Anarchy in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  But that fool Hitler had almost destroyed any hope of the revival of a Mactep Paca, a Meister Rasse. It was one thing to let a race die out naturally – more or less – but to destroy them with ovens and gas and starvation...

  That was unthinkable. Barbaric. Savage. It served no useful medical purpose. For even defectives could be used in experiments. True, Hitler did once have a few experiments going, but his were not on the grand scale of the IPF.

  Striganov really never thought that what he was doing was just as terrible and barbaric and horrible – perhaps even more so. The Russian actually believed – had convinced himself – he was doing humankind a service, not a disservice. What he was now putting into effect had been his lifelong dream, ever since as a child he had read and absorbed the rantings and ravings of that only-sometimes-lucid little paper hanger.

  Yes, the little man had had – at times – some good ideas and thoughts. But Striganov was so very glad the man had not succeeded. For his own theories and ideas were so very much better.

  A master race, a fully workable caste system – that was the ultimate achievement. A world whose leaders and thinkers and breeders at the top level would all be fair-skinned and blue-eyed and handsome and intelligent.

  How could anyone wish for more than that?

  But suddenly a frown crossed the handsome features of the Russian. For there was only one flaw in an otherwise perfect master plan.

  Ben Raines.

  “Ben, do we send troops in to help Juan and Mark?” Lieutenant Macklin posed the question at a briefing before the battle. “They won’t have a prayer without some support from trained combat troops.”

  “No.” Ben stood firm in one of the most agonized-over decisions he had ever had to make. “That is what Striganov is hoping I’ll do. Hoping I’ll further weaken this thin line we’re maintaining.”

  “Do they know this, Ben?” Hector asked.

  “Yes. The leaders do. And I’m sure most of the line troops sense it as well.”

  “It could backfire, ol’ buddy,” Ike reminded Ben.

  “I know it – only too well,” Ben admitted the weakness in the plan. “Unless we can defeat the IPF here, those on the west side might punch through and come in under us with so much force we couldn’t close the pincers on them. I know that. It’s going to be a slugging match, people. We’ll be taking and losing and retaking the same ground – on both sides of the line – twenty times before we’re through. I think Striganov knows – just as I know – this is going to be the stand-up-and-slug-it-out type of battle. And he knows, as I know, we are going to both inflict and take heavy losses.”

  But Ben was worried as he glanced at Ike, and Ike knew it. Knew what Ben was thinking: neither ex-SEAL nor ex-Hell-Hound was an expert in this type of fighting. Both of them were trained – and highly so – in the art of guerrilla warfare: that dirty cut-slash-run type of unconventional warfare. The men had defended the original Tri-States in the West, and done it well but they had been forced out. Not because of lack of courage, simply because of superior manpower thrown at them by forces of the United States government, when Hilton Logan was president and his hate for Ben Raines had finally erupted into bloody warfare. 1

  And it was superior manpower they were again about to face.

  Ben rose, signalling the meeting was over. He shook Ike’s hand, then Hector’s. “Showdown time, gang. Let’s win it and get the hell back home. We got crops to harvest in a few weeks.”

  Ike and Hector and Mary smiled, nodded and walked away. Mary was part of Ben’s HQ’s company. Ike went to the east, Hector to the west.

  To war.

  But only one of the two men would return from the final battle.

  PART TWO

  ONE

  Gen. Georgi Striganov, in full battle dress, stood on the north side of Interstate 70. Ben Raines, in full battle gear, stood facing the Russian from the south side of the concrete strip. As if on silent command, the men walked across their two lanes of concrete to face each other, median strip separating them. Each man had requested this one final meeting before they began man’s most awesome means of settling disputes: war.

  “You’re looking disgustingly fit and well, General Raines,” Striganov said. “It pays for men our age to keep in shape, da?”

  “I will agree with that, General.”

  “Nice to know we can agree on something, General Raines.” His eyes drifted to Ben’s old Thompson SMG. “My word, General. Where did you ever find that antiquated weapon?”

  “I’ve had it a long time, General,” Ben replied. “It’s an old friend.”

  “Friends can sometimes disappoint a person, General – let one down, so to speak. If one depends upon them too much.”

  “It hasn’t yet.”

  “Pray that it doesn’t.” Striganov smiled. “My people are, to use one of your quaint Western expressions, kicking ass to the west and the east. I think you sacrificed those people, General Raines, and I think you know you did.”

  “Perhaps. But in war, no one is indispensable. Not you, not me.”

  “You don’t believe the latter any more than you believe a mule can fly, General. General? This does not have to be. Join me and let us work together.”

  “Toward a master race?”

  “But of course, General Raines. Why not?”

  “Because I believe what you are doing is more than evil, it’s monstrous.”

  The Russian shrugged that off. “Yes, I keep forgetting you were once married to a half-black wench, weren’t you?”

  Ben said nothing.

  “And now a Jewess shares your bed.”

