-States, there were people of all faiths, all nationalities.
Al Malden had surfaced on the East Coast, claiming parts of North and South Carolina. But unlike Juan, Al’s regime was a rocky one, with many of his followers objecting to Malden’s constant barrage of not-too-subtle hate directed at the whites. When Malden tried to drive the whites out of his disputed territory, most of his own people had stopped him, horrified at Malden’s unwarranted actions and bitter vituperation.
Ben’s intelligence corps had predicted that unless Malden changed his methods, he would, probably w
ithin a year, be assassinated, with a much more moderate black coming into power. That would be Mark Terry, a former IBM executive, Harvard graduate, class of ’83. Mark was a very vocal opponent of any type of New Africa. Mark had met secretly with Cecil Jefferys several times during the past year, seeking advice from the level-headed VP of Tri-States and the first black to ever become vice president of the United States. When there had been a United States.
Cecil had told him bluntly that, “You would be doing the world in general a great favor if you would just shoot that ignorant, bigoted, biased son of a bitch and pull your followers out and into Tri-States. Then we could get on with the process of rebuilding.”
But no man is totally bad, and Al Malden did have a few good points, despite his open hatred of whites. He did want the best for his people, but if the whites suffered for it, that, to Al, was of no consequence. He wanted good schools for the blacks, but he insisted upon his teachers teaching myths and half-truths instead of fact. (Cecil had once asked Malden that if indeed there ever was a “great black center of learning located at Timbuktu,” where in the hell was it now – lying somewhere alongside Atlantis?)
In short, Al wanted everything for his people that he did not have as a child in south Alabama. And he did not care how he achieved that goal.
“I can’t do it, Cecil,” Mark had said. “Maybe Al will come around.”
“Doubtful,” Cecil had responded. “I had the same hopes for Kasim, back in ’89 and ’90, when I was attempting to build in Louisiana and Mississippi. Kasim’s hatred of whites had made him crazy, just like Malden.”
“We have to try, Cecil.” Mark smiled. “You know that Al calls you a white man’s nigger?”
Cecil’s returning smile was not pleasant. “I am nobody’s nigger.”
Mark’s smile this time was genuine, knowing he had riled his friend. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I know that for a fact.”
Anarchy in the Ashes Page 10