  Ben remained silent, thinking: He’s got people in Tri-States, and he just gave that fact away. I wonder why? Slip of the tongue? “That is correct, General. But I don’t think of people in race categories. They are just human beings.”

  The Russian spat contemptuously on the ground. “What a noble thought,” he said, his voice full of open scorn. “Fortunately for me, I do not share your misguided philosophical meanderings. I saw some time back that the pure white race is the master race, the most intelligent of all the races – by far. And General, you are, I believe, too intelligent a man not to see that. You are just idealistic at a time when that is a luxury that you cannot afford.”

  “I will admit to being somewhat of an idealist,” Ben said. “Personally, I think it is an admirable trait to possess – if one keeps it in perspective.”

  The Russian studied the American. He should have ordered snipers to accompany him and shoot Ben Raines. That would have solved a great many problems. But Striganov had always prided himself on being an honorable man, and he fully believed he was just that.

  A great many people would have cheerfully called him anything but honorable.

  Striganov shrugged his muscular shoulders. “Perhaps. I am sorry it has to be this way, President-General Ben Raines, for I think in many ways we are quite alike. But . . .” Again he shrugged.

  Ben stood tall and silent, watching the Russian study him.

  “I shall conduct myself and my troops as gentlemen during our upcoming confrontation, General Raines, carefully observing all the articles of war.”

  “I won’t,” Ben bluntly informed him.

  The Russian laughed heartily, with good humor. “Ah, I fully expected that of you, General. But you see, there is a method behind my plans.”

  “You are hoping, if there is someone around to write it, that history will treat you much more kindly than it shall treat me.”

  “I knew you were an intelligent man, Ben Raines. Yes, of course that is it. Quite correct and very astute of you. You will have that despicable Englishman, Gray, and his people moving about behind my lines, slitting throats and blowing things up and engaging in all sorts of subhuman guerrilla tactics. But I and my people shall be gentlemen at all times. So I believe history shall paint you as the savage, not I.”

  Ben had to laugh at the Russian’s sincerity. “Do you really believe all
that shit, General?”

  Striganov looked amused that Ben should doubt it. “But of course! Not only for a gentlemen’s war, but in the fact I am purifying the white race. Surely you will be big enough to admit a great many people support what I am doing?”

  “A much greater number find it appalling and disgusting,” Ben countered. “And kindly include me among them, and everyone who fights alongside me.”

  “Then I must conclude they are short-sighted or misguided people,” the Russian said with a smile. “And since I really don’t believe you are short-sighted, President-General Raines, you must fall in the latter category.”

  Ben laughed at him, the laughter bouncing off the Russian.

  “I shall give you a few more hours to mull over your reluctance, General Raines. If you have not seen the error of your decision, 0600 tomorrow shall be the beginning of your Armageddon.”

  Ben smiled. “A very interesting choice of characterization, General Striganov. Armageddon. Of course, you represent the evil?”

  The Russian did not take offense. “If that is how you choose to view it, President-General. But I believe history will view me in a much gentler light.”

  “If you win, General Striganov, history probably will view you in that manner – a lie, of course – since there will be only your Herrenvolk to write it.”

  Again, the Russian laughed. “But of course. You see, Ben Raines, I planned well, did I not?”

  Ben had to grudgingly admit the Russian had indeed planned very well. But he’d be goddamned if he would compliment the bastard for doing so.

  “When I take you as my prisoner-of-war, General Raines, I give you my word you will be treated with the respect due a man of your position.”

  Ben’s reply was very much to the point. “When I take you as my prisoner of war, General Striganov, I’m personally going to shoot you.”

  The Russian threw back his head and laughed loudly, uproariously. “Oh, I do like you, Ben Raines. It is such a pity that we cannot be good and close friends. There are so few truly intelligent men left to converse with on matters of importance. So, Ben Raines, do be sure and give your Jewess a great big kiss for me, da? Good morning, sir.”

  He turned his back to Ben and walked across the two lanes of concrete and onto the shoulder of the interstate. He was soon down in the ditch and then lost from view as he entered the woods.

  Ben returned to his troops. Gale breathed a huge sigh of relief upon sighting Ben. “I just don’t trust that bastard, Ben.”

  “He said to give you a great big kiss from him.” Ben grinned.

  Gale spat very unladylike on the ground. She fixed Ben with a dark, angry glare. “How would you like a fat lip, Raines?”

  “I think I’ll pass,” Ben said with a laugh.

  He sobered as he looked at his personal contingent of Rebels. He knew them all from the hard days. Captain Seymour. Lamar Chase. Jane Dolbeau, the blond Canadian who everyone knew was in love with Ben – everyone that is but Ben. Steve Mailer and Judith Sparkman. James Riverson. Carla Allen. Lynne Hoffman. Judy Fowler. The survivors. Men and women who had followed Ben through it all, who believe in him.

  He could not let them down.

  He saw Roanna Hickman watching him as he walked away. She hurried to catch up with him.

  “Just had to deal yourself a hand in this battle, eh, Roanna?” Ben said.

  “I’m still a reporter, General. There may not be any networks left, or any big daily newspapers, but I’m still going to ply my craft – someday, somebody will read it.”

  “I hope so, Miss Hickman. You were a very good reporter.”

  She smiled. “Coming from you, General, that’s as good as receiving the Pulitzer.”

  And for a moment, both of them were caught up briefly in the grips of memory.

  Sabra Olivier had called Roanna into her office2, intercepting the reporter outside the door and leading her to the washroom. As she had seen in countless TV shows and movies, Sabra turned on the water in the sink to cover any noises of conversation.

  Knowing Sam Hartline as she did, Sabra would not put it past the man to bug the ladies’ room.

  “Roanna, you know all about Hartline. 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,” Roanna replied without a second’s hesitation.

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

  “Oh, yes.” The brunette’s smile was more of a grimace. “From behind. Said he’d been watching and listening to my stories for a long time, didn’t like what I’d done about mercenaries. Wanted to give me something to remember him by. He did. I walked funny for three days. The son of a bitch.”

  “How many other women?”

  “Sabra, it’s not just the women. Some of his men are twisted sexually – really bent all out of shape in the head. I don’t know what you’re planning, but be careful, you’re dealing with a maniac in Hartline. He’s a master of torture. He’s got most of the people in the networks frightened out of their wits; men and women – old, hard-line, tough reporters tremble at just the mention of his name. All of us wonder how it got this far out of line so quickly.”

  “Yes, I was wondering the same thing a few moments ago. Roanna, 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 do 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 going on, 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. Very well.”

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

  “What kind of game are you playing, Miss Hickman?” Ben asked her.

  They were seated outside, a cool but not unpleasant breeze fanning them. Roanna sat beside Dawn – the two women had known each other for years – the women facing Ben and Cecil and Ike.

  “No game, General,” Roanna said firmly. “Game time is all over. We’re putting our lives on the line this go-round. For the women, our asses, literally.”

  She brought them all up to date on what Hartline was doing and had done.

  “If this is true,” Cecil said, “and for the moment, we shall accept it as fact, Ms. Olivier is playing a very dangerous game.”

  “And you, as well,” Ike looked at Roanna.

  “More than you know,” Roanna’s reply was filled with bitterness. “Sabra’s husband said if she saw Hartline again, he was leaving. She couldn’t explain what she was doing, for fear Hartline would torture the truth out of Ed – that’s her husband. Ed walked out the day before yesterday, took the little boy, left the daughter behind. I wish it had been reversed. Sabra’s told me Hartline is looking at Nancy . . . you know what I mean.”

  “How old is the girl?” Ike asked.

  “Fifteen. Takes after her mother. She’s beautiful.”

  “Hartline is, ah, somewhat perverted, is he not?” Dawn asked.

  Roanna snorted in disgust. “To put it quite bluntly, Dawn, he’s got a cock like a horse and doesn’t care which hole he sticks it in.”

  “Jesus Christ, lady!” Even Ike was shocked, and to shock a Navy SEAL takes some doing.

  Ben resisted a
smile and said, after looking at the reporter for a moment, “You have any objections to taking a PSE test, Miss Hickman?”

  “Not at all,” Roanna replied. Then she smiled, and her cynical reporter’s eyes changed. She was, Ben thought, really a very pretty lady. “What’s the matter, General, am I too liberal for your tastes?”

  “Liberals are, taken as a whole, just too far out of touch with reality to suit me,” Ben said, softening that with a smile.

  “I’d like to debate that with you someday, General. Yes,” she mused, “that might be the way to go with the interviews. Hard-line conservative against liberal views.”

  “I’m not a total hard-line conservative, Miss Hickman,” Ben informed her. “Although many have branded me as that: unfeeling and all that other garbage. How could I have been a hard-line conservative and advocated women’s rights, abortion, the welfare of the elderly and children . . . and everything else we did in Tri-States?”

  “Yes,” Roanna said. “There is all that to take into consideration. But you did shoot and hang people there.” She fired the reporter’s question at him.

  “We sure did.” Ben’s reply was breezy, given with a smile of satisfaction. “And we proved that crime does not have to exist in a society.”

  “But not to the satisfaction of everyone, General.”

  “But to ours, Miss Hickman, and that was all that mattered.”

  “Still miss the hustle and bustle of big-city living and reporting, Roanna?” Ben brought them both back to the present.

  “Yes, and I’m looking forward to the day when it will return.”

  “It will never return, Roanna.” Ben dashed her dreams with a splash of hard reality. “Civilization, as we have known it, is over.”

  “I have running chills up and down my spine when you say that, General.”

  “It’s truth time, Roanna – and I have spoken the hard truth.”

  “But you can’t know that for certain, General. That must be a personal opinion, nothing more.”